When two lives collide, p.18
When Two Lives Collide, page 18
As the French freighter slowly made its way along Southampton Water, I stood with on the prow of the ‘Bon Freight’ with my new friend Jerry, as we watched the Isle of Wight appear from out of the early morning mist. Already my life had taken on a new meaning. This was to be the first stage of freeing myself from the horrors inflicted on me as a result of my unwanted birthright.
Chapter 8
Still in the ’60s
Our convoy took four days to reach the Spanish border. There, we were joined by four Spanish drivers, who for whatever legal reasons, took over the driving duties. French was a language I was learning, but Spanish had never reached our tiny Hampshire village. Once into Spain our journey slowed. Our new Spanish drivers took every opportunity to seek out their favourite stopovers. Whenever we stopped, endless rows of tapas were ordered swilled down by copious quantities of cheap acidic red wine. When fully sated, they would take their siesta for several hours each day, finding shade wherever available along our route. Eventually we arrived in La Linea, where we took leave of each other. Jerry, determined to hitch a lift back to England, saving most of his travel expenses on his return journey. Our Spanish drivers seeking out even more bars, having now arrived in La Linea. I also had a plan. Mine to head east along the Mediterranean coast towards France and then whatever materialised would be fine by me.
Over the next eighteen months, I travelled east along the Mediterranean, working in bars, strip clubs, building sites. Also, becoming a very efficient deep sea trawler fisherman. Tirelessly, I worked to ensure I was never short of cash. One hot August evening, whilst serving the local drunks at Chico’s Bar in Barcelona old town, I was introduced to Marcel. Marcel claimed to be the eldest son of a successful trawler owner from Marseille. As the evening turned to morning, I agreed to drive with Marcel to Marseille to work on his family’s fishing fleet.
Wages promised by Marcel’s family treble those I was making as a barman in Spain. However, there was something strange about the fleet of his father’s pristine fishing boats. Three of their shining boats never appeared to leave harbour with the rest of the local deep sea fleet. Their boats leaving port at odd times frequently away for several days. One evening sitting at the Collier Bar overlooking the harbour in Marseille, Marcel approached me requesting I meet his father. Alongside one of their immaculate fishing boats, stood Marcel’s father. A mountain of a man towering above us both. In his guttural French, he ordered us both on board one of his boats. Within the hour, we had left port on course for an unknown destination.
It soon became clear what we were fishing for—illegal immigrants. Several nights a week, we collected from way out in the Mediterranean, usually from large cargo ships, hordes of desperate human detritus. Under cover of darkness, our fishing boat laden with our human catch steered uncomfortably close to the French or sometimes the Italian coastline. Once close to land, the human cargo were forced to swim ashore. How many survived of little interest to the captain or a majority of the crew.
Now a trusted part of the family inner circle, I decided to make a number of well-paid clandestine white slave trips. Eventually, my conscience forced me to the stark realisation, my new job was against any Christian principles I had inherited from the indoctrination of my childhood. After six trips, I decided a clean break was vital to clear my conscience. Back in Marseilles I jumped a truck bound for Genoa, together with my substantial ill-gotten gains. My next stop Sardinia. Compared to Marseille, the island was a peace haven. Although, I had no understanding what was waiting on the island. Sardinia was a hideaway, for some of the most dangerous Communist bandits in Europe.
As much as I tried, Sardinia brought me no financial luck, for there was little work on offer. I gave my chances of finding work a further two weeks, still with absolutely no success. My savings were being swallowed up. All my concentration aimed at keeping myself safely away from the dangerous regions controlled by the communists. Therefore, I was left with the only sensible alternative: leave Sardinia and head back to the Italian mainland.
