The Eagle and the Rose

by Rosemary Altea

  It is strange, don't you think, how easily laughter can dispel fear?

  Seeing these children with their small deformed bodies had brought home to me the stark realization of my own vulnerability. It was a reminder to me of how easily twisted and mangled, disabled, both physically and mentally, any of us can become.

  And I had been afraid. Afraid to face the frailty of humankind. My own frailty.

  God knows that every time I am reminded of my initial attitude toward these children, I feel a wave of shame wash over me. My lack of understanding and compassion and my inability to look farther than my own self is something I will always be ashamed of.

  How much more ugly was I in my intolerance of imperfection than that small boy, ugly in appearance but undoubtedly pure in heart? Tenfold, I think.

  David's mind had grasped most things while he was on this side, even though it had been impossible for him to reveal that in a physical way.

  Now here was his opportunity to show his mother just exactly how much he had been aware of and how much he had understood when he had been on this side.

  Initially Mrs. Harrison found it hard to respond to her son's first attempts at communication from beyond the grave. But she soon overcame her nervousness, and then David's comments had her smiling and relaxed. He amazed his mother by his directness and confidence and by his ability to communicate. She understood everything he said, and the evidence he gave of his survival was phenomenally accurate.

  There were a few tears at this reunion, both from David and his mum, but they were tears of pure joy, not of sadness.

  Then, toward the end of the sitting, David had this to say: “My mum, my dad, and my sister used to tell me every day just how much they loved me. I would sit in my wheelchair, or on the settee in my special place, and listen to the words of love and reassurance which they constantly gave to me. Even though they were not sure whether I could hear or understand, it made no difference. They told me just the same.

  “It was impossible for me to respond to them in any way, as I simply could not move a muscle. But my mind reached out to them in the hope that they could hear me—a boy locked away in a prison.

  “I couldn't walk, I couldn't talk, I couldn't run or shout or play football. But those things don't matter anymore. Tell my mum, Rosemary, please, that I can walk now, that I can run and play and do all the things she always hoped I would one day be able to do. In all my life on the earth plane, my mum was there for me. Caring, loving, gentle. Tell her, please, that I can talk now, and tell her, please, Rosemary, ‘I love you, Mum.’

  “My life,” he continued, “goes on in the spirit world, and I learn and grow, but I will always be there for my mum, as she was for me, whenever she needs me.”

  I have seen June Harrison and her husband many times since that first sitting and have come to know David very well. And believe it or not, he often comes with me when I go out to give public demonstrations, and he is able from time to time to help with my work. After all those years of doing nothing, this young man is now very active and is helping people wherever he can. But I do remember one occasion when David came to help and that help became just a little embarrassing for me.

  I was a guest speaker at a special dinner held at a hotel in Newcastle, which is in the north of England. Around 150 people were there, and after talking to them for a while I decided that I would demonstrate spirit communication. I had been aware of David's presence since the evening had begun (I had been talking to his mother earlier that same day), but now as I looked at my audience, I saw him standing by one of the tables, laughing and pointing to one of the gentlemen sitting there.

  “Come over here,” David called to me. “His name's David, too … his gran is here to talk to him.”

  Dutifully I approached the table and asked the man, “Is your name David?” He said yes, it was, and having spotted his grandmother standing next to “my David,” I proceeded to give him a message from her that he understood totally.

  So far so good; the evening was progressing as it should. I had promised David that he could help, and he had taken me at my word, so he went from table to table, indicating to me the next and then the next recipient of messages from those in the spirit world. The problem was that David had decided that the only people to get a message this night were those who bore the name of David or who had husbands or sons by that name. You can imagine that I gave the name of David so often that it became much too repetitious; but I had made a promise and had to stick by it. Fortunately, once I had explained to the audience what was happening, that David liked his name so much, and also liked the idea of being in charge, they thought it was almost as funny as David did … and he thought it was hilarious. I found it funny, too, eventually, and I thank God for the day that this young man came into my life.

  David is one of my favorite people, and his story tells it all. The end of his life on this side came when he developed a chest infection. His tiny body was too frail, too weak, to fight it, and he “died.”

  But the boy survived and has gone on to become a man, strong, compassionate, and caring. He has fought his battle, and he has won.

  And with God's help, so shall we all.

  The Girl

  How old was she? Three, perhaps, or possibly four years old. The bed, pushed into the corner of the bedroom, seemed, even if only temporarily, a safe harbor.

  She sat, huddled into the farthest corner, underneath. A tiny creature, so frail, just a young thing, and afraid. If she stayed quiet, maybe they would forget that she was there.

  She listened as they argued. Her mother yelling at her father, “You'll kill her if you're not careful. For God's sake, man, leave her be.”

  And her father: “Move away, woman, and let me get my hands on the little brat.”

  He had beaten her all the way up the stairs and into the bedroom, and in desperation she had sought refuge under the bed.

  Trembling and fearful, the girl stared up at the springs of the bed. They seemed so large compared with her small frame and became imprinted on her memory.

