Gilbert's Gift

By Brian Oliver

What would YOU give to save the life of a stranger’s child? That’s the emotive question posed by this heartwarming novel by Brian Will Oliver. With echoes of Nicholas Sparks, GILBERT'S GIFT is a moving tale of selfless courage, a quest for forgiveness, and a Swinging Sixties first love, lost and found again.
Inspired by real events, this delightful novel tells the story of sixtysomething Gilbert Shilling who, against his family's wishes, decides to donate one of his lungs in a desperate bid to save the life of a dying boy he has never met.
Still grieving over the death of his own baby son many years before, big-hearted Gilbert is deeply affected when he hears about a 10-year-old boy with cystic fibrosis who desperately needs a double lung transplant. Without the transplant, the boy will die within weeks.
Lost in an unhappy marriage, Gilbert sees a way of bringing new purpose into his otherwise empty life by volunteering to donate one of his own perfectly healthy lungs to help save the little boy.
Despite warnings that the transplant procedure holds life-threatening risks for someone of his age, Gilbert insists on going ahead—driven by a determination to help save this desperate boy after he was unable to save his own son.
Blending a poignant theme with gentle humour, GILBERT'S GIFT is also a moving story about baby boomer love—a deep teenage love in the Swinging Sixties, lost then found again decades later.
When the tragedy surrounding the lung transplant gains widespread media attention, it brings Gilbert’s first love back into his life for the first time in more than 40 years - just when he needs her most ... But is she too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Oliver
• Release date: Aug 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310876981

Brian Oliver

Brian Oliver was Sports Editor of the Observer 1998-2011, and co-inventor of Observer Sport Monthly. He worked for the Daily Telegraph 1983-98, was a Venue Media Manager at London 2012, and has an honorary doctorate from Brighton University for his contribution to sports journalism.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

In November 1999, a British man—48-year-old Ron Johnson from Northampton, England—donated part of one of his lungs in an attempt to save the life of a 10-year-old Israeli girl he had never met. The transplant was carried out at Duke University Medical Center in North Carolina. It was the first time that tissue from an unrelated donor had been used in such an operation. Sadly, the little girl later suffered complications and died.

In May 2012, 83-year-old Nicholas Crace from Hampshire, England became the oldest person to donate a kidney while still being alive. He was also the oldest ever 'altruistic' kidney donor. At the time, Mr Crace told the BBC: It's nice to feel in old age that one can still be useful.

This novel was inspired by the courage and generosity of these men and many other brave individuals like them who have volunteered to become altruistic living organ donors. Please note, however, that all of the characters in this novel are entirely fictitious and are not based on any real persons, living or dead.

Gilbert Shilling’s backstory as a musician is based on my own experience as a musician. And yes, like Gilbert’s fictitious band Gilbert and The Giants, my own band did once play a gig with The Who!

Brian Will Oliver, August 2015

PROLOGUE

Gilbert Shilling was a simple man. He was nobody special. Yet they had turned him into a national hero.

He saw himself as merely an average guy on the street—an ordinary man who had led an ordinary life. Just another baby boomer who’d been lucky enough to make it into his sixties in one piece and still have all his own teeth and almost a full head of hair. And he was proud of the fact that he could still fit into the pastel pink, Armani-style linen jacket, complete with rolled up sleeves, which he’d bought in 1985 when Miami Vice was the pinnacle of cool and style on TV. It was the last time he’d ever attempted to look cool.

Gilbert found it bizarre that his name was now on everyone's lips. It unsettled him when complete strangers recognized him in the street and came up to him and told him what a great guy he was. He’d never intended to become famous. Well, with his old band maybe, but not like this.

All he’d ever cared about was his family and his job, and Buddy Holly.

He enjoyed making people laugh. That was his thing. But he had no time for attention-seeking, celebrity poseurs whose faces appeared daily on TV and in newspapers and magazines. Yet he’d unwittingly become one of them.

