PROLOGUE
June 9th 1996
“Mum! Guess what! I talked to Granddad yesterday!”
Those few words not only shattered my quiet Sunday morning, they forever changed my life.
“It’s true, Mum. Honestly” my daughter added. “He kept spelling your name, again and again. And he knew how to spell my name and Tianni’s, too. He was so happy someone wanted to talk to him he just went ballistic…”
“What the devil are you talking about?” I demanded, interrupting her mid-sentence.
“I was talking to Granddad, yesterday, at Kim’s place.” Kristen explained, slowly at first, but as her excitement got the better of her the words tumbled out faster and faster. “She’s got a Psychic Circle
board. She asked Ann and me if we wanted to have a go. I didn’t know what it was. Ann said we could talk to spirits on it and asked if I wanted to talk to anyone, so I said Granddad. I don’t know why, it just came out.”
I attempted to interrupt her again but she cut me off. “I know, Mum, but you’re wrong. I talked to him! So you see, he can’t be Che, he just can’t be. And get this, Mum. When I asked about Grandma he said something really weird. He said his wife was not with him. What do you think that means?”
Putting down the towel I was about to peg on the line I told her I didn’t know. Kristen was always one to rush into things, never giving a moment’s thought for the consequences of her actions. I couldn’t believe she had allowed herself to get caught up in something like this. I had never heard of a Psychic Circle board was but I did know what a ouija board was and it sounded like the same thing to me.
“Kristen, a ouija board is a very dangerous thing to fool around with. It opens a doorway into another world and once that door is open, anything can come through.” Blocking her attempts to interject, I added: “Look, just because a spirit says it is so and so doesn’t mean it is. They can lie, you know. You…”
She blurted out a few words in her own defence, but I grabbed her by the shoulders and added: “You can never be sure. You cannot control it! Promise me you will never touch that thing again. I mean it, Kristen. Never!”
The elation she had felt upon arriving gave way to feelings of anger and resentment. Tears welled up in her eyes as she retorted: “It was a Psychic Circle board, not a ouija board. Get your facts right! I’m not a child. I know it wasn’t a game.” She shook herself free and sobbed: “We protected ourselves. We said the prayer that came with it.” I knew the moment those words left her lips she instinctively knew they rang hollow. I reached out to her, but she pulled away.
Kristen and I were often at loggerheads, usually over something inconsequential, and we had a problem common to many families – somebody else always knew better than Mum and Dad. But this time things were different. I knew she truly believed she had communicated with my father, but I also knew she was desperate for the kind of family relationships most people take for granted. I rang later to apologise. We both knew the problem lay with me. For eighteen years I believed my father, who died when I was young, had returned to me in the guise of my son. Now my daughter was telling me I was wrong. Was I? Did I really want to find out?
Yes, I did, but I had no idea how to go about it. I looked through the classifieds in the local paper only to note most of the psychics listed seemed overly sure of themselves. This only served to confuse me more. The following day I confided in a workmate about those I had short-listed. Her reaction was not totally unexpected: “You shouldn’t trust anyone you got in the paper! They could tell you anything!” When she settled down she asked if there was anyone one else I could talk to.
“No.”
“What about your hairdresser? She must know stacks of people. Don’t you have an appointment this week?”
Jan’s suggestion paid off and I made appointments for the two of us to see a lady known only as Ann for the evening of June 19th. The woman’s house was in darkness when we arrived, ten minutes early for our 7pm appointments. It didn’t take long for Jan to regret her impulsiveness. Fearfully grabbing my arm, she whispered: “What if it’s haunted? Oh, Mary, what are we doing here?”
In a dream I had two nights earlier I saw myself wandering through a large, old Queenslander. Other people were there too, but unlike me, they were dressed in the costumes of various eras as though a fancy dress party was in progress. I couldn’t remember anything being said to me, but I do recall a young woman beckoning me into one of the rooms just as I woke up. At the time I decided it meant one of two things – either Ann’s house was haunted or it was a good omen. I preferred to believe the latter and was doing my best to convince Jan all would be well when, as if on cue, lights sprung to life inside the house.
Ann proved to be a cheerful, ordinary-looking middle-aged woman with none of the trappings of the ‘fortune teller’, although her house was exactly like the one in my dream. On quickly appraising us she teasingly asked “Who’s going first?”
