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My goddaughter Jill was born on October 5th 1979 and passed away on May 9th 2004. She was only 24 when she died after a long battle with cystic fibrosis. Cystic Fibrosis is the UK's most common life-threatening, inherited disease which affects a number of organs in the body especially the lungs and pancreas by clogging them with thick, sticky mucus. At present there is no cure for c f, but the faulty gene has been identified and doctors and scientists are working to find ways of repairing or replacing it. One of the main objectives of the Cystic Fibrosis Trust is to fund this work. Jill achieved so much during her short life; she was an amazing artist; obtained a degree, an award from the C F Trust and brought so much fun and laughter into the lives of everyone who knew her. She did well at school and was a popular pupil who loved gymnastics. After leaving school she moved to Nottingham to enrol at Nottingham Trent University to study art. Despite her illness and frequent hospital stays she never complained and was loved by all the doctors and nurses. She decorated her hospital room with fairy lights and anything pink and fluffy. Pink summed Jill up, it was a colour she wore often and at times even her hair was pink! She had a great sense of decoration and style and would come up with amazing ideas for her artwork. One of her projects involved making a quilt out of cabbage leaves and it was displayed on a bed complete with Jill sleeping in it! She was ill for months afterwards because the decaying leaves affected her lungs but she didn't mind suffering for her art one bit. To her the rotting leaves represented her lungs.

In February 2004 Jill underwent a double lung transplant. We hoped it would lead to a better quality of life for her and our thoughts and prayers were with the family who lost a child in order to give Jill the gift of life. Sadly it wasn't meant to be; initially Jill appeared to be doing well but after 3 months developed an infection in her heart, lungs and brain. She underwent heart surgery and basically never fully regained consciousness. It was discovered that her vital organs were shutting down; there was nothing more the doctors could do. Only the life support machine was keeping her alive. Her family and I were with her at the end holding her hands and telling her how much we loved her. Her life support machine was switched off and she slipped away peacefully, free of pain and suffering.

I set up a memorial website in her name and raise money for the C F Trust and awareness about this life threatening disease. We try to remember the good times, like the day I was pushing her over a bridge when she had to use a wheel chair. Gathering speed I asked her where the brake was? She replied there wasn't one! Picture if you will Jill gripping the arms and me hanging on to the handles for dear life at 60mph whilst approaching a dual carriageway! Then there was the time in hospital where we swapped places and I nearly got wheeled off to x-ray - we were terrible! There was also the small incident of my shoes being used to grow bulbs in. I didn't know about it until I saw her photographs from the exhibition!

I saved two of her last text messages and one day shortly after she died in desperation I asked for a sign she was OK. Both messages mysteriously re-sent themselves to me a matter of hours later coming up as "sender unknown" for the number. One in particular was about Concorde, Jill loved Concorde and would go and watch it take off or land at Heathrow airport whenever she was well enough. It was her way of telling me she was up there with Concorde and was doing fine! A few months ago I sat in her bedroom holding the container of her ashes and talking to her as I would have done normally. I laughed as I was relaying something and a flower decoration fell off her bedroom wall. That was when I knew she could still hear me! I was Jill's godmother; she always called me her "fairy godmother". It was extremely hard to carry on without her; particularly Christmas and on her birthday. Even now I still pick up anything pink and fluffy when I'm shopping thinking Jill would love this and then turning towards the cash desk I remember. I would always consult her about what I should wear if I was going somewhere special and ask her advice about things in general. She used to joke that I needed "someone to look after me". Six months after she died I met up with an old friend and we started seeing each other. He understands my need to talk about Jill and have what he refers to as my "Jill moments" where I recall something amusing or I'm just thinking about her a lot. We are now married, he's the love of my life and takes care of me. I know it's all down to Jill making sure someone is looking after me!

