When Two Lives Collide

By Michael John Wilde

In 1953, Major (Old Bob) Ferguson, a soldier recently blinded on duty in Kenya, relates his untold story to a ten-year-old village lad, Mike Gilbride. In 2012, Mike, his days fast closing in, is seeking final catharsis as he relates both their colourful tales to Teddy, his only grandson. Family lies, treason and death flourish. Eventually, their lives collide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528998062

Michael John Wilde

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.

Book preview

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.

Teddy was really all I had. So today was the day, to start exposing the untold truth that surrounded Teddy’s life with his connection to Major Robert Ferguson; revealing the secrets I had carried for the old soldier for nearly sixty years.

Chapter 2

Mike Gilbride – Meeting Old Bob

As a mischievous boy of ten, growing up on a Hampshire farm following the Second World War, my life was peppered with stories from a cast of diverse war veterans and ex-prisoners of war. Some, who stayed on to live and work, in our tiny village, just north of Winchester.

When I first met Old Bob, he was hiding from our village street party. A party such as every city, town and village across the land had organised. Just eight years after the horrors of World War II followed by times of austerity and rationing. Coronation parties, were an affirmation that life was returning to some semblance of normality within our Sceptred Isle. Queen Elizabeth II had acceded to the throne of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth, on the death of her father George VI on February 6, 1952.

The Queen, then Princess Elizabeth, was touring Kenya with her husband Prince Phillip, as part of a series of Royal tours, to support her father, now too ill to travel on state visits. On their visit to Kenya, the Princess and Prince Philip, had let it be known of their wish to travel far into the bush, to be closer to Africa’s outstanding wildlife. Treetops Hotel in the Aberdare National Park fitted the bill perfectly. There the young couple were able to view the most dangerous beasts in safety from the high viewing platforms.

In 1952, communication that today we take for granted, was non-existent. Way out in the bush all communication was passed by hand or mouth. General Cameron, Old Bob’s boss, was advised of the death of King George from his base in Nairobi, immediately setting off to deliver the sad news to his new Queen. Old Bob stood in silence, as Prince Phillip was told of the death of his father-in-law. In sombre mood, the young Prince broke the tragic news to his wife, being the first person to greet the new Queen Elizabeth. Shortly after, the entourage left Treetops, for the thirty-seven mile journey to Nanyuki, a small market town, with its adjoining military air base. From there, the new Queen and her Consort commenced their flight back to London, where Elizabeth would take her oath as Queen.

Old Bob was not an old man. Although, like anyone who had passed their twentieth birthday was deemed archaic to us kids. So when he invited me to listen to his stories, I was initially not particularly interested feeling that my kindness to him on June 2, 1953 had delivered me enough brownie points for another scouting badge. So much to the amusement of my rapscallion school friends, I followed my next enforced Sunday school, with a visit to Old Bob’s tiny cottage nestling by the River Dever. May Cottage had remained empty yet fully furnished for several years after the strange disappearance of Miss Jewell, who had lived alone with her three tabby cats. The only real connection Miss Jewell had with the village being piano lessons she gave to our Headmaster’s children.

This is so kind of you to come and visit me Michael. But first there’s something I need you to do for me, his smile radiated from behind his dark glasses. A few weeks ago I received a letter. Can you please read it to me? Feels quite important I think, there’s a seal, or maybe a crest on the letter.

Old Bob crossed to his ancient writing desk, pulling out a large white foolscap envelope. From inside the envelope, he took a beige-coloured letter then walked over to the fireplace where I was sitting. There was indeed a crest, and it was addressed to Major Robert Tristan Ferguson. Slowly, I read every word and sunk back in the chair.

"From Buckingham Place May 3rd 1953

Dear Major Ferguson,

It has been brought to my notice that you suffered a serious injury after we met. My husband Prince Phillip and I wish you well, and thank you for your kindness during most harrowing times in Kenya last year. We are both eternally grateful for your help and support.

Yours

Elizabeth R."

For what seemed an eternity we both sat in silence, each stunned by the contents.

I need you to keep this a secret Michael, he offered removing his dark glasses, exposing scars above both eyes. Tears trickling down. The old man was crying, the brave soldier had lost control.

Michael, you can never understand, but I must explain to you before I ask you to reply to Her Majesty. There is much to tell, much I have to get off my chest. Promise me Michael, you will return?

There was nothing more to say. I patted his guide dog Hank, and closed the door after me. For a short while, I remained in the garden, trying to understand the letter, and what was bringing this old soldier to tears.

