FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
- True tales of the supernatural
BRUCE ALEXANDER KILGOUR
Third Edition
Published by Good Hope Publishing at Smashwords
P. O. Box 206, Simon’s Town, 7995, South Africa
Copyright 2013 - Bruce Kilgour/Good Hope Publishing
All rights reserved
This is not a work of fiction.
Names have been changed to protect the identity of living persons.
CONTENTS
Foreword
Chapter One: The Magic Begins
Chapter Two: The Little People
Chapter Three: Guardian Angels
Chapter Four: Out Of This World
Chapter Five: Fools Rush In
Chapter Six: Where Angels Fear To Tread
Chapter Seven: Ghost Ship – The Flying Dutchman
Footnote to Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight: The Fortune Teller
Chapter Nine: Murder Most Foul
Chapter Ten: A Blessing and a Curse
Chapter Eleven: Radiant Spirit
Chapter Twelve: Knock Three Times
Chapter Thirteen: Through Tinted Lenses
Chapter Fourteen: When Time Stood Still
Chapter Fifteen: The Polite Corpse
Chapter Sixteen: Black Cats and Voodoo
Epilogue
About The Author
FOREWORD
This is the story of my own “parallel” life ... more specifically, my personal experience with
the paranormal, the other worldly, or supernatural … “the inexplicable". Everything I am about
to relate is true. I have attempted to stick faithfully to the details and events as they occurred, as
far as memory serves.
Perhaps those who have had similar experiences will appreciate these disclosures, happy to
know that they are not alone with their closely guarded secrets. Others may be encouraged by
my revelations, seeing them as proof in their quest along the path of enlightenment. Still others, I
am afraid, will remain skeptics, blinkered by disbelief forever.
It is Wednesday 3rd August, 2011. The time is four minutes past midnight, hence the title of
this book (See Epilogue). I have just returned home from a stimulating meeting at the Cape
Magicians Circle where I am a proud member. It is small wonder that I have developed an
affinity for the world of MAGIC, for that is precisely how I have operated for much of my life,
without, I may add, any discernible material benefits or advantages.
Now it is time to share my “other” story with the world … So pull up a comfy chair. Light a
Kindle. And we’ll float back in time together to see how it all began …
BRUCE ALEXANDER KILGOUR
CHAPTER ONE – The Magic Begins
As a normal, healthy, growing boy I had many interests besides schoolwork – Cowboys and
crooks, motor cars and trains in the sand around the garden rockery, and playing at Superman as
my cover photograph would suggest. Incidentally, that picture was taken on holiday at the
Durban seaside amusement arcade when I was about ten years old. Wonderful memories!
A friend of mine owned a beautiful model airplane that could even fly. Of course we kids
knew that this sort of extravagance only occurred in “wealthy” families – not for average middle
class people whose clothes were passed on from one to the other. But I suppose we learned how
to improvise. We would make our own push carts, catapults, bows and arrows … whatever …
and so we never felt deprived.
A flying model airplane? There was only one thing for it. I would simply have to go and
make my own airplane. No plan, no measurements, nothing but a few pine planks from a peach
box, some large iron nails and my father’s large claw hammer – a most useful tool, for if a nail
bent while driving it into the wood, you could manage to pull it out with the claw and bang it
straight again for re-use. This was a labour of love – it could have taken me all of an hour – an
eternity in the lifespan of an eager little boy, anxious to get on with things. So … chop, bang
clunk … there was a nice model airplane put together with 3 pieces of wood and oversize nails.
Two wingspans, one large, one small, and a fuselage frame. Oh and yes, it had a turning
propeller, in fair proportion, nailed directly on to the front end. I was extremely proud of my
handiwork.
This work of art I could hardly wait to try out. So I took it directly from the garage
workbench to the larger of our two front lawns. My mother was an avid gardener and had
divided the front yard with a winding pathway leading to the garden gate. The path was bordered
by pretty flower beds on both sides. To the left was an expanse of green, “The Little Lawn”. To
the right, where I now stood, was a much greater expanse, “The Big Lawn”. Turning towards the
hedge separating the property from the road, I lifted my airplane up, ran forward a couple of
steps, and heaved! The wooden airplane lurched forward and upward into the air, gaining height
steadily. It rose over the garden hedge, banked steeply in a wide arc above the road outside,
leveled off and then glided gracefully back down into the garden, skidding to a perfect standstill
on the well manicured “Big Lawn”.
WOW! I could scarcely believe my own eyes! My airplane had flown. And what a beautiful
flight at that! “It flies, it flies” I yelled with glee as I ran excitedly up the steps to our front door.
“Mommy, Mommy, come and look – my airplane really flies!” But Mommy couldn’t be
bothered by a squawking child right that moment in her all-consuming domestics. “Shoo, leave
me alone I’m busy – Just go back outside and play”. Door bangs closed.
I remember how very disappointed I had felt right then. This was the most amazing thing I
had ever done – and nobody was interested. So I wandered back to The Big Lawn once more and
picked up my work of art – my creation – and once more raised it aloft. In identical manner, I
launched the airplane into the air. It landed with a resounding THUNK on the ground, no more
than a couple of feet away. It had dropped like a brick. Something had changed. The magic was
gone. Nobody believed me after all. And no matter how I tried – that little wooden airplane
would never fly again. But I want you to know that I have recounted the story of its one and only
flight EXACTLY as it happened.
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER TWO – The Little People
Dinner time at our table was both a formal thing and an informal thing. Long before the
introduction of television, mealtime was regarded as a family ritual, almost. Everyone had to be
seated around the table at their appointed place before we could begin. (We each had our own
initialed silver serviette rings. I still have my one today.) My mother, the cook, (and what a good
cook she was) would dish up for the family while my father would always carve the meat,
expertly. We would pass our plates to him, in turn, for our appointed ration, never meagre. Once
my father took his first mouthful, the rest of us could begin to eat.
One rule applied – we were to eat everything on our plate! Therefore, one had to be very
careful one’s eyes were not too big for one’s stomach! This was in sharp contrast to the time my
Grandparents were growing up. Then, in good old polite society, the children were to make sure
they did not scrape their plates clean (like the common people did) but to leave something on
their plate for “Mister Manners”.
We three children took turns to set the table on a weekly basis. Washing up duties were
similarly divided. When the dinner bell rang, we were all expected to drop whatever we were
busy with, wash our hands quickly and take our places at the table, noiselessly. Now it happened
this one particular weekday evening, that once my mother had rung the dinner bell, everyone but
my brother, Rodney, arrived at the kitchen table. (This was the “informal” venue. The “formal”
main dining room table was reserved for Sundays or for when we had quests over to dinner.)
I was instructed to go and find my brother. I remember feeling slightly put out because I now
had to get up and do a search of the property – and who knows? … he may even have failed to
come home from a neighbour’s house. That would mean no supper for him and a sound spanking
into the bargain!
I clearly remember that I was going to do this job as quickly and noisily as I could – by
filling my lungs with a deep breath and running out the kitchen door, right around the house back
to the kitchen door, as fast as my legs would carry me. All the while I would be bellowing at top
of my voice; “Rod…….neeeeeeeeeeey!” Nobody could then accuse me of not having “looked
everywhere”, within reason, and we would be able to continue our meal, with or without him …..
that was the plan.
I rushed down the back steps, turning left to pass an empty back yard and wash-line on my
right, and let out the beginning of my extended yell, “Rod……….” Now I reached the first
corner of the house, wheel-spinning left again to zoom past our bedroom window situated on that
side.
“Neeeeeeeeeeeey” …. At the next left corner was a low brick wall encompassing our
verandah which overlooked The Big Lawn, which extended around the corner. The verge of the
lawn was straight ahead of me and, on the right side, there stood an attractive looking “pom-pom
tree” as I called it. This was because it bore fluffy white “cotton buds” on its bare grey stems and
branches, before regaining its full leafy cover in the summertime.
As I approached the pom-pom tree at speed, yelling all the while, I saw them. And of course,
they saw me …. about half a dozen “Fairy Folk”! … Pixies? … Elves? … I don’t know. But
Little People for sure! They had been as alarmed by my sudden appearance as I was by theirs. In
a flash, as I screeched to a halt, the little people swung down the branches of the tree with
incredible speed and agility.
They were dressed in natural looking materials such as woven grass tunics and tree leaf and
bark skirts or kilts. They stood approximately 18 inches tall and appeared as well-proportioned
and agile as any human being. They could have been both male and female – I couldn’t really
say. I stood rooted to the spot, gaping in sheer disbelief as the little people tumbled expertly
down into an apparent opening in the earth at the base of the pom-pom tree. Then the earth “lid”
slammed shut, much in the manner of an army tank. And the whole tribe had disappeared right
before my eyes!
Whooooo boy! My mission now completely forgotten, I turned on my heels and retraced my
footsteps, perhaps even faster than before. Reaching the back door I shouted excitedly, “Come
and look at this, quickly, come and see”. The urgency in my voice compelled my sister and
mother to follow me into the garden as I tried to explain about the little people I had just
discovered. When we reached the pom-pom tree I pointed to its branches hoping to get sight of
any stragglers. Not a sign of anything untoward. I babbled on about how these little people had
jumped into a hole in the ground “over here”, where the earth had seemingly swallowed them up.
There were no tell-tale marks on the damp, mossy ground either!
Later, at the supper table I remember the conversation had changed to a somber discussion
about mental illness, my mother mumbling something about taking me to see someone called “a
psychiatrist”. My survival instinct kicked in and I resolved, then and there, never to tell my
family about anything strange I encountered … ever again!
The following day, when nobody was looking, I fetched a spade from the shed and went
around to the pom-pom tree. There, I carefully excavated as deeply as I could, the area at the
base of the trunk. No gaping hole or secret tunnel presented itself, and I was extremely puzzled. I
still am, to this day.
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER THREE – Guardian Angels
During my childhood I survived 3 imminent drownings. Each time I was rescued by a total
stranger who could not be traced after the event.
The first occasion was as at St James Beach near Muizenberg, when, on an incoming Spring
tide, Rodney and I daringly swung large pieces of kelp (sea bamboo) off the high rocks into the
swirling surf below. “One, two, three, throw! “…. we would swing the kelp in unison. A huge
wave, larger than the rest by far, approached. This looming threat speeded up our count as we
were about to be drenched if we stayed where we were. The count did not synchronize. On
Rodney’s “three” when he let go, I still held firmly on to my end of the heavy kelp. Over the
edge I went with it … disappearing into the fierce white, boiling water among the rocks below.
A lone woman sunbather had been watching our antics anxiously from the nearby sandy
beach. Bravely, and unhesitatingly, she rushed into the water, over sharp jagged rocks and
barnacles to come to my aid. I was already being sucked out to sea by a strong backwash.
Somehow she managed to bring me to shore, semi conscious and badly cut all over. In the hustle
and bustle and during the application of first-aid, my rescuer quietly slipped away, unnoticed.
My mother was not able to find her to thank her. I remember feeling very proud of my freshly
dressed wounds and all the fuss around me made me feel very important indeed!
On the second occasion, I had made my way at low tide onto the floating raft at Seaforth
Beach near Simon’s Town. This beautiful beach with trim, level lawns above the sands bordering
a rocky cove was named after the British Regiment, the Seaforth Highlanders, who had run the
place as a prisoner-of-war camp during the Anglo-Boer War (1900 – 1902). As a young child in
the 1950’s I can still recall clamoring over the rusty remnants of the barbed wire fences left
jutting into the sea on the perimeters. The first local recorded shark attack also took place right
here, where the age-old raft was chained to the seabed below. Apparently, a Boer prisoner was
taken by a Great White Shark as he waded waist-high in the natural cove.