He disliked fancy literature and high-brow classical music and pretentious, know-it-all intellectuals. And the closest he ever got to the great philosophers was reading his horoscope in a newspaper.

He wasn't interested in politics either. Yet he had somehow never forgotten the cryptic remark made by the American politician Donald Rumsfeld in 2002 when he referred to ‘known knowns’, ‘known unknowns’ and ‘unknown unknowns’ when talking about weapons of mass destruction in Saddam Hussein’s Iraq.

At the time, like many people, Gilbert Shilling had thought Rumsfeld was talking gobbledygook. But the politician’s puzzling words had nevertheless stuck with Gilbert ever since.

And now, after the dramatic events of the past couple of weeks, he’d come to understand exactly what Rumsfeld had meant.

Even in his own seemingly uncomplicated world, there were things that Gilbert knew he knew and there were things he knew he didn't know. But, as he’d now painfully discovered for himself, there were also unknown unknowns in his life—things he didn't know he didn't know.

Secrets.

And it was because of the secret he’d uncovered a couple of weeks ago that he didn’t feel like a hero today. Instead, he’d unexpectedly found himself at a crossroads, about to make the biggest and toughest decision of his life—a decision that would change his future forever.

Exactly what that future held for him he wasn’t sure. For the first time in his life, his tomorrows had never been less certain. Nevertheless, he knew that, somehow or other, the future would have to be faced.

In one direction lay a familiar, well-travelled road that was perhaps the obvious route. But after the shocking unknown unknown he’d discovered and the physical ordeal he’d just been through—not to mention the great personal risk he’d taken—choosing to continue on that same old path would come at a heavy price. And, after taking stock of his own life in recent days, he’d come to realize that sometimes the easy path can lead to nowhere.

In another direction lay a recently rediscovered yellow brick road that may or may not lead him to a life he’d dreamt of for a very long time—a happiness that he thought had been lost to him forever. Although it too would require an immense sacrifice on his part.

Either way, there would be no second chances for him. No return ticket.

For a long moment, Gilbert Shilling stood in the doorway, his eyes seeing far beyond the contents of the room. He wrestled with the emotions raging through him until, finally, the way ahead became clear. It was there waiting to be grasped.

In his hand, he at last held the all-important piece of the jigsaw that had previously been missing.

And he now knew exactly what he had to do …

* * *

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TWO WEEKS EARLIER

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CHAPTER 1

For more than thirty years, Gilbert Shilling had been one of the most feared men in the city of Kendon.

However, the terror he instilled in the people of Kendon had nothing to do with threats of violence, intimidation or aggression. Gilbert Shilling wasn't really in a position to throw his weight around. After all, he was only a small man—just over five feet three inches tall—and if he ever decided to take up boxing for the over-sixties, his slight, wiry frame meant he'd only weigh in as a sprightly light featherweight, if there was such a category.

And it wasn't the sight of Gilbert himself that filled people with awe. He was far from being a menacing spectre. In truth, his nature was full of sunshine.

He had a jolly face, with kind brown eyes and a weathered, oval-shaped face full of laughter lines—the sort of face that folded naturally into a smile. He had an unruly mop of curly, grey-brown hair that fell casually on his forehead. When he spoke, the warmth of his smile echoed in his voice and his thick umbrella of a moustache danced on his top lip, while the loose second chin beneath his jaw wobbled in sync with it. It gave him an almost comical look at times.

No, what caused people to tremble in his presence was the sight of his cap, uniform, shoulder epaulettes and fluorescent gilet. And, of course, the bag containing a telephone and a walkie-talkie slung over one shoulder and, most frightening of all, the handheld printing machine he carried over his other shoulder.

Gilbert Shilling was a member of a large tribe that had migrated to all four corners of the world over the past seven decades. His tribe had the unnerving ability to create panic and a feeling of dread whenever they appeared. They could turn people's good days into bad days in an instant. The tribe was known by various names around the world: the Parking Enforcement Officers, the Parking Attendants, the Traffic Wardens, the Traffic Attendants, the Parking Inspectors, and sometimes simply the Meter Nazis.

