Chapter 14
The flight home was a bit of an anti-climax, I think we had all been running on adrenalin for so long that we just sat quietly at 35,000 feet for two and a half hours, trundling along at a steady 320 knots, and all lost in our own thoughts. Sally was flying Zebedee with Teddy as I had decided that Peter would be covering the vacant spot created by that miscreant Melvyn, and would continue to do so until the end of the season. Sally was unfortunately the victim of her own success; I couldn’t afford to lose her sweet dulcet tones over the loud speakers, and as I had not been waggling my throttle around trying to keep ‘loose’ formation on everyone else, I had a few drops of fuel left in my tanks when we arrived at El Campo, so I went off to play whilst the rest of them put on a bit of a show for those that had been left behind. I had spotted some fair weather Cumulus clouds (puffy cotton wool balls floating in the sky), my absolute most favouritest clouds of all time, so I spent the next ten minutes or so flying in between, and around them, trying not to ‘hit the walls’. I had read once that it was good for your heart to have a fright at least once a day, apparently every fright extended your life slightly, anything from nearly being hit by a bus, to saying no to the wife, so after my play time was over (I was now looking forward to living to the ripe old age of two hundred and twenty-five, old enough for anyone) I exited the playground, throttled back and prepared to land. There was no one else in the air by the time I was ready so I did a lazy old circuit, and was nice and relaxed as I lined myself up with the runway, and I just knew that there wasn’t anywhere else in the world that I wanted to be at this moment in time. I quickly glanced down into the office for a final check on the P’s and T’s (pressures and temperatures) and then looked up again. In those couple of seconds a great big red blob had formed between me and the runway, and I was quickly going to be ploughing into it. If I hit this cotton wool ball I definitely wasn’t going to be flying out of the other side, as it was a propeller driven Beagle 206 light twin, circa 1960’s, and it had just screwed in, in front of me, to make a quick landing. Instinctively I pulled the stick back into my right kidney, kicked the rudder hard over and slammed the throttle forward, and when I finally sorted everything out, and was safely orbited El Campo at a safe height, I watched the 206 race along the runway at just under flying speed. At the end it swerved off onto the taxi-track, hardly reducing its speed at all, and then with clouds of smoke billowing from its brake units it came to rest against my lovely flower bed by the main gate. With its engines still running the pilot jumped out of the aircraft and sprinted towards the Security Office. I waited with baited breath for my ‘honed to perfection’ protectors to cut the running figure down in mid stride - but all they did was point to the Office - and the pilot disappeared inside.
After much mutterings of apologies from Chalky I quickly landed and taxied to ‘Y’ hangar, where I was met by a very nervous Carlos, and as I clambered down the side of Lady S I was definitely not a happy little bunny. I threw my helmet and oxygen mask onto the back seat of his Range Rover and squeezed into the passenger seat, which was no mean feat in itself as I still had my bulky immersion suit on, which we all wore when flying over water. As we made our way to the gate Carlos was full of apologies, and when I asked him why his people had not shot the pilot stone dead when he had landed in my flower bed he explained that ‘her Royal Highness’ had been a regular visitor to El Campo for many years. ‘Her Majesty’ regularly popped in when passing by in her bright red aeroplane, that was why she had not been shot to pieces by the team on the gate today, they were all ‘brummies’ so knew her well. ‘After all’ he wailed, ‘all she wanted to do was use the loo’.
On pressing Carlos harder I quickly realised that forms of address for titled personage was not his strong point, so as we continued on our way I used the cars radio to contact Chalky. He had quickly found out who owned the aircraft, it was the Marchioness of Heston, which didn’t faze me in the slightest; all it meant was that there would be one less in the line of succession to the throne after I got hold of her.
First things first, I clambered into the 206’s palatial cockpit, and despite what had just gone on, I immediately thought that it wasn’t half bad at all for a golden oldie. It was maybe a tad younger than my Hunters, but it definitely couldn’t go through the sound barrier, well not without leaving its wings behind anyhow. After scanning the controls I finally sorted out how to stop the two Rolls Royce Continental turbocharged engines (this made it a Beagle 206S, the posh one) and shut them down. Second things second, I then checked my flower bed, but fortunately ‘no plants had been harmed in the arrival of this aircraft’, it just had its nose wheel resting lightly against a curb stone, so I calmed down perhaps just a smidging, and stormed off into the Security Office, Patrolpersons Shack, Guard Room or whatever I felt like calling it at the time, and stood fuming outside the loo door. About five minutes later a woman dressed in a flying suit the same colour as the aircraft came out, took one look at me and disappeared back inside. I started to get worried; perhaps it was my personal hygiene. On her second appearance she managed to touch my hand briefly (which I promptly disinfected) and say ‘call me Sasha’ - before disappearing again; well at least I wasn’t going to have to change the names of my ship and aeroplane. These brief appearences were repeated three more times before Doctora Botella arrived on the scene and disappeared inside, what a brave lady, and about twenty minutes later the Ambulance arrived and whisked the two women off to the local hospital; I was going to have to get a season ticket for its car park.
After Topsy had liberated the undercarriage safety locks from the pilots door pocket, and finally found out where to put them (by this time I was very tempted to tell him exactly where he ‘could’ put them) we pushed (that is the royal ‘we’) the miscreant aircraft around so that it pointing roughly in the direction from whence it came, and placed a couple of chocks around the nose wheel (much easier than digging up curb stones). I then clambered in and after quickly fathoming out how to re-start the engines, taxied the whole thing around to ‘A’ hangar; with Topsy sat in the back giving the royal wave to all and sundry. It really was a very nicely put together little aeroplane, although there was definitely a very funny smell in the cockpit - but being a gentleman I put it down to me having recently taken off my immersion suit.
