When two lives collide, p.1
When Two Lives Collide, page 1
When Two Lives Collide
Michael John Wilde
Austin Macauley Publishers
When Two Lives Collide
About the Author
Copyright Information ©
Acknowledgment
Book OneOld Bob
Preface
Ode to Old Bob
Chapter 1Mike Gilbride
Chapter 2Mike Gilbride – Meeting Old Bob
Chapter 3Old Bob’s Story
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16Teddy
Mike
Chapter 17Mike
Chapter 18Mike
Chapter 19
The End
Book TwoMike Gilbride
The Unbridled Truth?
Preface
Chapter 1In the Beginning
Chapter 21942
Chapter 31942–1943
Chapter 41943–1944
Chapter 5The ’40s – Early ’50s
Chapter 6Late ’50s – Early ’60s
Chapter 7Moving into the ’60s
Chapter 8Still in the ’60s
Chapter 9Still in the ’60s
Chapter 10Approaching the ’70s
Chapter 11Meeting My Mother, 1974
Chapter 12Maybe One Deal Too Many – The ’70s
Chapter 13Held by the Balls
Chapter 14Maybe It’s Not So Bad – 1976
Chapter 15Didn’t Sign Up for This
Chapter 16Let Battle Commence
Chapter 17Boys Will Always Play with Guns
Chapter 18Head Down and Follow Me
Chapter 19A Little Light Relief
Chapter 20Once a Soldier
Chapter 21Who’s Watching You Mike?
Chapter 22Business Beckons with Side Orders
Chapter 23Oops!!!
Chapter 24Harry – “Just to the Windward of the Law.”
Chapter 25Life Moves On
Chapter 26
Chapter 27At Last My Century Reached – 2000
Chapter 28Once a Spy
Chapter 292000 and Counting
Chapter 30He Can Still Trump Their King
Chapter 31Pick the Bones from That
Chapter 32Never to Be Trusted
Chapter 33Welcome Back Girl
Chapter 34Who’s the Better Poker Player?
Chapter 35Revenge Is Sweet
Chapter 36I Should Have Known Better
Chapter 37The End
About the Author
The colourful journey of Michael John Wilde mirrors many of the stories within this book: having experienced a host of adventures and occupations throughout the world. Michael John has now settled in London, where he spends his time writing stories, many recounted from his life experiences.
Copyright Information ©
Michael John Wilde (2019)
The right of Michael John Wilde to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528900973 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528998062 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgment
To all of those, both friends and foes, who inadvertently or actually provided the basis for my story, I thank you. Without you, there would have been several gaps. My sincere thanks also to those who tossed a few coins my way to allow me to fund this project – many thanks, guys, you know who you are.
Book One
Old Bob
Preface
As the Roman Candles flared across the Hampshire sky to celebrate the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth 11 on June 2, 1953, Old Bob, a recently blinded soldier, opened his cottage door to an inquisitive ten-year-old village lad. What followed, locking two men into a lifelong friendship, sharing long held secrets for years, retained away from families and friends. Lives full of risk, espionage and trust.
A friendship that would offer cathartic release of pent up secrets for a blind soldier, whilst leading a village ruffian on a course which would change his life. Whilst cementing a total dependence between two people from wildly different sides of the track.
Mike Gilbride’s story is based around his actual experience meeting Old Bob. Initially, as a ten-year-old village lad. As the years passed, Mike returned to catch more of Major Robert Ferguson’s life experiences. This book encompasses a collection of stories recorded by Mike Gilbride.
Ode to Old Bob
Was the second of June, the year ’53
A party in swing for our village, you see
Dancing went on, well into the night
Firework display, what a wonderful sight
Strangers around all joined in the fun
Someone was missing, yes, only the one.
From out of his window, close by the Green
He peered ’round his curtains so not to be seen
For nearly an hour, I watched him look out
I had to approach him, no reason to shout
Music and dancing continued full blast
Barn dances, waltzes, time went so fast.
I waited forever, then he opened his door
The stare said it all, “What are you waiting for?”
Grey hair in place, so beautifully dressed
He glared at me hard, would I pass his test?
“Come join us, sir,” I spoke with a grin
“Tonight on your own, such a terrible sin.”
