Road to Recovery

Chapter 13

  Christmas, did I hear somebody mention Christmas? Well it does come around once a year, whether you like it or not. Alice, a month or so ago had thought that it would be a nice idea if both mine and her mother’s families were to get together, and remember her at Christmas, ahhh what a lovely thought.

  There was to be Alice and her fella, who turned out to be a woman [I think].

  Robin, Emma and little Mark, who wanted to spend Christmas together in their new home.

  My Parents, who wanted to be in Eastbourne,

  Sheila’s Parents, who wanted to be in Las Vegas,

  My Sister, who had just broken up with her husband, so now wanted to go back on the pull, big time (and hadn’t spoken to me since our move to Spain),

  and finally Sheila’s two Brothers, plus their wives, who hadn’t spoken to each other in a lot longer than that.

  Unfortunately there wasn’t enough room at the inn for their offspring but it still managed to turn into a nightmare. They all turned up on Christmas Eve for the family get together (or perhaps it should have been called a ding dong). First Sheila’s Mother had a go at her bickering children - ‘grow up and act your ages’. Then my Sister poked her oar in, ‘leave them alone, it’s Christmas’. This was swiftly followed by my Parents, who told their daughter to butt out of other families stupid business (wherever did they learn that expression from), Robin didn’t think his Gran should be so ‘un-Christmas like’ to his favourite Aunty Trish (how many Aunty Trish’s did he have?), and Alice was furious that everyone seemed to be ignoring her Bert, and by six o’clock almost all of them had decided to have an early night, almost, but unfortunately not all. Alice, with Bertha in tow ‘please call me Bert’ (not in a million years) came to try and clear the air. She started to explain about her ‘inner feelings’ to me. It was perfect timing, daughter dear, I was working on a corker of a headache, and with all that was going on around me I was not perhaps in the perfect frame of mind to try and come to terms with this particular family crisis; a little advanced warning would have gone a long way to smoothing the transition from daddies little girl to – well I couldn’t even bring myself to think of a name. ‘Not now Alice’ I pleaded, ‘another time please’, but rest assured, I thought, we were definitely going to be having a long talk, soon, and alone. With that Alice then called me a bigoted old sod and stormed off, Bert trailing behind. I didn’t think of myself as old, just going grey gracefully, but as for bigoted, I was perfectly happy to let the person next to me have his or her own beliefs, just as long as they didn’t try pushing them into my face, and Alice it seemed had deliberately engineered this whole situation to back me into a corner. We would definitely be having that talk soon, and now it seemed that Maria, with the appearance of the infamous Burt, wasn’t speaking to anyone either. By nine o’clock that evening Bob - Sheila’s Father, and I sat beside the pool sharing a bottle of Glenfiddich, which was my first alcoholic drink since the accident, watching the spectacular firework display that Marcus had arranged, well at least Cindy and Myra were enjoying it, unlike Bonnie and Clyde who were curled up in my shower tray, they were definitely not fireworky type hounds, and of course Christmas dinner turned out to be a feast to remember. As we all sat on the veranda, trying to enjoy what the catering company had provided (and I must admit that it was very tasty), in stony silence, the tarmac laying machine then decided to do its business, upwind of us. The Spanish have their main Christmas event (The Three Kings) on the sixth of January, so quite a few of them, especially the older ones, don’t even take the 25th off; obviously it was an oldie driving the machine, and that evening, as I watched the last of them flying off into the sunset (Air Taxi firms obviously don’t recognise Christmas either) I remembered a comment that Bob had made to me that previous evening ‘Sheila would certainly not recognise any of us now’. How true, and so I spent the next few days ‘resting’, with the ‘rest’ of the Glenfiddich - until Caroline put her foot down and stopped me, ‘it’s not a good idea when you are on so much medication’. Of course virtually all my guests had rung and apologised, but if anything it made me feel worse, I was surrounded by people but felt so totally alone. I was missing Sheila so very much; and I just couldn’t get her out of my mind. I know that grieving is a natural process, but even I realised that this was becoming something more, and I had to do something drastic about it before I did something stupid, so the next morning, after tucking into my half a ruby grapefruit I yelled to Maria, ‘Maria, I need a holiday’. She now had her own office next to my lounge, but it was still easier to scream at her rather than to try and find the intercom. Maria also seemed to be inheriting Marcus, as all the dust and dirt of the great outdoors was obviously not his place of choice when it came to parking his rear end, as he was now spending more and more time with her, perhaps he was a kindred spirit too. Perhaps also he would be the perfect person to park his rear end here and mind the shop while we; myself, Maria, David, Caroline, Charlie, Bonnie and Clyde vacated.

