One of the most comforting things I can give to families who have lost members through tragedy is the assurance that their dearly departed are not alone. We all have people waiting for us on the other side and we are all reunited with our loved ones in death. That knowledge alone has helped so many families heal the heartache.
Sadly, some families seem to get more than their fair share of tragedy. So many times at my shows I’ll hear stories of mothers who’ve lost sons and husbands, and it makes my heart weep. They are such brave people to bear that grief and come in search of comfort and reassurance. One such mum came to a show in the north of England, and the message from her son was so loud and so clear it was impossible to get it wrong.
It started with three names, clear as a bell, echoing in my head one after the other:
James, Francis, Mary. As I said them, the spirit of the young man who was giving them to me was guiding me across the stage to a specific area of the audience. I pointed to a lady in a shiny jacket and glasses. I was a hundred per cent certain that the message was for her and was determined that she would take it. I wasn’t going to let her hunker down in her seat and pretend this young man in spirit was nothing to do with her. It sounds mad, but that’s what some people do sometimes. They’re too embarrassed to stand up.
‘James?’ I asked, pointing at the space next to me on the stage where the man had appeared. The audience couldn’t see him, but I could.
She nodded. ‘And you’re Francis?’ I asked.
‘No, but my daughter is,’ she said, pointing to the younger lady sitting next to her. ‘James was my son.’
‘That’s his sister,’ I said, amazed at my own accuracy. ‘What else did I say? Mary?’
The lady smiled and told me that was her name. There was no doubt at all that James had come to see his mum.
It transpired that James had died in a car accident. He had been driving through a rainstorm when his car hit a huge puddle and aquaplaned into the path of an oncoming car.
And James had not been alone.
Standing with him now on stage was another man. They were both the same age, in their late teens, and I could tell there was a vague family resemblance.
‘There’s a nineteen-year-old boy with him as well. He’s called Paul.’
A shock of recognition shot through Mary.
Speaking into the microphone, she explained: ‘That’s his cousin in Canada. He died at a similar age.’
Now, I’m not one to blow my own trumpet, but credit where credit is due. There was absolutely no doubt about what I was picking up. Every name was spot on.
Paul had died in almost identical circumstances to his cousin. He’d been driving home and a blizzard had swept in, creating what they call a white-out, where the snow is so heavy all you can see is white. Paul didn’t stand a chance. He couldn’t see where he was going, crashed and was killed instantly.
The cousins were together in spirit. Geography doesn’t matter on that plane. It made no difference that one cousin died in the UK and the other halfway across the world in Canada. What mattered was that, in death, they were together.
Then James did something really off the wall: he started singing. In my head I could see him standing there on stage with his cousin (who was grinning) and he was holding a pretend microphone to his mouth and singing. And not just any old song either. He was singing the jingle to the old Cornetto adverts. You know the one, it’s sung to the tune of the Italian song ‘O Sole Mio’.
I took a deep breath.
‘You’re going to laugh now,’ I warned. ‘But he’s doing this.’ And mimicking what I was seeing in spirit, I held my own invisible mic, started swaying back and forth, and sang, ‘Just one Cornetto, give it to me.’ To be honest, I felt like a bit of an idiot.
But Mary didn’t laugh.
‘Oh my God,’ she gasped.
‘Is that what he used to sing?’ I asked, amazed.
‘We used to sell ice cream,’ she said. ‘We used to manufacture it. James worked in the family business at weekends when he came home from college, and he would sing, “Just one Cornetto”.’
I couldn’t believe it, and neither could the audience. They broke out into spontaneous applause.
Then James told his mum the most important message of all. He told her where she could be close to him.
‘I am at home,’ I repeated to her. ‘I stand in the hall because I don’t want to disturb you.’