An earlier visit to his cottage had brought me my first taste of the wrong side of the law. Ten local lads decided to find out the truth regarding the disappearance of Miss Jewell from May Cottage. Ginger Stevens, the leader of our gang, fourteen years old, and a God to me, insisted that I be part of the raiding party.

Our gang left a glaring trail of evidence allowing PC Saunders, to take less than twenty-four hours to work out who had perpetrated this heinous crime. Items stolen listed on papers prepared for our prosecution were varied, but insufficient to call for the assistance of Interpol. One umbrella (ladies), two cushions (with imprints of hairy dogs), a George VI celebration mug (cracked) and an Ostrich egg with an inscription confirming its authenticity.

A rapid visit to Juvenile Court, brought about swift justice. Each member of this unprofessional team of house breakers, receiving six months’ probation. As a ten year old, the sentencing meant little, as in truth I had no real understanding what our day in court had meant. In fact, the punishments ministered by my authoritarian, God fearing adoptive mother, had a greater effect, leaving visible marks I still carry to this day.

Old Bob’s arrival at May Cottage, went unnoticed. We first realised May Cottage had a new occupant when he was seen walking Hank across the adjoining football pitch then wandering back into the gardens that surrounded the tiny thatched cottage. The whereabouts of Miss Jewell continued to remain a mystery with many theories put forward and challenged. She was a white witch—used to be a Hollywood actress—and had left the country as she was wanted for bank robbery; the possibilities came thick and fast. Many years later, the truth did materialise. But Candice Jewell had disappeared.

It was nine months before I visited May Cottage again. Much had happened in my life. I had sat the Eleven Plus exam which determined if the next few years were to be spent in the rarefied atmosphere of Peter Symonds, Winchester’s top grammar school. Failure to pass, destined those not-so-fortunate to Whitchurch Secondary Modern, some six miles north of our village, and to mix with a cross-section of Hampshire’s finest disinterested pupils. I was teased constantly, by my fellow pupils at Wonston Primary School. For I was, what today is referred to, as a straight ‘A’ student, expected to walk the Eleven Plus. When the day eventually came, many of those still finding it difficult to string sentences together, failed to arrive at the village hall the venue for forty eleven year olds to sit the exam. Easier their absence than be marked as failures, I considered.

As I handed in my paper, I failed to see what concerns had been discussed by teachers, parents and pupils alike. To me, it was a walk in the park, a simple test finished in half the allotted time. Never would there be any suggestion of failure, never any discussion of donning anything but the dark blue blazer, of the county’s best grammar school. I considered it my right, my future, my destiny.

However, I had not reckoned on the iniquitous behaviour of my adopted mother. A woman who personified evil, who lived with a desire to inflict mental anguish on others. A twisted mind, who could turn even the most God-fearing soul into a non-believer. She hated me with such a vengeance that just three years later I ran away, just fourteen, to seek love and, more importantly, safety. I had to escape the constant besom broom beatings for the most trivial misdemeanour. These interspersed by several hours internment, locked away in the understairs cupboard or occasionally imprisoned within the windowless larder.

But her defining act of cruelty was to ban me from taking my rightful place amongst the educational elite at Peter Symonds. Numerous reasons were proffered, one being our family’s inability to afford the uniform. Furthermore, her opinion that I should maintain contact with my village friends. In truth, she was jealous and wanted to ensure I could have nothing in my life, which had been denied to her. And so, with the knowledge that I was in need of expanding my education, Old Bob was the obvious avenue for me to explore. What was there to lose? My thirst for knowledge was unquenchable.

I wondered if Old Bob remembered our promises to each other. For it was many months since we had last spoken. Then he’d suggested his wish to return my kindness, and to share a few stories from his past. Nervously, I clicked open the gate to May Cottage. For Hank, ever alert, could be heard warning his master of approaching strangers. As I slunk cautiously towards the front door, Hank greeted me. Making his Labrador presence felt by nudging my legs, his tail wagging furiously. His orders had clearly been to welcome not deter Old Bob’s visitor.

Well, young Michael, long time since we last met dear boy. I trust all is well with you? his tone as commanding as I had remembered. ‘But you’re blind,’ I thought, ‘how the hell did you know it was me? Dogs don’t speak.’

Well sir, I started nervously, you remember what we talked about, and I mean what you……

Michael, been waiting old boy, glad you came; come on in, his expression something I remembered from when I had read his letter from the Queen.

And so, I began what was to be many weeks of remarkable stories, an in-depth insight into Old Bob’s family history of British Military Intelligence. Plus a realisation that the English language used by my family and friends, was touching just the surface of its extensive availability. Over the following weeks, Old Bob recounted his life story to me. Many of his stories expressed with emotion, some aided by an underlying sense of humour and modesty. Old Bob’s account of his experiences had a lasting effect and certainly changed the shape and direction of my life. An adventurous young boy became aware of the jaundiced effects, exposure to life’s great adventures can bring, mingled with the pleasures and adversities of life’s wonderful journey.

