A Presence in the Pictures, Bolbeck Park

It sometimes seems amazing to me that I only started this project in April – it’s hard to believe that it’s only been five months, so much has happened in that short time. I’ve met so many people, and had such brilliant opportunities to hear all these true stories. Some of them have arrived heavy with dread, filled with footsteps in the dark or houses that won’t settle. Others drift in more quietly, carrying with them the weight of memory, love, and the uncanny sense that those we’ve lost aren’t quite gone. Tonight’s story belongs to that second kind, and perhaps that’s why it’s so compelling.

I first met Karen at the Cabaret of Ideas, an event last month that I took part in during the Milton Keynes International Festival. The idea is that people come along to talk to ‘experts’ about their specialist subject – and I was delighted that I’d been picked to talk about this project and all the stories people have been sharing. It was a fantastic experience – I’d never done anything like that before and I had a whole range of questions and reactions from the people who came over to my corner, but I could tell straight away that Karen was listening more intently than most.

Afterwards, she got in touch to tell me that she had a story of her own to share. Over a pot of tea at the Homeground café in CMK, she began to tell me about the strange ways her grandfather had made his presence felt long after his passing.

It began in the 1990s, when Karen was training in Northampton. One of her tutors – a man she remembers as intense – confided that he could sense her grandfather’s presence. As you’d expect, Karen was sceptical at first, particularly because some of what he was saying just seemed wrong. He described some details around the way her grandfather had died, but she knew that wasn’t how it had happened. He said he could see her grandfather on a blue tractor which was close, but not quite right. Her grandfather had indeed been a farmer, but his pride and joy was a combine harvester, made cosy with cushions, a radio, and all the comforts of home.

And then the mood shifted.

The tutor paused, as if listening to someone unseen, and then repeated, in a different tone: “Tell her it’s Tom.”

That hit home. It wasn’t her grandfather’s name, but it made perfect sense. Tom had been her godfather and he too had already died. There was no way the tutor could have known that. What struck her most was the sense of playfulness in it: her grandfather laughing as he passed on the message, as though he was joking with her even across the divide, and at the same time letting her know he wasn’t alone on the other side.

Years later, while living in Bolbeck Park and navigating a troubled marriage, Karen began noticing small disturbances. A hairbrush that should have sat neatly on her dresser was found on the floor again and again. At first, she blamed her dog, but after he repeatedly showed no interest in the brush whatsoever, she could no longer tell herself this was just her playful pet – no, this was the start of something that was just starting to come together to give her a powerful and meaningful message.

Then came the crash.

From another room she heard the sound of something falling. She traced it to the shelves where she displayed her family photographs. Every frame was still standing in place – except for one. A treasured portrait of her grandparents was lying on the floor.

When she went to put in back in place, she noticed something she couldn’t explain… The portrait had been right at the back of the display with a row of other framed photographs in front – and yet, it had been lying on the floor alone. How on earth had it managed to get from behind those pictures, leaving them standing perfectly untouched, and end up on the floor?

Karen picked it up, stared into his face, and said aloud:
“If you’ve got something to say Grandad, you have to tell me, I can’t just guess!”

Not long afterwards, she uncovered her husband’s secret life. It was a betrayal that cut deep, but in the strange sequence of signs – the hairbrush, the photograph, the sense of a presence coming through – she felt the steady hand of her grandfather trying to warn her. A man who had raised her, still protecting her even after death.

The story didn’t end there. Over time, Karen found out that many of the things her old tutor had shared about her grandfather had been right all along. Those details about how he had died? They may not have been the actual cause, but she found out they had been the reason why he had been admitted to hospital. And the blue tractor? Her godmother later told her he had owned one, and then, while looking through old photo albums with her gran, Karen found the proof.
A photograph she had never seen before: her grandfather, smiling proudly from the seat of a tractor.
A blue one.

It’s a shame there’s no way to track down that tutor from her training days, to tell him that his words had been far closer to the truth than Karen ever realised at the time. But perhaps he already knows.

What strikes me most in Karen’s account isn’t just the strangeness of a photograph slipping from its place, or even the eerie echo of the details that had been right all along. It’s the thread of care woven through it all – a grandfather watching over the granddaughter he helped to raise, finding ways to reach her when she needed him most.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about signs from beyond – as some of you know, the thread that pulled me to create this project was a sense of frustration that *I* never saw any of those hopeful signs after my husband died. It’s coming up to two years ago now. We were both fascinated by the paranormal, and had even agreed long ago how we’d send a message from the other side if we could.

So, I knew exactly what I was looking out for in the weeks and months afterwards – but there was nothing.

Those very specific things we’d talked about? They didn’t happen, and neither did the things that everyone talks about… His favourite songs didn’t play on the radio at uncanny moments, I never had a sense of presence, I didn’t even have unexpected robins turning up in the back garden.

It didn’t seem fair, so many other people have their messages from loved ones, why not me? That question took me into a year’s study towards a parapsychology diploma and immersing myself in the online world around the paranormal, and somewhere along the way, that “why not me?” question became something very different. It turned into this fascination with exploring the stories closer to home.

I like to think Jef would be proud of what I’m doing here – as well as being totally gobsmacked that I’ve turned into someone outgoing enough to sit down with complete strangers and ask them about their darkest moments, let alone go on the radio and talk about it all!

Next month, I’ll be speaking about this project at the Great Linford Heritage Celebration event – just the idea that I’d voluntarily stand up in front of a tent full of people and give a talk would have blown his mind! He knew me as introverted and shy, and his biggest fear was always what I’d do without him. We meant the world to each other. Everyone deals with a loss that immense in their own way – mine has been, well, all of this.

And just maybe, the new life I’m building around it – this project, the wonderful community of people I’ve met, the opportunities and friendships it keeps bringing, stories just like Karen’s tonight – maybe that was the sign all along. Not a robin in the garden or a song on the radio, but something bigger.

A reminder that even in absence, love still shapes what comes next.

Thank-you to Karen for trusting me with this story, and thank YOU for reading! 
If you have a story of your own to share, I’d really love to hear it.