  I was slowly getting the feeling that I had finally cracked it - it wasn’t the largest cruise liner that I wanted to go on, or the most expensive accommodation that I wanted to rest my weary head in, I just wanted the best - of everything. If I was going to live this fantasy, as Itza had once put it, I might as well make the most of it - before I woke up, so while surfing the net later in the day with Maria (she was now reluctantly talking to me) we came across a cruise line that had luxury yachts, but not a sail in sight, and as we browsed through their web site, checking out the deck plans and such, I noticed the ‘owner’s suite’; now that definitely had a ring to it. It took her some digging but Maria finally had the details, first off, to occupy that particular suite you had to be the owner of the Company; or at least a sizeable chunk of it. Less than a hundred shares and you might get an extra bottle of champers on arrival, and possibly a dinner date with the Captain. Between one and five hundred got you an automatic upgrade - but above that you started to talk percentages. Own twenty per-cent of the company and you have the use of the owner’s suite, if it was available, and if you owned forty per-cent, or more, it was available, and you could tell the Captain where to go. But who knows about Companies? Why Miracle, of course, or as I now preferred to call him, Itza. Vicente had assured me that Itza’s names were kosher, and that I must get him to tell me all about his friends ‘Victorious’ and ‘Ark-Royal’ sometime. I had finally worked out the time differences, and rang him about ten o’clock in the morning, his morning. A quick rundown on what I was after and he was off; well off my telephone at least, but he was back on it again about two hours later. ‘Good stock, viable Company, good management - too good; nobody wants to sell, it is a nice little earner’. It seemed that he could get me a free bottle of Champagne and possibly an upgrade, but that was it – unless – (he must have been closely related to Alice in a former life as I felt my wallet give a distinct twitch). He knew somebody, who knew somebody, who had heard a rumour that somebody might just be looking to realise some capital big time; but without upsetting the applecart. It turned out that one of the founders of the Company was ever so slightly bored with the nautical life, and wanted to move into aviation. Well he would now be able to buy himself an aeroplane, or two, and I got my upgrade – into the owner’s suite. I would not be quite telling the Captain where to go - but almost.

  ‘Question - are dogs allowed on board your vessels?’

  ‘Only working dogs Sir, are you either blind or deaf?’

  (Wait for it - this is the bit that I like) ‘No, but I do own thirty-five percent of the Company’, and without pausing to draw breath he came straight back ‘and how many dogs will be accompanying you Sir?’ I hadn’t asked Bonnie or Clyde, but I was sure that they would be up for a nautical adventure. It wasn’t the suite that was the problem, ‘that’ was waiting for me anytime; it was the rest of the accommodation for my travelling companions. It would be about three weeks before that all became available, but I could wait, just, and as it turned ou
t we would need all that time anyway to sort out the paperwork for Bonnie and Clyde.

  Three days later Maria took a call ‘when was I available for a ‘chat’?’, and the next day a very charming lady popped in for the said chat. She was the CEO of the cruise line that I had just upgraded myself onto, and she was charm personified, but also very worried, ‘what were my intentions?’ I was mortified; I had only just lost Sheila. Nope, I had got it all wrong; what were my intentions regarding her Company. ‘Totally honourable’ I assured her, no hidden agendas or ulterior motives. I explained that I felt that I needed a bolt hole to escape too every now and then, and her yachts fitted the bill nicely. A little financial involvement in the Company might just stand me in good stead in the booking stakes, and I was right on the button. There was only one President’s Cruise booked, to Asia, and that was on another of the lines yachts, so apart from that one suite the choice of boats was mine, decisions, decisions, decisions. Once she realised that I was not embarking on a hostile takeover bid, and I intended to be a very silent partner, she relaxed, and much to my surprise we then had a very pleasant lunch at Vicente and the Mayor’s favourite watering hole, complete with helicopter ride. It was nice to relax in the company of the opposite sex again, she was happily divorced, but there was no hint of flirtation on either side, although I was definitely feeling ever so slightly on the mend.

  As I patiently waited for my cruise I started to take more of an interest in the goings on at El Campo. Most of the old huts and redundant buildings were now history. The Security Officers had been relocated into temporary accommodation, at a temporary gate, whilst the new entrance was being constructed, and the airfield was well into its refurbishment, but unfortunately work was also about to start on the Marina.

  ‘Andrew, what size yacht are you going to get?’

