Road to Recovery

Chapter 11

  Over ten years ago the Military had finally pulled out of ‘El Campo’ (the Field) and left it in the hands of ‘Seguridad en Total’ (‘SeT’), a private Security Company, and they in turn left it in the hands of Carlos. Carlos had once been a high flyer in the Policía Nacional, the National Police Force. He’d had it made, he had all the right qualifications, knew all the right people, and was about to become the youngest Inspector in Madrid – but then his wife’s Mother became ill. Very ill according to her, and as his wife was an only child it fell to her to look after her. Her Mother had been born and brought up in San Miguel del Mar, and her Father had been a fisherman. He never returned from his final trip fifteen years previously, but her Mother had never given up hope, she was still waiting for him, so she flatly refused to move into her Daughter’s home in Madrid ‘just in case’, so Carlos had to give up his job and move lock, stock, and barrel into his mother-in-law’s apartment, along with his wife and their new born baby. As apartments go it was very large; four bedrooms and two salones (living rooms) so there was ample room for them all, and the only blot on the landscape was that he didn’t have a job, but he didn’t expect that to be a problem, there was always the local force.

  As San Miguel was only a Pueblo (village or small town) they did not warrant a Comisaria (a Policía National Police Station), and the Guardia Civil barracks had closed several years earlier at the beginning of San Miguel’s decline. They had been replaced by the ‘Police Local’, who were not in the slightest bit interested in a high flyer from Madrid. He did not know one street from the next, or who the best plumber was if there was a leaking pipe, so when, about two months after they had moved in with his mother-in-law, and getting very desperate for a job, Carlos heard that El Campo was finally closing. Using his contacts in Madrid he found out which Company had obtained the contract for the security of the airfield, climbed into his car and was waiting outside the company’s main offices in Madrid when they re-opened for business after their afternoon siesta. He couldn’t afford to mess about; this was his last hope of a reasonable job in the dying Pueblo so it was no holds barred, and after a ten minute wait he was shown into to the owners’ office. Unfortunately the owner already had someone else in mind to take on the San Miguel Contract (his Nephew), but fifteen minutes later he changed it, of course Carlos was perfectly qualified to head up this particular contract - and he really didn’t want the Tax people going over his files, or the Health and Safety people swarming all over his operations, or Policía National looking to hard into his recent applications, or ..... . So Carlos got the job, he hired a dozen local people to do the patrolling, had the electricity to the office at the main entrance restored (to keep him cool or warm, depending on the season) and had the telephone connected (so his wife could contact him if she had a problem with her Mother), and he also did an excellent job of keeping the contract within budget, and this verily pleased Head Office. He was a natural at the job, and so he was left very much to his own devices, which pleased him no end as well, and so everyone settled down into a nice cosy routine. The only real problem he ever encountered was about a year later, and it involved a group of gypsies that decided to move onto a piece of waste land close to the Pueblo. Gypsies being Gypsies they decided to push their luck and see what they could pilfer from the closed up buildings on the airfield. There was only one problem with that idea - Carlos; he was already one step ahead of them. There was a ‘rabbit problem’ he declared, and borrowing a couple of shotguns he sent his patrols off to sort the problem out. After one Gypsy intruder’s rear end had been mistaken for a rabbit there were no more problems at the airfield, and that evening the ‘Police Local’ decided to have some off road practice with their new 4x4 patrol vehicle, co-incidentally in the same area that the Gypsies had set up their camp in. They took the gentle hints and decided to rapidly relocate to pastures new. With his decisive action Carlos had not only cleared up the problem, but also sent out a clear message to the local populace, he was serious about his responsibilities, and so everyone quietly settled down to wait for a buyer, and waited, and waited.

