Seven Point Eight

by Marie Harbon

  We moved to London early in my life, because my father accepted the position of headmaster at the Grammar School, where he worked until his retirement. Therefore, this great city provides many of my formative memories. I vaguely recall the Thames flooding in 1928 and people wading in dirty water up to their knees in the streets, not a pleasant experience in winter. The water reached the downstairs windowsills, lapped around the wheels of the sparsely parked Austin 7 family cars, and broke embankment walls in places. The floodwater had an eerie stillness at night, illuminated by gas street lamps in places.

  I also clearly remember the excitement of our first rotary dial telephone. Frequently, I got into trouble, accidentally on purpose calling the operator on the manual switchboard, as I played with the dial a little too often. They were a very polite bunch of women, those operators, and my first experience of chatting up the female of the species.

  During the twenties and thirties, home comforts were very basic indeed. You slept in your jumpers and big socks, and your bed would be layered with blankets because there was no heating in your room. In the winter, it was so cold you found a layer of ice on the inside of your window. The covers and clothes created such cosiness, you were extremely reluctant to throw the blankets off in the morning and place your feet on the cold lino, which covered the floor.

  You did everything in the kitchen: ate, drank, chatted, washed in a tin bath in front of the open fire, and listened to the wireless. Toilets were outside and incredibly draughty places in the winter. No one locked their front doors, children played outside in the street, babies were parked outside in their perambulators, and children were rigorously disciplined at home and school. If you got into trouble with the teacher, your parents would find out and you’d get another dose of discipline at home too. At Christmas, you found an orange, some nuts, and a small piece of chocolate in the stocking at the foot of the bed.

  These two decades had a great buzz and vibe though. My mother loved jazz music, which signalled more hopeful times after the conclusion of the First World War, and that was when the dance halls became popular. She was fascinated with the wireless, otherwise known as the radio, and often played in the kitchen, where she attempted to encourage my father to dance with her. I recall him having two left feet, much to her consternation. She loved the movies too and sometimes my big sister, Patricia, looked after my brother and I while my parents caught the latest talkie.

  As a child, I had an aptitude for science and mathematics, not jazz music or dance. My father quickly seized upon this, so I was never short of books and scientific toys, however, my mother remained at odds with science. I recall one of my discussions with her, aged seven. I was sitting at the kitchen table with a book while she cooked.

  “How did the Earth, planets and stars get made?”

  “Well, God made everything, my darling.”

  I remember seriously considering her statement.

  “But six days is not very long to create the heavens and Earth, with all its animals and people.”

  I recall the confusion on her face.

  “He’s God, and is all powerful in heaven,” she replied.

  It always came back to God, like a cosmic boomerang.

  “But, if God is a man, how can he be all powerful in heaven?”

  She smiled, but it was forced.

  “Your science makes you ask too many questions, sweetheart, sometimes you just need to believe.”

  And thus began the conflict. Consequently, I always found it difficult to reconcile my scientific and mathematical knowledge with the concept of God. However, I remained inherently curious about the concept; it was a personal paradox.

  At university, I met the love of my life, a classic English rose with long blonde hair and porcelain skin. Madeleine was smart, funny, sensitive, compassionate, and caring. I knew on our first date that we’d marry and only shortly after, we got engaged. However, our plans didn’t come to pass, as she became a casualty of the war.

  Air raids began on ‘Black Saturday’, which was the 7th of September 1940, and they continued for around two months. Madeleine died on the 10th of October 1940 on her way to the underground to take shelter. I was already safe in my parents’ Anderson Shelter, listening to the shrieking roar of the blitz get closer and closer, the thumping of the bombs, with the possibility of being blown to bits at any moment. So far in my life, there’d been a semblance of order, absolute order with everything being so predictable, it was actually unreal. Despite the war, my destiny had been clear. Perhaps it was inevitable that chaos would rear its ugly head, ironic for a scientist who studied the very nature of uncertainty and quantum probabilities.

  I didn’t know how to grieve, and I just sat quietly with our favourite songs playing in the background. We’d enjoyed Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington, and the songs of Cole Porter, and they sounded so poignant now. Contemplation became my drug. To deal with the emptiness, I immersed myself in the completion of my degree and endeavoured to undertake a PhD scholarship in quantum mechanics. At the time, this seemed heartless and disrespectful to her memory, but the truth of the matter was that I needed a reason to continue with my life. So, as Londoners became more defiant and strengthened their resolve in the war effort, I made intellectual pursuits the purpose of my life, while we aerially bombarded Germany.

  My research began in 1943, a monumental step for me and the zenith of intellectualism. That same year, there’d been synchronous research of iconic status. In Auschwitz, Josef Mengele tortured twins in grotesque investigations into heredity, Erwin Schrodinger lectured at TrinityCollege, attempting to understand chromosomes and life, and DNA was identified as the manifestation of heredity. Of course, no one then could conceive of DNA’s structure, remember, it was infantile research as of then. My work focused on electro-magnetic fields. Others had a passion for biological life whereas I was more interested in cosmic life, the building blocks and forces of the universe.

