Bringing Dad Home Part II

THURSDAY 20TH JULY

I woke with a pounding head, but a shower combined with the knowledge that I was going to see my boat today got the system kick-started. I was due to collect the car at 0900, and had set my mobile phone alarm for 8am. However, I hadn't changed the clock to match Spanish time, and so it was an hour behind. I actually collected the car at 10am, and made straight for Nautica Amengual.

Nautica Amengual is run by Miguel. It is on the road from S'Alqueria Blanca to Santanyi, about 1.5 km outside Alqueria. It consists of a fenced-off plot of land, guarded by a pair of Rottweilers (both lovely), and an enormous hanger with sliding panel doors going up 50 feet. All works are done undercover, more for shade than rain protection. Right now, there are maybe 10 boats in there, ranging from 22 foot speeders to 40 foot cruisers. Some are planing hulls, others displacement. There's an enormous RIB with a 150hp outboard on the back. Must go like hell.

As I arrive, I find three men in the back of a Four Winns. Miguel? I enquire, before the slighter, younger, more weathered of the three men answer. Si? Soy el hijo de Gerald Walsh, I managed. Miguel threw both arms skyward, and yelled Hallelujah! I found that quite odd, but at least he wasn't the tyrant I'd been given the impression he was.

More background: so, I've got to collect this boat. Reason? The boatyard owner (Miguel) is about to "seize" my boat for non-payment of bills. Obviously this needs mending. I speak to Mark at Peters, assess the ballpark costs of the storage period, and I bring over money accordingly. I'm expecting 2 years, 2 months at between 50 and 100 euros a month. Let's call it 2000 euros, ballpark. I've got a grand in sterling with me, which hits me up to about 1400 euros. The rest I can get from the ATM.

Miguel goes to the office to print out the outstanding balance. Miguel returns with his bill. It is for 3000 euros. Shit. He tells me the last bill my Dad paid him was on 30th April 2003 - a year and one month before he died. My Dad always told me to clear my debts. Bastard. But then I got suspicious: is Miguel milking this? I had to find out.

So: the storage costs are actually E75.90 per month, for three years and three months, aka 39 months. That's a grand total of E2960.10. Shit. Shit. Shit. SHIT. My heart was in my mouth as I tried to work out how all this was going to happen. I have 1400 with me. I need another 1600. How much can I get out over here, and how soon? I told Miguel I was going to look over the boat, then head back to get his money and come to collect the boat. I knew I was fucking dreaming. This boat was not going anywhere today.

Anyway, I was here and so was Dadsbote. I couldn't believe how good she looked. OK, so there's a lot of dust on her, but she's shipshape. The trailer looks OK too, even to my untrained eye. Climbing up her swim ladder to the rear platform, I start unpopping all the poppers around her cover and climb in. Can't believe it. It's perfect. Sure, it needs a bit of TLC, but she'll be apples after that. I check all the stowage compartments - there is a pair of waterskis in the ski locker, oars and boathook in the side compartments, as well as a red ensign with flagpole. Ah, you'll be flying that flag alone and proudly soon, my beauty. For'ard, in the bow stowage, there are four or five fenders, three mooring lines, a shoreline connection, a hosepipe. She's good to go. Amusingly, there is also a crushed can of San Miguel. It's his, obviously. I put it hidden away in the ski locker, so that it travels with the boat as it comes back to the UK. My Dad's last beer can on his boat. Fucking perfect. I think I'll have it mounted, or maybe set in a glass block, or perspex or something. Maybe one day, it'll be the prize for some boat activity or other. The Gerald Walsh Can.

Once I'd got over the intial excitement, I set to work. Starting at the front of the trailer, I worked my way backwards down each side, spraying this stuff on every moving part the trailer has. The tow-ball connection... the handbrake... the winch... the rollers... the wheels... I'm glad to say that the handbrake was off, and had not seized, and that after I'd applied all the spray to every necessary part, I had managed to wiggle the trailer left and right, and the wheels were moving. It takes three men to move this boat anywhere on its trailer. Four makes it easier. But it looks like towing it away - once the money is sorted - won't be a problem. The tyres need air, but other than that we are rolling. That's one relief.