While sunning myself on the old raft, the tide had turned rapidly. I decided to wait for the
water to recede again sufficiently for me to swim only a short distance to shore. Just then a gang
of hooligans (in the 50’s we called them “Ducktails”) dived off the sea wall on the deep side and
swam towards the raft. They had been drinking and were a very unruly lot as they climbed
aboard the raft with me. With no concern for this little fellow, the mob began to rock the raft
violently, a favourite pastime in those days. Then everyone would pile onto everyone else as we
all hurtled into the water. Trouble was, I was among the first to fall off, so everyone else fell on
top of me.
By the time I reached the surface, beneath the kicking legs and white water, the next batch
crashed on top of me and down I went again. This happened time and time again and I knew I
was done for. All of a sudden two strong arms circled my waist and up to the surface I shot. It
was a lady in a bathing cap who was supporting me. Then she turned on her back and dragged
me from the tumultuous situation with a strong one-armed backstroke, and kicking vigorously.
She took me right back to the shallows where she left me coughing and spluttering, and eternally
grateful. But I could not find her anywhere on the beach when I searched for her later on.
Now for Angel number 3.
The third time I almost visited Davy Jones’ Locker, was as a 16 year-old surfer boy. Tanned,
blond, handsome and extremely fit, having spent just about every moment of my spare time
down at the beach with my “Offshore” surfboard. I used to boast about my muscular physique,
by nearly splitting the short sleeves of a T-shirt when “pulling a muscle” to show off. I also had a
beautiful 6-pack! And I could put out a Texan cigarette on the ground with my bare toe, so tough
were my feet from exposure to blazing hot sands and tarred roads. Super fit. Also, I was a good
swimmer and had learned to body surf well, for in the 60’s, board harnesses had not yet been
invented. You lost your board, you swam for it.
One day, the surf was particularly large (“kraking”, we’d say) at Muizenberg Corner, and I
was out in the thick of things taking on those heavy rollers by “turning turtle” … to feel their full
force pulling you back while clinging to your board upside down – your body acting as a sort of
drag anchor. Often the force of a very large wave would pop you, right-side up, into the air
above the white water. Once you caught one of these monsters to ride you were committed!
There was not much leeway to navigate as you were “shooting the curl”, praying that you would
beat the break back to the more manageable elbow of the wave.
I was making my way out through a heavy set of forming swells, each one larger than the one
before, and a little closer to breaking and crashing down upon you. From the corner of my eye I
spotted another surfer, in the curl of the next huge breaking wave, bearing down on me from a
dizzy height on my right, at full speed. A collision was imminent. No doubt about it, I was about
to be guillotined. I dived off my board to the right and simultaneously kicked my board across
the water to the left in an effort to save it.
Nothing could have prevented it. As the great wall of water crashed down upon me I felt the
edge of the other surfboard smash into my lower back and left leg causing me excruciating pain.
Already exhausted after my struggle with the heavy surf, I was now injured to the extent that I
could hardly feel my legs. Where the out-of-control surfer and board landed up, I do not
remember. All my attention was now on survival. How to stay afloat, using only my arms to
flounder, while desperately trying to “pull myself together”. Had I not been as fit as I was then, I
certainly would not be here today to tell the tale.
Now comes the part I just love. The big set having passed and the water now quite tranquil,
along comes a knight in shining armor. Another surfer is paddling towards me on his way out to
the back line of waves. “I’m saved”, I tell myself. But wait, can he see me? “Help”, I cry out. “I
can’t make it; I need a lift – please!” But the wild-eyed, long-haired surfer boy ignores me
completely and passes less than five metres away without a hint of acknowledgement. He is soon
well away, heading for another looming set. If ever there was a time I wished someone “bad
karma”, this was it. “Now I am going to drown, for sure!”
One last effort. I manage to lift my hand slowly into the air three times – the signal for a
stricken bather! Off the rocks on the dangerous side of the beach, a man dashes out with a
surfboard above his head. He launches full tilt into the rough surf between the treacherous rocks
and paddles through breaking waves with super-human effort. He is making his way towards me.
As I catch sight of my would-be rescuer I realize the odds are stacked completely against us. One
more big set and we are both “goners”. That set didn’t arrive. Paddling like a demon, the man
takes full advantage of the lull and finally reaches me. Then he shouts: “Here, take this. Watch
out there’s no wax on it!” and jumps off the board to let me get on. “Don’t worry, I can swim
back …” he shouts as off he strikes for shore.
I clutch this horribly slippery surfboard like there is no tomorrow. No force on earth is going
to separate us. Instead of heading straight to shore I head back out to sea to face the next looming
set of waves. I am lucky, I manage to get over them … just. Behind the back surf line I paddle
across, parallel to the beach. When the next sets crash harmlessly between me and the shore, I
take advantage of the calm interlude and paddle like mad towards the beach. It is an absolute
miracle.
Standing on the shoreline in front of the colourful bathing booths, badly bruised and
exhausted, with the foreign surfboard at my side, its nose pointing high in the air, I scan the area
for the owner to come up and claim it. No, no-one knows who it belongs to. And the guy who
saved me, where was he? Nobody knew. Apparently a watching stranger had seen a bather in
distress, picked up the closest unused surfboard, and dashed out to the rescue. No regular surfer
there would dare to enter the surf from the rocks as he had done – especially under those rough
conditions.
I left the unclaimed surfboard standing against a bathing booth and sent a silent prayer to my
guardian angel.
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER FOUR – Out Of This World
They say that when you are super fit your brain operates at optimum levels as well. (I do,
however, know a few surfer dropouts). Well, I was so fit as a teenager it was almost sinful,
showing up the rest of humanity like that!
I would go to bed in just a pair of boxer shorts and lie on my back replaying the day’s events,
and thinking about the great mysteries of life. Already I was something of an amateur
philosopher, questioning all manner of things, including religion and the “system” we lived in.
This caused enormous trouble between my disciplinarian father and I as you can imagine. If I
spoke about a wish to become a psychiatrist or psychologist one day, he would angrily point out
that if I wasn’t careful I’d end up as one of their patients. But I wanted to know what made
people tick. What made the universe go round … everything?
I had an extremely inquiring mind. Lying on my back in bed, early one evening, I was in a
most contemplative mood. What, I wondered, did the inside of the back of my head look like?
Surely I could ascertain this by turning my eyes backwards in their sockets and, by imagining I
could see, the intuitive part of the brain would kick in and show me the part of my inner head I
wished to see. So I proceeded to roll my eyes backwards and focus all my attention towards the
back of my head.
After a short period of intense concentration, I discerned a light source inside the top of my
head, and I began to focus all my attention on it. Suddenly I felt as if I was being gently drawn
along a sort of tunnel, quicker and quicker as the light grew brighter and brighter around me.
Pop! There “I” was, floating in the air above my head, looking down at my body. Well this is
really cool, I thought, quite exhilarated. I can float freely around here and see everything that is
going on in the room while I actually appear to be fast asleep in bed!
How far could I move away from my body, I wondered? I then floated up the side of the wall
right to the ceiling. Then instead of floating through the ceiling I decided to float through the
wall. Outside my bedroom wall, on the perimeter of the property, stood a very tall hedge
(Minnetonka trees). It needed a bit of a trim at this time and I could now see that some of its
upper branches were beginning to touch the telephone wires which were strung out above them.
Immediately, I decided to return inside as this was all so sudden and new to me that I needed
time to think about it fully, before going any further.
No problem. I melted through the wall and floated gently down to my own prostrate form on
the bed below. And “Whoa …” I sat bolt upright in bed, almost breathless, my pulse racing.
“What was that all about?” I asked myself in amazement. Part of me wanted to jump out of bed
and go and tell my mother what I had just experienced. But the savvy half of me said: “Don’t be
crazy, this one you have to keep a closely guarded secret”.
I could hardly drop off to sleep that night, so excited was I about my latest discovery and the
unlimited prospects it held. I was going to explore this strange phenomenon fully in my own
time. The funny thing was, at the age of seventeen, I had never even heard the term “astral
travel” or O.B.E. (Out-of-body experience).
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER FIVE – Fools Rush In
If someone decides to visit the North Pole, they would spend considerable time beforehand
planning their trip and preparing for its many eventualities. They would make sure that their
clothing and other forms of protection against the elements were wholly adequate. So too their
food supplies … transport … medical supplies … It would not be very wise to simply get up and
head North, for the chances are, you’d never be seen or heard of again.
Well that’s precisely what I was about to do. Stride out, fully unprepared, to visit the Astral! I
knew how to get there. After all, I had discovered the key hadn’t I?
A few nights later, the opportunity presented itself, when the family had either gone out or
had retired for an early night and all was blissfully silent. My “plan” was simple. I was going to
visit a good friend in the neighbourhood, Calvin*, as I had not seen him around for a few days.
Tonight was the night. It was still relatively early in the evening. I was confident I could do it –
“invisibly”.
I followed exactly the same procedure as before. Finding the light at the top of my head (the
“Pineal” as I now believe it to be), I slipped out of my body and into the total freedom of “the
spirit world”. That is, without dying, of course!
Floating upwards and melting through the wall once again, I felt very excited about what I
was about to accomplish. If you have ever taken “a trip” over the countryside on Google Earth,
at approximately 500 -1000 feet, you will have come close to experiencing my astral flight above
the rooftops. Following the road down a cul-de-sac to Calvin’s place, two blocks away in the
Cape Town suburb of Bergvliet, I drifted over the perimeter fence to hover over the house and
garden. There were always several old cars on the lawn and in the driveway, since Calvin’s
brother, Flynn, collected and fixed these as a hobby.
The garden was unkempt and a creeper had been allowed to climb and spread, almost
obliterating the view from my friend’s bedroom window. The curtains were drawn and the
fanlights shut tight although a dull light emerged through chinks in the curtain. Above the grey
wooden shingle roof I circled, estimating where the centre was, then descended through the roof.
I emerged from the middle of the ceiling above a dangling light bulb with plastic shade.
Calvin lay in bed in his pajamas, this freckled teenage boy with unkempt blond hair. He was now
ill in bed with the flu. Coughing terribly he reached out for a teacup at the side of his bed and
spat a mouthful of ugly yellow phlegm into it. I made a mental note never to drink tea again at
this house! Then he yelled to his younger brother, nicknamed “Baddy”, to go and make him
another cup of tea “NOW…. or I’ll bugger you up”, he threatened. I was shocked at his bullying
behavior. For Calvin was the quietest member of our group of friends. Mild-mannered, and with
a friendly disposition. Now here was a side I’d never seen, acting out beneath my very eyes.
Calvin paged through a Comet comic book until “Baddy’ brought him his tea, taking the
other “messy” cup away with him. Not even a thank you was uttered by my friend. I realized that
I should perhaps not be spying on him in this manner, although that was never my intention. So I
left the house through the roof again and floated all the way home the way I had come. Then,
like “Casper the Friendly Ghost” I slipped easily back inside and down to my body once more.
Two days later, Calvin called around to visit me at home. He told me that he had spent the
past few days in bed with flu. I remarked that I knew this, as I believe I was eager to tell my
friend about my strange discovery. I told him I had visited him recently in “spirit form” and had
seen him lying sick in bed. He scoffed at this saying: “Oh rubbish, man!” I said I could prove it.