I kept having a recurring dream about a large white mausoleum which stood alone; I had no idea what it meant. Night after night I'd find myself standing on the top step of this large white monument in front of the locked doors asking "Who are you?" and "Why am I here?" A few months later my cousin died, her funeral was arranged and she was to be buried in St Pancras and Islington cemetery in North London. It was a freezing cold and wet January day and as we were in the cars leaving the cemetery we passed a mausoleum exactly the same as the one I dreamt about. It was THE mausoleum. I shuddered.

I hadn't noticed it before as it was in a part of the cemetery I had never been to. I got the car to drop me off at the gate and headed back for a better look. The name on it was "Mond" but I didn't know anything about who it belonged to. I had a look around and secured the lock on the door, which had been tampered with. I cleaned up some broken glass and rubbish. There had been a recent fire at the rear of the mausoleum and I got goose bumps when I had the distinct feeling that it could have been a black magic ritual. I then tried to figure out how I could run some power cables in the following weekend to start jet washing the stone, as it badly needed cleaning. I figured that there were no relatives left alive to take care of it so if they couldn't, I would. That night I had the same dream again and was again asking, "Who are you?" "Please tell me who you are?"

A week later I picked up the evening newspaper to find an article on Ludwig Mond detailing how someone had died whilst trying to arrange cleaning of the stonework, it was a relative of Lord Melcher. Mond was a Chemist and industrialist who had invented a process for recovering sulphur during the manufacture of alkali and also developed a producer gas known by his name. He was cofounder and director of Brunner-Mond in 1872, which became the world's largest producer of alkalis. Another outstanding discovery of his was nickel carbonyl, a gas formed from carbon monoxide and metallic nickel. He developed one of the first hydrogen-oxygen fuel cells. That night I dreamt about, yes, you've guessed, the mausoleum again. This time an elderly well dressed man approached me and thanked me for fixing the lock. I've never dreamt about it again. I can only assume that Mond needed to contact someone to fix the door to prevent vandalism and knew that the relative was going to die before he got the chance so he picked me! Arriving back at the cemetery a few days later I discovered someone had already beaten me to the cleaning obviously I was just the locksmith! Now when I visit the cemetery I usually make a point of stopping off and leaving him a single flower. I also make sure the door is still secure. If it wasn't I'm sure he'd let me know!

I had often wondered why my name Jeane was spelt with the extra "e" on the end? I'd seen it spelt "Jean" or "Jeanne" but rarely Jeane. In fact the only other person I could think of who had it that way was Norma Jeane aka Marilyn Monroe. The reason for my extra e was told to me around my 10th birthday. My Uncle's Great Uncle was one Tilford Hogan; sadly he committed suicide in 1934. Tilford was Marilyn's Great Grandfather. Marilyn and I shared the same birthday, 1st June hence my name. I'd always idolised her, I have her films and many books about her life.

Norma Jeane was born in Los Angeles General Hospital California in 1926. Her parents were Gladys Pearl Monroe, already a mother of two (son Robert, and daughter Bernice), and her ex-boyfriend Charles Stanley Gifford. Gladys was married to Martin Edward Mortensen, and therefore named her daughter Norma Jeane Mortensen, even though she had left her husband for Gifford. Norma Jeane was named after a friend of Gladys' from Kentucky. When Norma was baptised her mother had changed her last name to Baker, the name of her first husband, Jasper Baker. We all know the story of Marilyn's life and her untimely death. She was found dead on 5th August 1962 at her Brentwood home. The mystery surrounding this still continues today with various conspiracy theories. She was laid to rest in an $800 coffin, wearing a simple green dress, and in her hands ex husband Joe Di Maggio placed a tiny bouquet of pink baby roses. As he had promised Marilyn years before, Joe would send a bouquet of red roses to her crypt every week for 21 years.