Not that Gilbert saw himself as a nasty Meter Nazi. He felt he was simply someone who’d been serving his local community proudly for most of his adult life.

As a member of the Kendon traffic control department, Gilbert Shilling was responsible for issuing tickets for parking violations. As far as he was concerned, there was never anything malicious about his actions. He felt he was always firm but fair. He only gave tickets to motorists who’d broken the rules. Of course, he knew some members of his tribe, especially the younger ones, could be a little overzealous. But Gilbert was an idealist. He firmly believed in honesty and integrity … in human decency … and in trying to do what was right. He’d always seen his mission as twofold: firstly, to protect pedestrians by stopping drivers from parking dangerously, and, secondly, to help other motorists by keeping the roads clear and the traffic moving.

Gilbert always knew it would ruin someone's day when they came back to their vehicle and found a parking ticket on their windscreen. But he eased his own conscience by reminding himself that it was the vehicle owner's fault for parking illegally, not his. Rules are rules after all. Nevertheless, apart from the most serious offences, he usually left a yellow Post-It note saying ‘Sorry’ whenever he fixed a penalty notice to a vehicle. And he always allowed drivers up to ten minutes grace from the start of the ticketing process. If they moved their vehicle, or parked it properly, within that time, he would cancel the ticket.

Gilbert Shilling took his traffic management duties very seriously. But that didn't mean he couldn't have some fun once in a while. And today was just such a day. It was the first of July, the date of the annual Car Snooker Contest in which he and his colleagues competed for a small silver cup curiously called the 12-Ball Trophy.

The scoring in the contest broadly followed the rules used in world snooker. If a red car received a parking ticket, it was worth one point to the person who issued the ticket. Six red cars had to be ticketed before moving on to the other coloured balls used in snooker, namely: yellow (worth two points), green (three points), brown (four points), blue (five points), pink (six points) and finally black (seven points). All vehicles had to be ticketed or 'potted' in this exact sequence of colours. The first member of the team to 'pot' six reds and all six colours would be declared the 12-Ball winner.

Gilbert Shilling had won the contest every year for the past four years and he was determined to set a new record this July by winning it for the fifth year in a row.

It was mid-afternoon and he was already well ahead in the scoring as he entered a large, street-level public car park on his route. The open-air car park was full. Most people would simply have seen row after row of vehicles of all shapes and sizes and colours. But to Gilbert, especially today, it was a multi-coloured automotive tapestry with the potential for plenty of 12-Ball trophy points.

Almost immediately, Gilbert spotted a red car that was fifteen minutes over its time limit. Sorry pal, he said as he fixed the penalty notice to the windscreen.

Gilbert checked his scorecard which showed thumbnail images of twelve cars; six were coloured red and the remaining vehicles were in yellow, green, brown, blue, pink and black. There was a tick box next to each picture, along with a space for the car’s licence number to be inserted. Gilbert had now ticked off all the red boxes. He could now start 'potting' the other colours.

Y—E—S! Gilbert shouted into his radio. Just got my last red. I’m now hunting a yellow. His announcement was greeted with a crackle of static and an outburst of expletives and question marks about his parentage from members of his tribe in other locations.

The radio banter continued as Gilbert hastily worked his way around the car park. Within half an hour he’d ticketed a yellow car, a green van, a brown SUV, and a blue car—with each penalty notice accompanied by a handwritten note from him saying 'Sorry'.

Now looking for a pink, Gilbert declared over his radio. More expletives and disgruntled howls of despair came back from his colleagues.

Gilbert knew pink was always the hardest colour to find. But luck was on his side today. He found his prey in less than five minutes: a small pink Fiat that had long since exceeded its time-limit. Now he only needed to ticket a black vehicle to win.