  ‘I don’t know Paul, is it important?’

  ‘Well the architect needs to know, for the size of the jetty’.

  ‘OK, let’s say about 150 meters then shall we’.

  When he stopped choking I explained that I certainly didn’t want the largest private yacht in the world, one of the top half dozen would certainly be enough.

  Paul then decided that it was now safe to allow me to go on a guided tour of my soon to be new home, and the main building I must say was now looking very different; all the rubbish had been cleared from out of the inside, along, it seemed, with most of the internal walls.

  The Sub-Basement (originally the basement) would now be for freezers, storage, air-conditioning machinery etc, along with a workshop and garage - got to have somewhere to park the odd limo or two.

  The Basement (originally the ground floor) would be for the kitchen, laundry, and other domestic work areas, along with their related offices.

  The Ground Floor (originally the first floor {you getting the idea?}) was now going to be home to the grand main entrance. After first passing down a short, but elaborate entrance hall, my guests would find themselves in the ‘Atrium’, which according to Paul was going to be the heart of the whole building, and according to the artist’s impression it was going to be one huge open area. The floor above it had already been removed; as had the rear exterior wall of both the floors, and the new roof and wall would to be almost entirely constructed of glass, being braced with stainless-steel girders. The flooring around the pool area, which was going to be slap bang in the centre, would be sunk about two meters down, into part of the new basement below, and the pool itself would extend outside - although the outside portion of it could be isolated when not in use, or in the cooler months, by retractable glass partitions. The huge irregular shaped pool would eventually end up with paddle and bubble areas, a bar in middle, complete with sub-marine seating, and have a large water mushroom to one side. It will of course also have slides and every pool toy imaginable - for children of all ages. There will eventually also be a Jacuzzi, complete with a waterfall, and patio areas scattered among the boulders, bushes and flowers, that will eventually gracefully rise up from the pool surround, to the marble pathways. The two grand marble pathways, one curving around each side of the pool area, will not only lead out to the rear elevation, but also to the central corridors in each wing. The corridor leading off to the left of the Atrium will eventually lead to my private quarters, although Maria would have the use of a small broom cupboard next to my office. There will be my lounge, office, entertaining rooms, billiard room, and whatever else the architect’s felt that I ‘must have’ (including a small cinema and private gymnasium), and it will then finally lead through into the ‘Ballroom’; well that was what Paul called it, although most of the ‘balling’ would have to be done outside on a new patio built onto the end of the building. The corridor leading off to the right would be the senior staff members’ wing where David, Charlie, and any other senior staff members that I may end up collecting along the way, will have their offices, along with a small Medical Centre, Steam Room, massage tables and gymnasium. Their central corridor will eventually lead out into a new restaurant/cafeteria area for the staff, which will be tacked onto the outside of the end wall, and this will be encased in a huge glass lean-to, Paul must have shares in a glazing company! Halfway up the end wall, overlooking the main floor, there will be a mezzanine dining area for the senior staff, who will also have access to it from the new first floor as well.

  On the first floor (the old second floor {you still with me on this?), off to the left of the Atrium, there will be my master suite. It will overlook the Atrium on the inside and the airfield at the front, very nice, and it will also have a private glass bubble that Paul calls a lift, taking me from the steel and glass balcony that will encircle the Atrium; down to the pool area (I suppose it will save me wearing out the stairs!!), as well to all floors above and below. On the other side of my corridor was to be an identical suite, almost, which also overlooking the Atrium on the inside, but the swimming pool to the rear. That would definitely be for my favoured guests. Behind each of these main suites were another ten slightly smaller ones, five on either side, they weren’t going to be as sumptuous as mine – but not far from it. Over to the right of the Atrium I had a problem. I would already have eleven guest rooms, how many more will I need? so what I had finally decided on was a compromise. There will be twelve self-contained flats, that could either be used as senior staff accommodation if they wished (or needed) to ‘live in’, or overspill guest accommodation in an emergency, oh to be so popular! That central corridor will then continue on through the end wall out onto the mezzanine floor in the restaurant/cafeteria area.

  In the Attic (you’ve guessed it - the old third floor), there will be, what seemed to me anyway, hundreds of small one bed roomed flats, each with its own bathroom and balcony, for junior staff if ever required. Paul had asked me if I just wanted this floor left empty but I told him to carry on and complete it. I would hate to find out later that I had a use for it and have to get the builders back in again, what inconvenience!

