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The Infinite Hive – Rosalind Heywood

The incident took place in November 1944. My husband sent me a message from Belgium that I was to expect him to arrive on leave at Victoria Station the following Wednesday at 8 pm. As we lived quite near I decided to await him at home with as good a dinner as rationing would permit, for in those days trains were very erratic and I saw no point in hanging about for ages in the cold.

I was working rather hard at the time and on the Wednesday felt tired out, so, in the hope of being a less dreary object when he arrived, I lay down at half past six for a short rest. About ten minutes later what I can only describe as a wave of inner pressure flooded over me, to telephone the station and check the time of the train.

At first I did not connect this with my husband, and as it seemed idiotic I tried to ignore it. But it would not be ignored. Exasperated, I rolled off the bed and telephoned, to learn that the train was due, not at eight, but shortly after seven. Then I got a further impression: my husband was wanting me to go to the station, try to get a porter, and be ready to carry small things for him myself.

At this I flung on my clothes and ran downstairs, for there was little time; but before going out I told some friends who were staying with me, Mr and Mrs G. N. M. Tyrrel, that I thought my husband had sent these messages, and would they please note that I had told them so before I saw him.

Mr Tyrrell was at that time President of the SPR, and I felt rather smugly that this time I had got the perfect witness to what I felt sure was a case of ESP. Outside a stranger was turning away from his car to enter the house opposite, and I tore across the road and said to him, 'Please take me to Victoria or I shall miss my husband who is coming home on leave!'

He looked as astonished as I felt at such odd behaviour; but he was very kind and took me, and by good luck I was able to catch a porter and reach the platform just as the train, unexpectedly punctual, steamed in.

'Don't speak,' I cried as my husband stepped out of it, and though he looked somewhat taken aback at this welcome home from the wars he remained obediently silent. I went on to ask him whether he had in fact sent me the messages which I thought I had received, and then he understood.

'Yes,' he said. 'On arrival at Folkestone I realized that I had given you continental, not British, time and that porters would be very hard to get. I had been asked to bring some extra small packages home from GHQ, and had more than I could carry alone. As the post office was shut and the telephone booths had a mile-long queue, all I could do was to send you a mental message while I was coming up in the train.'

Again I felt smug. My only mistake had been to translate his feeling that there might not be a porter into orders to get him one.  Some points are worth noting here.

(1) I did not get my husband's message until I lay down and relaxed, although from his account he had begun 'sending' it earlier.

(2) At first I did not realize that it came from him. I merely felt a compulsive urge to telephone.

(3) The situation was a valid, not an artificial one; that is: he only 'sent' the message mentally because no other means of communication were available.

(4) It was also emotional, for this was his first leave since the Normandy landings, and since, from my point of view, the sense of his being in constant danger had decreased.

We both wrote independent accounts of the incident, and the Tyrrells confirmed mine. But even so, the seeker after cast-iron evidence would have to say that I only took the action which my husband might have been expected to want.