Hey, what do they call a man who's all yellow, green, brown, blue and pink? Gilbert asked over his radio.

No idea. What do they call a man who's yellow, green, brown, blue and pink? someone replied. Gilbert recognized the voice as Les Griffiths, one of his oldest colleagues.

Me! said Gilbert with a chuckle and a wry smile. Just scored a pink! I only need a black now. This was followed by more groans and expletives amidst all the radio static.

As Gilbert checked the other parking bays in his search for a black vehicle, he could hear his colleagues reporting their own tallies on the radio. Most of them were still looking for their final red. A moment later, though, a loud burst of static was followed by a young female voice, sounding very excited.

Hi, it’s Lulu. The girl’s high-pitched voice sounded like a tinny screech over the radio. I've just scored a pink! Now I only need a black, like Gilbert.

Gilbert Shilling was taken aback when he heard this and immediately intensified his search for a black vehicle. He wasn't used to such close competition in the 12-Ball contest, especially from a twenty-one-year-old like Lulu Park who’d only been in the job a few months.

Under pressure for the first time, Gilbert quickly circled the car park until he eventually found a small black Ford that was ten minutes over its time. Just about to pot a black, he announced over his radio, feeling relieved. He now knew he was going to win. He was about to set a new 12-Ball Trophy record which would make him a legend in the department.

Gilbert started putting the black car's details into his printing machine. As he hit the ‘print’ button, he heard the sound of footsteps rushing up behind him. He turned and was immediately confronted by the car’s driver—a young woman with a crying baby boy in her arms and two pre-school daughters hanging onto her dress. The screaming baby kept tugging at the white sunhat perched on his head. The little girls hid behind their mother as if they were afraid of Gilbert and his uniform.

Please don't give me a ticket, begged the distraught young mother, her eyes a mixture of anger and tears. I’ve barely got enough money to feed these kids without having to pay your rip-off fine.

Gilbert saw the driver was only in her early twenties, younger than his own two daughters. My baby has an upset tummy and really bad diarrhoea, so I had to change him, she said. That's why I'm late.

Before Gilbert could reply, the mother dumped the screaming baby boy into his arms and she started pawing through her purse, looking for her car keys. Gilbert noticed her hands were trembling.

When the baby realized he was now in Gilbert’s arms, he stopped crying immediately. His large blue eyes stared up at the shiny badge on Gilbert's peaked cap. The baby stretched out his arms and his tiny fingers tried to reach up for the badge which was sparkling in the bright sunlight.

Gilbert looked down at the little pink-faced bundle he was holding. He could smell the fresh talcum powder and knew that the mother had been telling the truth about her reason for being late back to the car.

It was a long time since Gilbert Shilling had held a baby in his arms. And even longer since he’d held a baby boy. Not since Danny.

As Gilbert looked down at the little chubby face that was now smiling and gurgling at him, a dark shadow of remembrance passed over him and he felt a growing tightness in his throat and chest. He held the baby even closer to him now, and a deep sadness filled his eyes.

The boy’s mother finally found her car keys and held out her arms for the return of the child, but Gilbert seemed reluctant to hand him back. He felt a stab of disappointment when the mother took the baby off him. For a brief moment, he’d been reminded of the joy he’d felt all those years ago when he was able to hold his son Danny for those precious few months.

Gilbert suddenly made a decision. He tore up the parking ticket.

I'll cancel it this time, he said to the mother. But you're well over your time sweetheart. Keep an eye on the clock in future.

Almost immediately, there was a burst of static on Gilbert's radio and young Lulu Park screeched that she’d just 'potted' a black car.

Gilbert’s eyebrows drew together in an agonized expression and a shadow of disappointment spread across his face. He knew his kindness had cost him victory … and his world record.