After pointing to me Jan was invited to make herself comfortable in the living room. There was plenty to distract her, from an array of magazines to headphones for use with the television or the stereo system. Meanwhile, I followed Ann into the dining room, where a large polished timber table held centre stage. Ann tested the tape I had bought to record my session on and asked for an item of jewellery. From impressions gleaned from my wedding ring she was able to tell me things about my workplace she could not possibly have known. I was dumbfounded, but when she said I should seize an opportunity to move into another area with more responsibility, within the next two years, my natural scepticism returned.
Unperturbed, Ann went on to tell me more before asking if I had ever felt my throat crackle or notice a change in my voice when I spoke. I told her I had and she said that was my throat chakra opening up. She gave me a brief description of trance mediumship and advised me to seek out a spiritual development class. She said an older lady was working with me.
“Now, I don’t know if this is your mother, grandmother, or an aunty. She was very intuitive. This lady is with you on the other side. In life, she spoke her mind. She didn’t worry about what anyone thought of her.”
My maternal grandmother immediately sprang to mind and that surprised me because I hadn’t thought of her in years. Still, Ann’s description of a mature woman with white hair could have been anyone, including my own mother. After a brief discussion she let it go and asked if I had any questions.
“No.” she said after hearing my story. “Your son was a little girl last time. One generation back, on your mother’s side. They usually return to the same family. He has something to finish off. He came in the wrong era. Chose the wrong parents. He had to leave and come back to you to do what he needs to do. How does your son feel about water?”
Nothing could have prepared me for those words. It wasn’t that I had forgotten an incident that occurred during my son’s first year at school, it was just that it didn’t seem relevant in this context. For the first time, I was faced with a new possibility so I told Ann about a cousin of mine who died before I was born. She didn’t think it was the same child. She felt the child she picked up on had died at an earlier age after being left in a bath or something. She said there was an unmistakable sense of abandonment and terror associated with her passing. The terror my son felt during the school incident was unmistakable, too, as was the sense of abandonment he felt during an earlier incident.
“I’m sorry,” Ann continued, “but I feel your father is still recuperating. I feel his death was quite sudden. Unexpected. Like he was hit by a bus. Yet, he went over with an illness. I can understand your daughter saying the wife is not with him. She’s on another level. I feel she was the higher soul. Her house was in order. Your father has not accepted going over. He feels he hasn’t finished something. He was taken at the right time, but the soul is still a bit angry about the way it was presented. Also, you and your daughter need to let him go. Tell him to go to the light. Look. Ask you daughter why she needs to delve. Okay? I get the feeling she’s trying to find an answer to something. She feels she doesn’t belong. Tell her to stop fooling around with that board. She’s working with the astral level. You’re not. You’re working with the aunt or whoever. She’s a higher lady. She’s giving me three. Did she have three sisters or something? Or perhaps, she is one of three sisters…”
The shrill sound of a buzzer signalled the end of my session. Ann was apologetic, but said she had several more people to see that evening and it was important she be punctual. In spite of that she continued to talk about her interpretation of the three sisters while removing my tape from her cassette recorder and walking me out to the living room. Her voice and manner were extraordinarily comforting.
When Jan took my place in the dining room I sat down on the sofa, too dumbstruck to pick up her discarded magazine. Ann was good, there was no doubt about that, but I could not bring myself to accept what she had said about my father. He was a good man. He should be with my mother, not stuck in some astral Limbo. What made it all so much harder to accept was that I did know of something he was struggling with at the time of his death. My logical mind, though, refused to accept that one unfinished task could condemn a good soul to Purgatory.
The following Monday afternoon, in what I initially took to be nothing more than a simple coincidence, I bumped into an aunt of mine. My mother's sister, Kathleen, was the mother of my cousin, the one who died when she was two years old. I found myself telling her about my session with Ann and she confirmed what was said about Mum ‘having her house in order’. She even said they were Mum’s exact words. But when I told her what was said about Dad, her eyes glistened with tears and she whispered ever so softly: “Oh, dear. I was afraid of that.”
After parting company with Kathleen I went home and replayed the tape: “You need to get yourself to a development class. Have you been to a Spiritualist Church England , Scotland and Wales
I thought about all the things that had happened since Kristen’s visit a fortnight earlier. It may as well have been in another lifetime. The following day I rang my hairdresser to thank her for giving me Ann’s number only to learn Ann was no ordinary suburban psychic. She was Ann Ann the Extraordinaire, a well-known clairvoyant who had worked for the police and had regular guest spots on state and national radio. While unsure of her other commitments now, at the time of writing Ann Ann has a regular ‘Q & A’ column in Woman’s Day magazine.