Being somewhat obsessed with cemeteries there was only one logical thing left for me to do - pay her a visit! It wasn't hard to locate her resting place, Westwood Memorial Cemetery, Los Angeles. A couple of weeks later I arrived in LA. There's no easy way to find the cemetery as it's now hidden behind a towering office block. It looked nothing like our conventional English cemeteries, this was small with manicured laws and an oddly designed 50s chapel. The crypt itself was easy to locate following the well worn path and spotting the multitude of flowers from some distance away. It was extremely moving finally being there, I put my hands against the marble and felt tearful. I didn't feel she was there any more but got a sense of her having moved on as she didn't like to be surrounded by death and decay. I spent some time just sitting quietly and felt very peaceful, I had to drag myself away as I could have stayed there for hours. Eventually I unwrapped the flowers I had brought and made my way back to my hotel. In the following years I have returned twice more and always got the same sense of peace. I'd like to think she watches over me and I'm proud to be a distant relative and share the same birthday as an amazing movie legend and be Jeane with an extra e!

Most people don't want to meet an undertaker but recently I visited F.A. Albin and Sons to Meet Barry Albin-Dyer. Barry starred in the TV series "Don't drop the coffin" and has written four excellent books (see my recommended reading section) containing wonderfully amusing anecdotes and a great insight into the funeral business. He is a charming Bermondsey boy and all his staff are lovely. Barry has a great collection of funeral memorabilia including a crystal wand which he uses when conducting funerals. The idea of carrying a wand stems from the old tradition of using them to beat off potential body snatchers although thankfully nowadays they serve more for decorative purposes! If you are reading this Barry, it's still attached to your wall - honest! Another thing I liked about him is that he is open minded about psychics, a rarity among funeral directors. Another rarity is the Albin Memorial Garden which is simply stunning. Opened in November 1999 it includes an underground ashebarium for the burial of ashes (the first of its kind in the UK), a communal ashebarium for the scattering of ashes and areas for memorial plaques and flowers. You don't have to have your ashes there to have a plaque or memorial for a loved one. It's a bright happy space not morbid in the least. I spent about an hour chatting to him and having a look around and he was kind enough to sign my copies of his books. Further details can be seen at: www.albins.co.uk

When I started work at a building in Euston Square, North London that was supposedly haunted by its architect Arthur Beresford Pite (1861 – 1934) I inexplicably felt right at home. I encountered many strange things over the years particularly after I carried out extensive research into his life and work. I became totally fascinated with Arthur; I visited and photographed the other buildings he designed and collected his drawings and memorabilia. My most prized possession is a hand written letter he sent in 1917 whilst teaching at the Royal College of Art in South Kensington.

Arthur Beresford Pite was born on 2nd September 1861 in Newington London. The Pite lineage originated from Woodbridge Suffolk and can be traced back to the late 1600’s. Young Arthur was educated at Kings College School. In 1877 he entered the office of The Builder’s Journal doing mainly literary work; he also attended the Royal Architectural School. In 1878 he became a partner with the notable architect John Belcher. The Pite family transferred to Ramsgate Kent where Arthur and his brother William shared an architectural office. On 20th April 1887 Arthur married Mary Kilvington Mowll at the Parish church of Whitfield in Dover and they moved back to Brixton. They had four children, Grace Sarah (1888), Ion Beresford (1891), Molly (1897) and Arthur Goodhart (1896.) Arthur continued working on his commissions including the Burlington Arcade Piccadilly, Christ Church Brixton, Kampala Cathedral Uganda, a hospital in Jerusalem, The Institute of Chartered Accountants Moorgate and a West Islington library to name but a few. He also served as professor of architecture at the Royal College of Art and Cambridge University where he was considered a gifted teacher and speaker. In 1889 he built Earlywood a large family house at Frinton, Essex. Here he enjoyed many happy holidays with his wide circle of friends and relatives.

