‘I might be.’
Alice looked up from her glass for the first time and watched as Pete poured diced vegetables from a chopping board into a waiting fry pan.
‘Rice and veges again?’ She asked.
‘You got a problem with that?’
Alicia took a deep breath. ‘What the Paris group say they’ve found is that particle A can communicate with particle B, even if they’re a million miles apart, but they have to have previously been in the same location at some point.’
‘And this means …?’ Pete asked.
‘The possibility of bending time,’ Alicia responded.
‘Bending time?’ Pete repeated.
Alicia explained, ‘It’s always been held that you can’t move faster than the speed of light, and if A can influence B across a million miles, then that theory is undermined.’
‘And the implications are?’
‘The implications’, replied Alicia, ‘are far too new-agey for most physicists to cope with, but for a believer – or a lunatic if you prefer – the implications are that you can influence the outcome of events on the other side of the world, or be influenced by them, with only so much as a thought. And secondly, which is even weirder, you can influence events in a different time period.’
Pete stopped stirring the vegetables to look up at Alicia..
‘Really?’
‘In theory,’ Alicia replied.
‘Cool!’
Alicia laughed a little. ‘It’s theory, okay. Just theory.’
‘That’s fun theory though. Anyway, what do you think? Do you think that’s possible?’ Pete asked.
‘From the context of my particularly conservative work environment, I couldn’t possibly say.’
‘Coward.’
‘Oh, come on. Be realistic,’ Alicia fired back at Pete.
‘About what,’ Pete responded, ‘the implications of the theory or your work environment?’
‘Well, both. It’s hard work being a natural born genius when you’re surrounded by plonkers.’
It was Pete’s turn to laugh. ‘So what are you going to do? You could go and join them, y’know.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Look, I don’t have the right experience,’ Alicia tried to explain.
‘Well, get it then,’ Pete replied simply.
‘It’s not so simple as that.’
‘What would it take?’
‘Another PhD maybe. Moving my research agenda, which is something I can’t do as long as I’m here. It’s a rock and a hard place.’
‘All I’m saying is you should think about what you really want, what the path is to get there, and let’s see what may or may not be possible. You can’t spend the rest of your career being miserable.’
Alicia was silent and poured a mopey look into the bottom of her glass.
‘Tired?’ Pete asked.
‘Exhausted,’ Alicia replied sullenly. ‘But I have no idea why though. I’m not sleeping so well.’
‘I’ve noticed. Knowing you, you’re probably thinking too much. I can practically hear the cogs turning some nights. You need to stop that.’
‘I get paid to think, dummy.’ Alicia managed a minute smile. ‘And what do you mean you can hear me think, idiot?’ Managed a bigger smile.
‘It’s palpable. Honestly, it keeps me awake sometimes. And you’re not being paid at night when you’re in bed with your husband. And you’re not supposed to be thinking at that time anyway. You need to sleep, or at least give your intellect over to far more physical matters such as your husband’s unfulfilled libido,’ Pete teased.
‘You complaining?’
‘Yep.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Sigh.’ Pete smiled woefully at his wife.
‘How was your day then?’ Alicia asked.
‘Well, I have my own interesting story from the other side of the quantum actually,’ Pete responded.
‘What’s that?’
‘You know, when I went up to the Cathedral the other day and I met that deaconess, Rose, and we got chatting. She’d noticed something about Tim. Anyway, she invited me to this discussion group. It’s this Thursday night. They talk about ‘how do we know’, or ‘what can we know’, that kind of thing. A sort of exploration into the mysteries of the universe is the impression I got.’
‘Sounds a bit scary. Are you going?’
‘Don’t know. What do you think?’ Pete asked.
‘Sounds like you’re dabbling again.’
Pete looked up. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘Well, you know, you dabble. Fiddle with a car here. Write half an article for a newspaper there.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Pete showed some sense of minor offence.
‘Well, it’s accurate at least. You don’t have any direction. You never have had,’ Alicia asserted.
