Dearly Departed Read online

  Brendan’s 21st birthday party was a month later so I packed the teddy bear in my bag, along with other surprises I’d bought the family while I was away, and boarded the plane for the short one-hour flight. Like all young people, they were keen to open their presents from overseas. I pulled the bear out of my suitcase and handed it to Latoya, saying: ‘This is for you, from Claira. It’s a gift from her to you. I feel she wants you to know she’s thinking of you.’

  Latoya looked at Brendan, and tears welled up in her eyes as I relayed the story of the bear and gave her a whiff of the perfume.

  Georgina, this is just like the sweet-smelling perfume Claira liked to wear, and 2004 is the year she died. She was fourteen when she died. She was staying with our dad in another state. We were very close growing up; there was only three years difference in our ages. Mum and I had only spoken to her over the phone just before Christmas and were very excited to hear her say she would soon be coming home to live with the family again.

  I remember Mum gave Claira a warning that day about getting into cars with drivers who were unfamiliar, reckless or who’d been drinking. I was to learn later the significance of her message—you see, Mum had a secret she hadn’t shared with me or anyone else in the family. I too had a secret—it was so weird—about three days before Claira died I was watching television. It was a random thought, like I was daydreaming. I saw my uncle getting a telephone call saying Claira had died. I just knew it would be on the road, in a bus or car.

  Christmas came and went. Late Christmas night, I was snuggled up in my bed reading, when suddenly the light flashed on my mobile phone—there was no ringing sound, just the flashing of the light. ‘Claira,’ I thought. I’ll always remember the time on my phone—11.15 p.m. The next morning was Boxing Day and the downstairs phone rang. Perhaps it was the thought of Claira the night before, plus the weird experience I had had when watching television, that made me rush as fast as I could to answer the phone. No-one ever rang me on this phone, preferring to contact me on my mobile. So the thought of wanting to answer the house phone was out of character.

  As I stood at the top of the stairs, it was too late; my uncle had beaten me to it. I saw his face and he started to shake, and I just knew it was about Claira and that she had died. It was my worse fear, the unusual vision I had experienced several days before had become a living reality. I was so scared—I knew what he was going to tell me. I was dreading the news. Claira had been killed in a car accident late the night before.

  Mum needed to be told. My uncle and I lived out of town near the beaches in those days, so we drove the one-hour car trip to Mum’s place. I cried non-stop the whole way—but I knew I needed to be strong for my mum. As we approached her home, I tried to pull myself together. But Mum acted as though she already knew. When she saw me, she said, ‘Please don’t tell me anything bad.’ She started to run around the house like a crazy woman.

  You see, Georgina, the secret Mum hadn’t shared with me was that she had a dream, a premonition, prior to speaking to Claira on the phone that day, where she’d seen a car rolling over and over and someone thrown through the front windscreen. We learnt from the police that my father’s girlfriend was drunk that night, and she was behind the wheel of the car as it sped out of control, rolled and Claira was thrown out through the front windscreen. Apparently she was sitting in the back of the car, sandwiched between her boyfriend and another passenger—wearing no seatbelt.

  We were told she died instantly. However, we were to learn later this was not the case. You see the policeman’s wife had come out to the accident site that night and heard Claira’s boyfriend calling out, ‘Libby, Libby—where is Libby?’ Although we called my sister Claira, in fact that was her middle name. Her first name was Elizabeth, and Libby was the name some people chose to call her. Her boyfriend’s cries prompted the policeman’s wife to go searching with a torch in the surrounding roadside and scrub, and thankfully this was how she discovered Claira who was badly injured.

  We were so grateful she did this, otherwise Claira may never have been found. The woman stayed with Claira until she passed away. The accident and circumstances weighed heavily on her mind, and she felt we should know the true facts. One thing she mentioned was that just before Claira died she was smiling. Yet the coroner’s report said she had eight fatal injuries—so how could she possibly be smiling? It was one of the things about the accident that I felt puzzled about— I had no explanation as to why someone in such bad circumstances would ever consider smiling.

