The following excerpt is taken from Brenda Harwood's book "My Truth: The far-memory of Christopher Marlowe" Copyright 2006. Available for purchase on www.authorhouse.co.uk and www.amazon.co.uk or from any Ottakar's bookstore.IntroductionI was born Brenda Claire Hollingsworth in St. Helens in 1949; brought up by my mother and grandparents in the latter’s home in Blackpool, Lancashire. Unfortunately my father left my mother when I was only two years old. I had been born prematurely with an eye disability called nystagmus, which sadly inhibited my education. Due to reluctance on my mother’s part I didn’t attend school until seven years of age. They were difficult times when I grew up, as there was not the care and understanding in the education system for children with special needs. I so wanted to learn despite my eye problem. Yet my mother was afraid of the stigma of a child attending a school for handicapped children; and was therefore reluctant to consider accepting a place for me at boarding school. Eventually, at seven years old, I was sent to a state school, but inevitably I found it difficult to keep up due to my disability. I went backwards and forwards to eye clinics, but nothing could be done.
Worryingly I went through a year of double vision, which my mother was warned could be permanent. Fortunately it righted itself. All through my school life, although I desperately wanted to learn, I was ridiculed by teachers and made fun of by other children because my eyes were unable to focus. I looked as if I was staring when in fact I was trying to focus on images.
I left school, aged fifteen, in 1964. I had wanted to attend Art College, as I was good at art despite my disability. But my mother thought it a waste and did not want me to work, thinking I was unemployable. Nanna didn’t care what I did. There were arguments, but support was lacking. However granddad, who had worked away from home since I was 10 years old, offered me his financial support in the art venture and enrolled me at college to attend evening classes. I thoroughly enjoyed learning and loved granddad for his faith in me.
Meanwhile my mother had remarried and fallen pregnant. Sadly granddad was taken seriously ill with cancer and needed constant care. It fell to me to give up the one thing that was important to me, my learning. The biggest blow of my life was, on 2nd August 1968 when, I was nineteen years old, my granddad died. In one way I was relieved because he had been suffering for such a long time; he had been a wonderful man and a great support to me throughout my life. Yet he had left a void that no-one else would ever be able to fill.
On 16th September that year my stepbrother was born. My mother named him Dean Frederick – Frederick after my granddad. He was a bonny little boy. I had hoped that he would hold my mother and stepfather together, but alas no, for money was becoming short. So I had to take up a job in a factory, much against my wishes. I objected to it because it wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life, which was to pursue my art studies and go into graphic design.
Time moved on and I became a carer for the elderly, which I found to be rewarding although not my chosen career path. One evening at the end of July 1974, on my friend’s birthday, we decided to go to The Lemon Tree, a disco and gambling casino. It was here that I was to meet my future husband, Neville. Just before we were due to leave he asked me for the last dance as ‘I Can’t Give You Anything But My Love’ by the Stylistics was playing. Talking as we left the dance floor he told me he was in printing and I found him very interesting. We decided to meet up again. Reflecting back I felt I had known him all my life. We got along so well that on 17th September 1977 we were married, and moved to our new home not far from my mother in Blackpool.
Almost a year later on the 13th September 1978, whilst watching the Granada Television production of ‘Will Shakespeare’, I had an extraordinary experience whereby I felt I recognized the character of Christopher Marlowe as my own. This led me to enquire further and a friend encouraged me to join The Marlowe Society as they had a postal lending library. I also found myself pregnant. Speaking to the Chairman of the Society I mentioned that if it is a boy, he was to be called Christopher, but I didn’t state how my interest in Marlowe had begun, as I was unsure how much it would be accepted. When my baby was born, a boy of course, on 15th June 1980 the Chairman made Christopher a Life Member of The Marlowe Society, attending the Christening on behalf of the Society members.
My life changed when my husband’s company decided to relocate him from Blackpool to Dunstable, Bedfordshire. On 12th February 1981 we moved ‘lock, stock and barrel’ to Bedfordshire and the Marlowe connection became stronger.
