The Eagle and the Rose Read online

  But there it was again, very clear and very precise.

  “My name is Mary, and I passed with cancer. I'm her neighbor, Doreen's neighbor. Tell her I've been watching her these last two days going backward and forward, from her house to mine, climbing over the fence.”

  “But it can't be,” said a startled Doreen as I passed on the message. “It can't be that Mary, my neighbor Mary, because, well, she only died three days ago. It won't be her, Rosemary, surely. She couldn't do it so quickly … could she?”

  By “it” Doreen had meant that she didn't think Mary would be able to communicate through a medium so soon. For some strange reason she thought, like many people, that those in the spirit world had to have passed at least six months, if not longer, before being able to form any kind of communication link.

  Mary had shown her that this just wasn't so. Some folk take years before they feel ready to make themselves known, usually through a medium, after they have passed. Others manage within hours, and a few, for reasons of their own, just won't do it at all.

  Poor Doreen had a hard time at first accepting that her next-door neighbor, whose funeral she was going to the next day, could actually make contact in such a short time. Then bewilderment turned to amazement as Mary continued with her messages.

  She mentioned her two daughters—Joanne, who was thirteen years old, and Rachel, ten years old—naturally showing tremendous concern because they were crying so much. At one point I asked Doreen: “Who's Martin? Mary mentions Martin, and whoever he is she loves him dearly.”

  Martin, I was told by Doreen, was Mary's husband.

  “And send my love to Mike, and tell him I'm fine now, will you?” Mary continued.

  Mike was Martin's brother, and they were very close.

  Several times during this sitting links were made with members of Doreen's own family. Her father and brother both came through quite clearly, but they were interrupted again and again by Mary. She was desperate to let her family know that she had, very definitely, survived death.

  Eventually Mary's interruptions became impossible to ignore, and I told Doreen so.

  “It's just no good, I don't seem able to quiet her. So would you mind, Doreen, if we give Mary more time?”

  Now this might sound, to some of you, a strange thing to ask, but you have to remember that Doreen had come to see me in the hope of getting in touch with her family. And here we had her next-door neighbor, who seemed to be taking over the whole show, not allowing anyone else to say more than a few words before chipping in herself.

  Doreen, a lovely lady with a kind and generous nature, understood perfectly. “If that were me,” she said, “I would be doing just the same. I would want my family to know how I was, and that I had made it over all right.”

  So from then on Mary had the floor, and she talked constantly about her family, telling me how they were coping with their loss.

  “They're not doing very well, and I know that if Doreen would let Martin hear the tape, both he and the family will feel much better.”

  On every visit to me Doreen has always recorded her sittings, and this time was no exception. But at the suggestion that she should let her neighbor listen to her tape, Doreen shook her head.

  “Oh, no, I don't think so, I really don't think I could do that. I don't think I know him well enough for that,” she replied.

  Not put off by this in the least, Mary continued. Switching away from her family, she told me that before her passing, her husband had done some alterations to the kitchen.

  “He put all new cupboards in,” she said, “and a new floor as well. It looks beautiful, and I was really pleased when it was finished. But we need a bread bin, tell Martin, will you? It's important. The kitchen won't be properly finished until he gets the bread bin.”

  After the sitting was over, Doreen and I talked for a little while, and she asked me what I would do about the tape if I were her.

  I explained that in my experience, if someone in spirit makes a request such as this, it is not a request made lightly.

  “I am sure,” I went on, “that Mary would never ask you to do or say anything to her family which might harm or cause them upset in any way. You have to remember, Doreen, that Mary knows Martin very much better than you do. And all I can tell you is that it is important to Mary.

  “But,” I added, “if you feel that you just don't want to get involved, then you must not allow either Mary or me to influence you in any way.”

  Doreen left my house that day in a very pensive mood, and her final words to me as she went out of the door were: “I'll have to think about it. I'll listen to the tape when I get home, and then I will decide what to do.”

  Later that same day Doreen phoned me, very excited and pleased with herself. She explained that after listening to the tape, she sat, debating in her own mind what she should do. Then, suddenly, and for reasons she could not explain, she took her courage in both hands. Grabbing the tape recorder and climbing over the fence, as Mary had described her doing, she knocked on her neighbor's door.

  Martin, a tall slim man in his late thirties, smiled a welcome as he let Doreen in and showed her through to the sitting room. She sat on the edge of the chair that Martin had offered, wondering where to begin, what to say first. When she noticed Martin's curious glances toward her tape recorder, she took a deep breath and began.

  “I suppose, Martin, you must be wondering why I've come, and what I've brought the tape recorder for. Well, you see, it's like this,” and she gave him Mary's messages, suggesting that he should hear the tape.

  His face completely expressionless, Martin nodded his agreement. “I don't suppose,” he said, “that there can be any harm in listening, can there?”

  Doreen shakily set up the machine, but just as she was about to switch it on, in walked Martin's brother, Mike.

  Martin explained briefly to Mike what was happening and asked him to stay and listen.

  For the next hour the two brothers sat with Doreen, quite still and not saying a word. The only sound in the room was the voice of a stranger talking of things that not even friends of Martin's family knew.