Congratulations Lulu, he said into the radio, trying to put a brave face on his defeat. The crown is yours …

At that same moment, in another part of the same car park in Kendon, Margaret Bamford—known to her friends as Peggy—was enjoying the gentle warmth of a light summer breeze on her face as she strolled back to her yellow Suzuki hatchback. She was followed by a trio of small dogs: a white West Highland terrier, a brown Border terrier and a red and white, floppy-eared King Charles Blenheim.

Peggy Bamford was a petite, bespectacled woman in her early sixties. There was both elegance and strength in her lightly-tanned, heart-shaped face. She had gentle features and high cheekbones, with kind, blue-grey eyes. Her grey-flecked brown hair was cut in a neat bob with bangs at the front. She was wearing a white casual top over a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans and white Ecco sports shoes. The belt around her narrow waist defined her slender frame. And even with her granny glasses, she still looked about ten years younger than her age.

Peggy unlocked the rear hatch door of the Suzuki and lifted it open. In you go Lily, she said. The small West Highland terrier immediately charged forward and leapt into the back of the car.

You next Florence, she said and the Border terrier jumped energetically into the car and sat next to Lily.

Your turn Charlie, she said. But the King Charles toy spaniel didn’t move. Instead, he looked up at Peggy with large, dark watery eyes that seemed to plead: You don't really expect me to jump all the way up there, do you? After a couple of seconds, Peggy relented and picked Charlie up. She lifted him gently into the back seat and closed the door behind him.

As her car exited the car park—with the cute line-up of dogs looking out the rear window—Peggy saw a uniformed parking attendant standing in front of a black Ford, talking to a young woman who was holding a crying baby. There was something familiar about the man. His short, wiry shape, his facial features, his moustache … His moustache?

‘Gilbert?’ she murmured to herself as she drove past.

Was it really him? Had she found him again at last?

With her heart pounding with excitement, and unable to believe her luck, Peggy turned the car around as quickly as she could and re-entered the car park. But by the time she got back to where Gilbert—if it was him—had been standing, there was no sign of him. And she felt a sudden ache of disappointment.

When Gilbert Shilling returned to base at the Kendon traffic control centre, he found about twenty of his colleagues already assembled in a large open-plan office, waiting for the presentation of the 12-Ball Trophy.

One sign of getting older, he’d been told, was when police officers started looking younger than your children. As Gilbert looked at all the youthful faces around him in the room, he realized the same could be said of parking enforcement.

The uniformed men and women stood loosely in groups, all facing a small, makeshift dais in the centre of the room. Gilbert knew the scene well. For the past four years he’d been the one getting ready to step onto that platform to receive the trophy, and all the acclaim that came with it.

This year, though, it was Lulu Park's turn to be in the spotlight.

As he crossed the room, Gilbert spotted Lulu, a pretty Korean girl, standing a few yards from the stage. She looked very nervous. He gave her a friendly wave and she smiled back.

Gilbert squeezed into a place in the congregation alongside his long-time friend and colleague Sullivan 'Sully' Webster.

Sully was a tall black man who towered over Gilbert by a good ten inches. He looked muscular, with large square hands and massive shoulders that filled the uniform he was wearing. Only Sully’s close-cropped cap of wiry grey hair betrayed the fact that he was almost as old as Gilbert. He had a relaxed air and steady brown eyes and held himself like the soldier he once was. His pleasant face sported a Clark Gable pencil moustache which underlined a broad, slightly crumpled nose that had been broken during a boxing match in his army days.

Sully and Gilbert had started working in traffic control on the same day over thirty years ago. It had been Gilbert’s first real job after finally giving up on his music career, and Sully had been fresh out of the army. At that time, Sully was the only black man on the team and Gilbert had befriended him when everyone else simply ignored him. Despite their size difference, the unlikely pair had been good friends ever since, and had always looked out for each other.

Sorry you got pipped at the post Gilbert, said Sully, But knowing you, there must have been a good reason for it. He had a deep voice that was surprisingly mild and gentle for such a big man.

"You