To read the introduction to this blog and previous episodes click on the links:
Episode 3: 1985, entry into a new world
“It could be your brother, you know. You ought to talk to my mum, she’s a medium.”
All eyes which had been glued on me while I was recounting the strange things that had been happening in my brand new house, swivelled to my work colleague.
She laughed at the expressions on our faces and asked me if I’d like her to call her mother and arrange for me to go and talk to her.
I wasn’t sure. I mean, a medium? Someone who gathered a circle of people in the darkened back room of a spooky house and called out, ‘Is anybody there?’ and then supposedly talked to the dead?
Well, I might be sceptical, but how could I not be curious? I loved ghost stories and had never doubted the existence of psychic abilities – I possess some sort of sixth sense myself – but I had never given any credence to the existence of an afterlife.
My visit was arranged and I parked in the driveway of an unassuming semi-detached house, wondering what I was getting myself into. I was expecting to be swept into a candle-lit parlour by a heavily made-up lady wearing a billowing, brightly-coloured dress, an exotic turban on her head and multiple rings on her fingers. Instead I was ushered into a brightly lit kitchen by a motherly woman called Joan in a pleated skirt and pastel pink twinset. I took a seat at the table and Joan made a pot of tea and offered me a freshly-baked and still warm shortbread biscuit.
She told me that she knew from her daughter that my brother had recently died, but she could not sense him at that moment. I didn’t really know what this meant, but she went on to say that I was to tell her nothing at all about him so that if he did start to communicate with her, she would be able to prove it was him.
While we waited we drank tea, ate her delicious biscuits and talked about all sorts of things. I sensed she was trying to put me at ease, because I was very tense waiting and hoping something amazing would happen, and I really warmed to her.
But Stephen did not make an appearance.
As I was leaving, Joan squeezed my hand. “Just because I can’t see or hear him,” she said, “doesn’t mean he isn’t with you. His passing is fairly recent so he may be finding it difficult to connect with me. I know another medium who is much more experienced than I am, I think you should meet him.”
She invited me to return to her home on 11th May, for a group meeting, or séance, which would be led by this other psychic medium. I drove home wondering if I was wasting time chasing rainbows, but of course I went back.
This time I was shown into the living room where seven other people were already waiting. The sofa and armchairs had been pushed back against the walls and a circle of chairs placed in the centre of the room. It was daylight and the floral-patterned chintz curtains were open and lacy net curtains provided privacy from the street.
I took my seat and glanced quickly at the other guests as introductions were made. The medium, whose name was Bob, immediately started to relay messages.
As he talked I was able to study him. In his late fifties or early sixties he was a large man with sparse, grey hair, pale blue eyes and sallow skin. His trousers had shiny patches, his shirt cuffs were frayed and his pea-green cardigan had holes in the elbows. I guessed from his threadbare appearance that the rusty old banger I’d parked next to was his.
He didn’t go into a trance, his voice didn’t change, it was as if he was having an everyday conversation with the people I could see in the room, as well as several that I couldn’t see.
After a while of listening incredulously to what their late relatives supposedly had to say, I gathered that everyone else in the circle was familiar with Bob and each other. One message that stands out in my memory was an aunt speaking to her niece, telling her that she was worried about her niece’s husband balancing on a ladder as he hung wallpaper in their bedroom.
Really? I thought. Is that the kind of thing dead people concerned themselves with? It seemed so trivial, and not at all the kind of communication I had expected. Surely they had better things to do than watch people decorate?
There was no message for me, so at the end of the séance we had tea and sandwiches in the kitchen and I asked the other guests if they really believed in mediums and how often they went to séances. They were all happy to offer glowing testimonials for Bob and to regale me with their stories. The woman who had received the message about the ladder placed her hand on my arm and said, “I didn’t believe any of it not so long ago, but when my aunt was dying she said she’d come back and prove to me that there is an afterlife, and so she did. I sincerely hope you find out for yourself one day.”
I must admit that by now I was envious of the others who were so firm in their beliefs and obviously comforted by the messages they had received. But as there had been nothing for me, my scepticism remained, and I was ready to finish my tea and go home.
I had placed my cup and saucer beside the sink when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned my head to see Bob beaming at me.
My answering smile faltered and the blood drained from my face as he said, “Your brother’s here.”
J Merrill Forrest is the author of two novels, Flight of the Kingfisher and The Waiting Gate and a collection of poetry, Natural Alchemy. All are available from the usual sources, including Amazon, in paperback or e-book formats.