I'd done what I could and now needed to focus on other missions. I had a bag of things for Emma that had been left over from Fullerton Court, my Dad's London flat. They were mainly electrical items or IT stuff - a couple of program CDs for the computer, a Nokia bluetooth earpiece, some Sony speakers with a Spanish plug... I went back to the hotel to grab that bag, then headed up to Casa Fushi. I had emailed, and I'd also left a phone message, but I had had no response. I was just going to drive up there. I was going to the house my Dad died in, for the first time since he died.

I got there and parked at the gates and pressed the intercom. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. There wasn't anyone obviously there, though the Shogun was in the carport. I pressed a few more times, and just as I had decided to hang the bag on the gate and leave, the dogs appeared.

Cel is Emma's dog. Cel is an 11-year-old Great Dane and, in his usual capacity, acts as the AWACS system of the pairing. He spots trouble from a distance, makes a lot of noise, runs towards it a bit to point out its location, then steps aside so the heavy artillery can come in and do their job. Cue Duke, the Bull Mastiff, Dad's dog and five years old: he's the man on the ground, having his weapons laser-guided by the eye in the sky, Cel. Duke fears nothing and no-one. He comes barrelling past Cel - and I mean barrelling, Duke is about as wide as he is long, with a big head and enormous jaws - and despite his bulk, comes hurtling down the driveway, releasing the thundering bass of his bark as he does so. Put it this way: if I didn't know the dog, I'd shit myself. If I was up to no good, I'd leave. Quickly.

I let Duke get to within 10 metres of the gate, his hackles raised, standing his ground, eyeballing me and persisting with his warning shots...until finally I take off my hat and glasses, and call to him. Duke! Come here, boy! It's me! He drops his pretense immediately as he hears my voice. Duke, when you know him and he knows you, is a fucking softy. His stiff, hard-man gait breaks into his friendly, dopey lumbering. His head starts swinging from side to side, and - yes - he gets a bit of a wiggle in his arse. He comes to the gate and pushes his muzzle as far through as he can and begins to lick me wherever he can reach. I start to cry.

Hello, boy! How are you? Is Emma in? Oh, you miss him don't you? He grunts. I miss him too, boy. I miss him every day. And I miss you. And Cel. And this house. I miss everything.

The tears roll down my cheeks onto the driveway as I reach through the fence to stroke him, getting right behind his ears and into the soft flaps under his chin. He's a fucking great dog, this one, the best. He's solid. I realise that this is all I'm going to see of the house, and with heavy heart, I get back in the car and head away. Duke is back on patrol, tail up erect, following the fence around the perimeter, watching, looking, waiting. Cel is nowhere to be seen, as usual.

I drive back through Calonge towards Cala D'Or. I'd best get to the banks and see what can be sorted out. About a mile out of town, nearly home, my phone goes. It's a local number. I answer. It's Emma. Have you just been to the house? Yes, I dropped a bag off at the gate for you with some things in. Did you ring the bell? Yeah, about four times. Oh, I'm sorry, I'm out pressure-washing the pool terrace and didn't hear you - do you want to come back? And so I turn the car around.

Duke and Cel are waiting for me, Cel a good few metres behind Duke, as is customary. There is still no answer on the intercom, so I call the house and finally get through. Emma opens the gates, and I drive up to my Dad's house. It's very weird. The last time I was here, I was living in a world of tears. It doesn't seem to be much better right now, but I hold myself together as Emma meets me at the door. We kiss on both cheeks. I don't know how this is going to go.

I'm invited in and sorted with Diet Coke and ashtray. Emma is never far away from either. We walk out to the pool terrace, where the Karcher pressure-washer is sitting abandoned, its work half-done. But the clean bit looks good. We talk, we talk about a lot of things. About how much we miss him. About the constant wranglings between lawyers and accountants and trustees in England, Spain, Jersey. About how slow it all is. Paying off inheritance tax. About what we've been up to. How all our respective family members are.