  With all those empty rooms it made me think of people to fill them. Who will cook, clean, and generally work in them? ‘I think I need a conference’ - I thought, so Maria, David and I sat down that afternoon; they were definitely becoming my ‘A’ team. The subject was, ‘who else do we need on the ‘A’ team, or in the ‘B’, ‘C’, or any other teams that we could think of’. ‘Staffing’, that was the real subject, and Vicente as usual had already beaten me to it. A while ago, after I had taken on David, Caroline and Charlie he had sent Maria an e-mail asking her to start a file on ‘future employment needs’, and it was starting to get quite thick. We went all around the houses, figuratively speaking, I could get consultants involved but that would take forever (and it wouldn’t be as much fun), so perhaps we should keep it ‘in house’ for a while, and start at the top. After consulting ‘Wikipedia’ on Maria’s laptop I found out that what I really needed was a housekeeper, butler, and chef to organise the lower echelons - and where pray does one get them all from? - Yellow Pages
of course. Which Yellow Pages? London, that’s - or should one say ‘that is’, the World centre of snobbery, so I let Maria make first contact, letting them know that I wasn’t on the bones of my backside, and after briefly explaining what I wanted, twice, to two different people she was put on hold!! I didn’t like that one little bit – I don’t do ‘hold’, even with posh music, - perhaps another agency? Just as I was about to say something, a third person came on the line and asked to speak to me, and this lady was snobbery personified; I nearly grabbed my forelock as she spoke for the first time.

  ‘Many commiserations on my recent loss’, she hoped that ‘I was over my nasty experience with that madman’ and ‘was now able to enjoy life more fully now that I was finally out of hospital’.

  Maria certainly hadn’t mentioned anything personal about me, apart from my name, but apparently that was enough; I was obviously the main topic of conversation around every walnut coffee table in London, and I didn’t really have to explain to her what I needed, she obviously knew already, and it was a wonderfully nice feeling telling her that ‘NO - I did not want a cook/housekeeper; I wanted a Head Chef and a Housekeeper, along with a Butler’, and once we both arrived on the same wavelength things then progressed. ‘Permanent positions in Spain, and living in (if they wished). They would be senior management, and as such would be responsible for all the hiring’s and/or firings in their departments, and it would also be an advantage if they had at least a smattering of Spanish – oh! and be willing to rough it in temporary accommodation until my permanent home was ready in about six months’ time.

  This got her thinking, it was a long time since a request like this had come along as not many people could afford large households nowadays. ‘Would it be acceptable to me if the housekeeper and butler were related?’ she asked. I presumed that they would not be distant cousins, and I was right, husband and wife, although the wife would ‘of course’ be the senior – ‘aren’t they always’ I thought.

  ‘That would be perfectly acceptable’ I graciously confirmed, and then went on to explain that I was off on my ‘hols’ in two weeks’ time, the inevitable interviews would have to be fitted around them, so the final plan of attack was; she would make enquiries and get back to me with a short-list of interested parties within a week. I could then peruse their CV’s at my leisure, and if I felt that any of them looked promising she would arrange for me to interview them in London. It sounded pretty straight forward to me. They wanted a job with me in Spain, I wanted them to work for me in Spain, but I was the one that had to travel a thousand miles to meet them, something wrong somewhere.

  There had been a short-list of twenty-five (I wondered how long the long-list had been), which I had finally whittled down to nine, three for each position (including one couple) so I flew directly into London City Airport, and then had a quick drive in a waiting limo to the Dorchester. The hotel had advised me that the Park Suites had the best views and they were right, mine had a glorious view of wet trees, wet grass and wet roads, it was of course raining, but the view was still stunning. I was going to make the most of my visit, a show, the ‘Eye’ and my personal favourite the Science Museum, but first the interviews.

  The Dorchester could provide me with a meeting room, so that’s where I met them,, but first off I had to meet up with the people from the Agency, and I would have spotted the ‘voice on the phone’ at a thousand paces; everyone in her vicinity was prostrate in front of her, what a presence, then it was ‘call me Handsworthy’ and down to business; and the first one up was for the Head Chef’s position, and he thought that I was a culinary dullard (and wasn’t far wrong), the second only really wanted to be in the employ of a titled person, and the third one was a Frenchman called Marcel. He was totally p***ed off - and it showed. He was Head Chef at a very reputable London hotel but his girlfriend had just dumped him, his current employers were slave drivers, forcing him (in his opinion) to work in a pig sty - and he didn’t like the rain. What he wanted was somewhere away from the rain.

  As ‘the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain’ not on the coast, it is relatively dry in my neck of the woods, so one tick.