One evening, in a bar close to the docks in Olbia, I managed to hitch a lift to the southern port of Cagliari from a friendly truck driver. His brother was captain of a small cargo boat bound for Naples. Feeling comfortable back amongst the noise of one of Italy’s major mainland cities, I decided to disappear into the shadows. Shortly after, the travel bug bit me again. I listened intently at two American tourists also travelling freely around Europe. They explained, having spent several months in Yugoslavia, the beauty and pleasures to be enjoyed in and around Split. As I listened intently to my fellow travellers, I decided it was time to move on yet again.
I arrived in Yugoslavia approaching my eighteenth birthday. I’d achieved nothing academically, leaving school several weeks before my fifteenth birthday. Although an avid reader and now speaking passable Spanish, French and a smattering of Italian, I had nothing resembling a certificate or qualification to my name. But home was calling. A dust covered Yugoslav customs guard grabbed my arm as I entered the immigration barrier. As I searched my backpack and pockets, the stark realisation smacked me in the face. I had no documents for my passport was missing. A night in a border prison changed nothing as this was to be the end of my travels. Later the next day, an angry employee of the British Embassy handed me stamped papers sufficient to travel through Europe to London. My travels were complete. Real life was about to hit home.
Chapter 9
Still in the ’60s
There are days that remain carved indelibly in one’s memory. November 22, 1963 was one such day. For I recall in finite detail the radio broadcast announcing to the disbelieving world that President Kennedy had been shot dead. The world waited for the inevitable. For without realising the consequences, the world would change. Events considered regular occurrences amongst unstable third world nations, suddenly had been thrust upon us. That fateful day, I was approaching Weymouth’s ferry terminal en route to Jersey to deliver my best friend Hamish Monroe to his new job.
Hamish lived on the same Estate where I spent my early years. There his family trained gun dogs for the Lord of Manor. Hamish had spent the previous year as second projectionist at the Winchester Royal cinema. With his generous assistance, I sneaked on many occasion into the projection room to view the latest release. When the chance came to become head projectionist at the Roxy in St Helier, Jersey, Hamish jumped at the chance. This would be the first time away from his parents and the comfort of home life. There as the only child, Hamish was indulged his every whim. But Hamish had an unmovable black cloud surrounding him. He had a profound fear of travel, hence the need for me to join him, delivering my friend to his new work place in The Channel Islands.
My rusting hand-painted Austin A40 van rumbled and shook its way through the early evening rain. What passed for a car radio, crackled and hissed its annoying message. My aging Motorola radio struggling to retain any audible long or medium wave signal. As we approached the outskirts of Weymouth, a barely audible NBC news report faded and hissed through one partly assembled speaker. As I rounded corners and passed between taller buildings, our frustration increased with the changing levels of reception.
At last the ferry terminal appeared. With its arrival, our radio transformed, changing levels of irritating hisses and crackles into an audible American news report. I was not the only person striving for the improved reception location. The car park fronting the terminal building already littered with badly-parked vehicles was rapidly beginning to fill. It was obvious we had all located the perfect reception spot. From there we could listen to the breaking news direct from Dallas confirming the demise of the glamorous young ‘King of Camelot’.
Such events remain locked away for posterity. Memories to be rekindled and frequently revisited often in more apocryphal formats. Retained memories being usually created by amorous emotions or frequently pain. Strangely the two frequently inextricable linked. Other permanent memories that will never leave, being the birth of a child. For various reasons they each hold individual and special memories. Many memories treated with more than a passing hint of regret. There is little doubt that time dims the memory or sadness. Myriad excuses and reasons cloud the fact that our most beauteous life changing experiences are frequently neglected—usually wasted.
My relationship with Hamish fitted this scenario. On my return from travelling through Europe I needed a period to settle back into local society and rekindle friendships from my youth. Hamish never failed in his close feeling between us. During our trip to Jersey, we exchanged secrets, promising to always stay close, whatever life may throw at us.
But time and personal circumstances inevitably change life time promises sworn during those early years. Hamish moved along at a pace suitable to his academic and financial abilities. A man who wanted no more than to replicate the closeness and relaxed happy atmosphere he had been served at home. For this was his target in life, a good partner, children and the wish to leave this world knowing he had been loved and caused no pain to those who crossed his path.