  The arguing continued for quite some time, an eternity, it seemed; then, quite suddenly, all was quiet.

  This sudden stillness was more frightening than all that had gone on before, and the girl sat still, hardly daring to breathe in case “they” heard her. And she waited.

  She didn't know what she had done to provoke such action on the part of her father. She only knew that he might kill her if she made even one sound. So she didn't cry, and she didn't move. She just sat as still as she possibly could.

  Then, without warning, an arm reached out under the bed and grabbed her, hauling her unceremoniously into the middle of the room and dragging her down the stairs and out into the street.

  The girl, still too scared to make even one sound, gazed up at her mother's furious face. The fierce grip of her mother's fingers tightened around her arm, and she was almost carried along to the top of the street and into a stranger's house.

  “Keep her here, will you?” said the girl's mother with icy calm. “If he sets eyes on her once more today, he'll kill her for sure.”

  The girl looked at the small group of women gathered in the kitchen of the house she was now in. She had never seen them before, but obviously her mother knew them. They didn't say a word but, tight-lipped, nodded their agreement.

  With that, the girl's mother turned on her heel and was gone.

  Not a word, or a smile, or even a reassuring look toward her small daughter. No affection, no warmth, just emptiness.

  This was to become the pattern of the girl's life. Not always being dragged to a neighbor's house, often having to stay and face the consequences of whatever terrible deed she was supposed to have done. And rarely knowing what it was that was to evoke such anger, not only in her father, but in her mother, too.

  Her sisters got into trouble sometimes and were smacked, but they were never really beaten as she was.

  Midge was her favorite sister, but Mi
dge was also her mother's favorite daughter. There were only eighteen months between them, but Midge was considered the baby of the family.

  The two older sisters, Audrey and Judy, were encouraged by their mother to favor the baby and to ridicule the girl, as was the whole family.

  The girl, very sensitive and aware more and more as she grew up of her mother's dislike of her, began to build barriers. But that only made matters worse, as she was then thought sullen and moody, as well as a crybaby.

  How many times had she heard her mother or father snap, “And you can take that look off your face, young lady”?

  When there was any trouble in the house the girl's parents would summon their daughters into the living room. There, her father would tell them all what it was that had gone wrong and ask who was responsible. Of course, there would follow the inevitable silence, as none of the sisters would be prepared to own up. They all knew the consequences.

  Their father would then say, “All right, go and sit on the stairs. Talk it out amongst yourselves and decide which of you is guilty. You can have ten minutes.”

  This was always the way, and often as the sisters were filing out of the door the mother would prod the girl hard in the back with her finger, saying, “And we both know which one of you it is.”

  The girl stood no chance, guilty or not, and when, after the ten minutes were up, the sisters filed back into the room, all denying whatever wrongdoing it was, more often than not her father would look straight at her and, in the voice she had come to dread, would say, “Go upstairs, take your pants off, lean over the bed, and wait for me to come up.”

  Silently the girl would climb the stairs, biting down hard on her bottom lip, trying not to cry, terrified of the pain that was to come.

  Sometimes her father would come upstairs within a few minutes, but more often than not he would make her wait, knowing that the waiting was the hardest part of the punishment.

  Whether he took half an hour or an hour, it made no difference to the girl. She would lie, trembling, half over the bed, facedown in the bedclothes, with her bare bottom exposed and ready for the smacking she knew was to come. She would stand rigid, not daring to move in case he came up and caught her out. Even if she was desperate for the toilet, her fear of her father was such that she dared not move.

  The severity of the smacking would depend on the father's mood, but again, often he would take his time about it. His hands, hard and unyielding, would come down again and again on the child's small bottom, sharp and stinging, causing her to scream out over and over.

  Afterward, she would be left sobbing on the bed, her backside scarlet and the pain in her back almost unbearable.

  Her mother's hands were hard, too, but were more often used in temper. How many times did her mother's hand swing across hard to land the girl a violent slap across the face? The girl would have found it impossible to count. But her mother's sharp tongue was much much worse and, to the girl, far more painful.

  When the girl was five, she was taken with her sisters on a fortnight's holiday to the seaside by their motherand her boyfriend (their father was away in the army at this time), whom the girls were told by their mother to call “Uncle.” The girls came to know a few “uncles” over the years while their father was away, but never really very well, as they would come and go.

  It should have been a happy time; after all, most kids like to paddle and play in the sand. But the girl was frightened of the waves and the noise that the sea made. It seemed to her to be coming to swallow her up. Everything would have been fine, though, if only her mother had been content to let her play quietly on the sand. But no, this just wasn't good enough, the girl's mother decided, so:

  The girl was carried by the “uncle” to the very edge of the sea and made to sit on the cold muddy sand, screaming and crying as the waves washed over her legs.

  The three sisters were left to play happily on the beach, and Mother and “Uncle” sat well away from the girl so as not to be disturbed too much by the girl's cries.