‘Oh, c’mon, I’m looking after our kids while you work. I don’t get a lot of spare time – when I do, well, there’s a few things I like doing – cars and newspaper articles being two of the few.’
‘Well, you’re not always going to stay home and look after the kids, are you? I mean, what about having some real work one day.’
‘Bloody hell, Alicia. Where are you coming from? Looking after the kids is real work, and having Tim’s not going to make it easy for both of us to work. Ever. I don’t think.’
‘I guess,’ Alicia replied, looking prepared to swallow her words.
Pete threw unused food items back into the refrigerator, half slamming the door and set himself stirring vegetables on the stove.
‘Well, it’s just an evening out anyway,’ he said.
‘Hmm.’ Alicia’s focus was at the bottom of her wine glass again.
Pete noticed and lifted the carton over the glass, filling it.
‘Cheers,’ she said, and took a mouthful.
Silence held sway until Pete started to serve rice and vegetables on to plates. Alicia rallied herself to set a table.
‘Jillie,’ Pete called out. ‘Can you wash your hands and bring Timmy into dinner, please?’
‘I do forget the nature of the daily grind, I know,’ Alicia said quietly in Pete’s direction. ‘Sorry.’
‘You have adults to talk to during the day, even if you don’t like most of them. It’s a weird existence for me not to have any of that. Or very little anyway,’ Pete said.
‘Yep. I do get that.’
‘Writing’s a way for me to connect with Planet Grown-up.’
‘And you write well. I know I should be more supportive. I’m sorry. And I do really hope you get something published that gets you the recognition you deserve. You must miss all the buzz of the newsroom,’ Alicia proffered.
‘Parts of it. Not the panic though, I can tell you that. It’s nice that things operate at a different pace at home, that’s for sure,’ Pete said.
Just then the couple’s children wandered in, taking their usual places at the dining table.
‘I’m starving!’ Jillie said.
‘Well, I’ve got just the thing then,’ responded her father, as he served up portions.
‘Yummy! Rice and veges. My favourite!’ Jillie exclaimed.
Pete smirked at his wife as if to say well, at least someone appreciates my cooking.
Alicia smirked back good-naturedly as they sat down with their children.
‘Welcome, Pete! I’m so pleased you’ve come.’ Rose Draper opened the door to her cottage in Lincoln’s hill suburb, with what Pete assumed was probably her usual bouncy exuberance. Energetic chatter and stray laughter were leaking into the hallway from somewhere or other.
‘Sorry, I’m late. Getting kids into bed and all that,’ Pete said, proffering a dark bottle to his host as she gestured him inside. He wasn’t quite sure if it would be the right choice, but he’d thought from Rose’s personality that this red would probably be a goer.
‘Oh no, I understand, that’s fine. Lovely you’re her
e. Come on in,’ Rose responded.
Rose was no longer the cassocked chaplain from the weekend earlier, but a rotund and bright red be-smocked and hippy’ish ball of gracious and energetic hospitality. Vibrancy and good humour shone out of her beaming round face.
Rose’s hallway was a delight in long-settled domesticity, sans child clutter, with curios, travel photos, some half-decent art, and a few expensive-looking pieces, lined up along dark red and wooded walls, an oak dresser with linen doilies, and an overflowing bookshelf. Pete felt instantly comfortable.
He walked through to the voices, and Rose came through behind, steering him to a spare chair near the corner of a large table.
‘Everyone, this is Pete,’ Rose announced.
Faces turned with acknowledgement, and Rose’s firm hand briefly to his shoulder as he sat down, told Pete again that he could feel secure in this company. He nodded and smiled around the table. A dozen or so smiles and nods bounced back as Rose introduced a bevy of names and one or two side conversations resumed politely.
‘Hello, Pete, I’m Loraine,’ came a confident robust voice, and a large hand extended from beside him. ‘I live here too.’
