followed by a lengthy and costly divorce case.
‘I lost my business, my wife, my kids, my home… even my savings and ended up joining the street people.’ Tears in his eyes, he waved his arm at the others, ‘… The only family I have.’
Sergio was stunned. He was not dealing with brainless human garbage. These were real, sad cases of tragic despair. It was Paco’s turn.
‘I’m… or was a lawyer. High flyer, Audi, golf… the works.’
Sergio didn’t flinch.
‘Started on the “grass” and ended with the white stuff; a long time ago.’ He suddenly started laughing. ‘You know what? I’m now Paddy’s councillor… the only one that can speak English.’ He looked at Paddy and gave him a “thumbs up”. Eventually Paco put his arm around Sergio. ‘And what about you then? What’s your story?’
Sergio had to reverse track on his own rehearsed background. He tried the “silent” treatment, feigning a cloudy loss of memory. Except for his name and his early childhood, he told them he couldn’t remember why he was on the streets. It worked.
He was accepted and invited to join the “gang” in their daily ritual for survival.
After weeks of coexistence Sergio joined in the routine. During the day each “bagman” mingled with the bustling city folk and acted as “parkers” for those drivers looking for a space in the various arteries of the town. On other occasions each would wander around searching for a portal or a supermarket; somewhere to squat and beg. Every now and then they would meet up at the local charity run by the Catholic nuns next to the church of St John the Apostle, for a hot cup of soup, maybe a plate of spaghetti and a slice of bread. By the end of the day, each one had collected enough money to buy their wine and some extra food for the evening. Sergio found himself directing “traffic” with the odd abuse and insult from a reluctant driver to cough up the fee. Every now and then, the odd policeman would come and ask them to move on. They always returned the next day. Otherwise they would be left alone. They were part of the local scenery. He also noticed that during the afternoon Paco would disappear for a couple of hours. One day he decided to follow him. Sergio’s adrenalin was fired up.
Was Paco after a “fix”?
he thought.
A-9 Motorway, En Route South
Yolanda was chattering incessantly for most of the journey from the airport back to Vigo. She was full of enthusiasm at seeing that Juan Jose, who was in the front seat next to his driver, was calm and listening to every word she said. She felt that he had accepted the situation. Stan kept nodding and smiling as most of her anecdotes were about their relationship and how wonderful it had all been in Cornwall. Yolanda paused for a moment.
‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it Dad?’
Juan Jose perked up. Before he could answer she went on, ‘But we’ll make up for it, won’t we Stan?’
As they were approaching the city, a couple of miles from the Rande suspension bridge, Juan Jose turned round and looked at them.
‘Ramon will take you to the house.’
He handed Yolanda a set of keys.
‘I’ve got to sort out this lady’s lost passport.’
He looked at his watch. It was nearly 7.30 p.m. He then addressed Ramon.
‘Drop me off at my office. Don’t bother to come back for me, I’ll catch a cab. See you both later.’
Twenty minutes later he was at his desk.
‘Here you are Ms Stanford.’
Juan Jose had given her an emergency passport after the duty officer in Madrid had got back with the details of her original passport. Procedure was routine practice in case of loss. Place and date of birth was fed into the Foreign Office database that contained the details of every British passport issued over the past years. The exact details of the last passport issued to Ms Stanford confirmed her identity. The final check was up to the consul to verify that the person was actually who he or she claimed to be. A
‘I lost my business, my wife, my kids, my home… even my savings and ended up joining the street people.’ Tears in his eyes, he waved his arm at the others, ‘… The only family I have.’
Sergio was stunned. He was not dealing with brainless human garbage. These were real, sad cases of tragic despair. It was Paco’s turn.
‘I’m… or was a lawyer. High flyer, Audi, golf… the works.’
Sergio didn’t flinch.
‘Started on the “grass” and ended with the white stuff; a long time ago.’ He suddenly started laughing. ‘You know what? I’m now Paddy’s councillor… the only one that can speak English.’ He looked at Paddy and gave him a “thumbs up”. Eventually Paco put his arm around Sergio. ‘And what about you then? What’s your story?’
Sergio had to reverse track on his own rehearsed background. He tried the “silent” treatment, feigning a cloudy loss of memory. Except for his name and his early childhood, he told them he couldn’t remember why he was on the streets. It worked.
He was accepted and invited to join the “gang” in their daily ritual for survival.
After weeks of coexistence Sergio joined in the routine. During the day each “bagman” mingled with the bustling city folk and acted as “parkers” for those drivers looking for a space in the various arteries of the town. On other occasions each would wander around searching for a portal or a supermarket; somewhere to squat and beg. Every now and then they would meet up at the local charity run by the Catholic nuns next to the church of St John the Apostle, for a hot cup of soup, maybe a plate of spaghetti and a slice of bread. By the end of the day, each one had collected enough money to buy their wine and some extra food for the evening. Sergio found himself directing “traffic” with the odd abuse and insult from a reluctant driver to cough up the fee. Every now and then, the odd policeman would come and ask them to move on. They always returned the next day. Otherwise they would be left alone. They were part of the local scenery. He also noticed that during the afternoon Paco would disappear for a couple of hours. One day he decided to follow him. Sergio’s adrenalin was fired up.
Was Paco after a “fix”?
he thought.
A-9 Motorway, En Route South
Yolanda was chattering incessantly for most of the journey from the airport back to Vigo. She was full of enthusiasm at seeing that Juan Jose, who was in the front seat next to his driver, was calm and listening to every word she said. She felt that he had accepted the situation. Stan kept nodding and smiling as most of her anecdotes were about their relationship and how wonderful it had all been in Cornwall. Yolanda paused for a moment.
‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it Dad?’
Juan Jose perked up. Before he could answer she went on, ‘But we’ll make up for it, won’t we Stan?’
As they were approaching the city, a couple of miles from the Rande suspension bridge, Juan Jose turned round and looked at them.
‘Ramon will take you to the house.’
He handed Yolanda a set of keys.
‘I’ve got to sort out this lady’s lost passport.’
He looked at his watch. It was nearly 7.30 p.m. He then addressed Ramon.
‘Drop me off at my office. Don’t bother to come back for me, I’ll catch a cab. See you both later.’
Twenty minutes later he was at his desk.
‘Here you are Ms Stanford.’
Juan Jose had given her an emergency passport after the duty officer in Madrid had got back with the details of her original passport. Procedure was routine practice in case of loss. Place and date of birth was fed into the Foreign Office database that contained the details of every British passport issued over the past years. The exact details of the last passport issued to Ms Stanford confirmed her identity. The final check was up to the consul to verify that the person was actually who he or she claimed to be. A
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