  Ages past, and what seemed like a lifetime later, the girl, now red-faced and still screaming in terror, saw the uncle ambling slowly toward her.

  He reached down to pick her up, and thinking that he had come to rescue her, she reached out her tiny arms to him in desperate relief. But before she knew what was happening, he swung her up and, cradling her tightly in his arms so that she could hardly breathe, walked with her into the sea.

  The girl opened her mouth to let out yet another terrified scream but was silenced by the huge wave that crashed over her small body, as the “uncle” dipped her into the sea.

  How long he played this game, it was impossible to say—waiting for the waves to come and dipping the girl under again and again, almost drowning her in the process. When, finally, he brought her out of the sea and dropped her, choking and coughing, onto the beach, she was told, “That'll teach you for being a crybaby.”

  Where were her mother's arms to hold and comfort her? Where was her mother's love?

  The girl grew to midteens, and nothing much had changed in her life. Her birthdays had come and gone with no excitements, but she had become more stubborn and more withdrawn. She looked often at her life and tried to find and remember the nice times. There must have been some, mustn't there, if she thought hard enough?

  What about the time when she was six and the family had moved to Germany for a year? It was Christmas, and her mother had been in hospital. It was the first time they had spent a Christmas with just their father. And Santa had brought her a teddy bear. She was perhaps too old at six to have got her first teddy, but to the girl he was something to love, something to cuddle, and someone to hold tight to in the night when she was afraid.

  And her father had been different, nice, funny, and Christmas had been good.

  Then there was the time, still in Germany, when the girl was awakened suddenly by the loud crashing of thunder. She sat bolt upright in bed, trembling and frightened, as lightning flashed and more thunder crashed and crackled ominously across the sky. It was only as she looked around for her sisters, who all shared the same large bedroom, and realized that they weren't there and that she was all alone, that the girl began to cry.

  Just as she had begun to think that everyone had left and that the house was empty, unexpectedly her father appeared in the doorway. What was she more afraid of, him or the storm that raged outside? She was only six years old and already so afraid of life.

  But to her amazement, her father wasn't cross with her, and as he sat on the bed and talked to her, he held her tiny hand.

  “It's only a silly old storm,” he said, “and your sisters have gone downstairs, crying and afraid, but we're not, are we now?”

  The girl gazed into her father's face and heard his voice, gentle and soothing, and tentatively she shook her head. “Now lie down,” continued her father, “and we'll see how close the storm is.”

  And they stayed together in the darkened room, waiting for the lightning, then counting slowly until the thunder came. The longer the count between the thunder and lightning, the farther away from them was the storm.

  The girl's father had turned it into a game. But it was a game that only the two of them could play. It was exciting, special, and the girl felt safe.

  She couldn't remember how long he stayed. It must have been until she had fallen asleep, as the next thing she knew it was morning and the storm had gone.

  But she could remember that for the first time in her young life, she and her father had shared a precious moment. He had seemed to care.

  She could also remember the time when she was in the children's home and it was her birthday.

  All the children had come down into the big hall for breakfast, and the girl was asked to stand up while everyone sang “Happy Birthday” to her. That was nice, she recalled, but even nicer was when she was given the doll. It was a green rag doll, not very pretty, but it was the first birthday present she could ever remember getting, an
d she thought it was wonderful.

  How old would she have been then? Seven or eight? The girl wasn't quite sure, as she had been put in the home twice. Why she had been put there she also wasn't sure about, as no one in the family talked about it, and if she asked, it might cause trouble. And everyone knew that the girl always caused trouble, didn't they?

  Later, much later, the girl discovered that she had been put in the home because her mother had gone over to Germany to see her father, and there had been no one to look after her.

  The girl's happiest memories were of the long school holidays when she was minded out to the most wonderful lady in the world. She was told to call her Auntie Loseby, although she was no relation at all.

  Auntie Loseby took to the girl, recognizing in her that gentle sensitivity of most lost children. During those holidays, even though they didn't last, the girl blossomed like a rose in summer. She was spoiled, not only by the old lady, but by her son, Uncle Tony, as the girl called him, and by his wife, Auntie Sheena.

  Every Sunday they had a proper tea, all laid out on the table. The girl would sometimes stand and gaze in open admiration at the splendor of it.

  The three adults, after bustling the girl onto her chair, would then sit quietly, with knowing looks and secret smiles, waiting for the game to begin.

  It was always the same, and the girl loved it.

  Shyly she would lift her eyes to examine the goodies on the table, looking to see if Auntie Loseby had made her very favorite thing. No, she couldn't see it, it wasn't there, and the girl was far too shy to mention it.

  She would wriggle a little on her seat and wonder if perhaps this time her auntie Loseby had actually not remembered.

  But then Uncle Tony would exclaim in mock horror, “No lemon curd tarts today, Mum? Oh no, don't tell me you've forgotten!”

  The girl would giggle and blush scarlet with embarrassment while staring intently at her feet, too shy to say anything or even to look at anyone.