Antoine, the blind medium
In the mid-1990s I attended a weekly spiritualist church meeting in Hereford. I can’t remember the exact location, but it was some sort of parochial hall building, draughty and shabby with a stage at the front, and hard chairs that scraped noisily on the wooden floor. The location doesn’t really matter, but when my internet search was unsuccessful, and nothing rang a bell on Google maps, it made me wonder how we found our way around back then. Few of us had internet access or sat navs, yet we still managed somehow.
Each week, I went along hoping Anton would be there. I’m calling him “Anton” here, because that’s how we pronounced it, and it’s what I’d thought his name was for the past thirty years. I’d never seen his name written down, or heard his surname used. The name “Anton” was enough to make everyone’s face light up, as his kindness, humour and cheerfulness always lifted the atmosphere of the dingy venue a good few levels, and brought warmth and laughter to the gathering. I never even spoke to him … I sat near the back and slunk away after the closing prayer, before the tea and biscuits came out.
Whenever Anton was there, the meeting was attended by a group of students from the local college for the blind. I don’t know whether Anton attended the college as a student or as a mentor, but he always had a good following, and would chide them good-humouredly when their talking watches, all slightly out of sync, would pipe up and announce the time at an inappropriate moment.
Yesterday, I discovered that “Anton” was in fact Antoine Reeves. As the title of this post suggests, Antoine was a medium and he was blind. He was also a talented musician who would bolster our attempts at hymns with his keyboard accompaniment and sometimes treat us to a rendition of a song he’d composed … as well as giving us a demonstration of mediumship.
I recall an evening when someone’s loved one had come through, and Anton was delivering their message, he paused after the words, “in the Spring, when the birds are singing in the trees”, and asked us, “What does he mean by that?” Someone enlightened him that birds often sit in trees and sing.
“Do they really? Well, I never knew that!” said Anton, with his characteristic eyes-closed, crinkling smile, and continued with the message.
I moved away from Hereford and no longer attended those meetings, but often thought of Anton. In more recent years, I’ve googled “Anton blind medium Hereford” with no successful results.
Yesterday, I was telling my partner about him, and mentioned the occasion he’d questioned “birds singing in trees” because, being blind, that was something he’d never seen … and there must have been so many other things!
I also told him how Anton had amused the congregation when he mimicked his mother yelling down the garden for him to come indoors. His voice had transformed as if channelling her – but it was a strong Jamaican Patois that boomed around the hall. He then explained, in his usual dulcet northern tone, “My mother came from Jamaica, you see,” and we all laughed at the vocal contrast.
I ended by telling Julz that if only I knew Anton’s surname, he’s bound to be somewhere on the internet … and then “Reeve” or “Reeves” suddenly came to me. Maybe I had heard someone say his full name all those years ago, or perhaps it’s because Rachel Reeves keeps getting mentioned in the news?!
Anyway, I googled “Anton Reeve” and found Antoine Reeves! No mention of his work in Herefordshire though.
Sadly, he passed away in 2021, aged sixty-six, according to this lovely tribute I found:
I’d like to think he wouldn’t have minded returning to spirit, as he’d spent years bridging the gap between the two worlds.
I also found his recording on YouTube of “Mother”, a song I find even more moving now than when he sang it for us, accompanied by his keyboard, about thirty years ago:
Last night, during my early-hours wide-awake time, I thought about Antoine, and asked him for a sign that he was still around.
This morning, when I went for my regular woodland wanderings, a robin appeared on the path in front of me. I stopped and it flew up into a tree, perched on a low branch, and chirped a little melody.
“Antoine!” I called softly, and instead of flying away, he tilted his head as if listening, and repeated the song again. We carried on this exchange, me and the robin, for a couple of minutes until I saw some dog-walkers approaching and moved on.
Perhaps it’s just that I was looking for a sign, as robins are often quite tame, but I’d prefer to believe it was Antoine checking in by singing in the trees, bless him.
Word on a Whim 