The Eagle and the Rose Page 15

  Little had they known that they were also sharing their last moments together.

  Mary Smith lay sprawled across the floor of the coach, and as her husband reached her side, he saw that the back of her head was broken and bloody.

  She must have been thrown when the coach overturned and had hit her head. Death had been instantaneous and virtually painless for her, but for her husband … he was to feel the heartache and pain of losing her in such a way for the rest of his life.

  Immediately, as I had started to work, Mary Smith made herself known to me, and I saw and heard her quite clearly. She was not very tall, with a neat figure, fair hair, and a warm smile. It was she who had described to me the chaos on the coach and all of the incidents that had led to her passing. I then asked Mary what else she would like to tell me, and without hesitation she said, “The funeral, I'd like to talk to you about the funeral.” And to my amazement, she started chuckling.

  “Ask him,” she said, pointing to her husband, “just ask him about the funeral. What a shock he had, oh boy, what a fright!”

  She was still laughing as, perplexed now, I asked: “But, Mary, can't you tell me, explain to me, please, what you mean?”

  Shaking her head, Mary was adamant. “He'll know what I mean, just ask him.”

  Well, I was in a predicament now, wasn't I? I could hardly say to this poor man: “Your wife's splitting her sides laughing about her funeral.” Not when Mr. Smith sat, broken and desolate, hoping to hear words of love and comfort.

  But Mary, undaunted, went on. “Tell him that I'm laughing, and tell him I thought his face was a picture, an absolute picture, when he opened the coffin lid.

  “Please,” she begged. “I know it sounds macabre, but he will understand, you'll see.”

  So, as gently and as carefully as I could, I repeated word for word what Mary Smith had said and finished by saying: “I'm afraid your wife has a very strange sense of humor, Mr. Smith, because she keeps chuckling about the coffin.”

  To my immense relief, and for the first time since he had walked into my study, Mr. Smith smiled and cried out.

  “That's her, that's my Mary, and trust her to think it was funny. Mind you, she's right,” he went on, chuckling now himself. “I did have a bloody shock. The hairs on the back of my neck must have stood out a mile, and it's a wonder I didn't turn pure white.”

  Mary, nodding and smiling herself and agreeing with her husband's comments, then went on to tell me the rest of the story.

  She wasn't the only one to die on the coach that day; others also lost their lives. Because of the circumstances, and the fact that the accident had happened abroad, it took several days before the authorities would allow the bodies to be shipped home.

  Mr. Smith, along with the other survivors of the crash, were flown home straight away, which meant he had been forced to leave the body of his wife behind.

  Mary's body, along with the bodies of the other victims, was eventually shipped home to England and delivered on the day of the funeral to Mr. Smith's home. Side by side Mr. Smith and his son stood and watched as the coffin was brought into the house. The grief and sadness that the man and the boy felt drew them close together as both stared at the box that held the body of the woman so dear to them.

  Mr. Smith put his arms firmly about his beloved son's shoulders and asked him if he would like to see his mother's face for the last time. The boy, unable to speak, nodded his head, and together they reached forward to lift the coffin lid.

  With tears now streaming down their faces, Mary's husband and her child gazed lovingly into the coffin … and froze.

  For there, lying outstretched and looking for all the world as if in peaceful slumber … was a stranger! A total stranger!

  Mr. Smith had been given the wrong body.

  Mary continued, telling me that her husband, after the initial shock, had simply gone berserk. “He kept repeating, over and over: ‘Where's my Mary? What have they done with my Mary?’ And all the time,” she said, “I was standing by his side, trying desperately to get through to him, to them both. My husband and my son were so distraught, and try as I might, I just could not make them hear me.”

  Talking of her son, Mary was particularly proud of him and told me that he was hoping to wear a uniform. “Tell Paul that I approve,” she said. “It's wonderful news.”

  At this piece of information Mr. Smith stared, obviously amazed as he exclaimed: “But he only applied a few weeks ago. He's hoping to join the police force.”

  “Well,” I said, “perhaps you could tell your son that his mother knows all about it.”

  Since that time Mr. Smith has been to see me several times, and the last time was a wonderful occasion for all of us. Mary came through to see me, as usual, and the first thing she said was: “Tell him I think she's lovely. I couldn't have chosen better myself.”

  Well now, you don't have to be psychic, do you, to understand that message?

  Mr. Smith had met someone else, and indeed she was a lovely lady he thought the world of. He was hoping to spend the rest of his life with her, but there was just one snag, one little hurdle he had to get over: he needed his wife's approval. He wanted Mary to tell him, truthfully, what she thought of his new girlfriend.

  Mary thought that it was wonderful, and she told me that she felt as if a terrific burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

  “I have been so worried about him,” she said, “and all I've wanted was for him to find someone to love, and who would love him, too, and look after him properly. Well, now he has,” she continued. “It has taken a long time, but he's done it, and I couldn't be more pleased.

  “Tell him, will you, please, to be happy, as I am.”

  So even though Mr. Smith's life had been shattered and in pieces, he has been able, gradually, to pick up those pieces and make a fresh start, a new beginning.