‘Hello, nice to meet you.’ Pete decided he liked Loraine at least as much as Rose. People would call them jolly, he expected. Jolly smart too, he thought. He watched their interactions with folk and observed their generous and comfortable hospitality. He was surprised at his level of ease within what was ostensibly a religious context. Perhaps he just hadn’t met the right Christians before.
Rose was setting a glass in front of Pete and indicating a choice of red or white. ‘You remember, dear, I told you about the little boy in St Hugh’s Choir the other day.’
‘Yes, I do. Well, very lovely that you’ve come, Pete. Maitland over here is about to regale us with the latest scientific proofs of the efficacy of prayer,’ Loraine added, seemingly a little cynical of this forthcoming dissertation herself.
A very English-looking man, older than Pete, reached a hand across the table in his direction.
‘How do you do, Pete? I’m Maitland,’ he said, and they shook hands. ‘How on earth did you get yourself mixed up with these two old chaps? You’ll never get away now, you know.’
‘Oh, well, I’m not sure I want to.’ Pete smiled back. ‘Seems jolly good so far.’
‘Ah, the young,’ Maitland signed in mock exasperation at Loraine. ‘They’ll learn, I suppose.’
‘Very funny, Maitland. Get on with it now, will you?’ Loraine responded in equally mock annoyance back at her guest.
Pete was buoyed by these ribald responses, especially from a member of the clergy. He sipped his red and eyed the new speaker.
‘Well, as you all know,’ began Maitland, clearly enjoying holding forth and bringing all eyes to himself, ‘I don’t hold much to this kind of nonsense. It’s not at all scientific in my view, but after last week’s conversation, I said I’d look all this up, so here is my discourse, for what it’s worth. Don’t shoot though, I’m only the messenger.’
Laughs all round.
Maitland was a sixty-something, balding, quite distinguished man, and his pronouncement brought, along with its chorus of chuckles, accepting looks from around the table. Maitland’s attire mirrored some typical caricature of his age and breeding: grey flannels, tweed jacket, oval leather patches at the elbows, and checked brushed cotton shirt. He looked like a television character from To the Manor Born.
‘Well, the jury is out,’ he continued. ‘That is the final word. There have been studies that have demonstrated prayer has worked and studies that have shown it doesn’t. They are almost all flawed in their methodology. Probably the most thorough was conducted by researchers at Harvard and it involved nearly 2,000 patients, divided into three equal groups who were told either that they’d not be prayed for, or that they would be prayed for, or that they may or may not be prayed for.’ Maitland half rolled his eyes at this last statement. ‘The prayers were offered by groups of strangers who had just the patient’s first name and a last initial, and prayers started and ended at a set time. This study in fact demonstrated worse results in the patients who were prayed for. So ergo I think we can agree, prayer either does not work or, in my view, it cannot be studied by a bunch of scientists in a laboratory and decreed effective or otherwise. So that’s that. Rather a short summation but I assure you I have covered the gamut of published and/or remotely valid research. And the summation is that it’s a poor showing for prayer. Sorry.’
‘Oh come on. That’s ludicrous. Why not have people praying for people they know? Surely that’s the realistic situation. Surely that would show some positive results?’ This was from a woman Pete’s age he thought had been introduced as Sally.
‘Just reporting on the facts,’ Maitland responded smugly.
‘I agree. That’s not intuitively correct,’ said another man. ‘And what about praying for oneself? Plenty of physicians have commented anecdotally on cures in patients with a positive mental attitude haven’t they?’
‘Well just the same, the research is not looking good for God, is it?’ Loraine chortled.
Pete noted appreciatively that Loraine’s faith surmounted need of scientific proof and a surfeit of academic disproof made no impression.
‘Well, I don’t think that’s it at all, dearest,’ a slight air of sarcasm from Maitland, meant to be noticed. ‘It’s not looking good for scientists is the thing. God is surely above all this. We cannot be so reductionist as that. This is my strongly held opinion. We cannot put God into a test tube and expect replicable results. He or She does not, after all, fit in one, at the very least.’
Some ‘hear! hear!’ and a clap or two. Pete was enjoying this.