Triumphantly I told him that he had made his brother go and fetch him a cup of tea …. “or you
said, you would bugger him up!”, I added. “How do you know that?” He turned on me almost
angrily. “I told you. I was watching you from the ceiling”. “Ah, you must have been looking
through the window, that’s where you were”, Calvin decided. I explained that the windows and
curtains had been closed – besides, there was a great big creeper blocking access …
The subject was dropped. I could see what I was up against, trying to convince anyone about
my strange experience. I NEVER drank tea or anything else offered at my friend’s home, from
that day onward.
* Some names have been altered to protect the identity of living persons
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER SIX – Where Angels Fear To Tread
About a week or two later, when the coast was clear again (parents out at committee
meetings or visiting friends), I decided to go “walkabout” once more. This time it was with an air
of reckless abandon I am sad to admit. I just felt so damn cocksure of myself.
With no particular plan in mind I thought I could just roam around the ether until I found
someone or something interesting to watch “from above”. So I followed the usual “exit”
procedure, looked down upon my still form lying in bed and drifted upwards to melt through the
ceiling.
No sooner was I outside the house next to the guttering of the roof when I began having
second thoughts. Perhaps this was too aimless after all? Maybe I had better first go back and
rethink the mission? Something was beginning to worry me. An uneasy feeling crept over “me“.
On re-entering the wall high above my body, I made as if to dive, like Superman, back into it.
And … No go! A powerful force pushed me easily back. No matter how hard I tried to
circumvent it, nothing helped … the opposing force remained …. as if trying to swim against a
strong riptide current … only managing to stay in the same position while using every ounce of
energy to resist.
Eventually, I began to panic. “I’m not ready for this; whoever or whatever you are, and you
will not keep me out here. I’m going back NOW”. By now it had occurred to me that the
supernatural force I was grappling with was trying to commandeer my “spiritless” body, which
was just waiting, it seemed, for a change of ownership.
I fought like a man possessed (if you’ll excuse the pun). I knew that I was fighting for my
very life! This battle of wills endured until suddenly and unceremoniously, I was dumped back
inside my head, my body shooting straight up in bed in shock and terror. Gasping for breath, and
shaking with exhaustion (or fear?) I slowly regained my composure. One thing was certain. I was
never going to give “that thing” an opportunity to take over this body.
From that day on I have not purposefully practiced travel on the astral, though there was a
period, later on when my “flying” dreams became so regular and were so realistic, I think they
may well fall into a similar category. Much later in life I learned about astral travel and the
phenomenon of “walk-ins”… spirits who take over unguarded bodies, sometimes during surgical
operations.
Then a family would wonder at the sudden changed behavior patterns of a loved one and say:
“What’s got into him?”
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER SEVEN
- Ghost Ship: The Flying Dutchman
The next adventure I want to share with you took place in my late twenties, after we, my wife
Lorna and I and 2 young children, Cathy and Stuart, moved into our dream home on the
mountainside overlooking Glencairn Beach, with Simon’s Town directly across the bay.
(Simon’s Bay). My children grew up in this free, natural, environment until they left home
around 1994. We had lived in our mountainside “castle” for about 18 years from the time the
children were toddlers of 2 and 3.
(Today I live on the opposite side of the same Glencairn valley, just up the road from the
beach, in a much smaller cottage, no longer overlooking the sea, but with lovely mountainscapes
all around. And wild baboons.)
About 2 years after we moved in, having decorated Stuart’s lovely sunny room as a pirate’s
den, with pirate bunk, curtains and duvets, treasure chest toy box, with a blunderbuss, pistols and
swords on the wall, not to mention the Jolly Roger flag depicting the feared “skull and
crossbones”, a strange ship glided into the bay, one quiet Friday night during the month of April.
Nobody noticed the ship’s arrival. There were no annoying street lights in this developing
seaside suburb, Glencairn Heights, and the dark bay below was pierced only by the sweeping
searchlight of the Roman Rock Lighthouse situated in the middle of Simon’s Bay.
In those times, unlike today, such isolation and solitude was considered perfectly safe, even
idyllic (there were but half a dozen dwellings on the mountainside then). Unlike me, my wife,
Lorna, had to work on Saturday mornings at a commercial bank “up the line” in the suburb of
Rondebosch, nearer to Cape Town. So I would manage the household after taking her down to
the Glencairn railway station where she would board a train at 7.10 am every Saturday morning.
Winter was approaching and so the sun was only just beginning to rise over the far side of the
bay at this time. Also, at this time of year, the changing land temperature relative to the sea
created some spectacular sea mists which would sometimes creep eerily up the valley beneath
our hillside home.
When the alarm clock rang this particular Saturday morning, I got up to make the tea as
usual. Lorna would have a quick bath and attend to her makeup at her dressing table as I got
dressed in casual jeans, T-shirt and sandals.
It was a beautiful calm day and I had in mind to take the children down to the beach for a
few hours after breakfast that morning. They had not yet woken up, but it would not be long
before they bounded in, full of the joys of life. I went over to the bedroom seaside widow and
drew the curtains. There in the bay, clearly discernible in the early morning light, despite wispy
pockets of mist playing “peek-a-boo” over the still surface of the ocean, lay an old-fashioned, 2masted vessel, at anchor. She appeared to be anchored about half way between the lighthouse in
the bay and the Glencairn tidal swimming pool, directly beneath the railway station. The
charming railway line skirts the rocky shoreline from Simon’s Town to Muizenberg where it
then moves inland across the Cape Flats towards Cape Town.
Ships have always held a fascination for me, especially sailing ships of yesteryear, since my
Great, Great, Great Grandfather, Captain George Kilgour, Master of the English Brig “Venus”,
had ferried his family over to Cape Town to settle here in 1823. (I have in my possession, a letter
written to him by his son, in England, informing him of the passing of George’s mother and
asking that his father now send for him to join the family over here. I also have the ship’s prayer
book, from which I removed an old faded parchment bearing a message – in a poem – which I
shall share with you in due course).
There had been no notification in the press or other media about the imminent arrival of an
historic sailing ship, trainer or otherwise, to our shores. This peculiar vessel, though masted and
fully rigged, was not under sail. It had a raised poop deck at the stern from which protruded a
large yellow, glowing lantern. I could see no other lights on the high poop deck, main deck or
bow. Although it was still very gloomy, it could be deduced that the ship was indeed an antique,
not a modern, showy, replica. I fetched my binoculars to get a closer look at the strange vessel
and just then my children tumbled into the bedroom. Soon they too wanted a turn to look at the
ship through my binoculars. I have always been a tease and saw an opportunity to play this one
up to the hilt.
As Lorna continued busily with her final make-up in front of the mirror next to us, I told my
awe-struck children: “That is a Pirate Ship! It has stopped off our beach and the pirates are soon
going to row a small boat ashore, carrying a big treasure chest filled with gold, and diamonds,
and jewels … then they are going to dig a hole in the sand and bury the treasure in it. Then they
are going to row back to their big ship and sail away.
But I am going to take mommy to the station now. And while I am gone, you must eat all
your breakfast. Because when I come back just now, we are all going down to the beach with our
spades and we are going to dig up the treasure!”
The excitement was electrifying. Boy, were they going to co-operate with me this morning!
Leaving the children at the dining room table, their mother kissed them goodbye, and we made
our way to the station by car, whizzing downhill dead on schedule at 7.05 am. Timed like
clockwork, we should no sooner arrive at the station platform when the train would round the
bend and pull into the station.
Soon we were parked right on the platform of Glencairn Railway Station, facing straight out
to sea with the sailing ship still in full view. (Then one could park on the platform as there were
no security fences like today.) From this vantage point, the picture of the ship was much clearer,
being considerably closer. You could even see the rope rigging on the masts. It seemed as if bits
of tangled seaweed dangled from the ropes. In fact the entire ship now resembled more of an old
hulk that had been dredged from the seabed; such was the obvious state of disrepair ... an old,
dark, unpainted wooden hull with shabby rigging and a soft glowing yellow lantern still shining
high above the rudder at the stern.
As we sat there staring, I tried to catch sight of any signs of life aboard. Nothing. Just this
strange old ship, apparently lying peacefully at anchor against pockets of drifting white mist that
served as a backdrop, while the grey morning light increased in intensity, ever quickening.
The train rumbled around the bend and into the station almost immediately and obliterated
our view. We had not been parked there for more than a minute or two. I kissed Lorna goodbye
and she climbed aboard a coach just metres from my car. Then, within seconds, the train pulled
out of the little station, my wife having been the only passenger to board, as was so often the
case during week-ends. On driving back home I could usually catch up with the train as it
trundled across the broad expanse of sandy shoreline of Glencairn Beach. My wife and I would
usually manage one last furtive wave to one another – our little farewell ritual. Then I would
swing off to the left back up the hill towards our mountainside home.
I do not recall looking back down upon the ship as I drove home, but I turned full circle in
the steep, wide road outside my house, to park facing the sea once more. The sound of the car’s
engine had alerted my children, or else they had been watching from any one of our windows
with panoramic views.
The two excited kids ran down the pathway towards me yelling: “Let’s go find the treasure”.
They repeated this over and over as I alighted from the car. OK – I confirmed. We would leave
just as soon as we got our things together. And look, the “pirate ship” was still waiting down
there among the light misty swirls.
By now we were all standing together on my front lawn next to the roadside, looking out to
sea at the ship, when suddenly it began to move. Hang on, I thought, that ship can’t have an
engine – inboard or outboard – and there are no sails up either, not one. How does it manage to
move? It was bearing slowly towards Muizenberg on the Fish Hoek side to the left of our bay,
and away from the Roman Rock Lighthouse on the right. It seemed to be gliding smoothly across
the glassy surface.
By now, the sun was almost up completely and the visibility across False Bay to the
Hottentots Holland Mountains on the far side was near perfect. Only a few stubborn pockets of
low mist remained in patches here and there, and it was into one of these that the old sailing ship,
without sails, now slid. As that mist bank lifted, seconds later, there was no ship to be seen
anywhere on the surface of the water as far as the eye could see. It had simply disappeared …
right in front of our eyes.
I could not readily accept this – No way! I bundled my children into the car and took off
down the hill, over the main road and onto a well-frequented whale viewing site on a high point
jutting out to the left of the beach. Now you could see right across to Fish Hoek, Muizenberg and
Seal Island off Strandfontein Beach – and there was not a sign of the ship to be seen. I knew
these waters intimately having fished, sailed and swum in them my entire life. I understood that
with the visibility as fine as it was right then, the apparent nearness of the distant landmarks I
have mentioned, was illusionary. It would take any modern, motorized craft hours to reach them
– but from here we could see that absolutely nothing suspicious stood anywhere between.
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
FOOTNOTE TO CHAPTER SEVEN
At the time, I was awaiting a formal announcement of my promotion to the position of
Department Head at the large life assurance company, Old Mutual. There was simply no way I
was going to jeopardize my promotion by being reported in the local press as someone “who
claimed” to see ghost sailing ships. I did check with others who might have seen a sailing ship in
the bay that morning, including some of my navy friends, but to no avail. Gratefully, my son,
Stuart, has always remembered the strange event as well. Over time, it receded into memory,
having been neither explained nor recorded.
Then in 1988, when my father died (of Parkinson’s disease), my mother was clearing out
unnecessary possessions, including a collection of my father’s books. She asked me to take what
I wanted – the rest to go to a book dealer. One of the volumes I chose was the popular Reader’s
Digest Book, “STRANGE STORIES – AMAZING FACTS”.