But what had caused the outburst “I didn’t die like that!” and how was this to affect my life so profoundly from that time on? It was a summer’s evening in 1978, my husband, Neville, and myself had decided to sit down and watch ‘Will Shakespeare’ on television, starring Tim Currie and Ian McShane. We were relaxed and the programme was well underway when it came to the death of a man called Christopher Marlowe. As a dagger was plunged into his eye I turned to Neville exclaiming, “I didn’t die like that!”
“Don’t you mean ‘He didn’t die like that?’ ”
“No, I know that I mean ‘I’. I can’t explain why I said what I did. Those are the words that came out.”
We retired to bed, but I tossed and turned unable to get this man, Christopher Marlowe, from my mind.
At breakfast the next morning Neville sensed my unease. “If you feel so passionately about what you have seen why not go to the library and research Marlowe’s life?”
It was this suggestion that spurred me to visit the library that evening after work. Enthusiastically I asked the librarian for assistance and found a book called ‘Kind Kit’ by Hugh Ross Williamson. Once home I soon found myself engrossed in the book, ‘an informal biography’. As I became immersed in the story I began to experience flashbacks, as if reliving the life of Christopher Marlowe. Yet many of the incidents playing before my eyes were contrary to my reading. Every detail, each event, was so vividly portrayed, as if a film was running on a cinematic screen before my eyes. Reading on I was soon to learn of Marlowe working as a secret agent in Rheims, France. As my gaze misted I felt the sensation of being transported back in time, seeing before me myself as a young Marlowe, dressed in robes of the Catholic ministry, attending a seminary. I experienced an inner sense of fear and anxiety as if I was Marlowe on one of his first missions.
As Brenda Harwood I knew little about this period in history, thinking secret agents to be a modern day development in the world of espionage.
Feeling unnerved by the evening’s experiences I sought refuge in a relaxing bath. Here I was, Mrs Ordinary. Until the previous day I had never heard of Christopher Marlowe. Everyone knows about William Shakespeare; I had studied his work at school and liked it, but I had never heard mention of Christopher Marlowe. So who was he and why was he having such an impact on me?
Returning to the book later that evening I read about Marlowe’s death at Deptford, London, but felt frustrated and enraged at the inaccuracy of it and hurled the book against the wall. Fortunately it survived intact to be returned to the library, yet I was troubled by the book’s contents.
Speaking with a friend regarding the matter she jokingly replied, “Maybe you were there in that time!” Then changing her demeanor she continued seriously, “I’m sure that we come back again, but we are not supposed to believe such things.” She had a Catholic background and had been brought up not to believe in reincarnation, yet had an inner feeling that rebirth was the case, although afraid to express it openly.
I replied, “Well whatever it is, I am going to get to the bottom of it.”
Apart from my husband, and briefly my friend, I did not discuss the Marlowe experience with anybody else as something deep within me told me no-one would comprehend what I was trying to put across. I myself did not understand what was happening to me. But I knew within my own heart that whatever it was I had experienced I needed to find answers to questions I so wanted to ask. But who to ask?
Neville listened patiently and said, “Do more research.”
So little appeared to have been written about Christopher Marlowe, but I was able to access a book by A. L. Rowse, ‘Christopher Marlowe: A Biography’, which related a similar story to that by Hugh Ross Williamson. However, my attention was arrested by an illustration of a copy of Marlowe’s portrait at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. I sat looking at it for hours, studying the face, drawn by the intensity of the eyes. It was a gaze that appeared far distant, yet on further scrutiny the eyes were full of passion, a passion for what he believed in. ‘An old head on young shoulders’ came to mind; this was a man old for his years. A slight smile on his lips, arms folded as if to distance himself; yet deep down wanting to be loved, afraid of being hurt. Like myself I thought. I could sense something of this man in myself when a similar age. He had been a rebel and his views not always orthodox, like my own. He was hiding something, what I was not sure, but I needed to know. I decided to keep my impressions to myself and to research when I could. His eyes followed me wherever I went. Christopher Marlowe was here to stay.
I had said that Christopher Marlowe was here to stay and indeed he was. Thoughts of him cascaded through my mind like a tumbling waterfall, as far memories of his life continued to replay in my mind’s eye; many of them incidents that to this day have not been recorded. I felt that there was so much that I knew about him. Even when researching I knew what I was going to read.