  After the funeral and church service, we were driving to the cemetery when Mum told me of her dream and the premonition she had. I can recall that day so clearly—it was raining, and as they lowered Claira’s coffin into the ground, the rainwater was trickling down the sides of the coffin. People had scattered rose petals on top of the coffin and as I looked inside her grave, I felt so helpless. I just wanted to jump into the plot and be there with Claira—I didn’t want her to be alone. I was devastated, and I truly believed I could never ever recover from her death. So I made a promise to Claira that when I had my first daughter she would be named Claira, after her.

  The healing begins

  Just over a year later I holidayed again with Brendan and Latoya. Latoya’s mother, Mary, was keen to meet up with me once more, as we had met briefly before. This time she wanted me to experience some of her traditional Island cooking. Mary is proud of her strong indigenous roots, hailing from the Torres Strait Islands, off the far north coast of Australia, scattered as far away as Papua New Guinea. Their food is wonderful—cooked slowly in banana leaves, with loads of coconut milk, vegetables and meat. I was to experience a true feast of the Island kind that went from evening, to breakfast then lunch—a smorgasbord of delights.

  It was during our times together that I was able to discuss Claira’s passing with Mary. On our previous meeting Mary was too emotional to talk about her daughter’s death; however, this time she was more open. I was blessed to be able to share stories of my clients who have had Dearly Departed readings, and relate the experiences and lessons I had learnt as a psychic medium from the messages imparted to the living from those who had crossed over as they gave proof that life indeed lives on in another dimension, and how at times they have left messages and symbols to their loved ones that they are indeed thinking of them.

  It was later in the week that Latoya shared with me the comfort she personally felt when listening to these stories. One particular theme that played over and over in her mind was hearing the case stories of the loved ones who, in their final hour, would speak to someone standing by their bed or close to them. They would call their name, have a conversation with someone as though it were a two-way street, listen and respond, yet family and friends standing by couldn’t see anyone else present. Some did recognise the name being addressed, but these people had already crossed over, leaving those present feeling their loved one may be hallucinating.

  But now Latoya understood that these were returned loved ones who manifested as the dying person’s guardian angel or spirit helper, here to pave the way for the transition of the spirit to the other side, making the forthcoming journey of the soul easier with someone familiar, comforting and loving.

  ‘Georgina, now I know why Claira was smiling before she died. I believe it was our Aunty Robyn who came to collect her. She died in 2000, and she and Claira were always close. Claira would always give her a big hug and smile when they visited. It makes me feel good and peaceful to know that when Claira died she was not alone.’

  Mary shared her dream with me, and we talked about the 2004 teddy bear experience at the airport. Latoya giggled and asked, ‘Had you noticed the colour of the bear, Georgina?’ Well, actually, I hadn’t taken any particular notice. I presumed it was gold. Rushing upstairs to retrieve the bear, she plonked it on the coffee table right in front of me, along with a beautiful photo of Claira. I couldn’t help but smile—the 2004 teddy bear was not gold, as I had presumed, but a gorgeous shad
e of chocolate brown. I knew exactly what Latoya was thinking.

  ‘Can you see the family resemblance? We’re not-fair skinned at all—more like the shade of the teddy bear!’ The significance of the purchase, the message and now the colour of the teddy bear were even more significant than I had thought. Mary explained to me that in her culture and society ‘signs’ are very much entrenched in their way of life. She saw the significance of the teddy bear, date and message—even down to the letter ‘G’ (as GG is my pet nickname in the media)—as signs that Claira had manifested to show those closest to her that even from the other side, she still honoured her cultural roots and identity.

  As I put the finishing touches on Claira’s story, I have some wonderful news to share—I am to be a grandmother again later this year! Latoya and Brendan are expecting their first child, and, yes, it is to be a girl, already named Claira!