  Love didn’t figure in my life. Of course, I dated a number of women, albeit briefly, but they weren’t Madeleine, and I couldn’t bring myself to love again. If anything, I fell in love with my work. Quantum mechanics filled my life with meaning. I felt closer to understanding the universe, and even thought I may find some faint whisper of spiritual life within the cosmos.

  During this period in my life, the war in Europe and Japan concluded, with much celebration in the land. I became part of the real world again and joined in the singing and dancing, the relief of the finality of the conflict. We grieved for the Jews, who were exterminated in the Nazi death camps, and we witnessed via television the destruction of two Japanese cities by atomic bombs. I sensed that although we tasted victory, our governments were developing fearsome weapons with the capacity to wipe out mankind.

  Soon after my doctorate, I fell into lecturing, as teachers often do. I finally started a real job at the ripe old age of twenty seven, and 1948 was also an important year historically. Someone shot Ghandi, the new state of Israel came into existence, the Soviet Union’s blockade of Berlin began, the Kinsey Report into the Sexual Behaviour of the Human Male was published, and London staged the Olympic Games, as no other city wanted to or could afford to act as host. Not surprisingly, Germany and Japan were banned from competing in this post-war era.

  1948 also seemed to signify the path my life would take in the future. The science faculty wished to recruit more students, and asked me to promote new developments in quantum theory as a way of increasing their roll. In one lecture, someone asked if atomic particles formed the basis of the human soul.

  I’d never considered searching for the soul. How could it even be observed, or measured? Reality has always been gauged by the things around us that we can see, touch, or observe. Our world consists of matter, which is comprised of atoms, broken down into neutrons and electrons. The soul is none of the above.

  I thought very little of this interaction at the time, more concerned with a mysterious woman who’d divulged the details of a top secre
t experiment. Ironically, I never answered his question and the mysterious woman never re-appeared in my life. For a few months, I became preoccupied with her, but the man who pondered the soul did make a re-appearance. His offer came out of the blue, and may turn out to be something on a par with the Devil’s temptation of Jesus, or the eureka moment every scientist desires. Anyway, by now you’ve realised that I accepted his offer…

  ***

  The Daimler pulled up at Max Richardson’s research facility on a fine day at the end of August 1950. Paul stared out of the window at a stately manor house, as the tyres of the Daimler crunched on the gravel. Trees surrounded the building, which enhanced its aura of privacy and suggested a closed shop. Max met him at the imposing front door and his personal driver, John Eames, took Paul’s suitcases.

  The formidable hallway presented a grand staircase, high ceilings, and oak panelling, with illustrious reds and crimsons adorning the walls. Extravagant statues and paintings posed artistically.

  “Welcome to The Establishment, Paul,” Max said, with warmth and pride, “Please, let me show you around.”

  John disappeared with the suitcases while Max led the way forward. Downstairs to the left, Paul saw a generous sitting room, furnished in green leather sofas and decorated with William Morris wallpaper. It adjoined to a dining area, with one large oak table and chairs, followed by a kitchen with free standing oak units.

  “This is a communal living area for research seniors and fellows, plus any volunteers, read lab rats, who may be participating in any of our studies. Feel free to make yourself at home, there’s a radio and a phonograph in the corner of the sitting room. I employ a cook, so everyone based here can sit and enjoy an evening meal together.”

  Paul reflected briefly how strange it would be living here. In effect, he’d be AWOL from the scientific community for a while, so this opportunity could potentially alienate him from that circle, or it could propel him towards the ultimate accolade.

  They ascended the stairs and on the left hand side, he saw a number of rooms for staff and guests, with a communal bathroom. On the right hand side, he observed three laboratories and a storeroom.

  “Any equipment you don’t find in the labs will be located in the storeroom. Specific items can be custom built. If you wish to call upon the services of our supplier, I will give you their telephone number.”

  Max showed him his room, which Paul found pleasantly spacious and ostentatious. It had a four poster Victorian bed, and oil paintings of former residents adorned the walls. A red patterned rug covered oak floorboards and an armchair faced the black, cast iron fireplace. Paul noted the desk in the corner.

  “This is the finest room,” Max said, “suitable for the finest of my staff.”

  Paul felt honoured.

  They descended the stairs and Max paused in the hallway. Paul observed a number of offices set back from the hall, complete with filing cabinets, oak desks, leather armchairs, and doors with individual nameplates. One had Dr. Paul Eldridge engraved on it. It was a touching gesture.

  Max led Paul into his new office, where they sat in leather armchairs, appraising each other across the solid oak desk. The walls had dark blue wallpaper, and a huge sash window overlooked the garden, which in itself was worthy of a tour. Max lit a cigar and offered one to Paul, who accepted.

  “Well, it’s not the research facility I envisioned,” Paul said, finally.

  Max shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s one of many.”

  He blew out cigar smoke with a cool demeanour, psychologically masticating the potential that lay ahead.

  “Something tells me you’re going to be the most significant person ever to work at The Establishment.”