  He told me that, but for the evidence given through me of his wife's survival, his life would have been unbearable. That evidence gave him strength.

  I was able, he tells me, to help him to see that death, although tragic in Mary's case, is not final. It is not the end, but just a transition from one world to another.

  During his first sitting with me, Mr. Smith experienced sadness and laughter mingled together. I know that his memories of his first communication with his wife through a medium will stay with him forever, bringing him strength, comfort, and joy.

  The one message from Mary to her husband that stands out clearly in my mind is the one she gave when talking about the mix-up with the coffins.

  “I stood by his side,” she said, “as he cried out in agony: ‘Mary, oh, Mary, where are you?’ and I tried my best to make him hear, and to help him to understand.

  “I called out to him, and to my son, again and again: ‘I'm here, I'm here right next to you.’

  “It didn't matter to me,” she recalled, “that it was the wrong body. After all, what is a body but an empty shell! I kept on trying to tell them both—I'm not in that coffin, nor am I in any other coffin. The body that I once used is now useless to me, so it doesn't matter what happens to it. All that matters,” Mary went on, “is that you, my husband and my son, know how close I am to you.

  “I'm right here by your side … always!”

  The Little Girl and the Tiger

  It began with a phone call, a lady wanting a consultation. “You are a medium, aren't you?” she said quite aggressively, and before I could reply she demanded an appointment for herself and a friend, saying she had lost her daughter and wanted to contact her.

  Now, being a medium doesn't automatically mean that I am a nicer or more tolerant person, though I do endeavor to control my thoughts about others. But I'm afraid this phone call niggled me, and something about this woman irritated me a little. So when I had written down her appointment in my diary, by the side I put a question mark, something I usually do if I am unsure about someone.

  I then promptly forgot all about it until the week of
the sitting, when I looked in my diary and saw the question mark there. At first I couldn't remember why I had written it in, but then it was like hearing her voice all over again as I recalled her telling me that she had lost her daughter.

  It is difficult to tell on the telephone what age a person is or what they look like; so I had no idea how old my prospective client would be and therefore had no idea how old her daughter would be. I might be looking for a teenager, a twenty-year-old, or even a forty-year-old. So although I knew my client had lost her daughter, I was still working blind.

  The morning of the consultation I woke early. It was about six o'clock, and the first thing that came into my head was, “Oh, no, that woman is coming today.” Then, shrugging it off, I turned over, hoping to go back to sleep. As I did so, out of the corner of my eye I saw something move.

  Curious, I turned onto my back so that I could have a proper look at whatever it was, and standing before me was a little girl. Visits in this way from those in the spirit world were not at all unusual, but this child was especially cute. She was about four years old and the sweetest, prettiest little thing, with a plump little body, round rosy cheeks, and beautiful blond hair. Her eyes were large and cornflower blue, matching the blue of the dress she wore. Clutched in one hand was a teddy bear, very small, well worn, and ragged looking. What an adorable child, I thought.

  Smiling shyly at me, with her free hand she waved. A small child version of a wave, wriggling her chubby little fingers.

  “Hello, young lady, what are you doing here?” I asked, smiling gently.

  “My mummy's coming to see you today,” she whispered.

  “Ah,” I said, “is she now? And are you going to be a good girl for me, and talk to me when your mummy comes?”

  The child nodded and giggled self-consciously, wriggling her little fingers at me all the time, and I smiled at her again and asked: “You will try hard, darling, won't you?”

  She bobbed her head up and down, and I took that to mean yes, but when I asked her her name all I got from her was a toothy grin.

  I tried again but got nowhere at all, so not wanting to push too hard, I tried another tack: “Is there anything you want me to tell Mummy, or is there anything you want to say to me before your mummy comes this morning?”

  Bobbing her head up and down once again, she looked at me with those large cornflower blue eyes and whispered softly, “Tell Mummy ‘bout the tiger.”

  Hopefully, I pursued this and asked: “What about the tiger? Can you tell me about it?” But she merely repeated again:

  “Tell my mummy ‘bout the tiger.” And wriggling her little fingers at me once more, she disappeared as quickly as she had come.

  Smiling now and happy, I turned over in bed and cat-napped for another hour before I got up.

  My two clients arrived promptly at ten-thirty A.M., and as I showed them into the study, it was obvious to me which one was the lady I had spoken to on the telephone. She had that same demanding tone in her voice. In her early thirties, quite attractive, and with long black hair, she looked nothing like the child I had spoken to earlier.

  Her friend was quiet—in fact, quite shy—and she also had blond hair.

  Now then, I thought, trying to see some similarities between them and my little visitor, I wonder which one is the mother?

  Immediately upon sitting down, I spotted the little girl, who was jumping up and down with excitement, pointing to the darker of the two women, saying: “That's my mummy, it is, it is!”

  Using that power, that mind energy, with which I communicate with those in the spirit world and looking to Grey Eagle for confirmation, I began. “All right, darling,” I said, laughing, “hold on a minute,” and I began to describe the fairy child who was now waiting so patiently.

  “That's her, that's her,” her mother gasped, “that's my Mandy,” and fishing in her handbag, she brought out a photograph, which she handed to me. The photo didn't do justice to the child I had standing before me, but it was obviously the same child.