On paging through the book soon afterwards, I came upon the story entitled “Footsteps into
the unknown” and subtitled “The Flying Dutchman”. While everybody here has heard of this old
legend, I was unprepared for what I was about to discover in the opening paragraphs. It appears
that “my” beach had been in the news before. This is how it goes ….
“A burnished haze of heat hung over the blue waters of False Bay, a seaside playground on
the tip of South Africa. It was a blazingly hot day in March, 1939, and on the sun bleached sands
of Glencairn beach some 60 people relaxed beside the warm waters of the Indian Ocean.
Suddenly, out of the haze sailed a fine full-rigged East Indiaman such as had not been seen in
the waters off the Cape for several centuries. Those who noticed her called out to others, and
soon everyone on the beach stood in an excited group, chattering at the edge of the sea.
According to a newspaper report the following day, the ship, ‘with all her sails drawing well,
though there was not a breath of wind at the time, appeared to be standing towards Muizenberg’.
The British South Africa Annual of 1939 reported: ‘With uncanny volition, the ship sailed
steadily on as the Glencairn beach-folk, shaken from their lethargy, stood about keenly
discussing the whys and wherefores of the vessel which seemed to be bent on self-destruction
somewhere on the sands of Strandfontein. Just as the excitement reached its climax, however, the
mystery ship vanished into thin air as strangely as it had come.’
In the days following the appearance of the phantom ship, several theories were advanced …
Mrs. Helene Tydell was among the crowd of witnesses on the beach that day. ‘Let the skeptics
say what they will, that ship was none other than the Flying Dutchman,’ she said.”
Several years ago, a Dutch film company came to Cape Town, to cover the colourful legend
of The Flying Dutchman for one of their TV mystery series. A friend of mine who knew of my
story (I tell anyone who may be interested), alerted me and put me in touch with them. They
came out here, and one day, we all went to my former home on the mountainside (with the new
owner’s consent) and I repeated the story, pointing out exactly where we had stood and watched
the ship. This was all filmed and indeed flighted in Holland, a copy of the Video being sent to
me later. (In payment, I was given a bottle of wine!!)
The same friend I mentioned borrowed the video tape, but her husband inadvertently copied
another movie over most of it. In any event, it was a most “politically correct” production. Very
“tongue in cheek”. The makers had sided with the view of a group of local, weather-beaten,
fishermen who claimed never to have set eyes on such an apparition, ever. Interestingly, another
ski-boat skipper they interviewed described his uncanny brush with the same ghost ship off Cape
Point. However, his testimony and my own were glossed over as mere figments of the
imagination. What idiots, these film-makers! And if the truth be known, most of those “weatherbeaten” fisher-folk are seldom sober as they lie snoozing off their excesses on the way to the
fishing grounds. (As a growing lad I used to join these fishing boats as a “tripper”, so I know
what I am talking about.)
No matter, my son and I will take this experience with us to the grave.
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHT - The Fortune Teller
How I began as a fortune teller is briefly described in the following newspaper article about me. I
will also tell you about my very first Tarot reading.
There’s a fortune in this business
By Gill Turnbull
Staff Reporter
Southern Argus
Thursday February 7, 1991
Not your archetypal gypsy crone hunched over a crystal ball, this fortune teller. So what
extraordinary set of circumstances led a man who is a top business executive with a large
financial institution to set up tent and tell fortunes at the Constantia Fair?
“Nothing happens by accident,” says Bruce Kilgour, advertising manager for an insurance
corporation.
“I was browsing around a library for info for a family tree and the more I delved into the past the
more I felt drawn to the future”.
‘Conversation Piece’
“Later, when I picked up a set of Tarot cards I was fascinated by them and bought them for my
wife to use as a conversation piece.”
Bruce’s fascination with the cards prompted him to begin studying the subject in depth and when
his first prediction came true he realized his psychic powers were well developed. Tarot cards
date from the early 15th century and focus on the subject’s subconscious and act as a tool of
communication. The images reflect concepts such as pride, health, happiness, despair and fortune
(fate). Bruce uses intuition to come to a conclusion. When he started telling fortunes for charity
Bruce expected to be swamped by bored housewives. He was surprised, then, to find most of his
clients were professional people.
Judging by the long queue outside his tent and the list of appointments made by those who had
met him last year and the year before, the news of Bruce’s success is spreading,
***
The first reading I ever attempted took place in our home in Glencairn Heights, when our
friend and neighbour, Annelie * came to pay us a visit one Thursday evening, while her husband,
Timothy*, attended his weekly “Toastmasters” meeting.
Having made no progress in trying to interest my wife with the fascinating card imagery, I
found myself totally immersed in a few books I had acquired for reference. The topic was
mesmerizing and all of my spare time was devoted to delving further. At first the light
glimmered, then flickered, then suddenly it shone so brightly for me I suddenly realized that I
knew instinctively what was required of me, as a would-be Tarot reader, to do justice to this ageold system of esoteric symbols.
So when Annelie came around in the early evening, the subject inevitably led to fortune
telling and psychic ability, and I went to fetch “my” new Ansata Tarot Deck, which was
beautifully, though mysteriously decorated with cosmic images and mythology combined.
Annelie appeared game to act as a guinea-pig and so the cards were laid out in a simple 3card spread representing the past, present and future. Annelie’s question was put to me, the
reader: “How will my marriage turn out?” That’s all she stated. Though we had hitherto been
next-door neighbours, for a short while, this was the first social call she had paid us. We had
very little knowledge of each other beyond friendly waves and greetings.
I, determined to tap into the unknown with nothing but intuitive feeling to guide me, scanned
the images of the cards and slowly allowed my truth to form. Perhaps a little too bluntly, I told
her directly: “There is strife looming. Your marriage will end suddenly, without any warning.
You will be shocked and devastated and will want to go overseas to get over the hurt. ” I told her
that I was sorry to be the one to break the bad news like this, but that I had to be entirely honest
in my interpretation. She looked up, slightly puzzled, and I could see disagreement written all
over her face. “That problem you see is definitely going to be a fight with my mother-in-law”,
she said. “It is not between my husband and I.” Since her only enquiry had been so tightly
phrased, I was adamant that there was trouble brewing between her and her husband. This was
politely rejected.
On seeing her to the front door, a strange thing happened – way out of range of any
“supernatural” cards. I simply felt compelled to tell her this: “By the way, you are about to hear
from a long-lost friend. You will be very glad to re-establish communication.” Annelie, by now,
thought I was clearly tripping on some evil green weed, and she laughed good-naturedly. “Have
some coffee and go sleep it off”, she suggested.
Two days later I happened to be mowing our steeply sloping back lawn with a Flymo when
up the adjacent driveway next door drove Annelie’s car. As I continued mowing, out of the
corner of my eye I saw her walk down the driveway again to their letter box at the side of the
road. The next thing she was leaning over our dividing garden wall and waving a handful of
papers, calling me urgently. Switching off the Flymo I crossed over to her. “Do you know what
this is?” she gesticulated with a fistful of half opened mail. “Haven’t a clue”, I replied. It’s a
letter from an old school friend. She’s now in Canada. Its years since they emigrated and I
haven’t seen her since.”
I nodded in acknowledgement, though a prickly feeling ran all the way down my spine as the
truth slowly dawned on me. I knew then and there (and I believe she did too) that the rest of my
“prophecy” was certain to follow. Neither of us said a thing more about it.
Approximately three weeks later, I returned home from work to find my wife consoling a
visibly distraught neighbour. Her husband Timothy had come home earlier that day and
announced straight out: “Annelie, I’m leaving you. I’ve been having an affair with a woman
from our Toastmasters group and we’ve decided to get together …. today!” I’ve just come home
to fetch a spare bed and some personal possessions … the rest I’ll see to later.” And he literally
walked right out of her life. Talk about sudden!
Needless to say, in time, Annelie met up with a potential new partner but then insisted I give
him a Tarot reading before moving in with him. This I was happily obliged to do for by now I
was well on my way to fame and “fortune” as a popular fairground Tarot card reader.
* Names have been altered to protect the identity of living persons
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER NINE – Murder Most Foul
My part-time career as a fortune teller spanned several years. These, on reflection, were years
of incredible growth along the road to understanding the mysteries of life … my own spiritual
quest.
As many before have discovered, deep psychological involvement in the emotional affairs of
others comes at a price. For we are often drained of our own energy which flows to those we
serve. For example, if I were to spend an entire day “counseling” complete strangers at a
fairground, it would literally take me days to recover. I would be quite mentally exhausted.
Somehow too, the “lessons” you impart, became huge learning experiences for yourself. This
completes the flow of energy full circle.
Then I would recharge my batteries by hiking through nature. In Cape Town there is more
than an adequate supply of peace and tranquility to be found in the great outdoors, our mountain
trails and stunning seascapes.
And I accomplished a few “miracles” among the hundreds of people who approached me for
genuine assistance with their life’s problems. There was a young man who had suffered with
epilepsy all his life who, through sheer trust, allowed us to explore a “future” in which this
debilitating disease played no part. A dangerous mind game, it was like an ancient spiritual
initiation ritual and I shall never forget the bravery of the young man as we confronted and slew
his particular dragon. It was an incredibly intense session which ended in a bright ray of hope. A
year later the man phoned me to say that since our meeting that day, he had not suffered another
epileptic fit! He said he was sure that he was now fully cured and so he felt he needed to thank
me.
Another recollection I have is the look of sheer astonishment on a young lady’s face when, in
the twinkling of an eye, I stripped away the camouflage surrounding her wicked little secret. We
had begun with my usual “warm-up” exercise to become familiar with the cards themselves.
(Here, the subject’s subconscious reactions are being deeply probed by my own subconscious.)
At some point, when the psychic connection had been made, something in the atmosphere
made my skin crawl. I saw the goose-flesh rise upon my bare forearm and asked the lady
immediately, “Did you feel that?” “Yes”, she stammered, while hurriedly trying to flatten the
visible goose-flesh on her own arms.
We turned over some cards. I began: “You have a friend … Your best friend I believe … The
words of a song are coming to me …” (This was also a more gentle approach for me to take.)
“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene … Please don’t take my man, just because you can … Would you like me
to elaborate further?”
The lady flopped forward. “How do you do that?” she implored. After acknowledging her
guilt she left my tent pretty shaken. I am sure she never persevered with the adulterous
relationship with her best friend’s husband, the shame and guilt of “discovery” being more than
she could bear.
Most of my revelations through the world of Tarot, Astrology, Rune-casting, I Ching, Mah
Jongh, Kabbalah, and the Crystal Ball will go to the grave with me. Of our multi-dimensional
existence, I need no further proof. These esoteric systems come closer to “what is” than most
religious beliefs can ever do. They have stood the test of time in spite of vigorous opposition by
the unenlightened, often led by organized religion.
An avenue worth paying close attention to today is the subject of quantum physics ... the
world of sub-atomic particles … where it can be proved that “something” can be formed out of
“nothing” (or perhaps come from another dimension) and that “thought” can direct matter, i.e.
what you “think” will ultimately manifest “in reality”.
I will complete this chapter with one final reading. It is the last “commercial” reading I gave
before leaving my mountainside home soon after my divorce, which, incidentally, was also on
the cards.