As straight as an arrow, he stood at his door
Pain from his heart was all that I saw
Remembering his manners, he beckoned me in
Now I was the one who was frightened of him
“Don’t stay alone on this wonderful day,”
All this and more I wanted to say.
His walls were a shrine of pictures, all faded
Military pennants all tattered and jaded
A soldier, no doubt, but what was his story
A past full of pain and memorable glories
“Let’s toast our Queen,” he broke with a smile
“Do sit, let’s talk, please stay for a while.”
Rockets took off, Roman candles did flare
Laughter and dancing were happening elsewhere
“What keeps you at home on this jubilant day?”
I searched the right words I’d wanted to say
The room was quite small, the lighting so dim
A warming red glow reflected on him.
I peered in the half light at dozens of photos
Many with Bob, clearly happy mementos
One photo stood out, a young man so prim
It was Bob, with our Queen standing with him
His mysterious past was now coming clear
A man of distinction, but why all his fear?
He returned from the kitchen with drinks for us both
“A toast to our Queen” was said as an oath
He turned to sit down, stumbled and fell
So what was his secret, why wouldn’t he tell?
“I’m fine,” hastened Bob as he pulled himself up
“Been here so long. God, one feels such a pup.”
His house, a museum to memories past
Hundreds of questions I was bursting to ask
I could sense he was waiting for me to begin
Was I mistaken, or was there a grin?
“A short while ago, one worked for our Queen,”
I imagined the tears, yes, they’d appeared on the scene.
"Just a young princess when we first met
No finer lady I’ll make you a bet
Was in Kenya, you see, before all the fighting
Hard to believe, I was struck by fork lightening,"
As Bob looked towards me, yes, there was a scar
His eyes were a mist, his mind gone afar.
We sat there in silence, I studied his shrine
Proof to past glories, of pain and good time.
He patted old Hank, who rolled on his side
What other dark secrets had he got to hide?
His face became vacant, lost in his dreams
Our meeting was finished; well, that’s how it seemed.
I bade him farewell, only Hank saw me go
As I closed his front door, my heart filled with woe
In the cool of the night, I pondered our meeting
Blinded by God?
Was it Bob who’d been cheating?
I re-joined the party, I’d not been so long
Visiting Bob was surely not wrong.
Way ’ cross the green, I still saw his light
Glowing so softly—reflecting his plight
Several days later, he was crossing our street
Hank panting gladly, for he liked his treat
“Good morning to you, sir,” I shouted my greeting
He stopped in his tracks, half expecting our meeting.
The smile that he gave me was warm and sincere
Gone apprehension, sadness and fear
“Been looking for you lad,” he eagerly greeted
“A letter has come, and I need you to read it.”
On top of the letter, our Sovereign’s crest
I queried its contents and hoped for the best.
“For your thoughts, we thank you,” the grand letter stated
Wonderful words, if somewhat belated
It was just signed Elizabeth, who now was our Queen
Bob’s face, a picture, alight on the Green
"Please come have hot crumpets and hot chocolate too
Stories need telling, let me tell them to you."
When Sunday school closes, I rush to Bob’s home
Where I listen in silence, transfixed by his tome
Rapt and addicted, he spelt out his life
Joyful in part but sadness was rife
For weeks I sat quietly, entranced at his stories
How much was just fabric and how much past glories.
Remembering those days when I sat there just rapt
Absorbing his yarns, it was clear he was sapped
Our friendship, it lasted for nearly three score
Maybe a friendship or maybe much more
Looking back at our lives stuffed with laughter and danger
Always seeking, not wanting...I did love this stranger.
Chapter 1
Mike Gilbride
It had been fifty-eight years since I’d witnessed the excitement a royal event could deliver to our streets for all walks of life. Blocking off roads in towns and villages across the country. In 1953 very few had access to television and those who did watched Queen Elizabeth’s Coronation on black and white sets; many transmitting snowy wobbling images. April 29, 2011 again saw tables set out down the streets across Britain. Again bedecked with banners expressing love and good wishes; just as I had witnessed all those years ago. This time, TV screens in HD were offering perfect real time viewing to all. Many watching the events acted out from Westminster Abbey on iPads, iPhones or any device providing instant visuals of William and Kate’s nuptials.