  Smiling encouragement, I said: “All right now, Mandy, what would you like to tell your mummy?”

  Pouting and cross with me because she thought I must have forgotten, she admonished: “You haven't told Mummy. You've got to tell Mummy ‘bout the tiger.”

  So I explained to Mandy's mother how her daughter had visited me earlier that morning and that she had asked me to talk about “the tiger.”

  My client, puzzled by this, shook her head, saying, “I'm sorry, but I don't know what she means.”

  Going back to Mandy, I asked gently, “Sweetheart, can you tell me a little more about the tiger so that I can help Mummy to understand?”

  But all she would say again was: “Tell my Mummy ‘bout the tiger.”

  Now when it comes to dealing with small children, I can have infinite patience, which I needed, as Mandy is a stubborn little girl. Having decided that her mother did know what she was talking about, she refused to reveal any more information, no matter what I said or did. Her mother just became more and more puzzled each time I asked.

  “Perhaps Mandy had a toy tiger, or was she perhaps fond of tigers at the zoo?”

  Eventually I ran out of ideas, and in desperation I asked Grey Eagle. I should, of course, have asked him sooner.

  Chuckling, he said, “It's easy—look.” As in a vision, I was shown a cat, a large tom, with ginger and white stripes. It was the sort of cat a small child might mistake for a tiger.

  “Tell Mandy's mother what you see,” continued my guide, “and then ask if she has seen one this morning, early, at about six-thirty A.M.”

  When I relayed all of this information to Mandy's mother, I really thought at first that she was going to faint.

  Then, slowly, tears began to trickle down her face, and in a voice barely above a whisper, she said: “My Mandy really is alive. She really can see me after all.

  “I got up early this morning,” she went on, “because I had such a lot to do, what with getting the boys off to school and one thing and another. The milkman had just been when I came down the stairs, so I went out to fetch the milk in. Just as I stepped out of the door a cat shot straight under my feet. It came out of nowhere and I almost went flying. It was a huge thing with ginger and white stripes, and now I come to mention it, Mandy's right… it did look just like a little tiger.”

  Mandy, now very pleased with herself because she had been right and her mummy did, after all, know about the tiger, went on to tell me many more things.

  Her favorite topic was her two brothers, both on this side, whom she obviously adored and who, by the sound of things, were real mischiefs. The older of the two was always getting into trouble, and Mandy gleefully related tales of his exploits.

  Because she was so young, occasionally I had a little trouble understanding her. One minute she seemed just a baby and the next quite grown-up. But there was no mistaking one statement she made.

  She was still talking about her brothers, and as she was describing how they would sit on the floor and draw pictures and swap coloring books, she said: “And they have sweeties, too—and Andrew always has a black mouth—and a black tongue.” And then, in a small conspiratorial whisper, “He loves lick-rish, see, it's his favorite.”

  Mandy's mother laughed at this and confirmed that indeed her youngest son adored licorice.

  At this point I hadn't yet discovered how Mandy had passed into the spirit world, and I didn't want to upset the child by asking her. But Grey Eagle, realizing that this information was necessary for Mandy's mother, gave me all the details.

  It had happened on a warm summer's day, and Mandy had been playing outside on the path near her house. Her mother had repeatedly warned her not to go on the road, but on this day the temptation was too great.

  She heard the familiar tinkling of the ice-cream van as it came round the corner, and in her excitement, she forgot her mother's warning.

  “Ice cream,” she squealed delightedly, and raced out into t
he road.

  The driver of the car didn't stand a chance of avoiding her, and Mandy was killed instantly.

  Mandy's mother confirmed all of this, and now sobbing, she told me of the guilt and self-recriminations she had had since her daughter's death—and how she had gone from medium to medium in a desperate search for evidence of Mandy's survival.

  “I haven't known a moment's peace,” she said, “until now, and I have come up against so many blank walls trying to find the truth.”

  I smiled and asked: “Just what was it that has been said this morning that has finally convinced you that your Mandy has survived death?”

  She answered without hesitation and with no more doubts left in her mind: “The tiger.”

  Such a trivial but oh so significant piece of evidence. But such was the power of this evidence that it brought real peace to Mandy's mother and a true understanding that life really does continue on.

  Mandy's mother could now rest easy, knowing that her daughter was indeed alive and safe.

  But for me, the most important thing was that Mandy was finally content. She had her family back… and they knew it.

  Mary

  So far, throughout this case book, each story has shown the will and determination of those in the spirit world, of their need and perseverance to communicate. This next story reveals a woman's singleness of purpose as she determines to reach the husband and children she so sadly had to leave.

  She came through in a session with a client named Doreen Abrams. Doreen was a familiar face, and this was her third sitting.

  Looking to Grey Eagle, as I always do, I began, “I have a lady standing beside me, and although I can't see her very clearly I am having no difficulty whatsoever in hearing her. Her name, she tells me, is Mary, and she has explained that she passed, quite recently, with cancer.”

  Doreen shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said, “I'm afraid it doesn't mean anything at all to me.”