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| The old Kalinka in front of The Rock |
Because of the nature of the place and due to a legal misunderstanding,
combined with an obstinate old beak at the bench, I was offered a nine month,
fully paid stay in Gibraltar ’s historic gated
community.
There were not many guests at the time of my visit, so I was
given a room to myself in accommodations that had at one time been a military
barracks—constructed sometime in the late eighteen-hundred’s. In order to
ensure adequate security for the present non-military occupants, the doors had
been strengthened and glass windows replaced by reassuring steel bars.
The night watchman was an old geezer who in the past had
held the position of Police Chief. I know he’d been unfaithful to his oath of
office because one evening, before I went to my room, he was regaling me with
tales of the old cigarette smuggling days when supercharged PT boats roared out
of Gibraltar with their cargoes, headed for Spain and Italy. At one point he
became carried away with his story and said, “The cargo boats would bring the
cigarettes in and we’d unload…errr, they’d unload the boxes directly
onto…”
Although I’m not overly fond of bent cops (if you’re going
to be a crook, be an honest one is my view) what I did later had no personal
overtones—it was done simply in the pursuit of amusement:
At around eleven in the evening the old boy would make his
rounds, shining his flashlight in through the windows to make sure we were all
snugly tucked in. I’d learned—from one of the more frequent visitors to the
establishment—that he didn’t hold keys to our rooms. Well, this particular
night I decided to relieve him of his boredom.
I collected a bunch of stuff together and made a crude
effigy of myself. A ball of clothing served as my head; a crumpled piece of
black cloth became my hair and I puffed the covers out with various bits and
pieces of clothes and bedding. A blind man could have seen that this was not
me. When I heard him coming I slipped under the bed.
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| First day outside the retreat |
The beam of the flashlight swept into the room…lingered…then
came a loud gasp. The light went out and I heard the sound of running feet. I
would never have thought the old boy capable of the swiftness of movement that
the rapidly receding footfalls indicated. Thank God his ticker didn’t give up
the ghost.
Quickly disassembling the effigy I put all the pieces back
where they belonged, then hopped into bed. Fifteen minutes later, when I again
heard running footsteps—this time
approaching—I contrived to snore softly.
The door was thrown open and a light beamed in my face.
“Wha…whas happening,” I stammered.
There was a moment of silence then a growled, “Nothing,”
from one of the two hard-looking gentlemen at my bedside. I could see in the
glow of the flashlight, the old boy just outside the door looking distinctly
sheepish.
The door was slammed shut and locked and as the footsteps
receded, I heard the words, “…need f-----g glasses,” in a rather unkind tone of
voice.
I chuckled myself to sleep.
Lovely to hear that
Peter was once welcomed into a stately home. Davina