But then, I had no idea how eventually our lives would cross again.

Chapter 3

Old Bob’s Story

I was born January 1911 when Europe was still living in peace, and a certain degree of harmony existed between nations. Undertones, which kept the possibility of conflict near the surface, were discussed only in polite society but always considered nothing of major concern. Britain had moved on from over sixty years of brash Victorian times following the death of Queen Victoria in 1901. Her sovereignty succeeded, by the short and ineffectual nine year reign of Edward VII. With George V now on the throne, a man with a closer understanding of the needs of his people, much was expected of the coming years.

To me, the most coincidental event with my birth was the first Monte Carlo Rally, in January 1911. Prince Albert I of Monaco, assisted in organising this very first rally along the French Riviera finishing in the Principality. Several years later, my passion for the sport was fulfilled, when together with my friend and sponsor, Giles Templeton we competed in the 1936 Monte Carlo Rally. Our only claim to fame that we did complete the course, albeit several hours after the winner, Petre Crista, in his privately entered Ford.

My family suffered from two diametrically opposed traditions. The church on my paternal side, and the army, on my mother’s. My father, and his father before him, entered the church straight from university. When I was born, my father had already succeeded his father as incumbent of a Norfolk county diocese. My brother Alasdair, two years my senior, had also shown at an early age his desire to enter the Church.

However, my mother’s side of the family came from a totally different background. Soldiers; all officers going back over three generations. Some never to return from battles as far away as the Boer War in South Africa, and various campaigns across India; supposedly defending the Empire. My maternal grandfather, General William Oscar Grayson-Traynor, GT to all his close friends, was my hero. GT was a larger than life character, whose only interest in life after leaving the army appeared to be leading the Salop Hunt from the family estate at Grayson Manor. It was always a fulfilling experience just to witness GT galloping with his baying pack of hounds, across the estates they hunted over in Shropshire. GT to be heard, bellowing at less competent riders to keep reined tight, and sit well for the jumps. Needless to say, the two sides of the family met on rare occasions, then only in the company of sufficient numbers to nullify the outspoken differences between them.

My father was a dedicated pacifist. So, when the Great War broke out in 1914, he became even more entrenched as a conscientious objector; which of course my mother’s family considered high treason. Grandfather GT ensured that his opinion of the ‘cowardice vicar’, was spread far and wide. Our childhood during the Great War was spent in the Norfolk countryside with limited news filtering to us of the slaughter being enacted in Northern Europe. In fact, it was not until I started boarding school, at the age of eight in 1919, that I began to understand what had taken place for those four long years, leaving millions dead or permanently disfigured.

But Mike, surely he must have understood, there was a war? Teddy stopped Mike, needing clarification.

Old Bob was only seven when the war finished, and his father being a pacifist, made sure life was kept as normal and indeed as isolated as possible. In fact, Alasdair, his elder brother, and Old Bob had no real idea until they saw bedraggled soldiers, many carrying life-changing injuries returning to their village, Mike answered as best he could remember from his time with Old Bob.

There was little in Mike’s reply that gave Teddy any indication, of the gulf that would develop between Old Bob and the male side of his family. Indeed, the moral and political chasm that existed between the Fergusons, and the Grayson-Traynor clan, would never be bridged. Even at this stage of Old Bob’s past revelations, Teddy could sense a leaning towards the moral high ground, the GT tribe steadfastly believed, the only correct approach a loyal subject should adopt.

Prep school followed by Winchester College, left me uncertain of my next step. My expensive education, could never be afforded from the basic stipend my father received. Even though, he had attained the status of Bishop, shortly before I finished at Winchester. Even so, we were often short of money. GT was always the open purse, the source of providing life’s little luxuries, and to GT, the essentials his grand-children should be entitled to. It was apparent early on that neither my father nor his family, could ever provide the education that GT endowed us with. My father held his counsel on such matters, grateful to accept the alms provided from my mother’s family.

On leaving Winchester in 1929, I followed the expected path, for a privileged privately educated young man, accepting a place at Magdalen College, Oxford. Naturally, my father endeavoured to steer me toward a degree which would eventually guide me towards a vocation within the church. GT of course had other ideas for his younger grandson, having given up on Alasdair, who had entered the church, immediately on leaving Winchester. I suppose because of the historical background of the Grayson-Traynor clan, it was not at all surprisingly, I had a leaning towards British history. And so it was that I chose modern history as my chosen subject at Oxford.