It was several years before I bumped into Hamish again after our outing to Jersey. I was gate crashing a Saturday evening barbeque on a friend’s house boat: there was Hamish. All grown up; his ginger beard manicured, with the pony tail I remembered from the early sixties now a thing of the past. As we pulled the world apart, the other guests were now a passing cloud, as we settled in for a full download of our respective lives.
He recounted that since we last met, around six years ago in Jersey, Hamish had met and married a local girl from our old haunt back in Hampshire. For two years, life had remained blissful, whilst they attempted to fill their lives with their first child. But as the months drifted by, it was becoming clear their efforts to breed the next generation of Monroe’s was never going to happen. His wife had asked for time to think, informing Hamish she was staying with her mother whist she considered their way forward. After a separation of four months, in utter desperation, Hamish turned to his parents for advice. A state of affairs considered by his wife to be well calculated treason.
On returning home from his discussions with his mother, Hamish found a letter from his wife advising she was divorcing him. Her reasons justified as his lack of manhood, being unable to provide her the child she so desired. Within the letter, there was no avenue for discussion or compromise. She was out of their marriage. But her postscript was the hammer blow. Hamish’s best man had been named as the new breeding partner for his wife. In fact, she claimed to be already carrying the child of Hamish’s best man.
We sat for several minutes staring at each other. Hamish still stunned and humiliated by his infertile state and the departure of his wife. But my friend was damaged more by the fact his wife had used another man, his best friend, to impregnate her. At times, a meaningful hug can placate someone in physical or mental pain. Even with powerful macho attitudes, overlaying the possibility of closeness, usually a way to help or confide can be found. Sadly, Hamish had passed that stage. My friend was devastated. My pony-tailed, ginger-haired, free-spirited mate was a mess. I tried to break down his pain with a flow of meaningless platitudes but to no avail.
Towards the bow of barge ‘Cedric’, away from Hamish and me, what seemed endless Rolling Stones anthems, were belting away at full volume. Their music levels blocking out conversations the length of the boat, plus sending the throbbing sounds way across the Thames. Petra, our over sensuous hostess, sidled her way towards the aft end of ‘Cedric’, where I sat transfixed listening to my friends woes.
“Mike, you owe me some dances, come on, no more secretive boy talk,” Petra dragged me back towards the music.
I turned to Hamish, I guess for some form of approval to leave him whilst I completed my task, dancing with our sex starved hostess. Hamish smiled, nodding his approval as I disappeared back inside the main cabin of the boat overrun by the clear intentions of our hostess.
After accompanying Mick Jagger with two over-indulgent maulings by our hostess, I begged for release. A break in the music was just what Petra needed to shout over the gathered guests her plans for the remainder of the night. In fact, her continuing plans for the party were now clear. She wanted everyone able to see it through, not just to welcome in the new day but for the gathered clans to be available for at least lunch.
With Mick Jagger now resting, a single shot rang out its echoing crash above the gathered throng. Instantly silence broke out, followed by screams as many made a dash for the prow of the boat. I leapt through the aft hatchway, already afraid of the inevitable. Where Hamish and I had sat whilst he delivered his earth shattering news was a large brown envelope. But there was no sign of Hamish.
My heart pounding, I pushed on towards the stern of the boat. There, laying against the forward most extent of the boat against the gunwale, lay a double-barrelled twelve bore shotgun. Later, my friend’s body, missing much of his head, was lifted from the Thames. If he had meant to finish his life, he’d made a first class job. Several days later, the police delivered the opened brown envelope to me with no comment just requesting a signature.
My long-time friend, clearly only worth a scrawled signature to pass over his requests to me. Within the envelope, Hamish for some unknown reason had slipped his driving licence and passport. But inside another opened white envelope were six photos. Each, a memory of happier times with my friend during our trip to Jersey.