In 1906 Pite began his commission to build the headquarters of the London, Edinburgh and Glasgow Assurance Company at Euston Square. It was a magnificent building of Portland stone, Grecian in style and spanning seven floors. As the building manager I believed Arthur looks after me as I looked after his building. I would often hear footsteps on the floor above when I’d been there with only one security guard who was sitting opposite me! On another occasion I was talking about Arthur to a new member of staff as he was stacking binders into a bookcase, within minutes they all flew out again and landed in a heap on the floor. Lights would regularly turn themselves on and off. You would have to get up and flick the switch down again, it wasn’t just a case of the light bulbs going out, these turned themselves off! The sound of wheels turning could be heard in the basement (workmen often said they wouldn’t go there as they felt someone was watching them.) An architect refused to return after I argued with him over his unsympathetic plans for refurbishment, an extremely heavy oak door behind us closed by itself. It had been propped open with a weight. I've never seen someone run down the stairs so fast! Needless to say his plans were never carried out and I then had the building Grade 2 Special listed due to its significant architectural importance. My most memorable experience was when Arthur stopped me from falling headfirst down a steep flight of stairs and out of a large open window. I was carrying a heavy box which I couldn’t see over the top off and slipped off the first step. Suddenly I was pulled back up by the shoulders. I turned around to thank who ever had saved my life, but there was nobody there. No one could have passed me on the staircase without my seeing them. One of my new security guard’s witnessed something strange too. He had heard the stories about Arthur and mentioned he'd love to ‘see’ him but quickly added that he didn't believe in ghosts or such like. He arrived early one morning and was walking through the office to open the back door for the builders when he noticed someone sitting at a desk. Puzzled as he was the only one in the building at the time he turned around to put on another light and when he turned back there was no one there. He was a total skeptic but I think this has convinced him that Arthur was not happy with those particular builders! Staff would often get an overpowering smell of old fashioned sweet tobacco too - Arthur smoked a pipe.

I ordered a book about Pite’s architecture “The Golden City, Essays on the architecture and imagination of Arthur Beresford Pite.” Flicking through it saw a portrait of Arthur, it was the first time I’d seen his picture. I wanted to know what he looked like and if I had actually ‘seen’ him in the building. I was astonished because he was the man I’d noticed on several occasions outside the office and often accompanied by a man in an old-fashioned railway uniform. I would have almost believed that he was someone working in the area until I turned up in Wembley which is miles away, for a meeting one day, only to see them walking across the road! He looked almost otherworldly with bright blue eyes and glowing white hair. On the last occasion I glimpsed him I was determined to approach him and ask who he was but just as I caught up with him he literally disappeared and I never saw him again.

It became my mission to find out where Arthur was buried, it took me around 18 months and after a false lead to Dover my search led to West Norwood cemetery in South London. There are two graves side by side, one for Arthur and his sister and the other for his wife Mary and two of their children. Nouveau in style they originally had copper plaques with the inscriptions, sadly these are long gone. There is a decorative stone border down one side of Mary’s grave. The graves are in need of work as there is subsidence and the base has also separated due to the movement of the stone. Ironically the copper backing to the inscription plate has left the word ‘Loved’ etched into the stone. At one time it would have probably read ‘Beloved wife’.

Although there were no inscriptions to read I knew Arthur was there, my nostrils were filled with the aroma of old fashioned tobacco mixed with a musty smell, the same smell as I got in the Euston building on many occasions. Mt next step is to raise funds for the repairs to the graves and to reinstate the copper inscriptions so the name ‘Arthur Beresford Pite Architect and Educator’ can once more be known.

My website about Arthur, his life and work is at: http://www.abpite.silent-cities.com

Read the complete story of Arthur, my book ‘Arthur has left the buildings from: http://stores.lulu.com/jeanetrendhill

Paupers Graves

‘Pauper’s Graves’ is an old-fashioned term relating to plots usually used for people without known relatives or funds for a private burial. Bodies are buried in deep graves capable of holding six people.

If an inmate died in a workhouse, the death was notified to their family who could, if they wished, organise a funeral themselves.