There was a bitter sweet taste to my first few weeks at Oxford. Whilst I was whizzed into a life of educational superiority funded by my wealthy family, a number of American students, were forced to leave as a result of the great Wall Street Crash. A tragic autumn in New York that would never be forgotten. Brilliant undergraduates, destined for great careers, chopped off in their prime. America’s financial and social madness, where any and everything seemed possible, came home to bite them firmly in the ass. The fallout, creating a financial depression that brought a great country to its knees. Forcing many companies to close, and once wealthy individuals to beg on the streets.

Just over two years into my degree course, I was summoned to Shropshire, for a weekend pheasant shoot, with GT. This annual invitation was patiently awaited, by many senior ex-army colleagues, political luminaries, and a scattering of the eccentric wealth of the county. Everyone desperately hoping the envelope would drop on to their door mat.

The main access to Grayson Manor always impressed, approaching it from the main-gated entrance being my favourite. There stood a recently redundant lodge house, no longer housing the gateman who had spent a lifetime saluting family and guests. I was always swamped by a feeling of power and security, as the wheels of my pride and joy, Bertie, my British racing green Wolseley Hornet Special, crunched the gravel past the wrought iron gates. Every time I passed, I looked proudly at our family crest on the gate. Whilst in the distance, Grayson Manor stood imperiously awaiting today’s guests.

Dawdling ahead of me at a snail’s pace was a massive bright red Rolls Royce Phantom II spreading its grand bodywork across the driveway blocking my path. There was no way I could sit behind the ambling Rolls for the next mile. So, as I had done on earlier trips, once with GT on board, I took to the grass, spraying dust and chewed up grass over the dawdling Roll’s. Its outraged chauffeur, waving his fist in my direction then angrily sounding off the complete repertoire of horns at his disposal.

As I approached the main house, it was clear that most of the guests were already gathering in the vast courtyard. An extensive gravelled area surrounded by stables sufficient to house a cavalry of horse flesh. My sliding entrance was greeted by screams of horror as grooms grabbed the reins of a number of horses, skittish from my mad-cap arrival.GT already astride his magnificent black stallion, Caesar, waved towards me, as I skidded to a halt, thoroughly enjoying the moment. Then as an act of appreciation, leaning back, to rear the majestic beast onto two legs, displaying its full splendour.

My boy, now that’s what I call an entrance, not quite one eighty degrees but not bad, GT eased Caesar alongside my steaming Wolseley, determined to show the gathering numbers of guests his horsemanship, and the bravery of his mount.

I see you took the other drive way, past old Grimston-Palmer. Pretentious old fool arriving in that bloody stupid Rolls. Must think he’s royalty! Anyway my boy, expect your grandmother’s waiting to hear your news; keep it clean my boy. Remember, what goes on tour, stays there, know what I mean, my lad? Off with you, George will park that racing machine for you.

My request to attend was not predicated on my expertise with a Purdy nor to indulge in GT’s expansive cellar. GT had decided his favourite grandson, should be the next member of the family to enter Sandhurst. Indeed, the wily old fox had much more planned for me.

At this weekend gathering, I was introduced to the current head of Military Intelligence, General Tarquin Rothercombe, and a living legend, Sir Vernon Kell, who had headed MI5 for a number of years. Both, unbeknown to me, and most of those gathered, were close friends of GT. How close was never a subject for discussion but unambiguous when our meeting took place.

GT and granny GT’s shooting party dinners were legend, as was the splendour of their dining-room. It was located just off the main hallway, which displayed portraits of members of the family. Many shown in full regimental uniform, set against the backdrop of some distant military conflict. Arched double doors led into the inner sanctum, the oak-panelled dining-room, where at least fifty could be seated. Whatever the weather, granny always insisted the room was never dressed without a roaring log fire. Tonight, the room was set for twenty-five. I made up the odd number. Even before GT’s guests were seated, the booze, which had been liberally supplied, had lifted the noise level. A range of differing accents, braying competitively against each other.

If the dining-room had a feeling delivering warmth and hospitality, GTs private quarters surpassed it, offering opulent comfort. Its shelved walls laden with a multitude of assorted books, neatly positioned high-backed red leather chairs, positioned around yet another blazing open fire. In the centre of the room stood a magnificent Victorian full-size billiard table which completed its exclusivity.

I need you to join me tonight and meet two of my oldest friends, Robert, GT offered as an order. "By the time we’ve finished dinner, most will collapse from over-indulging my cellar, so come and join us in my study, make it eleven. That’ll give you time