White feathers that convince Gloria Hunniford guardian angels DO
exist ...and make her certain that her darling daughter Caron Keating is
watching over her
Racing out of my front door one morning last week, I was acutely
aware that I was running late for my lunch meeting, and felt a wave of panic. I
absolutely hate the thought of keeping people waiting — it sends the old stress
levels soaring.
I fumbled with my keys in the
lock then half-ran from the house, feeling flustered and rushed — certainly not
a desirable state for driving.
But as I looked down the drive,
there on the ground beside my car lay a single white feather. As I bent to pick
it up, I knew instantly what it was: a reminder from my late daughter, Caron
Keating, to drive safely.
‘Hi Caron,’ I smiled, as I tucked
it into my blouse, close to my heart.
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Gloria Hunniford's daughter,
Caron Keating, died in 2004 after a long battle with breast cancer
For when she was alive, Caron —
loved by millions for her TV and radio presenting roles — told me that an
isolated white feather was an angel’s calling card. And since her death, I am
certain that she uses them to send messages to me.
We were so close in life, and I
am in no doubt that our bond has increased since her death.
I am convinced that Caron — who
died of breast cancer ten years ago, at the tragically young age of 41 — has
been my guardian angel. People may think I am deluded, but I know she is there
for me, protecting and comforting me whenever I need her most.
Like many people, I was once
sceptical about the existence of angels.
But, as time has passed, I have
become completely convinced Caron is an angel whose primary task is to watch
out for me. How else to explain some of the extraordinary things that have
happened since her death?
These events started in August 2004, just four months after Caron
died. My husband Stephen Way, now 74, and I were driving to the family villa we
had just bought in the South of France.
It was our first visit and the
car, a Toyota Celica, was loaded to the gunwales with everything from saucepans
to suitcases.
The traffic was so bad that we
decided to leave the motorway and make our way through the back roads of Northern
France.
As I took my turn at driving, it
was an incredibly hot day, the air conditioning wasn’t working and I can only
assume I was distracted for a second. The next thing I knew I had careered
across the road, and smashed through a pedestrian crossing sign.
I opened my eyes to see our car
embedded in a huge concrete flower pot and Stephen hurled against the
windscreen, with blood pouring from his head. Overwhelmed by shock and
disbelief, I thought I had killed him.
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Gloria believes that Caron is her
guardian angel, and that white feathers fall at moments when she is
particularly looking over her
Suddenly police cars, ambulances
and fire engines were arriving and we were being dragged from the car. I was in
such shock that every bit of schoolgirl French deserted me.
Yet no one in the assembled crowd
seemed to speak English, except one young woman — an exquisitely slim girl in
jeans with the most glorious tumbling blonde hair.
As the ambulance driver led us
away, she took my hand and asked in perfect English: ‘Would you like me to look
after your things?’
Her offer came at a time when I
felt quite confused and I was so concerned for Stephen I said, ‘Yes please’,
and gave it no more thought.
Late that evening we were
released from hospital; Stephen had suffered a cut to the head and, mercifully,
was OK. After a fitful night’s sleep in a hotel in the square of the little
town — whose name I never got to know — we went to a café.
As we sipped coffee, the girl
from the crash scene once more appeared at our side. Gently, she asked in
perfect English how we were feeling, then asked: ‘Would you like me to take you
to where your car is?’
We were in such a state of shock,
we didn’t stop to wonder how she knew where our car was, we were just so
grateful. We assumed it had been moved by the police but wouldn’t have had a
clue where to start looking.
We got into her smart little car
and exchanged pleasantries as she drove us some 4 km to the middle of the
countryside. ‘Here you are,’ she said, as she pulled up in front of a garage
and gestured for us to get out.
We barely had time to thank her
and say goodbye before she sped off.
Sure enough, there was our car in
the garage — with every scrap of our precious belongings still inside.
The car was a write-off. It was
caved in at the front and the engine was totally stoved in. Looking at it, I
shuddered — realising how fortunate we’d been to escape virtually unscathed.
The AA arranged a hire car for us
and, as we loaded our belongings into it, we thanked the heavens that we were
safe and said goodbye to our Celica.
As I felt calmer, I also felt
terrible for not thanking the girl who had done so much for us. I bought a
bunch of flowers for her.
Later that same day, after a
final check-up at the hospital when Stephen was given the all-clear, we went
back to the café where, I assumed, she was a waitress.
But she wasn’t there and — to our
amazement — the owner had no idea who I was talking about when I described her.
With a mixture of schoolgirl French and pointing to my own blonde hair, I
explained: ‘I’m looking for the beautiful girl with long blonde hair who speaks
English.’
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Caron, who died at the age of 41,
was best-known for her role as a presenter on Blue Peter
‘Non,’ he shrugged. ‘Je ne sais
pas.’ (I don’t know). It was the same at the garage. The owner didn’t know her
either. I even asked more people at the cafe. They were eager to help but they
all shook their heads and said: ‘Non.’
This was a tiny French town. We
couldn’t understand it. Where had she come from — and where had she gone?
Perhaps, if we had been there for a few days longer we would have solved the
puzzle.
As the weeks passed and I mulled
over how incredibly lucky we were, not just to survive the crash but to find
someone to take care of our possessions, I began to wonder — was a guardian
angel looking out for us?
It seemed extraordinary, but what
other explanation could there be for this woman arriving twice in 24 hours to
save us and then disappearing into thin air?
Even now when I talk about it, I
get goosepimples.
And then the feathers started
appearing — just when I most needed comfort, and leaving me in no doubt that
Caron was indeed watching over me.
The first time was in January
2005, nine months after her death. We were on our way to Disneyland Paris with
her sons Charlie, ten, and Gabriel, seven. It was meant to be a birthday treat
for Gabriel, but trudging along the rain-soaked platform at Folkestone, Kent,
hand-in-hand with the boys, I felt consumed with memories. It wasn’t just the
lashing rain that dampened my mood.
Every fibre ached with pain and
despair as I thought of Caron; she should have been here — skipping down the
platform with her beloved boys, eyes sparkling, long blonde hair whipped up by
the wind.
For the boys’ sake, I was trying
desperately to put on a brave face. But inside I was breaking apart.
Then suddenly I looked down and
there on my shoe was a single, snow-white feather. It had quite literally
dropped from the sky. There was no rational explanation.
Caron’s words from long before
she died came flooding back to me: ‘Remember Mum. If an isolated white feather
appears out of nowhere, it’s a sign that your guardian angel is watching over
you.’
She had become seriously
interested in angels when she was co-presenting ITV’s This Morning and
interviewed experts on the subject.
She even made a documentary about
them, so it was something we had spoken about many times, long before her
illness.
Yet although there’s a growing
interest and belief in angels, I know many people will brush aside the whole
idea. I have to confess that I was once very sceptical too.
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Beautiful bride: Caron (right)
married Russ Lindsay (centre), both pictured with Gloria, in 1991
When Caron first talked about
angels, I didn’t take her seriously at all. I used to tease her when she talked
solemnly about asking the parking angel to find her a parking spot. It always
seemed to work for her. ‘See Mum,’ she would giggle.
But, even though I sometimes
found myself doing the same, I still didn’t take it seriously. And I was
dubious when she first told me that angels used feathers as their calling
cards.
But there was absolutely no
mistaking the message that day. The rain was lashing, and there wasn’t a bird
in sight.
Yet, as this single fluffy
feather landed, it was perfectly dry.
Where else could the feather have
come from?
I didn’t tell the boys — they
were too excited about the trip — but Caron’s watchful presence helped me.
Suddenly I didn’t feel quite so bereft. Although Caron was gone, I felt her
comforting presence and knew without a shadow of a doubt that her spirit lived
on — I can even see that spirit in her boys.
The next time I remember it
happening was the summer of the same year. The boys and their father, Russ
Lindsay, were spending the holiday with us at our home in Sevenoaks, Kent.
It was a baking hot day and they
were splashing about in our little indoor swimming pool.
I would never have believed two
boys could have so much fun or make so much mess. There was water everywhere
and I was soaked to the skin.
Then just as I was thinking how
much Caron would have loved to have shared the fun, that very moment, out of
nowhere, a huge, plume-like bone dry feather drifted through the air and landed
near the pool.
As I bent to catch it, I felt
instantly it was Caron again.
She was telling us she was
watching and was happy that her boys were having such a good time. And knowing
that gave me so much comfort. I may not be able to see her, but at least I
could sense her.
Since then I have lost count of
the number of times I have found her calling card.
Birthdays and anniversaries
rarely pass without the arrival of a white feather. And no, there are never any
birds nearby when they land.
They also always float down to a
place where you just wouldn’t expect to see one, like on your shoe or the
doorstep.
Whenever I see one of Caron’s
feathers, I pop it in my blouse pocket — close to my heart — until I get home.
Then I take it out and keep it safe.
I’ve put all the feathers — and
there are hundreds — in jars around my house.
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Gloria says the 'terrible grief'
of losing her daughter never goes away, but believes they will be reunited in
death
I feel Caron at my side during my
darkest moments, too.
Two years ago, in April 2012,
Stephen was rushed to Tunbridge Wells hospital after suffering a minor heart
attack. I was in pieces. I was terrified that I was going to lose him. I spent
all day at the hospital with Stephen, where he was in intensive care. When I
finally got home alone that night, I was trembling with shock and fear as I
tried to get my door key into the lock.
I looked down and there — on the
mat under a deep porch — was a single white feather.
I knew then it was going to be
all right; and Stephen was allowed home a few days later.
I am in no doubt that Caron keeps
an eye out for her boys, too: Charlie, who’s now 20 and studying at Bournemouth
University, and Gabriel, 17, who is studying for his A-levels.
They have grown up knowing my
belief that their mother is looking over us all.
At home above their beds, they
still have the little wooden plaques that Caron had made for them, with the
inscription: ‘May angels watch over you while you sleep.’
They are young. Their lives are
full and happy. But I have no doubt that — whenever they need her comforting
presence — a feather will appear.
Caron’s brothers, my sons — Paul,
49, and Michael, 43 — have received her ‘calling cards’, too, on special
occasions such as their birthdays.
Only a few weeks ago, Michael and
I were driving to St Peter’s Church, Hever, to put fresh flowers on her grave
when a perfect snow-white feather landed on the windscreen.
‘There you go Mum, it’s another
of Caron’s feathers,’ Michael smiled.
The terrible grief of losing
Caron never goes away. I am a Christian and fervently believe in an afterlife
when we will be reunited.
But I still miss her desperately
and think of her hundreds of times every single day. She was the one woman in
the world I enjoyed talking to the most. I’ll see a dress that she would have
loved, or hear a joke she would have enjoyed, and feel a knot in my stomach.
Now I have her feathers to remind
me that my daughter may not be visible but she is with me, wherever I go.
I am convinced she is always
close to me, her pockets filled with feathers to drop at my feet when I need
her comforting presence most.
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