Dunstable is a small market town steeped in history. The house we moved into was modern, but I always felt, when Neville was out, that I was never alone. When we had first viewed the property Neville had seen a young woman standing by the upper bedroom window, but we had been assured by the estate agent that the house had been vacant for several months.
We settled down to our new life, Neville enjoying his work at Waterlow’s while I stayed housewife and mother. When I was in Dunstable town I experienced an overwhelming feeling of familiarity. It was as if I knew the town, but I had not visited it prior to our move. Although unrecorded I wondered whether Marlowe had had a connection with the town. The Marlowe Society was unable to help when I enquired, but I was convinced that a connection did indeed exist. Sensing a link I determined to record any further far memories.
Family commitments kept me happily occupied. When Christopher was two years old we went, as a family, to Scadbury Manor, Kent, on a day trip organized by the Marlowe Society. The estate had been the home of Sir Thomas Walsingham, a patron of Marlowe. Viewing the manor and grounds, as with Dunstable town, I felt the same intrinsic sense of familiarity, an inner knowing that I had been there before. But strangest of all, Neville, who had had minimal involvement in my Marlowe interest, displayed an unaccountable knowledge of the estate. Scadbury Manor obviously held many secrets for us both.
Befriending the guide, who lived in a cottage on the estate, we were invited to visit again. Subsequently returning and standing in the ruins of the old hall I distinctly heard the bitter weeping of a man. I was profoundly affected by the experience that had not been shared by either Neville or Christopher, yet the crying came again and on this occasion was heard by all.
A friend joined me on a return visit to Scadbury Manor and while there we met with a group of people who, like myself, were researching Christopher Marlowe. They were studying Marlowe from an esoteric angle and as we engaged in conversation they referred to Marlowe’s involvement in the School of Night and his profound interest in spiritual awareness. In all innocence I acknowledged this, sensing that I was speaking for Marlowe. However, I mentioned my membership of the Marlowe Society that inadvertently resulted in a communication from its Chairman chiding me for involving myself with the interests of such people. He maintained that their underlying interest stemmed from a curiosity regarding the ‘dark arts’. But knowing what I do now I am confident that he himself had scant understanding of such and was misinformed in his assumptions. In due course I was told that my membership of the Society would be withdrawn based upon my misconduct. I considered such action to be retributive and enquired as to whether he had studied Marlowe’s ‘Doctor Faustus’ for surely he must have had esoteric knowledge to have written such a play. His reply was that the Society preferred to play down that side of Marlowe’s life. In conclusion we agreed to disagree.
It was a year later that I received a call from the Chairman who, having given thought to our conversation, asked me if I would forward him my theories for his personal interest, but stating that they would not go into the Society’s archives and thus the public arena. In consequence he introduced me to a gentleman by the name of Calvin Hoffman explaining that he had written a book about Christopher Marlowe expounding his theory that Marlowe had survived his supposed death at Deptford. I was later to meet Mr. Hoffman when he stayed with Neville and I on a return journey to Canterbury. I found him sincere in his opinions concerning Marlowe and subsequently read his book in which he theorized that it was Christopher Marlowe who had written the works of William Shakespeare as similarities of style exist between the plays of both. I respected his views and outlined my experiences, but although interested he was looking for material evidence to support his theories. He suggested I seek professional advice from a reputable psychic as he felt this could be my pathway, although not his. I pondered his advice and, on the suggestion of a colleague of Neville’s, contacted the secretary of the local Spiritualist Church who put us in touch with a respected medium in the area, Tom Fox. It was with his skills and advice that I was to begin to understand the phenomenon affecting my life.
Shortly after visiting the medium both Neville and I attended a Psychic Supper at a local Spiritualist Church. It was there that we met Ernie White. During our conversation with him he suggested that he could give me crystal healing to help with my eye disability.
