This was a very big deal for Doris. At this point, at nearly 60 years of age, as well as being a wife to John and mum to their adopted son Terry, her life had consisted mainly of working as a nurse in a mental hospital and demonstrating mediumship in the local spiritualist churches in her spare time, for around ten bob (50p) a session.  The fee was little more than her bus fare home.


Doris had unwittingly stumbled into the spotlight on Australia's most popular and talked-about TV show.

Once the cameras started rolling, as well as chatting with the charming Don [host Don Lane] himself ("Handsome boy. Lovely smile."), Doris was encouraged to talk to the live studio audience and show them what she did.  Such a demonstration wouldn't have been permitted on UK TV back then, I believe, but in Australia the same rules didn't seem to apply.


The effect was electrifying.


The next night, an episode of "Starsky & Hutch" (one of the top TV shows of the era), was postponed so that Doris could come back and do another lengthy live demonstration in front of a new TV audience.


When even this second appearance couldn't satisfy demand, Mike Edgely, a top Australian tour producer, approached Kerry Packer to suggest Doris go on a six-week tour around some of the country's biggest theatres.


Yet she'd only been doing what she'd always done for the last 30 years to almost complete indifference in England.


A trickle of journalists, intrigued by reports from friends in Australia of the Doris effect, began to wander over to Fulham to find out who she was . . .


Then one day, Garth Pearce, show business editor of the Daily Express, happened upon the reports from abroad and was curious to meet Britain's unlikely and unknown overnight sensation.

Doris always said that, every night before she went to bed, she spoke to her spirit guide Ramanov for advice; so, naturally, the subject of her stage appearances came up.

Apparently, his instructions on this matter never changed: "He always tells me to trust," said Doris.  He says 'just trust, child. We've never let you down before and we'll never let you down now.'"

The more practise I had, the more experienced I became at distinguishing the voices.  At first it seemed to me like one Voice speaking inside my head, but after a while I realized it was outside me, and then that it wasn't one voice but different voices.  Soon I was able to tell if they were male or female, old or young.


One night I flopped as usual into our newest, most comfortable chair, a high backed, winged style, in black leather.  I was too tired even to fetch my book from the table.  I leaned back and closed my eyes, enjoying the silence.  Then I heard a voice.  "I will teach you," he said, "sit here, every night when the house is quiet and I will teach you."

I didn't know it then, but I'd found my guide.  It wasn't until years later that I learned his name — Ramonov is the nearest I can come to the pronunciation.  I knew nothing about him but he was always there to help me.  Every night I sat in the leather chair that became known as Ramonov's chair and Ramonov would talk to me.  Usually he told me a little story, almost a parable and I would think about the meaning as I scrubbed dirty floors the next day.  Ramonov rarely interrupted when I spoke at meetings, but if I got in a mess or several voices tried to communicate at once and I was confused, he'd break in and help.

I can't bring someone from the spirit world into contact with the earth plane unless there is some sort of bridge.  There has to be a bond of affection which links them with someone here.

There was a trailer for a programme called Tibet, the Roof of the World when a voice said to me, "That's where I came from.  That's where I lived on the earth plane."  It turned out that Ramonov had been a priest and a very wise one at that.

"She was brilliant at phone-ins," recalled broadcaster Ed Doolan of BBC WM in Birmingham at the time.  "One hundred percent straight up and she came on my show many times.  But that first time, in between all the stuff she was getting for callers, she kept telling me about my father.  'He's got the same name as you,' she said.  Which was true.  And, 'He's talking about a birthday.  Why's this birthday important?' 'Well he died on my birthday,' I said.  I was amazed."

Where had he come from all of a sudden?

Laurie's background was show business — particularly the music business.

It turned out that Laurie was a genuine East Ender who'd grown up around the corner from the notorious Kray home in Vallance Road, Bernal Green.  [The Kray twins had been convicted to life imprisonment for murder in 1969.]  His mum knew their mum and, as children, the boys played together; they ran in and out of each other's houses and attended the same school.

Laurie remained on friendly terms with the family but stayed out of Ronnie and Reggie's terrifying gang.

As so often with Doris' affairs, it was all down to chance it seemed.  Some months earlier, a friend of Laurie's wife, Iris, had bought two tickets to a demonstration Doris was giving in Walthamstow.  Iris had agreed to accompany her friend but, at the last moment, got an attack of nerves.

"I thought she was a fortune teller," Iris explained anxiously to Laurie that evening, "but apparently she talks to the dead, and I don't want to talk to the dead.  I really don't want to go.  Would you take Maureen instead, Laurie?  She'll be so upset if I let her down."

Laurie said later that he'd never heard of this Doris Stokes, but he was devoted to Iris, and curious to see what the show was all about, so he agreed to keep Maureen company.

"When I arrived at Walthamstow, there were so many people queuing outside I thought I must be in the wrong place," he said, "but I checked, and this was the Doris Stokes event.  I was impressed.  I'd never heard of her, but she seemed to attract a big crowd."

"Doris had such presence; she held my attention all evening," he said.

All those people picked out from the audience to receive supposed messages from departed loved ones — some moving, some funny.  It didn't seem possible.

"Those people who get the messages — they're obviously all plants," he said to Maureen on the way home.  "Got to be.  I mean if what she's doing was true, it would be marvellous.  But, if not, then she's a very wicked woman and I'd like to expose her."

"But suppose she's genuine?" asked Maureen.

Laurie shrugged, thinking it highly unlikely.  "Well if she's genuine, I'd like to manage her."

. . . when they got back, she lent him a copy of one of Doris' books.
"I read it and I was even more intrigued.  I thought, surely she can't write a book like this if it's all lies?"

As it happened, the Krays' beloved mother had passed away a year or so before.  They might have been brutal gangsters but those tough, ruthless twins genuinely worshipped their mum and Laurie thought Doris's book might comfort Ronnie, so he posted him a copy in Broadmoor.

"Ronnie not only read it, he liked it so much he wrote back and asked if he could meet this Doris Stokes," said Laurie.

To everyone's surprise, Doris agreed.

"Doris wasn't put off by Ronnie's past," said Laurie.  "She always said it's what people make of their lives now that counts, and if a man like Ronnie was becoming interested in spiritual things, that was a good sign."

By all accounts, they had an enjoyable afternoon and Doris reckoned she picked up Ronnie's mum and passed on some messages from mother to son.

After watching her closely through several events, Laurie realised it would have been impossible for Doris to memorise all the correct facts and names she mentioned night after night — names and facts that changed every night too.

In the end, he was so impressed, he offered to be Doris' manager.

At the time, I don't think it properly occurred to me how nerve-wracking it must have been to contemplate [Doris] walking out onto a stage and entertaining an audience alone, for over two hours, without even a script to fall back on.


. . . despite the fame and the fuss — Doris remained unchanged, or so she appeared to me.  Perhaps it was because success came so late in life or maybe it was her strong sense of self and deeply engrained philosophy.  Maybe it was Ramanov's stern presence.  Whatever the reason, Doris was still noticeably the same woman I'd met all those years before, walking through the washing lines.

These days Wikipedia records that she was a controversial figure, described by some as: "the Gracie Fields of the psychic world" and others as "A ruthless, money-making con artist."

. . . after Doris passed away, Laurie was offered a large sum by the press to expose her as a fake.

"But I couldn't do it even if I wanted the money," said Laurie.  "Because there was nothing to expose."

The trouble was, critics and the press started from the point of view that what Doris claimed to be doing was obviously impossible.  Since no one could do the impossible, Doris' apparently impressive results could only be achieved by trickery."