  2

  A cry for help

  For this is he that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias, saying, the voice of one crying in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.

  The Bible, Matthew, Chapter 3, Verse 3

  The Language of Spirit has no boundaries—we all have the ability to communicate across time and space. Your mind can travel to any place in this world and beyond. When you pray, meditate, daydream and ask for help, you send a vibration into the universal energy field seeking an answer, solution or healing. As this is emitted, it is also received!

  World War II times were uncertain, which prompted the spiritual 22-year-old British naval officer Roy Gibson to buy a gold cross in Colombo, Sri Lanka, while his ship was in port. He had the letter ‘R’ and his fiancée’s initial ‘A’ engraved on the piece, one on either side of the outstretched arms depicted on the cross. For him, this would symbolically protect the wartime sweethearts until they could be together.

  For 20-year-old Agnes, her only link to Roy was the cross she wore around her neck and his letters, many of which arrived in pieces as the censor’s scissors cut out highly sensitive location and event information. There were no privacy laws in those days, and Big Brother had the final say. Should those innocent, chatty letters from one sweetheart to another fall into enemy hands, perhaps they would alert them to potential spy activities or locations of ships and troops on the move that could give them the upper hand and turn the war to their advantage. Many of the letters Agnes opened resembled small strips of ribbon rather than pages of a letter. But a letter was a letter, no matter how small. Even just a few words meant he was alive.

  In England on Easter Saturday 1945, at 7.30 a.m., Agnes arrived for work at the factory where she was employed as a seamstress to sew war uniforms for the troops. The factories in wartime worked seven days a week, even on public holidays, to push through the large quotas of clothing needed by the soldiers. Agnes was combing her hair in the ladies’ restroom when the mirror took on the appearance of shimmering water and waves and all seemed dark. She heard Roy’s voice cry out—‘Agnes’. She felt great fear and backed away from the mirror. As her back touched the wall, she fainted and slid down to the floor.

  That evening she wrote to Roy, telling him of her experience.

  Several days later, a workmate told Agnes she’d been to the local movie house, and on the world news screened before the movie was an announcement that the HMS Indefatigable, where Roy was an engine room artificer, had been hit by a plane and seventeen men were dead.

  As the plane hit the deck and burst into flames, the order was issued to seal the engine rooms to keep the ship afloat. Roy knew his fate and called out, ‘God save me’ and ‘Agnes’. Thousands of miles away, the voice of Roy in the dark engine room was ‘heard’ by his fiancée and the emotions ‘felt’. Spirit had delivered his words.

  The ship’s steel deck, rather than a traditional wood one, saved the men as the flames were extinguished quickly. The orders to seal the engine rooms were never carried out.

  Roy wrote to Agnes that night. Very little was left of his letter due to censorship, but one sentence had been left complete. It read, ‘Yes, it certainly was April Fool’s Day’, indicating to her that something had happened that day that he could not discuss openly.

  Some things are inexplicable, such as a voice heard audibly from one person to another with no wires or vehicle to send information. Yet for this couple, proof of the existence of unseen powers and forces would ultimately see them take a spiritual journey and quest that covered a lifetime together.

  They married in 1946 upon Roy’s return to England, and a few years later migrated to Australia and had one child—you guessed it—me!

  3

  I heard his voice I heard his voice

  If you cannot observe it, then you must meditate, contemplate and imagine it, it is wondrous that if you contemplate long enough, then eventually you will see it.

  When you are able to see something that cannot really be seen—then it is wondrous.

  Henry Chang, Dragonfly Magazine, Volume 4

  ‘Green, green is the valley where I lie.’ The words came rushing through my ears. It was a man’s voice. I knew I hadn’t imagined it. It was real. I instantly recalled how the kids at school would say, ‘If you hear voices in your head, it’s a sign of madness.’ Was I really mad?