While giving the healing Ernie mooted the idea of regression. I was not familiar with the technique, but Ernie reassuringly explained that he felt confident it would assist in establishing the root cause of my experiences. He conducted a regression through meditation and using crystals, and proceeded to ask me who I had been in the year 1593, this of course having been the supposed year of Christopher Marlowe’s death. Without prompting I stated my name as Christopher Marley, which had been the accepted spelling of Marlowe at that time, and further added that I was living in France. He asked the month and I replied that it was October, thereby establishing the fact that Marlowe had been alive in the latter part of 1593 and had not died in May of that year as recorded.
On looking back at some of my earlier writing I came across a scribbled: ‘France, November 1593.’ And so began another episode in the unravelling of the Marlowe connection.
The visions began again in earnest and when recounting them I automatically spoke in the first person. When quietly meditating I would change imperceptibly, my mannerisms becoming more defined, my voice becoming deeper and gently accented when addressing Neville. I would become another character, conversing on subjects regarding spiritual matters and esoteric knowledge with a passion and awareness that was not my own. When Ernie, his wife and friends joined us for circle meetings I would unaccountably become this now familiar ‘other person’, ready to hold discourse and intellectualize on all manner of subjects about which I personally had little knowledge. More and more I was relaxing into the persona of Christopher Marlowe. I had no control over what was happening to me and Ernie kindly advised Neville on how to deal with me under these circumstances. Yet as this phenomenon continued to occur the clairvoyant side of me began to develop noticeably.
It was one evening, as I was sitting in the bedroom, that I saw in front of me a man. Looking over towards his figure I felt myself become absorbed into him. I was aware of the gradual sensation of my features merging with his, the facial hair of beard and moustache, my body feeling distinctly male. I was wearing a brown woolen doublet and hose together with knee length riding boots, a cloak clasped about my shoulders. I was mounted on horseback, my hands resting upon the pommel. Suddenly I spurred my steed to a canter across a field, the echo of hoof beats drumming beneath me, cloak caught by the wind; stopping momentarily to cast my gaze around me in agitation. Then tears began to well up in my eyes, my heart was heavy, a feeling of sadness in my breast. I must leave those I held so dear. With gloved hand I wiped the tears from my eyes. Then I spurred my mount faster across the field as if in haste. I would take ship to France and there wait for instruction. Riding, feeling so unhappy. What a fool I had been, caught in a web of deceit. Now I must leave my home forever, never to return… Then the vision went, drifting into the mists of time. It left me feeling so strange; I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I felt such sadness, a sense of loss. I felt the impulse to write and my words took the form of a poem. As I wrote rain began to fall and I felt it had been doing the same in that century, for the rain represented the tears I had been crying, and that many had been shed in that lifetime. My heart had been shattered into so many fragments.
As the poem neared completion I felt a compulsion to tell his story, that the life of Christopher Marlowe must be recorded as I knew it, regardless of public opinion. It was as if I had carried this for so long in my spirit. For centuries it had sought acknowledgement, calling out to be heard, and now was the time to tell. Yet Neville was concerned that people might not understand, that they were not ready for what I had to tell, and that ridicule would follow in its wake. My reply was simple, “I don’t care what people think, it’s not about me personally, it’s about the pain a man has been carrying with him for over 400 years.” And I started to document memories whenever I could.
Returning home from shopping one day in 1999? I turned on the television in time to see ‘Good Morning’ on ITV 1. Most interestingly a man by the name of Tom Barlow was being interviewed about his work as a clinical psychologist and hypnotist with reference to a lady called A. J. Stewart. She apparently had a far memory of being James IV of Scotland, the onset of which had began when she was 16 years old, and resulted in her books ‘Falcon: The autobiography of His Grace James IV the King of Scots’ and ‘King’s Memory: An Autobiography.’ Listening to the interview I felt as if Spirit had heard my cries at last. As the program ended I noted the Helpline number and rang immediately. I was kindly given Tom Barlow’s personal telephone number and contacted him, briefly outlining what had been happening to me, and at his request forwarding a summary. As a clinical psychologist Tom had researched far memory experiences and, having read my synopsis, phoned to offer his support. I felt so confident speaking to Tom, learning that I was not alone in my experiences and that there were others out there going through the same experiences as myself. It was a comforting thought to at last know that I was not going mad. So now I was to begin to tell my truth of my far memory of the poet and playwright, and secret agent, Christopher Marlowe.
