Fifty Years a Medium – Chapter 12, 4/13 by Estelle Roberts

At the end of the séance Mary Glynne explained the significance of these words. She told us that she also sat with another medium through whom, a few days earlier, she had received a communication from Dennis. Ever seeking greater, more convincing, proof she had asked him for a text message, a few words only that he would repeat at her forthcoming visit to me.

“I will say,” he had promised, “I have brought some flowers for you.”
Emma Cunliffe-Owen was one of the most vital and kindly women it has been my good fortune to meet. She attended my voice séances over a long period and followed with the greatest attention all that transpired. She had considerable psychic gifts which, had she had the time and inclination to develop, could have made her a powerful medium.

There was one occasion when her father spoke through the trumpet and, in doing so, showed himself to be one of those communicators able to manifest with a perfect reproduction of their remembered earthly tones. With gay and cheerful abandon he reeled off the names of those of her family who clustered around him.

There were her husband, Edward, and Grandfather Charles. There were Agnes and Jenny and Dorothy; Alexandra, and Henry and Frank and little Clare. To him it was just a grand family party. He talked a little about each one, and then he suddenly exclaimed: “And here’s someone else you know well. Tommy Lipton. Come and speak to Emma, Tommy.”

A new voice sounded from the trumpet as Sir Thomas Lipton, founder of the chain of grocery stores bearing his name and many times contender for the America’s Cup in his yachts Shamrock I to V, took over.
“I’m glad of this opportunity to thank you for remembering me,” he said.

“It was little enough.”
“It was a great deal.” Then, addressing the circle at large, he added: “She decorated the carriage in which they brought my body home. Purple cloth, green laurels, and yellow chrysanthemums.”

“You did so much for others,” Emma Cunliffe-Owen said. “It was time someone did something for you.”
“I did something for you, Sir Thomas,” Hannen Swaffer interjected with a chuckle. “They got me out of bed to write your obituary notice.”

“Did they?” came the delighted reply. “Well, you can make it your business to tell them I am not dead after all.”
“Dorothy’s still here, waiting.” It was Emma Cunliffe-Owen’s father interrupting these pleasantries on the girl’s behalf.

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