Emma is - to put it mildly - an animal lover. Here at Casa Fushi there are four cats - Kink, Cookie, Sooty and Cosmo. Cosmo is a bitch who hisses and scratches all the time, at least, that's what she's like with me. Kink and Cookie are quite cute, but they are Persians, so there is a lot of fur around the cat, and it all comes off and gets up your nose. I think I am slightly allegic to cat hair. Not dog hair. Sooty is also very sweet and a nice, normal cat, lacking as he does either excess fur or an attitude problem.

Unfortunately, Sooty is very poorly indeed. He escaped a while back and disappeared for a few days. When he came back, he was bitten, scratched, clawed, gouged...he'd obviously been roughing it up with the local feral cats. Anyway, he's been off his food ever since, throwing it all up and also pulling out his own fur, great clumps of it, all off his belly and legs and tail. He's not a well boy. He's been to the vet, and they think it might be feline AIDS. If this is true, Sooty will have to be put down, which is always an absolute tragedy, and will upset Emma greatly.

Then there are the dogs, Duke and Cel, who you've already met. There is also Pepito or Pepe, a rescued Shetland pony who used to take kids on rides around Palma. X-rays show that there is an iron-bar-shaped dent across his nose and down his cheek. He was not treated well in his former life. He was nervous as hell when Dad and Emma rescued him. Now he walks around the garden eating grass at his leisure, and it is clear that he also believes himself to be a dog, given his sparring partners. He gives as good as he gets, too. Many's the time a remorseful Duke has skulked away, having received a kick or bite from Pepe. Don't mess with abused animals, they will knacker you.

Then there are the fish. There were originally 6 goldfish and 6 koi. Now there are 150 goldfish-koi crosses, filling the pond. They are great. They also have a turtle as a pond mate, Timmy. He's huge, about a foot long.

Away from the estate itself, there is Emma's main passion, horses. Emma showjumps, and is pretty good, too. She's not Olympic standard, but certainly very high up at national level, regularly making the top five at events all over Spain. Showjumping at this level treats horses rather like race cars - once you've outgrown your ride, you trade. So many have come and gone in the time that I've known Emma, I couldn't being to document the history, but she's had Arucas, Timmy, Rue... Needless to say, she's at the yard in Palma every night except Sunday, working her horses, training, grooming, tacking and so on.

Emma also mentions that she's found a load of boat stuff and it's in the groundman's lodge. We head down there and I discover that there is a whole shedload of stuff, from lifejackets to flares to ropes to springs to spare propellers. I thank her for this, and tell her I'll collect it when I've got the boat out of Nautica Amengual, and Peters can look after it all together.

We head back up to the house and carry on chatting and drinking endless Diet Cokes and smoking - the twin fuels that Emma needs a lot of each day - and everything is nice and relaxed. Emma disappears to do something or other and I stroll around the downstairs of the house. It's all open plan, with a full-height ceiling and spiral staircase to the upper level immediately inside the front door, before heading to the lower level down steps to the kitchen, hall and sitting room.

My Dad died on the sitting room floor, about where I'm standing now. I close my eyes and think about him. About how I'm glad it was quick and that I know he's OK where he is. That Emma misses him madly, we all do. That Duke misses him, so much, as does Cel. That he's gone and left a ruddy great gaping fucking chasm in all our lives. That I'd do anything to have him back. My chest tightens and throat clenches and lip quivvers but Emma's coming downstairs and I can't let her see me like this. I hold back the tears, just.

We wander back to the poolside, when I enquire as to whether I might take a dip. It's a lovely pool, 15m by 5m, 3m deep shelving to 1m. As I dive in, I'm amazed how warm the water is. There isn't the slightest chill, and to be honest, it's not the most refreshing temperature. It's like a lukewarm bath. Still, I'm not one to miss out on water at any cost, so swim a few lengths before doing my usual how-long-can-I-stay-under tricks and a few dolphin-like manoeuvres. You might laugh at that, especially if you know me: you might consider me slightly ungainly on land, but in water I am a fish and take on hydrodynamic properties. And I will beat any of you in a straight 25m front-crawl sprint. Guaranteed. Don't laugh, I'll make you look stupid. Y'all might be lean and have muscles - I have technique. You don't. You think it's "just swimming". That's like telling a 100m sprinter it's "just running".