It was reassuring to know that not only did I have Neville’s continuing support, but that I now had a friend and advisor in Tom Barlow. He kept in touch with me on a regular basis, giving me the strength to continue recording my experiences and trying to formulate a book. People volunteered to help me in this venture, but due to other commitments or an inability to empathize with the character of Marlowe, they abandoned the project and I found myself unable to make positive progress. I so wanted to start my book, to speak for Christopher Marlowe, but the time did not seem to be right. I would have to be patient. The time would come, but it was not yet.
Tom expressed interest in meeting me and I likewise. In the meantime he suggested I read A. J. Stewart’s books. Enthusiastically I ordered them and eagerly awaited their arrival. Once I began to read firstly ‘Falcon: The Autobiography of His Grace James the 4 King of Scots’, followed by ‘King’s Memory; An Autography’, I was intrigued. I was able to identify with the experiences presented by A. J. Stewart who herself had far life memory. It was consoling to know that she too had been so deeply affected by memories impacting on her 20th century reality. Yet again I felt myself inspired to continue writing, confident in the knowledge that I was not one alone in my truth, but that where there was one like me there would be others.
Tom contacted me a few months later asking whether I would be interested in appearing on ‘Granada Breeze’, one of the Sky networks. He himself was to be on the program together with another past life regressionist, Judy Hall. The program was scheduled for 14th February at Granada Studios, Manchester. I readily accepted with Neville, my son, Christopher and a friend, happy to join me in what I hoped would prove to be a positive platform for far memory.
Tom was also keen for me to participate in an introductory interview at my home the week before filming at the studio. I agreed and the camera crew duly arrived, albeit an hour late, having been unable to find our home. After tea and sandwiches the crew began to set up their equipment. All was going well, but we realized the microphone wasn’t picking up my voice. The crew tried three battery power packs, all to no avail. It wasn’t until Neville suggested removing some of his crystals from the room that we realized the current of power had been interrupted by the energy of the crystals. Things finally got underway.
The interviewer was a pleasant person, patient and understanding, and interested in the subject she was filming. She asked about my far life memory and how it had led me to Tom Barlow; and it proved to be a successful evening. It boded well for the main interview a week later.
Our invited group traveled to Manchester where we were met and warmly greeted by Tom. I found him a really genuine person, very straightforward; an earnest Scotsman. We were introduced to Judy Hall and the interviewer; then I was shown to a room to change my outfit prior to filming. However when I presented myself for interview there was obvious disappointment on the part of the interviewer who expected me to be donned in the garb of Marlowe’s period. My frank reply was, “I am a 20th Century Elizabethan and I am now Brenda Harwood, not Christopher Marlowe. I only have the far memory of Marlowe and what would I gain by dressing like him? Doing that would ruin the whole validity of what I am trying to put across to the public.” She seemed rather put out by this, but Tom admired me for what I had said. And this in turn endeared him to me.
Filming got underway, but Tom was disappointed that although I was briefly shown being interviewed I was not invited to sit with Judy Hall or himself; and that for much of the program I was obscured from view by the interviewer, allowing me little opportunity to speak. However Tom and Judy were able to state their case and spoke with quiet confidence, while their views were vociferously challenged by a scientist who considered me to be on an ‘ego trip.’ Taking exception to his attitude I countered his opinions when attending the after filming buffet. I commented that if I was, as he claimed, on an ‘ego trip’ then why was I going through so much emotional trauma? Choosing not to look me in the eye he said that he was unable to scientifically explain such a phenomenon. I felt this to be inconclusive and insubstantial, and was heartened to see that Science does not hold all the answers.We bid our farewells to Tom and his friend, Margaret. He thanked me for coming, saying that he was looking forward to doing more work with me, and stressed that I must not be discouraged by negative views. I replied that I was not worried about opposition for, in controversial matters such as mine, one would always meet with those for or against. And over the years I had developed a skin like a rhino. Thanking him I said how much he had helped change my life, in that I was now more positive and able to embark on my quest of following through in writing what is my truth.