One day my doorbell rang and I opened the door to a stranger, a “butch” looking middleaged woman wearing tight slacks and carrying a large black handbag. “Are you the “medium?”
she asked. “Er … no … why? … Has someone told you about me?” It turned out that her
hairdresser had referred her to me for a “psychic reading”. Well in that case she had come to the
right place!
“Please come inside”, I said and led her to my round dining room table next to a window
overlooking the beautiful panorama below. She seemed a bit flustered and fidgety. Before even
taking a seat, she said she hadn’t come for a long, protracted session; rather, she only wanted to
know what was in store for her in the near future. Nothing more, nothing less.
Slightly taken aback as I recall, I fetched my Ansata astro tarot deck, removed the 56 minor
arcana suit cards, and asked her to shuffle the remaining 22 major arcana or trump cards – the
very heart of the Tarot! Then she was to remove one card from the face down cards and hand it
to me. She handed me a single card. It was the unblindfolded figure of Justice. Let me explain
the profundity of that image. Can you imagine our own justice system portrayed thus? - i.e.
having no need to hide away (behind a blindfold) from truth for fear of one’s own prejudices and
personal bias! … but relying purely on integrity! It simply wouldn’t work for mankind.
I pronounced my own judgment: “I don’t know what you have done but you are going to pay
a heavy price for your deeds.” Retribution will be swift and fair. You are going to be severely
punished. You understand this implicitly.”
I have often been faced with shock and disbelief but the abject terror on this woman’s face is
still etched in my memory. She turned as white as a sheet and plonked herself down on a chair.
Would I mind if she smoked a cigarette she had asked, trembling uncontrollably as she reached
for her bag. There was a pregnant pause as she fumbled and lit a cigarette. “Okay”, she gestured,
“read my cards, tell me everything!” I set an ashtray beside her then began.
The cards further illumined that she would be leaving South Africa permanently ...
emigrating in order to escape the disgrace that surrounded her and her family while remaining
here.
“Do you know who I am?” this disheveled, sorry looking woman asked. “I haven’t a clue”, I
replied. “Well,” she confided, “I am Maryanne Buckwater*, the co-accused in the “steakhouse
murder” trial.
The newspapers had been full of it. A woman partner in a local suburban steakhouse
enterprise had hired a kitchen-hand to murder her male partner for financial gain. The partner
was stabbed to death with a kitchen knife and his frozen corpse was later found on the floor of
the walk-in cold-room. The kitchen-hand, a prime suspect had been arrested and, turning state’s
evidence, implicated his employer, Maryanne Buckwater, as the murder master-mind. Clever
lawyers and some fancy footwork later; a plea bargain was struck with the state, effectively
reducing the sentence of the kitchen-hand, while a suspended sentence was handed down to
Maryanne.
In his summing up the judge made no bones about the guilt of the co-accused, who escaped
immediate imprisonment on a mere technicality relating to the plea bargain.
Now here she sat in front of me, prior to the verdict, unable to deny her guilty roll in the
dastardly murder of her business partner.
I have no idea what ultimately became of her though I am certain she did as the cards
foretold and left the country to start another life overseas, cloaked with anonymity, and covered
in guilt.
* Names have been changed to protect the identity of living persons
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER TEN – A Blessing and a Curse
At about the same time I discovered the Tarot with its links to the future, I was deeply
immersed in an all-consuming project directly associated with the past.
In every family, someone becomes the natural keeper of the family records, or genealogist.
This responsibility was destined to rest with me. When I attended my Grandfather K’s funeral in
1973, where as a pall-bearer I had almost fallen into the open grave at West Park Cemetery (I
hadn’t been well at the time), my Grandmother had passed on a few shopping bags full of
historical documents and old photographs constituting the Kilgour family history. Apparently my
Grandfather had bequeathed these to me alone, the rest of his estate residing with his widow.
That included his valuable stamp collection of a lifetime, which we knew he had intended to be
sold and the proceeds divided between his grandchildren.
Both my Grandfather’s and Grandmother’s estates were wound up by son-in-law executor,
Maurice, a self-made, miserly, stockbroker. That very valuable stamp collection was never to be
seen or heard of again.* Not only that but my father was himself disinherited amid hostile family
acrimony. It is most fortunate that I retained possession of the family records.
Then in 1988 my father died after a long battle with Parkinson’s disease. I had not been able
to fully reconcile with him to the very end. The resident Hospice Padre urged me to “clear” with
the dying man and so forgive him. I declined, saying that I did not want my father to die feeling
that he had somehow failed. Later, when I viewed his lifeless form, he appeared to me as
someone who had literally been tortured to death. His countenance was twisted grotesquely by
pain or fear as if he had witnessed something terrible in the very last moments of his life.
Soon after his passing, and urged by an inner sense of duty, I set out to put my family history
into proper perspective. I now represented the oldest surviving generation and wished to leave
behind a much tidier heritage than the jumble that lay before me. First, some wrongs needed to
be set right.
After serious deliberation, I set about the task of writing up a comprehensive family tree,
essentially from the wealth of fastidious notes my grandfather had made. It was to be no ordinary
family tree, this collection of Kilgours. Furthermore, I would recreate my Grandfather’s lost
stamp collection in as far as I could. This would redeem the intrinsic value of my family
heritage, so to speak. Then I would write up a detailed history of all my ancestors within the
stamp and postal history collection. All family milestones would appear chronologically between
the country’s stamp issues right to the present date. Each family member, for instance would be
“mounted” next to his or her “birth” and “death” stamp. It was to be known as “Impressions”,
containing as it would, real-life impressions of those who had gone before as well as paper
“impressions” or the stamps that had served them in their day.
Another skill I was to acquire, in order to do justice to the exercise, was to become a
calligrapher, landing up as editor and committee member for The Cape Friends of Calligraphy. (I
am grateful to say that this immense task was largely accomplished by the time of my divorce
and also bears testimony to my beginnings as a devout stamp collector.)
Poring over the old documents one evening, I picked up the original prayer book that had
belonged to Captain George Kilgour, Master of the “Venus” which brought the family to Cape
Town in 1823. A faded old parchment dropped out from between the leaves onto the table before
me. Unable to read it properly, I fetched a magnifying glass and began to transcribe the old
copperplate writing … a short poem. It felt like this message had been delivered personally to me
from past ages. Also, the first lines seemed a command for me to repeat the message to
whomever I came across, whenever appropriate. This is a form of blessing as you will read and I
will now dictate it to you:
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
Blessing
I say to thee, do thou repeat
To the first man thou mayest meet
In lane, highway or open street
That he, and we, and all men live
Under a canopy of love
As broad as the blue sky above
And ere thou leave him say thou this,
Yet one word more, they only miss
The warming of the final bliss
Who will not count it true that love
Blessing, not cursing, rules above
And in it we work and move
One thing further make him know
That to believe these things are so
This firm faith never to forego
In spite of all that seems at strife
With blessing, all with curses rife
That this is blessing, this is life.
It occurred to me that one day, greed and avarice could once more raise their ugly heads,
threatening to destroy the grand work of family roots and unity that my magnum opus
“Impressions” now represents. Therefore, I decided to protect it forever, with a curse. Whereas
each volume of the massive postal history family tree is prefaced with a handwritten copy of the
above blessing, it is also post scripted by a curse, another poem which I composed for the
purpose.
Curse
Know this:
Twas Kilgour sweat these records formed
Which, mixed with blood and ink,
Impressions cast and lives adorned
To forge a mighty link
‘Try break this chain, it can’t be done
Without sore price to pay
When nothing but dishonour’s won
Forever and a day
Who dares to rob, to trick, to seize
Such avarice shall cost
The one thing you most dearly prize
Will be forever lost
Worse; he that would these works destroy
His very soul condemns
To Satan’s brand of misery
’Til Doomsday makes amends
Their destiny’s in Kilgour hands
Right to eternity
As long as waves still lap the sands
Let these ‘Impressions’ be
* Only my grandfather’s cherished thematic horse stamp collection was later resurrected and
came to me through other clandestine family doings years later.
CHAPTER ELEVEN – Radiant Spirit
Of all the things I have ever witnessed, nothing compares to that which I am about to
recount. Without doubt, it is the single most awesome experience of my life.
We were not a particularly closely-knit family and even after my father’s death, my mother
continued to lead her own private life in a large seafront block of flats in Muizenberg, about 30
minutes drive away. While she had an inherent, excitable nature plus a few annoying habits, such
as talking “the hind leg off a donkey”, she was an extremely generous person who gave much of
herself, especially to those elderly or lonely folk in her complex requiring nursing of one kind or
another. The nursing spirit within her, refused to take a rest, despite the arduous years of dealing
with my father’s own draining illness.
On occasion she would do a spot of “house sitting” for her friends who went away on holiday
for short periods. It was while she was doing a stint of “sitting” that I first suspected she might be
gravely ill. I had gone around visiting her in the leafy suburb of Constantia, when she confided
that she was having trouble with a persistent cough. I told her to take proper care of herself for a
change and insisted she make an appointment with a specialist the next day.
Within a day or two my mother called me on the telephone. She said to me, ever so slowly:
“Bruce ….. I’ve got cancer …. I’m riddled with it!” I was not shocked as I had somehow
anticipated bad news, but I was nevertheless extremely upset to hear it. Up until the present
moment, nobody would have dreamed that my mother had anything wrong with her. However,
when we moved her to hospital, almost immediately, I noticed how all her affairs had been
placed in meticulous order.
She also left comprehensive notes about all matters outstanding, a sign of subconscious
foreboding, to be sure. We found our next wedding anniversary gift from my mother,
unwrapped. It was a small wooden lamp-stand. The gift tag on it read: “Enjoy yourselves, it’s
later than you think.”
Groote Schuur, where the world’s first heart transplant was carried out, is Cape Town’s
largest hospital. At the time it was still considered one of the best. It was here that my mother
now found herself, in the brand new wing, overlooking the natural deer park on the mountain
slopes of Devil’s Peak. After a barrage of tests it was determined that the disease was far too
advanced to even consider remedial treatment. After a week or so she was transferred directly to
St. Luke’s Hospice in nearby Kenilworth.
Most evenings, on my way home, I would call in to the hospice to visit my stricken mother.
It became evident that the doses of morphine administered for pain relief had been slowly
increased to higher and higher levels. This contributed to my mother’s heightened sense of
humour which often left her visitors in better spirits than would ordinarily have been the case.
One night, after a particularly grueling day at the office, I sat beside her pensively, holding her
hand. “Never mind my boy”, she said, “I’m coming back as an owl and I’ll look after you”. I
laughed softly in feigned agreement. Little did I know just how serious she was. You will hear
more about this shortly.
I arranged for my elderly grandmother to fly down from Durban to bid farewell to her
beloved daughter, Peggy. This was the second child my grandmother would lose during her own
lifetime, an infant son, Ian, having succumbed in the Belgian Congo.
My mother asked one last favour of me. I was to bring the photograph of her own
grandmother, “Granny Ning” from the flat and place it at her bedside. My mother had absolutely
doted on her grandmother, one of South Africa’s early nursing pioneers. Her own life was
similarly devoted to the profession when, through the war years, she had served proudly as a
nursing sister at Durban’s Addington Hospital. I had the cherished black and white photograph
specially framed and brought it to my mother as part of her forthcoming “birthday present” for
the 22nd July. (She was to pass away on the morning of the 21st, still aged 68 years, exactly the
same age my father had lived to see).
The last evening I spoke to my mother, she told me something about my father in confidence
and she also begged me not to leave her side that evening. It was not practical for me to stay
over, though I regret I did not remain with her until she finally lost consciousness. The next day,
around lunchtime, the word went round and the entire family converged on the hospice to pay
their last respects to my mother, now in a coma in an isolated “dying” ward.
