Fifty Years a Medium – Chapter 13, 7/13 by Estelle Roberts

This was followed by a boyish voice issuing with difficulty through the trumpet. “Hullo, there! Can you hear me? It’s ‘Cobber’ Kain.”

Everybody present knew who “Cobber” Kain was. From the earliest days of the war this young New Zealander had been flying with the R.A.F., and by shooting down many German machines he had become one of the great aces. Tragically, on the eve of taking a spell of well-earned rest, he fell victim of a flying accident.

“We can hear you, Cobber,” the circle replied in chorus.
“Segrave brought me. He told me I would get through here. I want to send a message to my mother and fiancée. Tell them I have been back, that I send them my love and that I am quite all right.”

The trumpet returned to the floor.
Iris was curious to know why Red Cloud had allowed this famous airman to speak to the circle when no friend of his was present.
“Because he was a very gallant gentleman,” Red Cloud replied. “And because he was so anxious to send his message of love.”

The message was promptly delivered and gratefully acknowledged.
One of the great cruelties of war are the agonizing hours, which often stretch to days, weeks and months, that had to be endured by those at home when a loved one is reported missing.

I saw much of this facet of human anxiety because so many parents and wives, unable to stand the suspense of waiting for official news, came to me for help they hoped I could give them.
Once a sweet young woman came to see me accompanied by a newspaper reporter. I was not told her name, or anything of her background.

There was nothing in her dress, no mark or mourning or regimental badge that might give a clue to the reason for her visit. She had obviously been carefully schooled in advance not to give anything away during the exchange of preliminary pleasantries, because most of the time she did not speak at all, but only nodded her head.

As the three of us sat down together she handed me a small packet, which she afterwards told me contained one of her husband’s civilian ties. Its emanations were strong, flooding my mind with a stream of changing impressions that were neither visual nor audible, physical nor psychological, yet I was certain they were right.

“I get the initials B.N.” I said. “Now I get the name Nicholls. He’s your husband. You are Mrs. Nicholls. Now I am getting another name. It is Nicky. He is calling you Nicky.”
“Then it must be true,” said my visitor, speaking as if to herself. “He really is dead.”