That evening, as I sat in Inma’s old room, Sasha explained, of course after profuse apologies for her unannounced arrival (and in between continuing trips to the loo) that her sister and her husband (Margaret and Gerald) lived in Melilla, which is one of two autonomous Spanish cities situated on the northern coast of North Africa, and separated from Morocco by strips of neutral land. Margaret and Gerald had fallen in love with Spanish Morocco on their honeymoon World tour, and got no further. Both were aristocracy, but had never paid it more than lip service as they quickly settled down to live the lives of eccentric artists, in other words they were most likely lousy painters who fortunately didn’t have to sell any of their paintings to eat. Over the years they and their children had become part of the ‘Melilla scene’ and Sasha, who was the senior sister, and favourite aunt, regularly visited them. She explained that she had always had a passion for flying (she can’t be all bad then) hence the 206S, which she’d had from new. Two or three times a year she would go sister visiting, stopping off at a small airfield just outside Bilbao to refuel; and El Campo for a comfort stop before crossing the Mediterranean. She had found El Campo by accident when her engines had started spluttering. Fortunately she was just making landfall after flying across the Med from Melilla and there in front of her was El Campo. It was then a disused airfield and the runways were blocked, but she skilfully put down on a taxi track. There turned out to be water in the fuel, obviously the bowser driver at Melilla airport had not been doing his job properly, but it was easily rectifiable and Carlos was such a nice man, ‘he always let me use the loo after that’.
‘Why haven’t I seen you here before then?’ I asked.
‘Because Fresa
was in serious need of a major overhaul, but it took me three years to get it completed after two different companies went bust on me, one of them even ‘sold’ Fresa, and so I had to go through the courts to get her back.’
Why is she called ‘Fresa’, I asked, knowing that I really should know the answer.
‘Because Fresa is Spanish for strawberries, and strawberries are my favourite fruit.
‘Beryl, get digging’ I thought, but just before I could ask the question that I had wanted to ask her, from the moment I first saw her, a young slip of a girl came in with a large entourage behind her, she was the Consultant Medicina Digestiva (tummy specialist). Sasha asked me to stay for moral support, and Doctora Maria Asuncion Saura Sanchez, Doctora Saura Sanchez for short, quickly came to the point.
‘The good news is that it isn’t cancer’.
That changed the colour of Sasha’s face, and she grabbed my hand, obviously the ‘C’ word had never crossed her mind, but it ‘was’ another ‘C’ word. ‘It looks as though it is Colitis’, but she had scheduled Sasha in for an endoscopy tomorrow morning, just to confirm it.
Surprisingly this is where I came in ‘will there be an anaesthetist present’ I asked her, I was an expert on endoscopies, with and without an anaesthetist.
‘With’ Doctora answered.
‘What is an endoscopy’ Sasha asked, ‘and why do I need an anaesthetist?’
‘Don’t ask’ I replied.
The Consultant then went on to explain what Colitis was (surprisingly enough, something to do with the Colon), what her prognosis was (two to three weeks in hospital then home treatment), and a special diet.
‘Daiquiri por favor’ Sasha replied, I liked her style.
Doctora gave her a blank look - and her entourage collapsed about the room in hysterics, Medicina Digestiva was not normally such a fun subject, and once Doctora and Co vacated the premises we sat there looking at my hand, it was going a very funny colour.
‘I suppose I had better let it go’ she said.
‘Only if you feel that it is absolutely necessary’ I replied, praying that she would not notice that rigor mortis was setting in, but fortunately I was sat down!! (it had been a long time since Sandra had returned to the UK).
She slackened her grip slightly, allowing a few drops of blood to squeeze by and I then plucked up the courage to ask her ‘the’ question, ‘Are you married?’
‘No she is not’ came a stern reply from behind me, ‘but if you are who I think you are, then keep trying’. Enter the younger sister stage left.
‘Margaret’ an exasperated Sasha shouted, but I think I saw a twinkle in her eye, and finally, after introductions were over, Sasha asked where her brother-in-law was.
‘Trying to find a decent Hotel, I left him cruising the streets in a taxi.’
‘Has he got a mobile on him’ I asked.
‘Yes’ came the puzzled reply.
‘Then ring him and tell him to come directly here, you can stay at El Campo’, and handed her my phone.
‘You certainly have some clout around here don’t you’ was the first thing that Gerald said to me as he entered the room, ‘first they wanted to throw the cases out into the street, swiftly followed by yours truly, then when I mentioned your name they couldn’t do enough for me, there is now an armed guard on my underpants’.
I was beginning to like the whole family.
After the usual pleasantries were concluded Sasha then explained to them what had happened to her since she left Bilbao earlier today (she was on her way ‘down’ to Melilla). As she skirted Madrid she started feeling uncomfortable, and by the time El Campo was in sight she was almost touching cloth, as her nephew was to later quaintly put it. She then went on to explain her spectacular ‘arrival’, and what had transpired after that, finally ending up with the prognosis, but with quite a few graphic/gory interruptions by yours truly, and then with perfect timing the cavalry arrived in the very shapely shapes of four nurses, in crisp white uniforms, the back-up from my hospital/hotel had arrived, and yet more work for Marcus. Finally, just before we left her in the capable hands of Freyja, my favourite Swedish nurse (she always warmed her hands first (?)) Gerald asked her why she wasn’t in a private hospital; surely her medical insurance would cover it.
Sasha looked at me and blushed – and Margaret kicked him. It was certainly turning out to been one of those days.
~~~~