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down. Churches are very powerful
places; sometimes when I see someone in the church and see all
the angels and light around them, I pray for them: 'Please let
that person hear their angel today and in some way come into
contact with their angel, and through him with God.'
    Angels are not just found in Christian Churches: they are in
the Synagogues, in Mosques and in all the holy places. Your
religion makes no difference to the angels: they have told me
that all churches should be under one roof. Muslims, Jews,
Protestants, Hindus, Catholics and all the other different
religions should be together under one umbrella.We may look
different, we may have different beliefs, but we all have souls.
There is no difference between a Muslim soul and a Christian
soul. If we could see each other's souls we would not be killing
each other over different interpretations of God.
    One day I was walking with my aunt near her house and we
passed a church. Standing at the door of the church were two
beautiful angels. My aunt turned to me and said 'Don't be
looking across at that church.' I looked at her in amazement.
She continued, 'That's a Protestant church. You are forbidden
ever to go inside the gate or the door of any Protestant church!'
I glanced back and watched the people going into the church;
they looked no different to us. The next time I passed that
church I smiled to the angels at the door. I wasn't allowed to
go in, but I knew the church was full of angels.
    Our next-door neighbour, Mrs Murtagh, was a beautiful
looking woman with a fabulous figure – but she always used to
shout at us for walking along the wall. Occasionally she asked
me to babysit for a short time. One particular afternoon, when
I was about eight, she asked me to keep an eye on the children
while she came in to see my mum and have a cup of tea. Just
as I was going into her house, an angel stood in front of me and
said 'When you are in there, be very careful.'
    I was immediately scared, but I reluctantly went into her
kitchen. Mrs Murtagh was getting ready and had a pot boiling
on the stove. I said to her, 'Are you leaving that on?'
    She replied, 'Yes, it will be grand.'
    'Would you not turn it off?' I said.
    She wouldn't listen to me, and she was the sort of woman
who would get very angry at you if you didn't do exactly as she
said. There were two children in the kitchen – a toddler and a
baby in a huge pram. As soon as she left I found myself looking
around the kitchen. The back door was locked and there was
no key in it.
    All of a sudden, with a whoosh, the cooker blew up – I don't
know what happened but there was smoke and flames
everywhere. I remember grabbing the toddler then the pram
and trying to manoeuvre it out of the door into the hall. The
cooker and the table were between the pram and the door to
the hall, so I had to pass the burning cooker to get out. The
pram was very heavy and I couldn't move it easily. I grabbed
the toddler and got her out into the front garden and screamed
at a passing neighbour that the house was on fire.
    I ran back in; the house was full of black smoke and I was
terrified the baby would suffocate before we could get her out.
The neighbour followed me and, thank God, he was able to
manoeuvre the pram out.
    The children were safe. I ran crying and shaking into my
house. Mum and Mrs Murtagh were sitting in the kitchen
having tea – they had heard nothing. I sobbed that the house
was on fire and they ran into the garden next door. I remember
Mrs Murtagh throwing her arms around her children, shaking
and crying. She looked at me and thanked me. The whole
downstairs of the house was black, but the fire was out; the
neighbour had somehow managed to put it out.
    The fifties in Ireland were a very difficult time, economically:
there was little employment and a lot of people had to
emigrate. Things were very hard for my family with my mum
often sick and in and out of hospital. When she was away the
garden would become overgrown as