I tell Emma about how I'd started a blog, and that I'd been completely unable to fulfill the task from Mallorca (see Bringing Dad Home Part I). I asked if I could use the computer to check my bank balances and make sure there was enough in my current account for me to pull out of the ATM. They have ISDN at the house, a massive 64kbps, but it works and that was good enough for me.

Very handily, she has also found the invoice record from Miguel at Nautica. This confirms one thing: that he didn't lie about the date of the last paid bill. But it raises an interesting angle. Where is the four speaker CD system my Dad has apparently already paid E450 for? Coz it ain't aboard ship. Am I about to renegotiate the bill?

I left Emma after 4 hours, during which time I got the impression that she was really pleased to be able to talk to someone "who understood it all". I think she's very lonely without him, but her animals and running the house keep her very busy indeed, and she's got all her old Mallorca friends. She has been then 20-odd years. I said I'd be up to see her again and collect all the stuff once I had the boat in my possession. We kissed goodbye and I left, the dogs chasing me as far as the gate.

To business: I need a lot of money, and I need it now. I go to the bank. My daily limit in England is 300 quid - so I figure 500 euros should be no problem. I ask. I am declined. I am told that I have a 300 per day limit. I need another 1600 euros. That's six days I have to wait. I can't wait that long. I'll be back in England. I whip out the Visa. What's on here already? Car booking, 200 euros gone. Sure there was about £125 quid on it already. I have a limit of £900. Shit. Shit. Withdraw. It allows me another 300 euros. I think I'll try again. Another 300 euros. Great. Shall we? We are declined on the third attempt. We have maxed out. We must rely on Maestro from hereon in. So - 1400 in the safe at the hotel. Another 900 here. That's 2300. Still need 700 euros. That's at least 3 days. That's Friday, Saturday and Sunday withdrawals, and not spending more than 200 euros in that time. Should be a doddle, providing I eat once a day. I'm annoyed. This means I won't be able to collect the boat until Monday morning. It means I probably won't get the stuff from Emma until Tuesday. This is all starting to look like it's gonna be tight.

But fuck it. I go with the flow and realise that it will happen, just not on the original planned timescale, which was far too Germanic in it's conception to be realistic in a place like Mallorca. Chill out. I walk out of the hotel, singing Californication by the Red Hot Chili Peppers as I wander through the streets of Cala D'Or. The tourists look at me like a Brit who's been here too long, had too much sun. The street hawkers don't bother me, I'm not dressed like a tourist, I have a car, I am carrying bags from local businesses: I clearly know the area. In Burger King, I order a Chicken Tendercrisp (piccante) meal, with onion rings and Coke Light. I do all this in Spanish, and even have to translate for someone who hasn't bothered with their Berlitz guide. I wander about some more, poking my head into all the old places on the way. It's all changed, but it's all the same. I head back home for an early night. Tomorrow, I need to tell Miguel how it's all gonna happen.

I get back to my room at the hotel. There are bats flying around, I can see them darting in the light from the outside wall. I go out onto the balcony and I feel like Dad's here. I get the same shiver - I can only call it that - that Ellie and I got the night after he died. We were in the casita at Casa Fushi, and I couldn't sleep. Nor could Ellie. Suddenly, I sat bolt upright in bed and said He's here! We got up and went into the living room of the casita. Both of us were feeling the same presence and then a line of what looked like laser lights shot past the window that overlooked the fishpond and wild garden. There is nothing over there that would do that. Tonight, it's that same feeling, and I smile, then laugh, then cry. I ask for more, and can see strange shapes in the clouds, never a complete face, but characteristics - a wide smile, a winking eye, even his bulbous nose. The fact that suddenly clouds appeared in skies that had stayed resolutely clear for weeks on end was also strange. I know he's here, and I know he's been here ever since that day. Maybe he'll go when he knows we're all over it. Maybe not, I hope not. Please don't stop touching me, somehow.

I start to chirrup in high-pitched tones, trying to get the bats to pay me some attention. I want one to swoop down and hang upside-down on my finger. So far, no joy. I go to bed.