  He wanted to create dishes for people interested in the taste of food, not the cost, and that would appreciate his expertise (check out my waistline, it was expanding quite quickly), two ticks.

  He wanted to ‘create’ his gastronomic wonders in a clean and modern environment; the kitchen hadn’t even been built yet, you cannot get any more modern than that, three ticks.

  and finally he wanted to be a million miles from his ex – ‘would a thousand do?’

  ‘Yes’.

  ‘The job is yours if you want it’ I said, and he kissed me, as only a Frenchman can get away with, but there was a slight problem, he had to give a months’ notice. That was perfectly acceptable to me; although it would later transpire that he would be flying out to Spain with me.

  Next up was the Housekeepers position - the first one wouldn’t even get out of bed for the kind of money that I was offering, and the second one had a very personal hygiene problem.

  The first Butler had a nose that glowed in the dark, and 100 proof breathe to go with it, and the second one seemed to be a very sweet boy, but definitely not my type.

  The last two came as a matching set.

  Nigel Blake had always wanted to go into ‘Service’. It was his one and only ambition, so when he left school he applied for, and was accepted into the position of Footman to the 15th Earl of Frampton, and this made him very happy. Lord and Lady Frampton were firmly set in the era before the war, the Boar War. They liked things done the old way (It was only in 1952 that they reluctantly allowed electricity to be installed in Frampton Hall), and Nigel loved it, he knew his place and readily accepted it. He turned out to be a favourite of the Earls’ and was promoted to Valet on his twenty-third birthday, although not as a birthday present, the previous holder of the title had eloped with the Housekeeper - not a union likely to get the Earl’s blessing. It was an idyllic existence, he had respect, he travelled (Lord and Lady Frampton had a villa on the coast just outside Barcelona), and his position definitely attracted the ladies, so all was well with his life until a new parlour-maid came onto the scene; she soon put a stop to his shenanigans’; she married him (of course with the Earl’s blessing). Neither of them wanted children; that would only have complicated matters, then on his thirtieth birthday ‘Old Alfred’ dropped dead, so he became a Footman again - but this time ‘First Footman’ or Deputy Butler. Florence, his wife, had two years earlier been promoted to Lady’s Maid, so again all was in balance in both the Frampton and Blake households, well at least for the next two years - then Lady Frampton ran off with the milkman. Actually he was the owner of a large dairy producing conglomerate, and had his feet firmly planted in the twenty-first century, and it further transpired that the Housekeeper had aided in the dalliance, and she was quickly sent packing. Florence was out of a job, as her mistress was gone, but there was the position of Housekeeper to fill. Lord Frampton was too distraught to worry about whether she was too junior for the post, so she got the job, and that made Nigel’s immediate boss, ‘Young Alfred’ (the Butler), junior to his wife, so this meant that she was now two levels above him in the pecking order, and this could have caused problems in lesser households, but not the Blake’s, Nigel had been under the thumb for years. Five years later, just when Nigel was hoping to replace ‘Young Alfred’ as Butler (after all he had been doing his job for years) the 15th Earl passed away, and unfortunately the 16th Earl apparent (Viscount Frampton of Leigh) was into to the highlife big time, he definitely had no wish to spend valuable partying time on the slowly decaying Frampton Hall. He was a Right Honourable man though, so when he sold Frampton Hall, to the first buyer that came along, he asked that the present staff should be well looked after, and came in person to break the news of the sale to them (there just happened to be a Hunt Ball in the vicinity that weekend), so all the staff dutifully lined up in t
he Grand Hall to await his Lordships pleasure. When he entered the Hall, for that last time, he was accompanied by a young man in flowing robes, and the Right Honourable 16th Earl of Frampton explained to them that he had sold Frampton Hall to the ‘All Seeing Eye’ (the spiritual leader of a new age religious sect), but he strenuously assured them all that during the hard fought negotiations (one quick telephone call) the sect had agreed that all their positions would be considered safe following his departure (although nothing was actually put in writing). He then wished them all a fond farewell and departed. The ‘All Seeing Eye’ then fell to his knees in front of them all, and after he had offered a prayer of thanksgiving to his benevolent and forgiving God he stood up and fired them all. Those living in tied accommodation had four weeks to vacate their homes.

  Nigel and Florence thought that their world had ended, but Florence had the sense to ring around several of the agencies in London offering their services, and two days later she received a call back, asking if they would consider positions in Spain, and a week later they were sat having an interview in the Dorchester.

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