  As the years slowly passed, it wasn’t their wages (they were all being paid Madrid rates, with plenty of overtime guaranteed), it was the boredom that was Carlos’s main problem, he started to notice an alarming increase in the turnover of man (and woman) power, in fact at this rate he was going to run out of suitable local person-power before very long, so his role changed from Jefé (Boss) to Entertainments Manager, or so it seemed to him, and he turned out to be good at both. One of his many schemes was to get his staff interested in learning a second language, ‘after all it cannot do you any harm, and it might just stand you in good stead with a buyer’ (had he got a crystal ball or what!), and it just so happened that Thomas, one of his regular patrolmen, was English. He, Thomas, had married a beautiful young Spanish girl that he had met whilst on holiday (ten days is a really long time to know someone before you get married - isn’t it?) and then he took her home to meet Mummy. It was hate at first sight so they quickly moved back to Spain, permanently. He had been in Adult Education, as an English Teacher; teaching English to people whose first language wasn’t English (immigrants), so he thought it would be easy to find a job along the same lines, teaching Spaniards English. Unfortunately an awful lot of English speaking Spaniards had the same idea - and they had the advantage of speaking Spanish as well. He got jobs where he could, picking up Spanish along the way, in bars, on building sites, and finally as a Security Guard, but he still missed teaching. He had been in the job at El Campo for about six months when Carlos approached him with a proposition. ‘What did he think about teaching some of his fellow Compañeros English’; ‘just to help pass the time’, and Carlos would slip him a few extra shifts every now and then if he was up for it. As Thomas now had two small children to feed as well as a rather enlarged wife, the extra money would certainly come in handy - and he would earn it by doing something that he really enjoyed doing, so he started with a vengeance, first with half a dozen students, then as competition between them took hold they all joined in, Carlos included, and by the time El Campo was finally sold, fortunately to an Englishman, they all prided themselves on the quality of their English, although they all spoke it with a broad Brummy accent.

  When George purchased El Campo he wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in Carlos or the rest of his Brummy speaking staff. One quick chat over the phone with his boss and as long as Carlos kept the riff raff out, George would be happy to settle the account whenever it was submitted. Happy news, life could continue on as before. His Wife's Mother was still at death’s door, but he imagined that she would be until her dying day, whenever that was, and perhaps now Head Office would approve his requisition for a new pickup truck.

  That had been over two months ago, and now Carlos sat in his new pickup truck watching the Accident Investigators doing their work, and wondering what the future might hold for them all. Perhaps the person who inherited El Campo might not be as disinterested in him and his security force as Senor Albright, then his radio burst into life, he was needed back at his Office – like yesterday.

  Vicente had arrived at the gates totally unannounced, identified himself - and then went through Carlos, his office, and all the paperwork like a whirling Dervish, but in the end he seemed quite content. He gave Carlos a few details of who the new owner was (and where he was) and then left, saying that he should carry on as usual and someone would be in touch soon but that was not to Carlos’s liking, so he put on a clean uniform shirt and climbed into the pickup. They didn’t really have much of uniform, just a jacket and hat, but he had decided that one was needed, to inspire team spirit; so over the years one had developed. The Patrol staff wore black shirts, black denim trousers (or shorts), black trainers (or sandals), and a black baseball cap with their name on it (Carlos provided those out of his own pocket). He wore the same, except for a white shirt.

  When he arrived at the hospital he explained to a ?
??Welcome Co-ordinator’ who he was, and who he wanted to see. He was then shown a very nice armchair and asked to wait a moment. It was indeed a very nice armchair; the question was - was he actually allowed to sit in it, or just stand and admire it? As the ‘Co-ordinator’ had disappeared he took a gamble and sat down, but a few minutes later he leapt to his feet again, when this type of guy approached, you did; either that or run. He turned out to be an Englishman, with a large bulge under his jacket, and he checked Carlos’s identity and business card, and then rang Carlos’s Office. As he was standing there watching this person ringing his office number he knew that he couldn’t answer it, but fortunately one of his team did, and after grilling the unfortunate patrolwoman on the other end of the telephone about the whereabouts of her boss, and what he looked like, he then made another call, this time to Vicente. When Rodders was finally totally satisfied that Carlos was in fact Carlos, he was shown into a room, no patient in it - just Maria primly sat behind her desk waiting for him. He instantly decided that he wasn’t going to bluff his way passed this lady, so he told her the truth, and again he briefly explained what he wanted to speak to Mr Michaels about, and then she left him sat in her reception area, to be further interrogated by two small dogs. After licking his face for about ten minutes he was shown, cap in hand, into Andrew’s lounge, still escorted by the two savage guard dogs!!!