Chapter 10
Approaching the ’70s
During my trip around Europe, I had re-developed my interest from childhood in Judo and Karate. Meeting some seriously powerful fighters in a number of Dojos, mostly through Southern France. Many of those I fought prepared to exert their version of the ancient arts. Inflicting the maximum pain, not necessarily concerned with style, purely victories. On my return to England, now approaching eighteen, I was looking to rebuild my education after my sojourn in Europe. I also needed to hone the fighting skills I developed during my travels. I joined two clubs: one a competitive Dojo specialising in Judo tournaments. The other a Karate Dojo run by Gerry Baker, a hard-nosed Third Dan ex-paratrooper. Gerry’s facial shape being testament to a series of past conflicts, I assumed, on and off the mat. Gerry and I immediately found a common denominator. A wish to fight rough with just a sufficient element of fairness. But most importantly to win.
Unknown to others in his backstreet first floor Dojo, Gerry had a second job. Gerry had kept close to his old regiment after retiring. For two days a week and a number of weekends, he taught unarmed combat to the local Territorial Regiment stationed near Winchester. Gerry was approaching sixty but still hard as nails. From time to time I sensed the lightning speed, he once used to demolish opponents was leaving him. Two years into our relationship, Gerry suggested I join him at a weekend Territorial training session. The Regiment never confessed to paying a deadly unarmed combat instructor, for Gerry was listed as a PT instructor to the outside world. After my first session with the regiment, we both sensed that Gerry may have found his successor, the opportunity I grabbed with both hardened hands.
Gerry’s battered body finally gave up shortly before my twenty-second birthday. His upper body had taken a pounding with both his leg joints now riddled with arthritis. Without realising how swiftly matters had moved along, I became civilian head of PT for the local Territorial Regiment. Like Gerry, disguising my true role to teach older soldiers the most deadly actions to damage, maim or even kill their enemy. Over the next ten years, I retained my part-time job, teaching the regiment many tricks of the deadly arts. Most imparted to me during hellish weekend courses at Hereford or on manoeuvres across the Brecon Beacons.
Chapter 11
Meeting My Mother, 1974
In 1974, my manor house, overlooking Hampshire’s Test Valley, had been joined by a three bedroom apartment in a fashionable back street in South Kensington. My wife Lizzie kept secret my frustration, hiding the plethora of questions regarding my birth right which still hung over me. As though, by a timely act of God, my family solicitor Giles Peterson called. His voice bubbling with excitement, quoting from an article in the Times. Giles quickly cut to the important factors regarding the release under the thirty year rule of birth certificates for illegitimate war babies.
Since my Aunt Mary had accused me of being an unwanted Jewish bastard and the Welsh witch had beaten me and thrown me out, I had sought without success details of my biological mother. There were no clues. No one in my adoptive family would help. Claiming either a complete lack of knowledge or fear of retribution from the Welsh witch. I always knew that one day the Government would be forced to allow access to my birth certificate. Now that day had arrived.
From my earlier research, I knew my original birth certificate would at least show my mother, her occupation and address at the time of my birth. And who knows, maybe even a clue as to my father. From reports of others, fortunate to have obtained a birth certificate, I knew there was a racing certainty that column four on my birth certificate would be blank. The identity of my father would remain a mystery. Like all impatient businessmen, I decided to throw cash at the problem. Following discussions with Giles, I employed a local private detective agency; their instruction to obtain a full report on my mother. Several days later a report arrived. It ran to three pages detailing the lives of my mother’s family with suggestions how to approach her.
I had faced many situations in my thirty-three years but had never felt so apprehensive, or indeed genuinely scared. My palatial manor house was no more than six miles from my mother’s tiny terraced council house. There she lived with her husband and three children. Their lives and mine a million miles apart. Lizzie and I living an extremely comfortable life; my mother’s life so diametrically opposed. Her husband labouring on building sites, my mother a supermarket shelf stacker close by in the market town of Andover.
