Roz

Bath First Spiritualist Centre was behind a plain door in a back street in the centre of the city. The only sign of activity was a man smoking a cigarette in the doorway. We paid ?1.50 for entrance and were given a hymn book and raffle ticket and were told, ‘The raffle will be drawn at the end of the service.’

We walked into the small hall. There were about 30 people in the congregation, sitting on wooden chairs in rows. The front of the hall was dominated by a modern-looking pulpit on a stage. Behind it were two ornately carved chairs on which sat a middle-aged woman and a dapper-looking older man in a suit.

People were clutching their hymn books and talking in hushed voices. I looked around. There was a girl in ripped jeans and a T-shirt; she had lots of piercings and her mobile phone kept going off. There was a woman in a tweed skirt, a twin-set and pearls. An old lady came in slowly with the aid of two sticks. Behind her, was a young man with a beard. He looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Many appeared troubled. Others looked as if they were fitting the meeting in with their shopping trip. On the stage, the man stood up. He had blue eyes and a gentle, continual smile.

‘I’m Stan – as most of you know. Thank you all for coming. I’d like to ask you to turn your mobile phones off. We’re happy to have Isla to take the service today. But let’s start with the opening hymn.’

As we sang Amazing Grace to taped background music, I felt uncomfortable. I had a sense that most of us just wanted to get on with the mediumship and were putting up with the hymn singing to get to that.

The woman on the stage, introduced as ‘today’s medium’, stood up. She was in her mid-fifties and was wearing a neat blue skirt and matching cardigan. She gave the address, reading a passage of Native American spiritual philosophy. Half way through the words about the higher self and the power of thought, she lost me. By the looks on their faces, I could see that most people in the room had similarly lost the thread. Isla seemed nervous and poured herself a drink of water.

‘If I come to talk to you, please acknowledge me verbally to make the connection. If you don’t understand the information I’m giving you, don’t disregard it, your understanding of it may come later.’

The atmosphere changed. I could feel the charge of expectation; the excitement in the room was contagious.

She pointed at the old woman with walking sticks, wearing a red cardigan.

‘I’d like to come to the lady in red,’ Isla said.

The woman had obviously been to quite a few of these meetings as she smiled and said ‘Thank you,’ quite comfortably. Isla went on to tell her that she could see a man in spirit standing near her, who loved to garden and was worried about her spending too much time on her own.

‘The man just wants to say that he visits often and is looking over you.’

In this vein, Isla continued to go to different members of the audience. At least three people received the same message: that they were worried or had been under stress, but there was a lot of love around them from spirit and it was going to get better. The only difference was in the flowers given as loving symbols at the end of each mini reading. Some got carnations, others lilies or roses ‘in a spray’.

After about an hour, the medium asked us to join her for the closing prayer. I realized suddenly that this was all we were going to get. I felt dissatisfied, and wondered how many other people there felt the same. I was amazed when I saw people queuing up to thank her.

Gathering my bag and coat, I was stopped by the announcement that the raffle was about to be drawn. A woman won a picture frame. A man got a tin of sweets. For the final prize, Stan thrust the bowl of raffle tickets in my face.

‘Would you like to pick out the last ticket?’ he asked.

As I looked at the folded slips of paper, I knew which one I wanted to choose. I pulled it out and looked at the number. I was instantly embarrassed.

‘It’s my number.’

I tried to put it back, but Stan was insistent.

‘You take the prize,’ he said, handing me a photograph album adorned with kittens. ‘You’re obviously psychic.’

Outside the church Mia, still chuckling, lit up a cigarette.