  ‘Good afternoon Senor de Selva, my name is Andrew Michaels and this is Senor Williams my Director of Security’ I said as we all shook hands. As we were both in our wheelchairs I pointed Carlos in the direction of Bonnie and Clyde’s favourite leather settee, and I was already beginning to like him, he was a dog lover. When the three of them were firmly ensconced on the settee I told Carlos to explain to us why he was here, from the very beginning. Vicente had only just got off the phone, ‘bringing me up to speed’ (ugh) on Carlos and El Campo, but I needed to build up more of a picture in my mind of what the airfield was really like. It took him a good half hour, but he was very articulate (well as articulate as a Spanish Brummy can be), and concise. He was clearly worried about the future of his staff (no mention of himself though, I liked that) as ‘SeT’ didn’t rate employee’s security of employment very highly, if the contract finished – so did their jobs, and when he finished I asked him to wait outside, again escorted by the savage beasts.

  ‘Well David, what do you think, this is your domain?’ and what David wanted was information, on Carlos and every one of his security guards, starting with Police reports, so when Carlos came back in I let David take the lead; after all he was most likely going to be his new ‘boss’, at least in the short term.

  An hour later Carlos departed a slightly happier person, but if I was serious about setting up permanent home at El Campo then I had to ‘think big’ about the long term housing situation there. Apart from George and Millie’s mobile homes, that were definitely only temporary, there was nothing habitable at El Campo. The majority of buildings were of wooden construction and had all definitely seen better days. The only solid building of any significance was the old Officer’s Mess, and that was huge, but brother was it ugly, and there was also another problem with it, apparently the local Ayuntamiento had made it into the Spanish equivalent of a listed building (the builder must have been the Mayor’s Uncle or something). What it was desperately in need of was for its vertical dimensions to be minimised (flattened), with the aid of a few tons of dynamite, but unfortunately that was not permitted. Looking at it on Google it reminded me of a match box that had been painted grey, stood on its edge; then had a bright orange pitched roof plonked along the top of it, it was out of all proportion. I needed advice, and quickly, but not from ‘consultants’, that would take too long, and I also needed someone that I could trust not to try and bankrupt me at every stage of the way. Then I had another one of my brainwaves, when we lived in England I had always enjoyed a round or two of golf with my friend Paul. He was an architect, and was employed by a local Housing Association, so he should know all about houses, even though mine was slightly larger than your average Council house.

  Ring, ring, click, - ‘good-morning-this-is-Monastery-Housing-Association-and-this-is-Monica-speaking-how-may-I-be-of-assistance?’ a pre-programmed voice, on a totally different planet to me asked. I would lay odds that she was multi-tasking, answering the phone and doing her nails at the same time.

  ‘I would like to speak to Paul Malling please’.

  ‘Would that be the Mr Malling in Technical Services?’

  How many other Paul Malling’s were there at Monastery Housing Association I wondered? ‘No, the other one’ I replied.

  ‘But we only have one’ came the plaintive reply, and that got us back on the same planet.

  ‘Then that must be the one I want then’ I sarcastically replied, and then sat in my wheelchair and waited, and waited, and waited, to be connected, and just as I was about to fall asleep my nail varnishing friend was back on the line.

  ‘Whom may I say is calling?’

  I had obviously been punished sufficiently, ‘Andrew Michaels’ I replied.

  ‘What time’ asked a familiar voice?

  ‘What time for what?’ I replied.

  ‘Please tell me you are calling to set up a round of golf’, he pleaded, ‘I am bored to tears here, and how is Spain, not given up already?’

  I explained my situation, and after expressing his shock about Sheila, and envy about my financial situation he went on to explain that his department had just finished a large housing scheme, and were waiting for the funding for the next one. They were all sat around now catching up on their filing and twiddling their thumbs (I must have pleased someone because everything seemed to be slipping into place), and then we then had an in-depth laugh at my predicament. I gave him the co-ordinates of El Campo and he Googled them onto his computer and ‘god it’s ugly!’ came down the phone.

  ‘I hope you are referring to my new home Paul; and not the tea lady standing behind you’.

  ‘We don’t work for the Council any more, we have vending machines now’, and he agreed with me about the vertical dimensions, but disagreed about the dynamite, Semtex was a much better option, and as we chatted, I could hear in the background what sounded like people taking a mouthful of tea, and finding that the milk was off, make that ‘yuck’ sound. His colleagues were obviously looking over his shoulder at my new home to be. ‘To say the least it will be a bit of a challenge, but I imagine it could be done, eventually, a bit like turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse’.