  Every so often Doreen would glance furtively across at the two men, hoping for some indication of their reaction to what they were hearing. But both sat perfectly still, their faces giving away nothing at all.

  Then came Mary's last message, conveyed, of course, through me:

  “Please, Doreen, give my love to Martin and the girls. Tell them I'm all right, and that I have survived.”

  The tape ended, and for the next few minutes the two men sat, still not saying a word. Doreen, now feeling very embarrassed by their silence, picked up the tape recorder and made to leave.

  It was as she stood up to go that Martin seemed suddenly to come to life. Jumping out of his chair, he moved across to where Doreen stood, and putting his arm around her, he gently pushed her back onto the chair.

  “I don't know what to say,” he began, “or how to thank you for what you have just given me.” And words of thanks and gratitude tumbled from him.

  He told Doreen that he had understood all of what he had heard, even about the bread bin. It was the one thing left to buy to complete the set of kitchen equipment that Mary had been collecting. It was also one of the last things that Mary had mentioned to her husband before she had “died.”

  He then told Doreen that he had been so depressed before he heard the tape, and he had been wondering how on earth he would be able to face Mary's funeral and how he would ever manage to be strong for his children's sake.

  “You know, Doreen, Mary believed in a life after death, and we talked about it many times. She promised me, just before she ‘died,’ that if there was a way to send a message to me, to let me know that she was all right, then she would do. And I believed her. I just didn't expect to hear from her so soon. It's really wonderful, and now I know that I will be able to face tomorrow, knowing that my darling wife is not lost to me or to my girls.”
r />   A few days after Mary's funeral, Doreen received a visit from Martin's brother's wife, Val, who had listened to a copy of Doreen's tape.

  She made some tea, and the two women chatted for a while, discussing the impact the tape had made on all the family.

  “You have no idea how much better we all felt,” said Val, “and how much easier it was to cope with Mary's passing. Mind you”—she then chuckled—“it must have seemed a little strange to all those people who came to the funeral.

  “They must have thought it very odd, and on such a sad and solemn occasion, that the whole family, especially Martin, were all smiling.”

  Louise

  Like Mary's story, the story of Louise shows the need, not only of her parents, but of her own need to make that communication link which proves survival after death.

  It began with a knock on the door, and then I heard Samantha's voice

  “Come in,” she said. “Mum won't be long.”

  Oh, crumbs, I thought. Are they early, or am I late? I looked at the clock that stood by the bed and realized to my horror that I had been on the phone, on and off, for over two hours.

  It had been one of those mornings when, no matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn't get organized. People had been ringing nonstop, one after the other, wanting appointments, advice, healing, or absent healing, and, of course, I had to give them my full attention. Not an easy thing to do when I was also trying to get ready for work.

  As I raced around the bedroom, finding shoes and brushing my hair at the same time, it occurred to me that I hadn't given much thought to the two people who were downstairs in my study, waiting for me. Some of you will suppose that a medium must be calm, peaceful, and full of meditative thoughts, especially just before a sitting. Now, while I would agree that it's not a bad suggestion, I'm afraid that for me it simply doesn't work that way. I am usually in a rush and trying desperately to fit everything into my day, which invariably ends up being a day too short.

  So as I scrambled furiously under the bed, looking for my missing shoe, I didn't have time to reflect on the circumstances that had led to my working on my one day off in weeks.

  I knew that Grey Eagle had felt it important enough to ask me to see these people, and that was good enough for me.

  When the gentleman had rung and made the appointment, he had refused to give me any surname. “Just put down John and Sue,” he had said.

  Eventually, having found the missing shoe, I dashed out of the bedroom—and nearly jumped out of my skin as I was confronted by a young girl of about fourteen years of age.

  Recovering quickly, I chuckled and said, “Oh, my, you did give me a fright.”

  She grinned sheepishly, then gave me a mock curtsy and dashed off in front of me down the stairs. By the time I walked into the study, she was already there, waiting patiently for me to begin.

  The couple already seated in the study were in their early thirties, very ordinary looking, but both seemed very nervous, the young woman more so than her husband.

  Explanations, I felt, were not necessary with these two. I had no need to talk about mediumship or to explain in any way what I was going to try to do. They had come to me for one reason and one reason only, and if I did not fill their expectation, they would, I realized, keep on trying until they found somebody who did.

  So without any preamble, and much to the delight of the young girl I had nearly bumped into on the landing, I began.

  “I have a young girl here, about fourteen years old at a guess, wearing glasses. She tells me she passed due to an accident and says that you are her mum and dad.”

  The couple nodded, and the young woman bit hard on her lip, but neither of them spoke a word.

  Realizing that this couple had decided to say as little as possible to me, in order not to give anything away, I turned back to the young girl, whose name I discovered later was Louise. Communicating my thoughts to her, I said, “Well, sweetheart, it's all up to you. Try, if you can, to tell me as much about yourself and your family as possible.”

  Quite unperturbed, she replied: “Tell my dad that I know he's hurt his finger.”

  Such a little thing, and yet so important! With no hesitation I gave the message, but John's reaction was not at all what I expected.