I had already watched enough of the wedding, from my apartment overlooking Hyde Park. From my seventh floor rooms the view across the park was staggering, many thousands crowding the eastern side. From my apartment I had the option either to watch from my TV, or the twenty foot high screen positioned for the masses, swamping the park. This was the one occasion I was thankful to be locked away in the comfort of my crowded two bed flat. As I had been coerced onto the Albion Street party committee which adjoined the block, I decided to join the party-goers after everyone had eaten, and the party goers were dissipating. From my side window, looking down, I could make out the tables, which joined together, sat at least one hundred. Those who remained, standing around chatting away, fuelled by the excess of available booze. A number performing a dance, which I sensed had little relation to the music. Through the open window, I could hear the amplified tones of Abba regaling the crowds with everyone’s party favourite, Dancing Queen.
The days had gone when I would encourage others to watch my ability on the dance floor. An arthritic left hip and a recent right knee replacement had left me hobbling on two NHS lightweight crutches. One thing was certain that as much as I still ached to perform to whatever music was playing, now approaching seventy, I would have to take any enjoyment in the guilty pleasure of watching others.
My only son, William, and his snobbish wife, Celia lived just a few streets away in Hyde Park Garden Mews. I was certain Celia would arrange an event ensuring she would allow her craving for social climbing to prosper. William and I spoke only occasionally, and being widowed, my only real contact with their family being through my only grandson, Teddy. In Teddy’s second year at Harrow, William failed to pay the Spring Term fees. Claiming a temporary cash flow issue brought about by an over-expensive kitchen refit, and new fitted wardrobes to house Celia’s growing fashion collection. I never received thanks when, following his request to help, I settled the debt without further comment. Teddy, now in his final year, was still being subsidised by my depleting savings. There was never a discussion, regarding Teddy’s fees, on the odd occasion William and I spoke nor the subject of my diminishing wealth. William and his money-grabbing wife assumed that I had taken on the mantel of paymaster to see Teddy through Harrow.
Teddy and I became very close. Every exeat or holiday when he was not escaping from his parents to bunk off with school friends, my spare room became his haven. Together, we would watch obscure movies that he devoured, mostly relating to a range of factual conflicts across the ages. Late night sessions were spent discussing the rights and wrongs of Hitler, Stalin, Genghis Khan, Mexican drug barons; the list was endless. For Teddy had an insatiable wish to dig deeply into thoughts and deeds, of the subjects we selected. However, we never touched on the deeply hidden truths that I needed to unburden. Truths that had been sheltered from him, and his family, for my lifetime.
As I arrived at the street party, I was greeted by, “Grandfather Mike!” Teddy shouted in the amused manner he infrequently used. “Was looking for you Mike, knew you’d wake up eventually.”
It was on a distant exeat from Teddy’s prep school that together we decided to drop the grandfather, granddad, grandpapa nonsense. Immediately adopting Mike as a sign of our maturing relationship. His mother disputed our decision but as we rarely shared the same room, her objections were of no consequence to either Teddy or myself. In response for his cheek, I prodded him with my right-hand crutch causing me to stumble.
“Cheeky bugger,” I caught his arm as he led me away from the remaining party goers to a table laden with empty paper cups, massacred sausage rolls and an assortment of leftover plates covered in chewed over chicken bones.
“What’s that music? If that’s what you call it—can’t they play Dire Straits or some Jagger?” I suggested. “Anyway Teddy, let’s sit. I’ve got a few things I need to pass on to you.”
For fifty-eight years I retained the stories from Old Bob, Major Robert Tristan Ferguson. Now as he had done all those years ago, it was time for me to share everything with my grandson, who, many years ago, had unknowingly affected much of my life. Yet there was far more to be told. Even my only son William had no real idea of the happenings throughout my risk laden years, and Old Bob’s influence on my family.
As William grew up, our secrets were kept from him by his mother, who felt I had already pushed life’s experiences to the limit. Now, I had at last decided, greatly influenced, following a visit to my dour-faced quack a few months earlier. The time had arrived. No medication would come a country mile, close to the catharsis that unloading my soul to Teddy could offer.