A nursing sister ushered us all into the little room where my mother now lay, dressed in her
new “nightie”, a last birthday gift from my grandmother, who stood there holding her daughter’s
limp left hand. Uncle Theo, my mother’s younger brother held her right hand. Also present were
my brother and sister and their spouses. Uncle Jack and Aunty Joan, cousins nieces and nephews.
My wife and I stood at the foot of the bed gazing directly at my dying mother. Plus the everpresent picture of “Granny Ning”.
Soon, her breathing become laboured, her chest lifted and she gave one last breath of life,
exhaling in a long sigh which ended in a death-rattle. Simultaneously, a bright, swirling white
light arose from my mother’s form, like a huge swarm of white bees, glistening brilliantly in the
sunlight. As this glowing, turning “ball” of light lifted slowly into the air above the bed, I pointed
to it and cried out aloud: “Look at that light!”
I remember watching my brother close my mother’s eyelids gently while, at the same time, I
become aware of an incredible feeling of peace encompassing my entire being. I’ve often heard
it described as “the peace that knows no understanding“. Then my distraught grandmother
approached me, sobbing. She put her arms around me when suddenly she relaxed, drew back and
looked at me. She smiled and wiped away her last tears, apparently completely composed.
Taking me by the arm she led me out into the garden and told me she wanted to stay at my home
until after the funeral. Later I was to learn that a miraculous change had come over her when she
had embraced me. It seems the “peace” which had enveloped me, as if delivered by some giant,
invisible paintbrush, had crossed directly onto my grandmother when she touched me. This she
was to tell all her friends and family ever since. It was the reason she wanted to stay near me for
as long as possible.
Certain that I was not the only person in the room to have witnessed my mother’s “light”, I
approached each one in turn. All of them, including my wife who had been standing right beside
me, had not seen anything like it. However, my mother’s brother, Theo, was more than interested
to hear about it and said he needed to speak to me.
We got together again later that same afternoon at the “wake” at my Brother’s home in
Bergvliet. Taking me aside Uncle Theo began to relate an experience he himself had had at the
deathbed of his “Granny Ning” in 1949. I could hardly believe my ears. He described a light that
arose off her precisely the same as the one I had seen rise from my mother. Theo, who had been
holding his sister’s hand to the last, had, unfortunately, not seen it happen again.
I decided then and there that I would re-unite my mother with her granny, by taking her ashes
up to Stellawood Cemetery in Durban, and interring them in the same old grave.
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER TWELVE – Knock Three Times
The days following my mother’s passing were spent together with my grandmother at our
mountainside home, overlooking the sea … a most tranquil, healing environment. Granny Vee
did not wish to join us at the funeral of her daughter, preferring to stay at home alone in these
peaceful surroundings and reminisce.
Although I half expected to witness another strange occurrence at the funeral service in the
little stone Muizenberg church, nothing of a kind happened. But the Anglican priest disappointed
us immensely. My mother, who had attended this same little church regularly, had, true to her
helpful and generous nature, taken on the responsibility of providing fresh flowers every Sunday.
Now, well into the funeral service, it became quite apparent that the priest had absolutely no clue
as to who it was he was burying. His service was studded with “she” and “her” to an almost
embarrassing degree. My mother’s name was not mentioned once. I felt extremely angry about it
and could not trust myself to “thank” that sanctimonious priest afterwards. We had donated the
beautiful floral wreaths to the church and I was afraid I would tell him exactly what he could do
with them!
Then we pallbearers lifted my mother’s coffin into the waiting hearse and we watched
silently as it headed for the crematorium.
That afternoon, when home again with Granny Vee, she began to relate an interesting tale. It
concerned the funeral of her own mother, “Granny Ning”, whose portrait had stood beside my
mother’s own deathbed.
Ning had always maintained that there was life after death. In fact, she had gone as far as to
tell her family that, when she died, she would give them a sign that there was indeed an afterlife.
Between them they had agreed that the sign should take the form of a knock. She was to “knock
three times” from beyond the grave as a certain sign of her survival!
When, in December 1949, the earthly sands of time ran out for Ning, her grandson Theo was
to witness her “transformation” as I have already explained. She was buried in the sub-tropical,
Garden-of-Eden-like, Stellawood cemetery on the verdant Berea, above Durban city.
Returning home from Ning’s funeral, my uncle and aunt, Jack and Joan Todd, sat down in
their lounge with their baby girl, my cousin Alayne, on the floor in a playpen before them. The
humidity was fierce and the funeral had drained them completely. It was one of those sweltering,
airless, tropical days that not many Europeans can ever get used to. His formal attire drenched
with perspiration and desperate for liquid refreshment, in the form of a gin and tonic, topped with
ice-blocks, Uncle Jack set about fixing some drinks.
Around the corner, in the hallway, there was a sudden loud knock on the door. “I’ll get it”,
said Joan as she made for the door, which, surprisingly, she found ajar. “No-one here”, she
exclaimed “but the door is wide open.” So saying she pushed the door firmly shut and went back
to the lounge. No sooner had she sat down again when there was another loud noise from the
hallway. This time Jack peered around to find the door still standing open. Castigating his wife
for her failed attempt, he swung the door closed with deliberate force to ensure that it shut tightly
and would henceforth remain shut. He returned to serve the drinks. As they were taking their first
sip, there was another loud bang from the hall. The heavy teak door had been swung wide open
for the third time, there being not a breath of wind or sign of life about, human or animal.
Thereafter, the door stayed shut and was never again known to open “all by itself”.
I am now happy to share this little family secret with the world.
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTEEN – Through Tinted Lenses
Cremation is a popular modern choice and was the preferred method of “disposal” willed by
my mother.
Since I had planned to relocate her remains to Durban, I had my mother’s ashes contained in
a handsome wooden casket, portable enough to pass as hand luggage on an airplane. In those
days it was part of my job to attend to the “upliftment” of my company’s physical branch image,
and I traveled the country extensively as a result. On this particular occasion I was to arrange a
“dog-leg’ detour from Johannesburg to Cape Town, via Durban. I also arranged to spend the
weekend in Durban with my favourite uncle, Bob, my mother’s other brother who ran a modest
guest resort on the Durban Bluff. Granny Vee was to join us there.
I’ve always had a soft spot for Durban, port city and holiday playground on our east coast.
As a child I had fabulous memories of the beach arcades, fun fairs, aquarium, paddling ponds,
and the Rickshaw Boys in full Zulu regalia. Also the endless balmy, tropical days, winter or
summer, where no-one ever wears a jersey. And afternoon thunderstorms with their drenching
downpours. Green hills and valleys, monkeys and giant leguans (lizards). Luke warm seawater,
with life guards and shark nets at all the popular bathing beaches. The ice rink and the drive-in
cinemas added to the attractions which were not yet available to us kids in dowdy old Cape
Town. (Equally unforgettable, was the long train journey in those last days of steam, when the
dinner gongs chimed a merry tune, beckoning passengers to the dining car with its tables draped
in stiff white linen with unmistakable SAR/SAS motif and springbok’s head.)
During the flight from Johannesburg I was seated next to a large man who was cooped up
uncomfortably in his seat, his feet brushing against my “parcel” on the floor between us. Finally,
he asked if I could not find another place for it. I politely declined saying that it was something
very personal. He persisted, demanding to know what my parcel contained. “My mother’s
ashes”, I blurted in reply. It was amazing to see how much space suddenly became available
between our two seats. It may be a useful ploy to remember ….
Arriving at Durban Airport on Friday night, I breathed in the familiar atmosphere
nostalgically, hired an Avis car and made my way to “Seaglen” seaside resort on the nearby
Bluff.
A fond reception awaited me as usual and we spent the evening and following day
reminiscing over bitter sweet memories of my mother, the family and the past. A fond reception
awaited me as usual and we spent the evening and following day reminiscing over bitter sweet
memories of my mother, the family and the past.
On Saturday night we all retired early for we were to visit the Stellawood cemetery on
Sunday, where I would bury my mother’s wooden urn on top of her Granny Ning’s grave. I was
comfortably accommodated in the spare room of the cottage.
In the early hours of the morning, I woke up most distressed. My Rayban sunglasses, a
cherished gift from my wife, had been stolen from me. I was extremely upset. Then I noticed a
little red light glowing on the spare refrigerator at the back of the room and I slowly realised
where I was. It had been a bad dream after all. However, the vividness of the dream had been
uncanny… far too real … and I felt uncomfortable about simply dismissing it. I got up to check
and found my Raybans in their protective case precisely where I had left them.
The next day, we set off for the cemetery, which was not as lush as usual, having experienced
a bit of drought that year. Still, it was a beautiful place to behold and I was glad that it would be
the last resting place for my mother, whose own gardens had always been the pride of the
neighbourhood. Not only that but she would be reunited with her dear old Granny Ning in this
garden paradise forever!
My grandmother directed us easily to the section where Ning’s weathered headstone stood
beneath the foliage of an exotic palm tree. I had brought my art kit and calligraphy pens with me
as the family wished me to inscribe my mother’s name next to the faded name of her granny
upon the stone.
We set to work and had soon dug a hole about a metre deep in the top of the grave. Into the
hole we placed my mother’s urn and covered it all up with earth. Then I fetched my writing
equipment and, lying almost prone across the surface of the grave, I inscribed my mother’s full
name in a Gothic script on the lower face of the headstone. The family took photographs of the
event which I still have today.
On completion I began to pack my things away but all of sudden, I could not locate my
sunglasses. My Cousin’s wife sprang to the rescue reminding me where she had seen me put
them while loading the car boot. She was right and I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I might
have buried them with the urn. This would have been too close to my dream for comfort.
So I clutched the case tightly and we drove back home in high spirits. In the early evening I
packed my few belongings into my suitcase, making sure that my sunglasses were zipped up
inside my toiletry bag and that the latter was firmly stowed inside the suitcase. For some reason I
had become paranoid about the safety of my Raybans.
Later that evening on arriving home, I retrieved my toiletry bag and triumphantly set my
sunglasses on the pedestal at the side of our bed. The following morning turned out to be bleak
and grey, threatening rain. It was not the sort of weather for sunglasses so I left them where they
were and made for the front door saying my goodbyes. “WAIT!”, I thought, “I am not leaving
those sunglasses behind”. I was convinced that it would be the last I saw of them. So I picked
them up and placed them in my inside breast pocket.
Arriving at work in Wale Street, Cape Town, I removed my jacket in my private office and
started going through a very full in-basket, having been away for several days. Just then my
secretary entered and told me there was a crisis in the art studio. A critical deadline for artwork
had been reached and only I knew how to assist the art director. Would I please help? Closing
my office door behind me I hurried to the art studio down the passage.
At the end of the day I returned, exhausted but triumphant. We had saved the day! I picked
up my jacket and left, locking my office behind me. As I crossed over Wale Street to my parking
garage, I instinctively felt for my sunglasses in my breast pocket. No luck, no glasses! Well there
had been such an emergency that morning I could easily have left them on my desk.
I was in early the next day to check. Not a trace of my sunglasses anywhere! An uneasy
feeling came over me and I knew that it was no use, you can’t beat the system!
Determined to nip all further theft in the bud, I kept my office double-locked at all times.