  “I haven't hurt my finger at all,” he said.

  For the next five minutes we argued, his daughter insisting that he had hurt his finger and he equally insistent that he had not. I was sure that he was not being deliberately obstructive, but I was equally sure that Louise knew what she was talking about.

  “Look,” I said eventually, “I don't want to seem rude, and I can only repeat what I am being told, but your daughter is now describing to me how you stood at the kitchen sink yesterday, with your finger all bloody, and she keeps on saying that you made it bleed.”

  John looked down at his hands, then across at me, a bewildered look on his face.

  There were no scars that I could see, no plasters, no visible signs of injury, but I knew that I was right, that this young girl who had come through from the spirit world was right.

  Then Sue spoke up. “She's right, John, Louise is talking about your sore thumb, not your finger.”

  Understanding dawned, and John then told me how, after his daughter's accident, his nerves completely on edge, he had begun to pick at his thumb, pulling away at the skin and making it bleed.

  “It keeps forming a scab,” he told me, “and I've tried to stop doing it, but yesterday I forgot, and picked at it again. There was blood everywhere, and I had to put it under the tap and run cold water on it for ages before the bleeding stopped. But how,” he went on now, truly perplexed, “could you have possibly known about it?”

  I smiled and said gently, “Because, John, your daughter has told me. Now, shall we see if we can all relax a little and see what else Louise would like to say?”

  “I was on my bike,” Louise said, “doing my paper round, when a car came up fast behind me and knocked me off. He couldn't stop at first,” she went on, “and I was dragged down the street. When Mum came to the hospital she was really upset because it didn't look like me anymore.”

  I carefully related this last piece of information, not wanting to cause too much distress to Louise's parents but knowing that the more evidence I was able to give, the more they might realize how very much alive their daughter still was.

  A tragedy like this is always difficult to relate and is always distressing no matter how carefully it is approached.

  One of the hardest aspects of working as a medium is seeing, and sometimes being a part of, the intense pain that parents have to go through when losing a child. It doesn't matter how young or old that child is; whether it is a baby or an adult, it makes no difference. The pain and hurt are always there.

  Louise had thought it best to explain, in as much detail as possible, how she had passed over, knowing that her parents would not be satisfied unless they had that evidence.

  So we got the worst part over, and then she told me all about her mum and dad, then about her bedroom, her friends, a little bit about her school, and all sorts of other things.

  At one point, describing her bedroom, Louise mentioned the pictures that hung on the walls. “She tells me that the pictures are of Michael,” I related to John and Sue.

  “Oh, no, you're wrong there,” said John. “We don't have any pictures of Michael. We don't know any Michael.”

  But Louise insisted. “Tell them it's George Michael,” she said, “my hero.”

  So again I recounted to John and Sue the information Louise was so sure about, and I added: “Your daughter definitely seems to know what she is talking about, and I for one don't doubt for a minute that she's right.”

  This remark produced a quiver of a smile from Sue, and John exclaimed, “She's right, the pictures on her bedroom wall are all of Wham, the pop group. You know, George Michael from Wham!”

  Louise talked of many more things, gave more evidence of her
survival after death, then eventually started talking about her sister, Lisa, who is still on this side.

  Lisa is handicapped and goes to a special school. Although she is not physically disabled, her parents have had many many problems with Lisa, the worst being that she is an extremely hyperactive child. Even getting her to bed, or to sleep at all, was virtually impossible sometimes.

  John and Sue had been to numerous doctors and specialists and had been given a number of different drugs to try, in order to help Lisa to settle down. They wanted desperately to see their daughter leading as normal a life as possible, but nothing they had tried had helped.

  “We're at our wits’ end,” they said, and John confessed that he would give anything to help Lisa.

  “We know that she will never be able to live a completely normal life, but surely something could be done to help her,” he said. “We have been all over and tried everything, but it just seems as if we're banging our heads against a brick wall.”

  Surely, I thought, there must be something we could do to help.

  I looked at Louise, who, having read my thoughts, smiled sweetly and said: “Don't worry, he's going to help.” And she pointed to where my friend and guide was standing.

  Grey Eagle nodded, then, leaning forward toward Louise and in a conspiratorial manner, he whispered something in her ear.

  She grinned delightedly, then: “It's her diet, ‘he’ says it's her diet. Lisa is eating things which make her poorly. ‘He’ says, Grey Eagle, I mean, that I've got to tell you it's her diet!”

  I looked at this young girl, who was so eager to help her sister, and I marveled at her ability to accept so easily the fact that Grey Eagle knew what he was talking about. But I knew that it would not be so easy to convince her parents to listen.

  Even I, though not questioning the wisdom of my guide, thought that it really did sound a little too simple.

  When I told John and Sue what Grey Eagle and Louise had said, they both looked at me as if I had gone mad.

  “Believe me,” I said, “I know what you must be thinking, and I am aware that what I have said might, to you, sound preposterous, but my guide does know what he's talking about. If he insists, as he does, that some of the food which Lisa eats is causing her to be hyperactive, then my advice is that you try and get her to have some allergy tests done, to see if she is allergic to anything she is eating.”