  Paul began to shrug off his initial reservations. Maybe he’d been trying to find ulterior motives where there were none, no sense in looking a gift horse in the mouth, as the cliché went. He’d handed in his resignation, expressed a desire for more out of life, taken a leap of faith and landed on his feet.

  “Here’s to the study of the soul,” Max said, leaning back in his chair.

  “When do we start?” Paul said, with a satisfied smile.

  ***

  I had everything in the palm of my hand, yet the world suddenly became more uncertain. Would my findings explode faith in one fell swoop, or vindicate what millions of people around the world believed? Could I prove the existence of the soul? I’d sought a challenge in my life so vociferously and it had found me, changing the entire impetus of my life, so why did I feel so prickly?

  I spent the first week ambling, too much time wasted at my desk, pondering the incredible resources I had at the tip of my fingers. Occasionally, I picked up a photograph of Madeleine, wondering if she watched over me from some form of alternative quantum state. I contemplated contacting my family, but what would I say? This wasn’t the type of research you openly discussed with members of the general public.

  Between my first arrival and the final presentation of my findings, two and a half years elapsed. My own personal perception of the world remained static in the mean time, while the Korean War played out. As a spark of inspiration ignited me, namely the presence of Max Richardson with a face of expectation, UN forces crossed the 38th parallel into North Korea. As I drafted my proposal, forces captured the capital. By the time truce talks began in the summer of 1951, I’d built and tested the necessary equipment for my research.

  Music filtered through. I listened to Maria Callas on the radio, Gene Kelly warbling ‘Singing in the Rain’, and I acquired a taste for Billie Holiday as I began testing the first volunteers. Movie stars flared into recognition, and burned brightly in my absence from the world. I missed a classic piece of early science fiction called ‘The Day the Earth Stood Still’, but none of that mattered while I chased and fulfilled my dream to completion.

  Because I found taking measurements monotonous, I trained a research assistant to carry out the nitty-gritty, while I reclaimed the tingle of anticipation in scientific discovery. Before long, I found myself typing out an extensive and exhausting report. Now I just had to present it to Max.

  ***

  On the 2nd of April 1953, some six weeks after his 32nd birthday, Paul attended the board meeting for The Establishment’s committee, a conglomerate of funding bodies, directors, and executives with vested interests in the findings. The dining room became a makeshift board room, and Max locked the whole Establishment down to exclude any irrelevant members of staff. Other than Max, ten people comprising nine men and just one woman sat stiffly at the table, shuffling papers. Paul didn’t recognise any of them, and they represented a faceless but powerful behind the scenes body. Everyone wore suits, but nothing to distinguish who they were, or their motives for attending this presentation.

  Max chaired the committee, and gestured for Paul to stand at the foot of the table.

  “We’d like to thank you for your persistence in this endeavour, your contribution is greatly valued by the committee. I see you have brought along your thesis. Could you enlighten us with an executive summary?”

  Paul felt slightly intimidated by the humourless, staring people but proceeded. “We have tested and measured seven hundred people over a period of two years, ordinary people from many walks of life. For each person, I collated measurements of an electromagnetic phenomenon and in all cases, I found the presence of a weak field. The precise readings are contained in this thesis.”

  Paul gestured to a thick wad of paper, the contents of which he’d laboriously typed.

  “The human electromagnetic field is generally a weak one, extending on average three to four inches from the skin, but in twenty five percent of the sample, I found evidence of a much stronger field, giving higher readings and extending some six to ten inches from the skin.”

  Some of the committee discussed the findings inaudibly amongst themselves, while Max simply smiled to himself.

  Paul continued. “At present I’m unable to ascertain the origin of the human electromagn
etic field, or whether indeed it is the soul. I can confirm, at least, the existence of a field that surrounds the body. The logical assumption would be that it emanates from the brain or body tissues but to draw a definitive conclusion, I’d need to study living tissue. I believe such a study would be unethical.”

  Max smiled wryly at the last comment. He reached across the table and picked up Paul’s thesis, flicked through it and set it down.

  Paul continued, giving details of his methodology, results and inconclusive summary, relieved most of the committee could follow his scientific jargon. They nodded appreciatively at the right moments, and Paul gained confidence as the presentation progressed.

  “I’m very impressed with your findings, and your dedication to The Establishment,” Max congratulated. “We’ll discuss the thesis, and indicate how we’d like to move forward.”

  Paul left his thesis with the committee, curious about its destination. Would it be published? Did it compare to Watson and Crick’s recent discovery of DNA’s structure? Well, hardly, but Paul felt satisfied with his accomplishment. He sat in his office, looking out at the garden, aware of the committee chattering in the dining room not too far away. Putting any ethical concerns to the back of his mind, he decided not to complain as he enjoyed working at The Establishment. During the past few years, he’d earned an excellent salary and while living here, he could take country walks, ride a horse, or go fishing. His life lacked romance, but research consumed his time and unlike his peers, finding a wife was not cause for concern. He had indeed landed on his feet.

  Meanwhile, the committee discussed Paul’s research over a pot of coffee and some digestive biscuits.

  “I think he’s ready for the next stage,” Max concluded.

  A shrewd looking man in an expensive suit leaned forward and responded, revealing an American accent.