Some communications seem to gather momentum.

One person steps forward, then another, and before long a whole family story begins to unfold.

Looking back at this moment from Tony Stockwell Live, what strikes me is how naturally that happens. The communication begins with a grandfather named Bill, moves to a much-loved mother and then finally to Dad, each bringing their own personality, memories and very particular pieces of evidence.

And running through it all is family.

The people we grow up with. The homes we remember. The gardens, flowers, jokes and tiny habits which might mean very little to anybody else, but can mean everything to those who recognise them.

Grandad Bill steps forward

The first person I become aware of is an older gentleman.

I feel that he had become increasingly incapacitated towards the end of his life and had needed help from those closest to him. I also sense a connection with vehicles and tyres, an age somewhere around 76 when he passed, and the name Bill.

Two ladies in the audience immediately begin to recognise him.

Bill was their grandfather.

And the connection with vehicles?

He had been a truck driver.

I then become very aware of his extraordinarily blue eyes. He feels to me like a man with an enormous capacity for love, particularly for his children and grandchildren.

There is also something unusually close about the relationship between him and the ladies. He does not feel like a grandfather seen only occasionally. He feels woven into their upbringing.

They confirm that they were his only grandchildren and had been extremely close to him.

In the interview afterwards, one of the ladies describes him simply as:

“A really lovely man.”

She says he was loved by everyone who came into contact with him and was a very special person in her life.

The garden and the strawberries

Grandad then takes me outside.

I become aware of a separate building, something like a large garden shed, outhouse or wooden space away from the main house.

The ladies recognise that too.

But when I try to describe him as a gardener, he seems to correct me.

He does not want me imagining some grand horticultural enterprise. He simply likes being outside, pottering around in his space.

And then comes one of those wonderfully ordinary details that can make a communication suddenly feel very personal.

Strawberries.

Not raspberries. I actually correct myself on that point.

Strawberries.

And I have the distinct feeling that the strawberries he grew tasted better than anybody else’s.

Afterwards, his granddaughter remembers how difficult it could be to get him back indoors because he spent so much of his time outside in his garden.

It is such a small image.

A grandfather pottering outside.

His grandchildren remembering him there.

And strawberries which, naturally, were the best.

Mum has something to say

Grandad then begins to move aside and I hear very clearly:

“Mum.”

Immediately the energy changes.

This lady likes to talk.

In fact, I get the impression that if there was a conversation happening somewhere, she would very much like to be part of it.

She seems sociable, family-orientated and quite capable of holding court.

The ladies laugh in recognition.

Later they explain that their mum came from a large family of sisters, loved chatting and would happily stop and speak to people in the street.

She had been only 62 when she passed from lung cancer.

As the communication continues, I become aware of difficulties with her balance and mobility before she died.

Then something much more personal comes forward.

I feel that one of the ladies was present when Mum passed and that her position beside the bed is important. There is also a sense that she had given her mother permission to go.

Afterwards, she explains why this mattered.

Her father had been sitting immediately to her mother’s right. Donna was on the left, while she herself was a little further along the bed.

She had carried a private worry ever since:

Did Mum know I was there?

For her, the communication brought reassurance that she did.

The yellow roses

And then I see flowers.

Very specifically:

yellow roses.

I know that they have a particular significance between Mum and her family.

As she comes close, I have the image of her returning a huge bouquet of fresh yellow roses to them.

It is only afterwards that the meaning becomes clear.

One of the ladies explains that whenever she visits the crematorium, she tries to take yellow roses. If they are unavailable, she takes another yellow flower instead.

Her mum also loved daffodils.

But yellow roses have become something particularly personal.

She even says that there are some there at that very moment.

There is something rather beautiful about evidence like this.

A flower is an everyday thing.

Yet attach it to a particular person, place and ritual of remembrance and suddenly it carries an entire relationship with it.

“Her love should go to the three of you”

Although there are two ladies sitting in front of me, I cannot shake the feeling that somebody else should be included.

I keep feeling:

There should be three.

Mum does not want anyone left out.

In the interview afterwards, another lovely piece of the puzzle emerges.

One of the ladies explains that her 15-year-old daughter had desperately wanted to come to see the demonstration. They had decided against it because of her age and because it was a school day.

But she had very much wanted to be there.

For me, that detail reinforces something important about the communication.

The message is not simply about identifying someone who has died.

It is about the relationships which continue around them.

Dad joins the family

Mum, apparently, is not quite finished organising things.

Because next I become aware of their father.

And the first thing he makes me want to do is laugh.

I describe him as “daft as a brush”, with a silly sense of humour and a joke for almost every occasion.

Again, the ladies immediately recognise him.

His daughter says afterwards that he had a very funny sense of humour, one which perhaps became even worse as he got older.

There is another rather less glamorous piece of evidence.

His eyebrows.

I become aware of somebody trying to trim them before he died and get the distinct impression that Dad was not particularly interested in having them interfered with.

His daughter laughs as she explains that she used to cut his hair.

He kept a full head of hair right to the end.

The eyebrows were another matter.

They became increasingly wiry, grew in all directions and required considerably more effort.

Mediumship is not always ethereal.

Sometimes apparently the spirit world would simply like its eyebrows left alone.

“I was glad to go”

The mood then becomes quieter.

I feel very strongly that Dad had reached a point where he was ready to leave his physical body.

He seems almost relieved.

I hear the feeling:

“I’ve had enough now. I want to go.”

His daughter explains that he had motor neurone disease.

Watching the illness progress had been terribly difficult for the family, and hearing that he was now all right brought her enormous comfort.

She also explains that Mum had died six years before him.

They had been an exceptionally close couple who did everything together, and the family had initially wondered how he would manage without her.

But he found the strength to carry on.

The left foot

I then notice something about the way Dad walks.

His left foot seems to turn inward, creating a slight problem with his gait.

It is another strangely precise detail.

During the interview, his daughter explains that his motor neurone disease had indeed begun on one side of his body.

It started in his left foot.

As the illness progressed, the foot began to turn inward exactly as I had described.

Again, it is not an abstract statement about somebody being “around”.

It is a physical detail belonging specifically to him.

Why 83?

As Dad begins to move away, one final number keeps appearing in my mind.

83.

I do not know what it means.

The ladies do not immediately understand it either.

But it will not go away.

Dad simply seems to keep shouting:

“Say 83!”

So I do.

And afterwards they discover exactly why.

Number 83 was the house Mum and Dad bought when they were first married.

It was their first proper home together.

Her grandmother later died in that house.

One of the ladies was born there.

And her mother’s sister eventually bought it and still lived there at the time of the recording.

One number.

An entire piece of family history.

What the reading meant

Perhaps the most touching part of this communication comes after the demonstration.

One of the ladies explains that before arriving at the theatre she had desperately hoped to hear from three people.

Her grandfather.

Her mother.

And her father.

Those were exactly the three people who came forward.

And after hearing the evidence, Bill and his truck driving, Grandad’s garden, Mum’s yellow roses, Dad’s humour and eyebrows, the left foot and finally number 83, she says:

“It’s really given me so much peace of mind to know that they’re all together.”

For me, that is what stays with you.

Not any one dramatic statement.

A collection of ordinary memories, building one upon another until a family becomes recognisable again.

A grandfather in his garden.

A mum who loved to talk.

A dad with troublesome eyebrows.

A house numbered 83.

And a bouquet of yellow roses.

Tony

A few moments of evidence from the reading

These are some of the personal details that came forward during the demonstration, together with the audience members’ later confirmations.