‘But Maitland, surely the thing we can make an impact on is the thing we know, the thing we’ve been in contact with. Wouldn’t that make for a better result?’ Sally continued. ‘The person we know well and love – for example, our own child or parent. One of my children often verbalises something that’s in my mind also at that same moment. Those are common experiences for all of us, I’m sure.’
Pete’s mind shot to the Paris experiments that had excited Alice, and he wondered what she would think of his evening out now. He thought about mentioning them, but he wasn’t sure if he could explain the whole thing articulately enough.
‘But you don’t see my point, Sally. Yes, perhaps that would make some difference, but what about the faith of the person praying, which is to say, their skill at prayer. Even if you did decide to add this variable into the experiment, how on earth could it be quantified? It can’t! And then, for heaven’s sake, how are we going to quantify the greatest variable of all – God? I mean this assumes God is a consistent variable. Or is God not a variable? Is there just the prayer and the prayee – no God? Well, I’m sorry, that’s not what it’s about in my book.’
‘You’re right. Yes, I see what you’re saying,’ mused Sally. ‘So, these experiments are poor experiments then – they can’t control for other variables – at the very least the particular power of the prayer, the faith of the prayee, and God, the greatest variable of all. So, then, it can’t be measured.’
‘No, not at all. In my view,’ Maitland added. ‘But I’m not a scientist, of course.’
Pete thought he’d have a go.
‘Ah, y’know, my wife is a physicist …’
‘Really?’ Maitland told. ‘How wonderful!’ He was quite sincere.
‘…. yes, yes. Ah, well, just harking to Sally’s comment. The idea of influencing what we know, what we’ve been in contact with – well, I’m not sure how this fits in, but it just strikes me that it does somehow. Alicia – that’s my wife – mentioned the other evening about some experiments done in France just recently. Apparently they prove that particle A can influence particle B across space – and time actually – where A and B have previously been in contact with each other.’
Pete looked around seeing what reaction this had; a little ne
rvous that perhaps he’d just killed the conversation. There was a bit of a pause and he couldn’t tell if everyone was taking in what he’d said or thinking he was potty.
‘That is really interesting,’ Loraine said.
‘It is indeed,’ Maitland agreed.
‘I just knew you were going to be a worthy addition, Pete. I just knew it!’ Rose interjected.
Phew.
‘In fact it’s brilliant. Is it too ridiculous then to expand that to say that person A can impact on person B – someone they know – in a positive, or indeed a negative, way? It follows. Of course it’s a huge assumption. But if you assume a connection of sorts – emotional, spiritual, call it what you will – then this theory says there is a possibility of influence. I love it.’
‘I may have to go and pay your wife a visit, Pete. Pieces of a puzzle, eh! Very interesting. You must bring your wife along some time, although I don’t imagine a bunch of religious loons would be taken at all seriously by a scientist, especially a physicist, but we would take her seriously, my boy – yes, indeed.’
‘Oh, well. I’ll mention it. I’m not sure really.’ Pete felt of two minds about bringing Alicia along to something she may actually enjoy with him, and on the other hand keeping his new-found friends to himself.
As the discussion pressed on, Pete observed the ease with which participants addressed various items of spiritual and intellectual concern and interest, and could see that some were firm believers, one or two atheists, one or two agnostics or undecideds, and many just wanting to find some nexus between the material and the spiritual world.
‘I agree with Loraine though. There must be care not to belittle God,’ Maitland had continued.
‘But I don’t think that’s what it’s doing at all,’ another woman had said. ‘I think it’s raising the value of science. All that’s in our material world – all that exists as science – God created. Surely we raise science to the spiritual, not take the spiritual ‘down’ to a level of scientific proof. Surely there are these proofs, for want of a better description. It’s just a matter of science finding them and catching up, so to speak.’
Pete liked this thought immensely. ‘Oh, I think so,’ he agreed. ‘Yes, we should get it round the right way. Indeed.’
Angels in the Architecture Page 9