  I hoped the other people sitting in the circle heard his voice too. Would they believe a ten-year-old? Then suddenly, before my eyes, I saw an elephant trample a garden bed. It was crystal clear, right down to the texture of its skin and the colour of the flowers.

  Surely they’d have seen that, I thought.

  It seemed like an eternity that we all sat in darkness. I was the only child in a roomful of ageing adults who had come to investigate the supernatural, wanting to develop their psychic gifts or have proof of the existence of a spirit world.

  We’d been instructed to sit in a large circle and concentrate on a vase of flowers that a redheaded, well-dressed woman had placed in the middle of the room. Perhaps we would see, hear or feel something. A message, a prediction or some form of proof of another sense—a sixth sense.

  We regularly made the one-hour drive from my parents’ home in the leafy northern beaches into the bright evening lights of a fast-moving Saturday night in the city of Sydney. We’d park the car and make our way to the theatre district, where I was allowed to select a small bag of handmade chocolates. The treat, I realise now, was a bribe to keep me silent for the night’s activities.

  Walking up the old stairwell, it seemed as though the creaky stairs were singing their own mantra: ‘Come—be prepared, come— be prepared.’

  You couldn’t help but notice the assortment of people in the large room. Some were well-manicured in appearance, others seemed out of place. They were lost souls looking for an evening out—perhaps some light entertainment or a sudden rush of adrenaline with a ghostly encounter.

  The old iron chairs were already in neat rows facing the front of the hall, where a small table covered with a lace tablecloth had been placed. On one side of the table were, neatly placed, the Bible, a collection bowl for donations and a jug of water with two mismatched glasses. There was a chair on either side of the table— one for the guest medium or psychic and the other for the convener.

  My bag of dolls and toys become increasingly more boring as the weeks went by, and the chairs were most uncomfortable as I wiggled and squirmed. Sometimes I listened with intent to the guest speaker, questioning whether it really was Red Eagle or Cleopatra who the medium had brought through—their hand gestures and unusual voices all sounded fake to me. Other mediums seemed to shine as they talked, and I sensed a genuine interest and belief in what they were saying.

  I clearly remember the night my parents went forward for a healing to give up their addiction to cigarettes. They threw their packets away there and then, and neither of them looked at a cigarette again. This was a place where miracles and healings occurred. But as a child, boredom was setting in and the novelty of chocolate had worn off. So w
hat had I to lose that evening when the call came to make ready for the development circle. That night I would participate—give it a go.

  Chairs were arranged in a large oval shape. My parents sat opposite me. I was sandwiched between two strangers. The convener placed a large arrangement of flowers in the centre of the circle. We were told that we needed to concentrate on the flowers—by doing this we may be able to tap into the spirit realm and receive messages and information from the other side for those participating in the development circle. Then the lights were switched off, and a veil of silence fell. I sat very still, a little nervous, a little scared, but something exciting was stirring within my soul. I waited for a sign, something that would show me what it was like to be a psychic, or bearer of spiritual messages.

  The silence was endless. I wished time would just speed up so I could have the supper that followed. In the 1960s, only rich people could afford chocolate biscuits and the supper table was guaranteed to have a plate or two.

  Then it happened. The voice, the message, the vision. I heard quite clearly, ‘Green, green is the valley where I lie’, then I saw a large grey wrinkled elephant trample a colourful-looking garden.

  That was it—two very different ‘signs’ which didn’t make any sense, but that’s what I experienced. As the lights were switched back on and my eyes adjusted, I witnessed eager adults discussing with their neighbours what they had experienced. Then the convener, who had also been sitting in the circle, rose from her chair and walked to the centre of the circle, right next to the flower arrangement.

  ‘Can I have your attention please?’ she asked. The chattering stopped, and all eyes became transfixed on the convener. ‘I would like everyone present to share their experiences with the group— anything, just anything, no matter how small, simple or even if you feel it is unrelated. Speak the truth, I am encouraging you to develop. Perhaps you had impressions in your thoughts or feelings.