Soon my secretary told me that the cleaning lady had complained about this development
whereupon she had been told of my missing sunglasses. The cleaning lady’s eyes had lighted up
and she advanced that she had recently seen two ladies from a nearby department examining a
pair of sunglasses in the ladies toilets. The specs and case fitted the description perfectly. “Tell
them all”, I said, as I was about to leave for the airport once more, “that I want those sunglasses
back on this desk the day I get back or I will bring in the police!”
Needless to say, those Raybans sat on my desktop when I returned after a few days. (As a
matter of fact I am looking at them right now, because they have become a precious keepsake). I
wondered deeply about my mother’s “light” and her connection to Granny Ning as well as
Ning’s ability to reach out and signal from the dead. Now my mother was with her and I had
most definitely been forewarned of the theft of my sunglasses … sunglasses which my wife had
given me. Those were all clues … plus the fact that the loss had not been permanent … this sign
had not been intended to hurt me materially … perhaps it was merely meant to warn me …. Of
what?
Within a few months the penny was to drop. My wife’s love affair with another man broke
out into the open. The shades literally dropped from my eyes. Had I been more receptive I might
have paid better attention to my “mother” who, I’m sure, had wanted me to stop looking at the
world through tinted lenses. I believe she wanted me to see what was really happening around
me. “Look, look, look!”
However, before this revelation was to unfold, my mother truly did keep her dying promise
to look after me …. in a far more dramatic manner ….
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER FOURTEEN – When Time Stood Still
Many have escaped death miraculously. Some too have experienced the strange phenomenon
of time passing in “slow motion” while catastrophic events have overtaken them - as if the world
itself were coming to a complete standstill. Perhaps this is why Hollywood movies introduce the
effect of slow motion, often at the height of dramatic scenes, to emphasize the full psychological
impact in frame by frame detail.
Back in the thick of things at work, part of my corporate function was to promote and
maintain my company’s corporate image. With approximately fifty main branches dotted around
South Africa, many having been acquired through company mergers, there was stubborn
resistance to change. Therefore, in “selling” and implementing a new, unified corporate identity,
I was kept extremely busy.
Preparing for a round trip by road, I had hired two new Volkswagen Micro Buses. These
were loaded to capacity with our brand new range of “point-of-sale” material, signage and
decals, plus tools for implementation. Two small teams of hand-picked personnel were to
accompany me on the extended mission.
Because of last minute delays with supplies, we nosed out of the company’s Cape Town
basement garage approximately two hours behind schedule. The leading vehicle was driven by
Harold with passengers, Connie and Jonathan on board with him. I had decided to take the wheel
of the other bus for the first leg of the journey because I planned to hand over the reins to my
junior colleague, Bernard, once we reached the long arid stretches of the Karoo. Then I would
park myself down among the freight in the rear for an afternoon nap, which I felt sure I deserved.
I would justify this by saying. “Where does the big gorilla sleep? – He sleeps wherever he wants
to sleep!”
Our convoy of two vehicles was soon headed out of town on the N1 towards the winelands of
Paarl, the famous du Toit’s Kloof Tunnel, and the great beyond! Harold, up ahead, had decided
to catch up some lost time and he put his foot down flat. These powerful vehicles, even though
fully laden, could easily manage 130k – 140k per hour which I found myself chasing despite the
120k speed limit.
Just a few kilometres before the main Paarl turnoff, I thought better of it. I was not at all
comfortable with our speed and suddenly made a conscious decision to drop back to the speed
limit. If my partner up front did not get the message soon, so be it, we would meet them at a
regular service stop later on. I watched the needle of my speedometer drop back below 120k.
There was a sudden loud explosion at the back of us. Bernard and I looked at each other
questioningly. We both wore our regulation safety belts. Almost in unison we cried out “the
tire!” when all hell began to break loose. Hanging on to the steering wheel for dear life, it
reminded me of a runaway wagon in an old Western, where the ill-fated cowboy was simply no
match for the wildly bolting horses.
Careful not to tread too heavily on the brakes for fear of tipping the vehicle over, I saw that
we were headed for the centre island and into the oncoming traffic on the other side. Then came
another loud “bang”, even louder than the first, and we were lifted up into the air. I did not know
it then, but a car behind us had attempted to overtake our stricken micro bus when we had veered
directly into his path. Although the collision prevented us from mounting the centre island and
certain annihilation, it also flipped us over, end-for-end.
This is when time stood still.
Battling for control, the second explosion tapered off into a muffled boom. In dead slow
motion I witnessed the following: The clear blue sky was dotted with one or two white clouds.
Then the tarred road with its white lines rose slowly to meet the windscreen in front of me.
Shattered glass from the windscreen floated towards my face. I thought, “That’s okay, I’m
wearing my sunglasses.” The sound of glass and twisted metal could be heard on echo like a
record played at very slow speed. Once more the sky lit up in front of me and there was
complete, protracted silence as the vehicle somersaulted through the air again.
While all this was going on, another strange, yet familiar thing happened. The feeling of
“peace” that had come over me at my mother’s deathbed now came over me again. As it
enveloped me, I looked across at Bernard, and I knew for certain that we were both going to be
alright, invincible, even if we had just been forced over the edge of a fly-over bridge. (This
thought was precipitated by the feeling of flying in “prolonged” silence.)
Finally we came to a halt on our side, on the left edge of the highway. We alighted from the
driver’s door, after extricating ourselves from our seatbelts and tangled windscreen wipers.
Neither of us had a single scratch upon our bodies. Not so much as a pin-prick! I reached back
inside the shattered cab and brought out my traveling, stainless steel flask. As we stood there
silently sipping coffee from the flask top, I turned to my shaken companion and asked: “Do you
see any owls around here?” He replied: “Owls? Owls? What owls?” Clearly, he was not in a fit
state for me to explain.
The emergency vehicles began to arrive and a large crowd had gathered to watch from up
high on the embankment. The first Metro emergency vehicle, equipped with the “jaws of life”
pulled up. “Where are the passengers?” they shouted, surveying the scene. “Here we are”, I
replied, coffee cup in hand. “Dis 'n wonderwerk” (It’s a miracle), a rescuer proclaimed in
Afrikaans. The microbus had flipped and rolled several times downhill, spewing its entire cargo
over both lanes of the national road, to land up as a flattened hulk. Like a crushed matchbox. The
car that had hit us, also stood, badly damaged, about fifty metres further along. The members of
the rescue units had never before witnessed such a serious accident without any casualties.
And so my mother kept her dying promise to come back “as an owl” and look after me. Now
I always wear a little owl on a silver chain around my neck.
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTEEN – The Polite Corpse
For many years I was responsible for the layout and production of an in-house publication for
the local funeral industry. This kept me abreast of all the latest fads for funerals, bereavement
services and … well … death. My friend and colleague of long standing, Dr. Chris Molyneux, a
most amiable personality, was the publication’s editor and together we produced an edition every
quarter. Not surprisingly, Chris’ position, plus his penchant for model funeral hearses and organ
music earned him the nickname “Doctor Death”.
Initially I would deliver paper proofs by hand to the personnel of a large, well-known Cape
Town mortuary. But with the advent of email and other streamlined technology we began to
manage fine online. Secretly, I was pleased not to have to call round at the mortuary any more,
for I had run out of excuses not to witness things like an “interesting embalming” when jovially
invited to do so. “Oh do come and watch, it’s very clean and hygienic … just like a butcher
shop.”
Now it happened one day that I was to deliver proofs, one of the last paper sets, directly to
Chris at the old stone church in the seaside village of Kalk Bay nearby, where he would be
officiating at a funeral. I made sure I arrived early, parking directly opposite the churchyard in a
parking area overlooking the popular surfing spot called Kalk Bay Reef. From here I could see
the black hearse and the milling funeral directors in the driveway of the adjacent church manse.
Chris was not yet among them. I decided to wait there while watching the antics of the surfers in
near perfect conditions. It was a lovely warm summer’s day and I wore a T-shirt, a pair of short
pants and sandals.
The appointed hour arrived and still there was no sign of Molyneux. A steady stream of
people had already made their way into the stone church and the funeral directors now began to
remove the coffin from the back of their hearse. Clutching a large envelope of proofs in my
hand, I crossed the road and approached them. “Has Dr. Molyneux gone inside already?” I
enquired. They said no, but they were also anxious for him to arrive as he was to be one of the
pallbearers. Just at that moment, the priest alighted from his doorway, preceded by an altar boy
bearing an ornate wooden cross, and the pair made their way solemnly towards the churchyard.
One of the directors said to me hurriedly, “Thank goodness you’re here; we need your help with
the coffin!”
Taken completely off guard, I could hardly protest. I drew attention to my casual attire but
they dismissed my concern outright, directing me to my station in the procession. I gripped a
coffin handle with my left hand, my right still clinging onto the large brown envelope. Almost
immediately we fell in step behind the priest and his cross-bearer.
Up the steep path and steps into the church we traipsed in silent reverence, until the organ
boomed out funereally and we made our way down the centre aisle between the rows of seated
mourners. I was extremely self conscious as all eyes fell upon this curious, informal specimen,
who was brandishing a packet of “last rights”, or “a lengthy eulogy”, perhaps. Finally we
reached the altar where a stand had been placed on which we could rest the coffin. I was thinking
about making an early duck for it during a prayer, but realized that I would still be needed to
carry the coffin out again at the end of the service.
Immediately the priest announced: “Let us pray.” Those all around bowed their heads as the
sing-song voice of the Anglican priest echoed a melancholy prayer into the rafters above.
Suddenly he spoke directly to me! No, not the priest but the man in the coffin! His presence was
quite tangible. You could feel it. I glanced up at the priest, feeling sure that this man of the cloth
must surely be able to detect the “presence” among us. But nothing, it seems, could distract him
from his rehearsed incantations.
The departed spirit clearly told me: “Please don’t worry (about yourself). It’s okay. Thank
you for helping (me).” There was no mistaking the message. I think I smiled with relief because
my silly obsession with self was finally at an end. Only things that truly mattered actually matter.
Both in our world and beyond! Wow, this was so reassuring. I nodded in open acknowledgement
as I stared down upon the gleaming coffin lid in front of me.
The service continued in clockwork fashion and I remained filled with a sense of wonder.
Half way through there was a rustling at the back of the church and I looked up to see “Doctor
Death” hurrying down the aisle towards the altar. I met him half way and felt compelled to
beckon him out the back with me so that I could relate my wonderful experience to him straight
away. This I did excitedly although I am not sure whether he really believed me or if his anxiety
to rejoin his colleagues stood in the way of comprehension. Off he scurried, clutching my
envelope. I wonder what the congregation thought about that.
Nevertheless, I am pleased at the opportunity to relate this incident to those of you who,
hopefully, are less preoccupied with your own petty concerns right now.
FOOTNOTE: On further enquiry it transpired that I had attended the funeral of a longstanding resident of Kalk Bay itself. Apparently he was known by all the locals as a likeable
fellow who had lived there to a ripe old age … “a thorough gentleman”.
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTEEN – Black Cats and Voodoo
Here is a painful tale of greed, deception and betrayal. Intriguingly, it was “on the cards”, so
to speak, and must therefore be included.
It was a cold, rainy winter’s night in the valley where I live in a small mountain hamlet.
Having already secured for the evening I was choosing something to read when there was an
urgent knock on my front door. There, on my verandah, stood a disheveled looking young
woman with long, matted, wet hair. She was poorly dressed for such weather conditions and
clutched a thin shawl around her, shivering with cold.
On enquiring if I was the “spiritualist” as others before had mistakenly asked, I replied that I
probably was the person she was looking for and that she had better come inside out of the cold.