  I then started to put on the pressure ‘would your esteemed leader consider letting you do some ‘Consulting’ work for me for a few weeks, top dollar?’ The mention of money had the desired effect, and things then started to get serious, I was suddenly in a conference call with ‘him upstairs’, not God, but close enough, and what ‘him upstairs’ and I finally agreed upon was an open ended Contract. I could keep ‘them’ for as long as I wanted, just as long as ‘they’ were back in time for their next scheme in about six to ten weeks, when funding would hopefully be approved.

  Who were ‘them?’ well of course Paul as my Principle Architect, but also Eddy as his ‘Clerk of Works’. ‘What is a Clerk of Works? I asked, I could just imagine somebody sat in a wicker chair, quill poised, noting down things that happened ‘at work’. Well he did that: and a lot more besides.

  ‘He is the Client’s representative on a building site’, Paul explained, ‘no work is carried out on site, by anyone, without his approval. He checks that everything is carried out safely and to the agreed specifications’.

  He seemed like a very nice person to have on my side.

  After the conference part of the call came to an end, Paul, Eddy and I then sorted out the logistics of the operation. When required, Monastery Housing hired a Clerk of Works Portacabin from the local branch of a National Hire Firm. This sounded simple enough, too simple, what I ended up with was Eddy’s cabin, an architect’s cabin, an onsite shower cum
rest room cabin, a ‘secure’ store cabin, two Portaloo cabins, a portable generator, a portable air con unit, a water tank and a multitude of other assorted ‘must have’ items. Today was Wednesday; the company guaranteed that all the items would be at El Campo 10am the following Tuesday morning. All I (for ‘I’ read Marcus) had to do was have a suitable crane standing by. So why didn’t I hire all this gear in Spain? Well, because Paul and Eddy had used these cabins many times before, so they knew what to expect - and because of the guarantee (no mańana). We have a convoy, and Maria had a headache.

  ‘Tell Marcus about the crane. Arrange for an aircraft to fly Paul, Eddie and their wives (if they wish to come) from Southampton Airport to El Campo first thing Monday morning’ (flying directly into El Campo had been sorted out previously between the Air Charter Company, Air Traffic Control and Immigration by George, it was going to be very handy), and arrange for two hire cars, four by four’s I would think to be waiting for them, and rent a villa (with a pool please) for them to live in. Oh, and you had better arrange for some food and someone to clean the Villa for them as well. Have Marcus and Carlos meet up with them on their arrival, and after they have dropped off their bags (and their wives) at the villa, have all four of them flown by helicopter up here for a conference, and then perhaps a drop of lunch afterwards please.’ Maria’s headache had nothing to do with arranging Paul and Eddy’s arrival, half a dozen phone calls and it was all arranged, it was just ‘one of those days’.

  That first conference was an eye opener, for me anyway. Paul must have used the entire resources of a very bored Technical Services Department, and spent endless hours on the telephone with Vicente, Marcus, and Carlos because the artist’s impression of ‘Phase I’ that I was shown bore absolutely no resemblance to any image on my laptop. No wooden huts or criss-crossing roads. No derelict buildings or parade grounds - just a very welcoming entrance, and a wide road that led up to a flower covered roundabout. There were two roads leading off the roundabout, one off onto the taxiway ‘airside’, and the other, the one off to the right, led to a very pleasant looking two storey mansion, complete with its own helipad. Paul must have had either his plans, or his marbles mixed up, but then there was something vaguely familiar about the place! He assured me that it was indeed the old Officer’s Mess - but I’m not stupid, I can count, there were two floors missing (perhaps a small amount of Semtex had been used after all), and the remainder of the building looked ‘in proportion’; it had lost its narrow look.