A few weeks later, after summoning the courage to take the next step, I visited the Brisbane Spiritualist Church
As churches go it was relatively small and unadorned, but it did have a wonderful feeling about it and it certainly was old. A narrow staircase led down to a tearoom where no more than few people were seated at one of the long tables. Thirty minutes later, with the strident sounds of an organ being our cue to go up and retrieve our seats, I found the church brimming with colour and energy.
The service was different to anything I had experienced before. The minister was a Scottish woman whose accent was so thick I struggled to make out what she was saying. Hymns were sung, a collection was taken, and then Mr Prescott rose to deliver his address before getting to the interesting part. I found the whole concept of a medium giving readings in a church bizarre, but I must say I was a little disappointed. Perhaps I was expecting too much. A painting of Jesus, on the wall behind the minister, drew my attention, which in turn drew my eyes to an inscription stone below.
At the end of the service people were invited to seek healing in the healing room or browse through the books in the library. I was unsure what to do, but when a crowd descended on Mr. Prescott, all talking at once, I decided the safest option was to go over and see what was written on the inscription stone. It said that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had laid the foundation stone on January 11th 1921. I was thinking how interesting that was when a woman came up behind me, saying: “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” I knew she was talking about the painting. “Such serenity. Simple. Uncomplicated. Unadorned. Just like the living Jesus would have been. Hello. I’m Mel. Come downstairs for a cuppa and meet the others.”
I followed her down the staircase to find the tearoom was now a bustling hive of activity. The low pulsating drone coming from chatting worshippers was deafening and it was standing room only. Never backward in coming forward, Mel saw to it that I had a cup of coffee and a seat. The people seated at that table immediately stopped talking to welcome me and to ask how I found the famous Mr Prescott. I didn’t want to lie and was thinking of something tactful when I heard a woman say: “He had an off day, today. It’s only to be expected. I don’t think he’s very well.”
A lady on my right broke the awkward silence that followed by saying: “So tell us, Mary, what brought you here today?” I wanted to scream: “My father!” but instead I said: “Oh, I don’t know. It just seemed like the right time.”
Eleven months later, I was packing for my first real holiday in a very long time. Four of us were going on a road trip: my husband and I, and his mate and wife. Our plan was to spend five days and four nights at Carnarvon Gorge, a day and night in Longreach, and a weekend up north in Mareeba. On our way home we were going to stop at Ayr , where Kristen was then living, and spend the night at my brother's place in Rockhampton. We arrived at Carnarvon Gorge on schedule and left Longreach on time. Less than twenty kilometres from Charters Towers Charters Towers
The seed was sown many years earlier when, as a harried young mother, I was changing TV channels searching for something to keep my hyperactive son occupied. A song keeping a test pattern company captured my attention so I let it finish before resuming my quest. That night, a few words from its chorus “…The Stockman’s Hall of Fame…” nagged me until I fell asleep. At the time, I had no idea plans were afoot to build such a place in the town on the ‘long reach’ of the Thompson River .
The song never let me be. Year after year, those same words from the chorus returned to challenge my sanity day and night. I was even reduced to flicking through racks of County & Western CDs in the hope of tracking it down. This was despite having no idea of its name or who recorded it. In time, I came across a newspaper article about famed outback artist, Hugh Sawrey, a founding father of The Australian Stockman’s Hall of Fame and Outback Heritage Centre. By then I was well aware of what was happening at Longreach. What I didn’t know was why I should care. My brother’s idea of helping me understand was to photocopy fifty pages from books about the rural northwest of New South Wales Warren Warren
The second reading changed nothing. As for Rennie, I found mention of him in only one paragraph. I couldn’t believe it. What did a “well-respected stockman and cattle judge who owned a property called Roubaix in the Warren
Rennie was Charles Reynolds Warman, my great uncle. John later told me his father, our great grandfather, was one of the unnamed stockmen featured in the earlier transcripts he’d sent me. Someone, sometime, had typed the transcripts from articles published in a New South Wales
In 1993, five years after The Stockman’s Hall of Fame was officially opened, and with all hope of ever seeing it gone, I threw out everything John had sent me in a defiant clean-up. Three years after that, my husband and I drove to Rockhampton to attend our nephew’s twenty-first birthday party. Travelling more than 600 kilometres for a party didn’t strike us as being extreme and I was glad I went. Peter, my younger brother, had driven down from Mareeba, and a favourite cousin came from Townsville.
Before the night was over my cousin, also named Peter, gave me a box of old photographs. He was hoping I would be able to find names to go with the faces in them. This prompted Peter to tell me he had recently acquired some family memorabilia, but hadn’t had time to examine it, and John to say a newspaper article existed somewhere featuring an interview our great grandmother gave a Sydney
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