If this did not happen, which was often the case because of the expense; the Guardians arranged a burial in a local cemetery or burial ground. This was originally required to be in the parish where the workhouse stood, but later rules allowed it to be the deceased's own parish if they or their relatives had expressed such a wish. A few workhouses had their own burial ground on or adjacent to the workhouse site. The burial would be in the cheapest possible coffin and in an unmarked grave, into which several coffins might be placed on the same occasion. Under the terms of the 1832 Anatomy Act, bodies unclaimed for forty-eight hours could also be disposed of by donating them for use in medical research and training — this was not specific to workhouses, but applied to any institution whose inmates died while in its care. Deaths were, however, always registered in the normal way. Another pioneering feature was the inscription or guinea grave, introduced in the 1880s. Although the simple headstones are now associated in many people's minds with poverty, they were once welcomed by families who could not afford a private plot and memorial but wanted to avoid the 'shame' of burying their loved ones in unmarked graves.

Every time I visited Highgate cemetery in North London I would gaze at a monument of a sleeping angel lying on a bed of clouds. I became totally fascinated by it to the point I was dreaming about it and even painted it. I really wanted to know who was buried there.

The inscription reads: “In Ever Loving Memory of Mary, the darling wife of Arthur Nichols and fondly loved mother of their only son Harold who fell asleep 7th May 1909. Also of Dennis Arthur Charles son of Harold and Winifred who died 28th April 1916 aged 18 months”.

The story goes that the angel was covered in ivy for many years and discovered by the photographer John Gay in the 1980s whilst he was taking photos for a book about the cemetery. I checked with the management but no one from the cemetery appeared to know much about her. Mary Nichols proved to be rather elusive as it was a very common name when she died in 1909 and transcribing the records often went awry, she could have been entered as 'Nichol' or 'Nicholls'. After looking through 526 death, marriage and census records, I narrowed it down to four and sent for one death certificate. The first certificate turned out to be the wrong Mary, this one was a spinster, no husband or children, so she had to be one of the remaining three.

A week later I received confirmation that certificate number two was on its way, the details on it are “Died Seventh May 1909 aged 58, married to Arthur Nichols. Cause of death, Diabetes and heart failure”. It looked like it could be the right Mary Nichol’s at last. When the certificate arrived the next day I could hardly wait to rip open the envelope – there she was, THE Mary Nichols. The date of death and other details matched up. Her address was Woodland Gardens, Muswell Hill; she was married to Arthur, a bank / insurance manager (which explains the wonderful monument which must have cost a fortune even in 1909.) Harold Nichols (her son) registered the death on 10th May and was present at the time of death and lived at the same address. Well that solved the mystery of who was Mary Nichols. A few weeks later I received some good news, English Heritage had cleaned the monument and restored it to its former white marble glory and she will remain uncovered so that others may enjoy her beauty. I was suitably impressed when I visited following the cleaning; she looked good and not too obviously white. I touched her and felt an overwhelming sensation of love. I also got the feeling that she was pleased that I had managed to find out who she was.

I had often wondered why her husband Arthur wasn’t buried with her. A couple of weeks later I had a dream in which Mary told be he had perished in the Titanic. It was a very vivid dream so I decided to check the Titanic crew and passenger lists and what did I find? Yes, one Arthur Nichols who’s previous employment had been in Insurance and bonds!

Rochester Castle

When I visited Rochester Castle things started to get a bit strange! The minute we entered the grounds

I said to my husband "I'm sensing a woman was killed here". Five minutes later I got a terrible pain in my chest. I must have looked a bit shaken as he asked me if I was all right? No" I replied, "I feel as though I've just been shot in the heart". It was at that point the tour guide regaled a fascinating story. In 1264 the Castle was surrounded and under attack by the then Earl of Leicester, Simon de Montford. The Castle was being defended by a Crusader by the name of Ralph de Capo who was the intended husband of Lady Blanche. In the attacking force was one, Guilbert de Clare, who was a rejected suitor of Lady Blanche. Around Good Friday the battle swayed in favour of the defenders of the Castle and the Earl of Leicester retreated. As a consequence, Ralph de Capo left the Castle with some of his men and gave chase. Guilbert de Clare circled around behind de Capo and entered the Castle dressed in a suit of armour resembling that worn by de Capo. His only intention was to confront the Lady Blanche. He eventually caught up with her on the battlements by the round tower. As Lady Blanche struggled to push de Clare away, her plight was spotted by de Capo. He was an excellent bowman and to save his intended, he fired an arrow which hit de Clare but glanced off his armour and went straight through the heart of Lady Blanche killing her instantly. Her ghost, dressed in a white robe and still with the arrow through her heart is said to walk the battlements near the round tower on the anniversary of the event at Easter. I had just unwittingly felt her pain - on the anniversary of her death!

My Dad died when I was 14. After his death I began seeing blackbirds everywhere, they never flew away but just sort of sat there. One even used to perch on the windowsill outside my bedroom most days. I took comfort in hoping that the blackbirds I kept seeing were my Dad keeping an eye on me. Fast forward a few years, I was happily married and living in Essex. We had been on a visit to Dover, Kent where I was doing some research on Victorian architect Arthur Beresford Pite who built the office I worked in for many years. We were looking for the church in Whitfield which Arthur married. I had been there once before but couldn't recall the exact place. We were driving round as we couldn't find it and passed a blackbird sitting in the road. I said to my husband, "He's not moving; he'll get run over so I'll put him in a safe place". When I picked him up I saw he was passing blood so I decided to take him with us. I figured he wouldn't last the 80 mile journey to our home in Essex but would at least die in comfort. I wrapped him in a jacket and off we went. We drove home with the bird sitting on my lap for the first half an hour, we got stuck in a huge traffic jam and astonishingly he perked up and climbed on to my finger - wild birds don't normally do that. When we got home I put him in a spare cage opposite my cockatiel. He appeared to have been hit by a car but had stopped losing blood and seemed more alert. I called him Magic! Day one, Magic was doing great he greeted me with a whistle in the morning. He made the cutest noise, not like any blackbird I have ever heard, it sounded like a cross between a squeaky toy and a whistle. He had been drinking which was good news and although he hadn’t eaten much he’d thrown food all over the floor, sorting through which bits he wanted. Day two, Magic developed a taste for ham. Wild bird food was obviously boring so he has the nice ham; meanwhile my husband was taking cheese sandwiches to work! Day five I was reading and heard birdsong, I thought it was outside as it seemed very low and quiet. I looked up and then realised Magic was having a drink and singing! His little throat warbling away – hmmm……blackbirds don’t usually sing in winter. Magic was fit and well and ready to be released a week later. He could hear other blackbirds outside most mornings and was chirping back at them and jumping around the cage. Although it was sad to see him go it would have been cruel to keep him any longer than necessary. He was now able to fly so I released him early one morning. Strangely I didn't see him soar into the sky, he just sort of vanished. I like to think maybe my Dad came back for a visit. I was inspired to write a children's book about Magic loosely based on the story which has developed a cult following and I now have a small blackbird tattoo on my wrist to remind me of my Dad and my angel bird. The story of Magic is available from: http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=740781

Upminster Windmill

Recently I was invited to pay a visit to an old smock mill in Upminster Essex which is over 200 years old. I deliberately didn’t read up on any of the history before my visit and was delighted to have much of the information I had picked up confirmed by one of the guides afterwards.

I felt very sad upon first walking inside and after looking at some photos on a display board at the rear of the entrance I discovered the sadness I felt was related to young soldier, Sid, whose parents had started the mill. He had died as a POW during the First World War. On the second floor I felt the presence of a tall man; I knew he was tall because he touched the top of my head. He was someone that had worked at the mill for many years and the energy felt very friendly like he enjoyed a laugh and a joke to help the day pass quicker. Outside where the original miller’s house had stood I sat on a bench and was told “I didn’t want him to go.” On asking further I was given the information that a member of the family had a son out of wedlock and he was give up for adoption. The mother did not want him to go and regretted not being able to keep him but had to give in to others. Behind the mill I also felt the spirit of a baker who had committed suicide when his shop was demolished, this was particularly sad. He still lingered around to look after his shop that is no longer there. The guide handed me a piece wood from the original steps to the mill to hold, it felt warm and loved. I was reluctant to let it go!