  The first thing that Vicente had done after having a long discussion with Paul over the phone was to hop on board a helicopter (he was getting used to the perks) and fly down to the airfield, and Carlos then drove him to the local Ayuntamiento. He marched straight into the Mayor’s office, totally un-announced, and invited him out to lunch ‘at a nice little place’ that Vicente knew about (and the Mayor only drooled over). A fifteen minute helicopter ride later (and that included hovering over the Mayor’s poor wife as she was trying to hang out her unmentionables on the washing line) and they were seated at a very secluded table in arguably the most expensive restaurant this side of Madrid. Over a lazy á la carte meal, complete with several bottles of the very best wine of course, Vicente found out the reason for the Preservation Order, and he had been almost spot on. They finally came to an ‘arrangement’, Vicente would of course never get involved in bribery or anything illegal - BUT - the building would remain, it had to - the Mayor’s father had built it, although ‘substantial alterations’ may just be permitted. The more it was altered, the more public works around the Pueblo I would be ‘funding’. The Harbour wall was in need of repair, the main Plaza needed some TLC, the Health Centre was too small, and I was positive that the list would grow and grow! A helicopter ride and two meals on expenses and ‘planning permission’ (and all the rest of the red tape) had been circumvented, and ‘family honour’ of course had been preserved.

  What Paul had come up with was an optical illusion. First he extended outwards the four floors, both to the front and the rear, creating patio like areas outside the building, supported by beautiful arched pillars. He then continued the roof downwards (and outwards) to meet the outer edge of the uppermost ‘patio’ of the floor below. The top floor had effectively been swallowed up into an enlarged roof, and we now had a three storey building. Although the ‘new’ roofing did have cut outs in it to enable the top floor rooms to have some natural light, and small patios of their own. Then he re-defined ‘ground level’. Over a substantial area around the building he had slowly raised the ground, until it was level with the first floor. Apart from a small moat, the ground floor was now a basement, so we now had a two storey building sat on a small hill – fiendishly clever, ‘but why can’t we just have grand steps, or something, leading up to the new front doors?’ I rather naively asked.

  ‘It would defeat the object of me ‘lowering’ the building stupid’, Paul thought, but actually said ‘you find me an aircraft that can climb steps and I will give you steps’. This way he kept his job and our friendship (and still made me look like a pillock at the same time). He had also included in the design a new section of roof. It protruded out from the centre of the original roof, covering the grand entrance and a newly created stretch of the taxiway. No walls of course, aircraft don’t like walls, just a roof and something to hold it up at the end. It later turned out that the ‘something’ would become the new Control Tower, which would also conveniently overlook the helipad. One of course cannot get one’s self wet when one is vacating one’s aeroplane in the rain, now can one? Decadent or what!, and as well as all the wooden huts disappearing, one of the hangars would also have to go; it was in the way of the new taxiway to the front door. ‘And how many hangars do you really need anyway Andrew?’

  I had never given it a thought, but as long as everything was ‘aesthetically pleasing’ I am sure that I would be very happy. Another thing that had also never crossed my mind was ‘do I really need a bomb dump?’, so taking a gamble on the future state of the World I told him to get rid of that too; it was after-all an absolutely terrible eye-sore, and then we had a whale of a time on the finer details, but the basic lay-out was marvellous, I could just see myself living there, then I then tentatively broached the subject of the title, ‘Phase I’. ‘If there is a ‘Phase I’, does that mean that there will be a ‘Phase II’?’

  ‘Correct, and a Phase III, and possibly a Phase IV’.

  ‘Phase I’ was to be the conversion of my home (I’ve got to stop calling it ‘the building’) and the tidying up of the living areas in general (gates, fences, etc).

  ‘Phase II’ or ‘air side’ (the airfield) requires contractors with specialist skills so that would be tendered for separately. ‘Can we perhaps pencil them in for next week?’

  I loved Paul’s jokes, just like the good old days - but he wasn’t joking.

  ‘Shore side’ (Phase III) was to be my very own Marina, and that again required more specialist companies, and another week was pencilled in.

  Phase IV was something that he had tucked away at the back of his mind, but he would have a chat with me about it later when he had done some homework!

  Tomorrow was the day that the Portacabins were arriving from England so they would be busy sorting them out, but on Wednesday Paul had arranged for two firms of Spanish contractors to come and meet me. We would go over my requirements with them, and then they would go away to prepare detailed plans, predictions and estimates. They already had a general idea of what was expected of them as Paul had already faxed them some rough sketches, so both companies would only have one month to tender for the work. The building industry was suffering from the slowdown in the economy, both here and abroad so it was a ‘buyers’ market’, and I was a buyer.

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