Soon we introduced ourselves properly and sat in the lounge drinking a warm cup of coffee, with
the gas heater burning. She was in quite a bad emotional state to say the least. Divorce problems.
Judy* was a singer and apparently she lived several houses further up my street, though this
is the first time we had met. I was well-versed in counseling people against the backdrop of the
Tarot, a most useful problem-solving device if ever there was one. To the lay person, my ability
with these cards was somehow akin to spiritualism, although personally, that is a subject I never
studied. However, I WAS aware of the uncanny accuracy of the cards and that sometimes, a
message could emanate from beyond the cards, straight from the ether!
I spent the next couple of hours helping Judy explore her life’s options through the imagery
of the Tarot cards and she calmed down considerably. I know that when she finally left, she had
regained her power and was ready to tackle the world again, responsibly and courageously. A
perceptibly changed woman, she hugged me gratefully and bade me farewell – she was going to
Mauritius to ply her trade as a talented night club singer.
More than a year passed when again, one summer evening, Judy appeared at my door.
Turning on the porch light I expressed my surprise at seeing her, and invited her inside. She
gestured towards her car in my darkened driveway, saying that she had brought a friend to meet
me. “Sure”, I said going inside to prepare something for us to drink. I left my parakeet, Dolittle,
out of his cage, free to watch proceedings from his favourite perch up in the roof beams.
The friend’s name was Guy*, a native of Mauritius, extremely dark-skinned, who spoke
fluent French. He could understand a little English though Judy translated mostly. On occasion
he would manage an English sentence or two by himself. It transpired that the two had met at
some form of spiritualist church in Mauritius where she had gone to seek further advice. Guy had
befriended her there and soon demonstrated his own particular psychic abilities. In the land of
Voodoo, which he claimed not to practice, he was nevertheless well acquainted with the black art
of that island. This is why, she said, she was keen to introduce us when she returned to South
Africa with now her regular boyfriend. All the while, Dolittle watched inquisitively from the
cottage rafters, remaining uncharacteristically quiet.
By way of demonstration, Judy implored her friend to tell me something about my future,
right then and there. No cards, just “cold reading” as they would call it today. Judy and I sat
facing Guy, who was seated next to my open French Doors leading on to the verandah. As he
began to focus on me, gesturing for stillness, a large black cat slunk across the outside verandah
and positioned itself squarely in the doorway. It sat quite still and stared directly at me with
piercing, luminous green eyes. “Hey look at that cat!” I exclaimed pointing at it. I was certain I
had not seen it anywhere around here before.
But Guy proceeded, unhindered: “You … you get a lot of money … a LOT of money …
soon. But beware of a woman. She wants your money. You must be very careful …” The black
cat stood, turned around and slunk off into the darkness, disappearing as quickly and
mysteriously as it had arrived. I was speechless.
Now Dolittle joined in the pantomime. He swooped down from the rafters like a World War
II dive-bomber, aiming directly for Guy on whose shoulder he landed. In an instant he struck like
a rattlesnake, drawing blood from Guy’s fleshy ear. The flurry of waving arms and wild shrieks
sent Dolittle back up to the roof again. (Such behavior is completely foreign to my bird. Clearly
it had detected some kind of threat, not visible to others.)
Judy began to call to the bird, anxious to prove her prowess as a bird whisperer no doubt
while Guy continued jumping up and down, shrieking at her hysterically, “No, no … he will
peck your eyes … watch out …. your eyes!” Soon I managed to get Dolittle back in his cage and
out of the room. Then I dressed the small flesh wound on Guy’s ear, apologizing profusely.
The spell now well and truly broken, we soon said our goodbyes and I watched my odd
visitors disappear down the driveway. Closing the door, I poured myself a stiff whiskey and sat
down to contemplate the evening’s strange events.
“A lot of money!” I remembered. “Beware of a woman!” Was I about to win the national
lottery? I happened to be running a small lotto syndicate among friends at the time so this
COULD be a possibility. Ours was a very good lotto system and we had already notched up
several moderate wins. But, no matter how hard I scratched my head, there was not a WOMAN I
could think of who remotely posed a threat to me. Nothing rang a bell and I all but dismissed the
strange episode.
One day I received a telephone call from my brother, Rod*, to say that our old aunt,
Elizabeth*, the last remaining member of my father’s family, had, via my sister, Janet*,
requested that we provide copies of our Identity Documents so that she could process a transfer
of mining rights to the three of us. These rights had been retained by my grandfather when he
sold his farm and the part share concerned was originally intended for my late father. For
unknown reasons my father was disinherited and it seems that his only sister was now keen to set
matters right before she too passed on. (Her late husband had been the executor at the time of my
father’s disinheritance, and an heir in his own right!) In addition to the documents required, I
sent a letter of thanks to my aunt, via my sister, who would be handing it all over, on a personal
visit to Johannesburg. (Nothing was to ever come of this development).
Soon afterwards my brother announced that my aunt was to pay a flying visit to Cape Town
to meet us all. He and my sister would bring her around to my humble home with a request that I
do a “Tarot reading” for her on that occasion. (She could only have learned of my Tarot
involvement through direct contact with my sister.) A little puzzled, I protested that it was not
the sort of thing one does for amusement at tea parties, but if she insisted, I would gladly draw
up her Astrological Chart in my own time provided she supplied me with a few personal details.
The visit took place and my siblings (not my aunt) pestered me to do the reading there and then. I
managed to deflect the issue, promising that the second option, an astro chart, would follow
soon. I kept my promise and sent my aunt’s Natal Chart, together with my typed analysis, via my
sister a week later. (It soon became apparent that my old aunt was terminally ill and my sister
began to visit the wealthy widow up in Johannesburg more and more … “to help out”).
Then Aunt Elizabeth died, and my brother and sister (plus Brother-in-law) SECRETLY
traveled to Johannesburg that same weekend. It was my brother who called to confirm that they
were up there and had just READ THE WILL. Says he to me: “I don’t know why, but you are
not in the will.” Further he volunteered, “She was a religious fanatic and must have taken
exception to the fact that you are divorced.” He and Janet plus one other surviving cousin were
to inherit the entire, multi million, mega estate, including valuable property business rights, the
lot. Oh by the way, could I do with any items of household furniture because, what wasn’t taken
would be given away to the servants? Believing that my siblings would surely reflect on matters
in due course, I accepted a few items including my late grandfather’s topical stamp collection
and stamp cupboard, courtesy of my brother. The term “cupboard love” has taken on a whole
new meaning for me since. When eventually, the grand payouts came through, evidenced by the
elaborate extensions which began on both their homes, it was finally obvious. There would be no
change of heart.
Ultimately it was MY OWN SISTER whom I had been warned about – by a total stranger –
that fateful night of the black cat. This was entirely HER diabolical plan without a shadow of
doubt. She had gone out of her way to PROVE to a wealthy, dying woman, a religious fanatic,
that I was, in fact, EVIL … an UNWORTHY relative! And to prove it she contrived to trick me
into showing off my “devil’s picture book” and other reprehensible “devil’s tools” … “satanic
star signs”! Then my weak-willed brother had fallen in step behind this unprovoked, vicious
scheme, for personal material gain! Licentious greed!
When we fail the lessons of life we should be made aware at least, that whatever goes around
comes around … if not in this world, then in the next!
The Moving Finger writes;
And having writ, moves on:
Nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it
Omar Khayyam
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of living persons.
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
EPILOGUE
The ‘Doomsday Clock’, it is said, will chime for mankind at the figurative hour of Midnight.
If there is one thing I have learned, with absolute certainty, through my personal experience with
the paranormal, it is this:
The ‘Clock’ will carry on ticking beyond Midnight! And “Four Minutes Past Midnight” is as
good a time as any that I could use to indicate this reality.
I hold no fear of death. Rather, I am anticipating my next ‘crossing’ with tremendous
excitement. There is so much more to experience along the eternal highway and which has yet to
be written upon my soul record.
As the ‘Hanged Man’ in the Tarot deck subtly implies, when the scales drop from our eyes,
we can see things from an entirely different perspective.
AUTHOR
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT
IN MEMORIA
Granny “Ning”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bruce Alexander Kilgour, one of twins, was born in the winter month of June, 1949 at the
Booth Memorial maternity hospital, situated on the picturesque slopes of Table Mountain, Cape
Town, South Africa. He was blessed with the star sign, Gemini (“The winged messenger”).
During his youth he seemed an ordinary child of average ability, with one or two recognized
strong points, although he began to excel intellectually in his final school years when faced with
the unusual challenge of completing his last two matric grades in a single year. By now his
creative and musical talents had been established and he showed a flair for history, language and
communication. Exempted from the South African army during the national call-up, by virtue of
the old ballot recruitment system, he began work as a clerk at The Old Mutual Life Assurance
Society, situated in the Garden City of Pinelands, not far from the city.
Meanwhile having fallen hopelessly in love with girl-next-door Lorna, culminating in a
passionate romance, they were married in January 1971. Their daughter Cathy entered the world
in August that same year! The responsibilities of early fatherhood at the tender age of twenty-one
nevertheless drove Bruce to persevere at work and helped to fan his ambitions.
Over the next 15 years, Bruce climbed the corporate ladder to Department Head status in the
company’s advertising department. Here, his skills as a creative copywriter were already making
their mark. Seeing an opportunity in a rival but smaller company, Metropolitan Life, Bruce took
the gap and joined as Marketing Promotions Manager, virtually doubling his salary overnight.
He was to achieve several major successes for the new company, chiefly through his creative
vision, and enthusiasm. However, the internal politics of the company changed drastically with a
change in top management, and Bruce finally left in protest against the ugliness of the system at
large. After serving the company 10 years, he had attained the position of Senior Advertising
Manager.
Life was about to throw him a huge curved ball.
Almost immediately his wife, Lorna, deserted him for another man with whom she had
begun an affair at a social bowling club. The family disintegrated and Bruce found himself in a
battle for survival in an unfriendly economic system, based on “Affirmative Action”– where
white males are discriminated against across the entire South African workforce in a shortsighted act of revenge for “apartheid”.
Bruce had followed several absorbing hobbies during his lifetime, one of them, philately. He
used this background to develop his first prototype website, Cyberstamp Club, inventing “virtual
philately” in the process. He was keen to turn to web design as a means to support himself. Soon
his site received The Golden Web Award for its content and creativity – a pleasant, unexpected
surprise. On the strength of this success, Bruce managed to land a part-time position as
Webmaster for a group of local luxury hotels.
Subsequently he built a small but adequate clientele of high end guest houses – working late
and smoking cigarettes throughout the night as he attended to every client whim and fancy …
until finally, he suffered a heart attack! Choosing “life”, Bruce bade farewell to his new-found
“clients”, plus his cigarettes, and turned to yet another hobby, MAGIC, to help him out.
To this day, Bruce performs as a professional children’s magician in the greater metropolitan
area of Cape Town. His popularity and reputation as FOO LING YU (From Tung-in-cheek,
China) continue to grow despite the difficult financial times we live in. So far, magic has served
him well.
Yet behind the mask of this apparently ordinary life, there is another face. Who would dream
that the above summary serves as a mere backdrop to an altogether different reality … one that
Bruce has experienced simultaneously throughout his lifetime? A reality encompassing strange
experiences that will not read half as blandly as the detail disclosed to this point.
It is this “other” story that Bruce would like to tell you. He begs your indulgence.
FOUR MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT