John Mills wrote in his memoirs about his arrival in Madrid in 1951

 

Here we have the presentation of Credentials to General Francisco Franco, a Spanish general and the dictator of Spain from 1939 until his death in 1975, out at El Pardo in 1952. (Left to right): Franco,  Minister Du Toit, (up from Lisbon), Jack Bruce, head of the Madrid Legation (1st secretary, but big stuff in those days of a small F.O) John Mills (3rd Secretary - Madrid), and Otto Adendorff, (Information secretary from Lisbon)

         

So it was somewhat a weary family that boarded the night train for Paris, after the children’s bout of whooping cough over the previous two months.

 Of our arrival in Paris I remember little except being cordially received at the Embassy, under Mr. Harry Andrews, a nice man, and Hilary being put to sleep on the carpet of the library floor.    

         

From Paris we travelled down to the Spanish border in some style in a Pullman Coach. The compartment next to ours was occupied by a Spanish family - father, mother and two daughters.

 They were a most elegant and attractive group, father a very dignified man, and mother and daughters stunningly beautiful, with perfect olive complexions, lustrous eyes and shining black hair. We got to know them when Hilary toddled down the corridor into their compartment.  The Spaniards were enchanted by her and when we came to get her back they invited us in.

They spoke good English and we were able to hear how well-to-do Spanish girls lived - rise at about 11 am, go to Mass, then the dressmaker, have lunch, siesta, then the evening "paseo", dinner at 11 at night, then on to night clubs or a dance, then home and da capo. They invited us to visit them in Seville.  We were never able to take this up. A great pity, for invitations like that did not come easily in Spain.

When we reached the border at Hendaye, we chugged across the international bridge to Irun and changed trains after passing customs and immigration.   This was in the middle of the night, and while we waited for our train to Madrid we were the centre of attention.  Elizabeth was in her carry-cot and lay there on the floor of the waiting room surrounded by admiring Spaniards, who had never seen a carry-cot before, including the grave Guardia Civiles in their three-cornered hats.  With her smile and blue eyes she was a smash hit in Spain - always.

   

Elizabeth at seven months needed her drink of Ostermilk early in the morning.  Where to find hot water?  Pam took off to find a waiter, but at that hour no-one was awake except the engine- driver.  Pam found herself leaping across yawning gaps between the old carriages in her search.  It took her a long time, but eventually she returned triumphant, although with no Spanish and the idea of hygiene at that time, she wondered how boiled the water was that the waiter insisted on carrying for her        

We were welcomed in Madrid by Mr. Bruce, head of the Legation, and taken to the Hotel Velazquez, which was to be our home for the next two months.  Since we were opening a new Mission, Mr. Bruce felt that we ought to have a good address.  This was all very well but it brought us some problems we could have done without.

The hours for meals were virtually no breakfast as they only had coffee, and no-one seemed to be around until about 10 a.m. Lunch was at 3.p.m. and dinner at 11p.m. For children brought up on strict English hours of 6.a.m. 10.a.m. 2 pm 6.p.m this was more than a change to cope with.

 Hilary was only just two years old and we expected her to sit quietly and wait for her meal, which was more than unreasonable, so we had to try and order meals in the room. This meant room- service, and at different hours it was not popular with the hotel staff.  Moreover, they had become accustomed to lavish tips, and when these were not forthcoming they turned surly and frequently took their time to answer our requests.

 One further problem was that none of us had any Spanish and we discovered that only the manager in this large hotel understood English, so that frequently what we got was not at all what we had ordered.  A boiled egg, for example, is "un huevo pasado por agua,"  (an egg passed through water) Try finding that in the dictionary!

In addition, it rapidly became apparent that we were living far beyond our means.  The weekly bill would arrive, I would look at it, shudder and put it into a drawer. It was more than my salary. At that time, the Department did not pay for the hotel, but expected us, after some months settled in a house, to work out the difference between the cost of living and the hotel. This was certainly no help at the time.

Fortunately, the British Embassy very kindly allowed us to share in army rations, which they brought up from Gibraltar, as we were still in the Commonwealth. This was just as well, since we found the local milk undrinkable and baby food unobtainable.  Cow and Gate milk, God bless it, came from the wife of a British diplomat whose baby had just come off it and was able to let us have a supply. The army rations included 30tins of carnation milk, tea, coffee, sugar, corned beef and baked-beans, and one loaf, which was baked at the embassy weekly.

 At that time all these were unobtainable locally, the flour and sugar being black. In fact there was nothing available which we would take for granted including groceries or pharmaceutical products. The fruit and vegetables were wonderful, so was the fish and seafood, which was brought up in sea-water so that no matter how hot, it was still fresh. The only edible meat was veal, as there was no pasture for cattle or sheep. The supplies of baby milk we had sent from England did not arrive for five months! Goodness knows where they had been

.

Then began a strange interlude where we found ourselves living in an hotel-de-luxe, and cooking ourselves a meal of bully beef and baked beans, in our apartment, over an electric hot-plate which Pam bought. She also cooked vegetables and sieved them for Elizabeth as she needed solids too. It was quite a problem getting rid of the smell of cooking before the maids came around to clean, but we had to reduce our bill somehow. Another expense we could not afford was to have our washing done by the hotel, so Pam had to wash everything in the bath and hang it around. All the baby’s woollen clothes were squeezed in the towels and then put under the carpet to dry.

When we took the children to the park for some air, people would stare at us as strangers as though we had come from another world, especially as we had Elizabeth in the carry-cot too. Spain had been cut off diplomatically for five years and they were not used to many foreigners. We saw the Spanish children in the parks, the girls still dressed in frills and the boys in sailor suits, which the Nannies, who often were still in uniforms down to their ankles, did not want to see dirtied, so their activity was restricted. In fact the whole impression we had was that we had stepped back a hundred years into the Victorian era. The formality and the number of servants were still there.  

                   

Although there was very little traffic in comparison to the year 2000, the noise they made was tremendous. They blew their horns at every possible opportunity.  The roads were bad and the cars very old, including the taxis, which were Hubmobiles, and with few brakes. You hung on to the strap inside with you heart in your mouth as you were hurtled along, especially down the Grande Via which was full of pot holes. Later we were to discover that the main road to Barcelona was narrow and in such bad shape that it broke all our shock absorbers!

 All this time we were having to battle with the dictionary for words to make ourselves understood, as we found French, Latin or Italian often left us with odd reactions.   Thinking of our 'faut pas'. We asked for 'Gateau' at table and received a roar of laughter, as the same sound of 'gatto' in Spanish means 'cat'. Same with Italian 'burro' for butter. In Spanish that means 'mule'. Butter is mantequilla. Who would have thought that?

 During the day I was out with Mr. Bruce, looking for premises we could rent as offices for our mission. But here we were very lucky.  Mr. Bruce, had met at some reception an Englishman who had been sent to Spain by the British War Reparations Organization to track down and seize German assets in Spain.  Now, in 1951, after five years of investigations, he had finished his work, and we were able to take his office, which comprised a whole floor of the Omnia Insurance Company's building at what was probably the best address in Madrid.  Plaza Colon, No. 1. (Colon is the Spanish name of the man the Italians call Columbus.) It stands about halfway down the broad processional highway called the Paseo de la Castellana.

Our office was now open.  We had engaged a messenger, a lugubrious Spaniard called Eduardo. We were also lucky in obtaining the services of a young Irish girl - Joan Feehan - who had just stopped working as Secretary at the Irish Embassy.  She spoke fluent Spanish and had a thoroughly practical knowledge of how to deal with Spanish bureaucracy. We could not have been more fortunate.

 I was now able to go down to Lisbon to collect the new car we had bought - a Ford Consul. I went down by train, and was hospitably looked after by our people at the Legation.  I paid my courtesy visit on the Minister, Mr. S. F. du Toit, who was accredited also to Madrid and therefore was our boss.  Although he had a reputation for being "difficult", he received me kindly.

Having collected the car, I left with a word of warning ringing in my ears:  replenish your petrol supply at the frontier because thereafter petrol pumps are few and far between.  So I set off happily through the cork groves, had lunch on the way, and reached Badajoz in the late afternoon.  I was to sleep that night in a "parador", or inn, about twenty miles into Spain.

In Badajoz I got comprehensively lost, forgot completely about filling my tank, got out of the town and was heading into the dusk when I suddenly realised the needle was trembling at "empty".  Too late to turn back.  Ahead was a small village.

I pulled off the road and into the village square, the cynosure of all eyes. Petrol pump?  No, Señor, no petrol pump here. Who might have some? Possibly the doctor. "I'm sorry.  I have a weekend ahead of me.  My patients must come first.  Try the chemist".  "Sorry, Señor, no petrol, but I could facilitate you two litres of wood alcohol, if that would serve?"

Thinking of my new car, still being run-in, I thanked the chemist and set off back to my car still in the village square, pondering on my problem.  Following me around on my abortive inquiries had been a young boy, who now took on the aspect of an angel.  He had a sister, he said, who was married to a farmer who had a tractor.  Possibly the farmer would be able to facilitate me a litre or two.  Should he take me there? My word!

Soon we were bumping up a track towards the gleaming light of a farmhouse, where the family was sitting down to supper. While my young friend was telling his story I was made to sit down, a glass of wine appeared miraculously in my hand, and I had to rub my eyes to realise that I was not back with my peasant wartime friends in Italy.  There was the selfsame open-hearted generosity, the same wish to help the traveller in trouble.  Of course, I could have some petrol.  In the meantime, have supper with us.  They would accept no excuses, and finally, replete, I left with warm greetings in my ears -

 “Now remember, this is your home.  Come and see us next time you pass by."  They escorted me to the car and we all suddenly remembered the reason I had come to them in the first place.  The little boy was sent up the track and in a minute he returned panting, carrying a four-gallon drum leaking petrol at all seams, which was emptied into my tank.  When I tried to pay, I was greeted with looks of incomprehension.   I had offended them.  They wanted no pay for what to them was simple good neighbourliness.  I went on my way, marvelling at the goodness of the poor in yet another country.  (But I'd slipped some money into a pocket of theirs when they weren't looking.) I wonder what would happen in these now mercenary days!

The presentation of credentials was an impressive affair, even if a mere Minister (and a Minister, moreover, accredited to Madrid from another capital - Lisbon at that!) could not expect the full treatment.  The full treatment meant that the State coach was sent to fetch you and you were escorted to the Palace by the Moorish Guard on horses with hooves painted silver and gold, while trumpeters sounded fanfares - quite a spectacle.

 We went out by car to El Pardo, Franco's working headquarters in the country, a few kilometres out of Madrid, but otherwise the ceremony was the same with the Moorish Guard lining the corridors in their smart, spectacular uniform. Franco was short and tubby, but very much the military man.  His posture was upright, his handshake was firm and he moved briskly along our line.

 The ladies were not included in this ceremony but we all (some of the Lisbon staff had also come up) met together for a celebration later that evening.

 Some colleagues had had a spot of trouble with our Minister, but fortunately we always got on quite well. He did appreciate a pretty face so Pam no doubt helped there, and she did look very smart in a classic brown suit and hat we had bought in England.  On a later visit he asked to come out to our house and wanted to prune our vines.  He always entertained extremely well and was an imposing figure of a man.

This all passed off very smoothly, but the Minister's first visit to the Foreign Ministry was a little fraught.  His appointment with the Foreign Minister was scheduled for 10 pm.  His eyebrows went up a little, but, as is well known, Spanish hours are ‘sui generis’.  When he arrived, he found four South American Ambassadors chatting companionably in the Foreign Minister's waiting-room.  Now his eyebrows really went up.  "My appointment with the Foreign Minister", he said to the young Protocol Officer, "is in five minutes' time.

I take it these gentlemen will be following me."  "Oh, no, Your Excellency.  I fear they take precedence."  "In that case", said the Minister, "kindly summon my car.  I expect to be received on time, or not at all."  Consternation.  Chief of Protocol arrives in a rush.  Explanation. Apologies. Please.  To no avail.  Mr. du Toit got his way, and won a great deal of respect in the process.  He was a formidable man and was treated with kid gloves thereafter.  I must say I would not have felt able to do the same.

Having established ourselves, we now were able to call on other missions. It was custom to call on the Wife of the British Ambassador first as we were still in the Commonwealth, so while some of the wives were up from Lisbon, Mrs Bruce arranged the appointment. Unfortunately we had decided on arrival that we had better accustom ourselves to eating Spanish dishes, but as the oil was so bad (fifth press they said, as the good was exported), it affected Pam badly.

She was feeling like death warmed up with a terrible head and hoping to be sick, so she told Mrs Bruce that she felt she could not come. Mrs Bruce had the odd idea that she was too nervous to make the visit and said that she would have to go alone later. Pam said that she would try to come along. Luckily she was as sick as a dog before having to get dressed and managed to join the others.

 Mrs Bruce was so surprised to find that she really was unwell.  The visit, with all in their hats and gloves was in the afternoon, and they were received for the accepted, twenty minutes exchanging pleasantries. Pam said that there was a social secretary hovering around all the time, but the Ambassadress was quite amiable. Everything was so formal in those days, dropping cards with the corner turned down as one left the Residence.

 In the afternoons I was out looking for a place for us to live in.  At that time furnished accommodation could only be approved if the Heads of Mission were prepared to certify that no suitable unfurnished accommodation was available.  It took a long time for us to find out what the rental situation was in Madrid, and Mr Bruce was quite naturally not prepared to allow us to take furnished accommodation until he was satisfied that he could properly do so.  Day after day I would return and in response to Pam's expectant gaze, sadly shake my head.

 This was a kind of purgatory. In the end, after two months, we found an unfurnished house at Chamartin de las Rosas, the first village, ten minutes from the centre, (Madrid was a very small town in those days) and thankfully moved in with no furniture, having come from still rationed post-war Engalnd. It eventually turned out to be a happy home for us.

Before we were able to do this we had to pay the hotel bills, and what saved the situation was my demobilisation money from the war, which I managed to get from South Africa. In those days the Government only paid a small percentage of the house rent too, so we also had to have cash to put down for two month's rent in advance. And so, as usual in our career, we started off in a new post without any money to spare!

 It was quite a big house with basement (kitchen, servant's bedrooms) first floor (large tiled patio leading in to the big hall, dining room, reception room) and upper floor (five bedrooms).  It stood in its own grounds behind a high 12 foot, wall, with imposing iron gates. It was quite countryfied although only ten minutes from the centre, and the shepherds drove their sheep past the house trying to find enough grass to eat.  Hard to believe with the size of Madrid today with all its tourists. But - we needed two things urgently - someone to help us in the house and some furniture.

  At first we took on a char "hace todo” called Consuelo, who was a dear peasant, who gave us many tips, such as frying lemon in the Spanish olive- oil to try to purify it and rid it of its terrible odour, which impregnated the walls of Madrid, and tell all not to drink the water, which came almost black out of the tap anyhow. We had to get it from a little running fountain down the road.  But she was not enough of course, as at that time the average Spanish household held half a dozen servants.

     

For cooking we had a coal stove down in the kitchen in the basement.  It was a devil to start.  Food from the kitchen then had to be hauled up in a small lift to a butler's pantry on the first floor next to the dining room.  

   

 But first, we dashed out and bought two beds, which had woollen mattresses as was the custom there. Elizabeth had her carry- cot and we managed to buy an enormous cot, made at the British Embassy for a three year old. Otherwise the place was bare, and something had to be done about it.

Quite apart from the stroke of luck, of meeting the man who had had the office, there was another. Through this connection we were introduced to a second-hand furniture shopkeeper in the  "Rastro", the flea market of Madrid.  His name was Antonio, and we were introduced as friends.  Consequently, as he so eloquently and without words made the gesture of total honesty (fingers and thumbs together and the hand lowered perpendicularly), he did not cheat us more than was necessary to maintain his self-esteem.  And that's a lie, for to the best of our knowledge, he never cheated us at all.  And this despite his having been a pick-pocket in his youth!

 The trouble was that he was almost too helpful.  We would go to his two-storied shop in the Rastro and if we even vaguely indicated our interest in any particular piece of furniture, Antonio would have it sent round next day - this despite our protests that we couldn't pay.  "You'll pay when you can", he used to say.  "Don't worry about it at all."  We were and remain grateful to Antonio.  Practically all the furniture we have came from him – very old good quality.

We also bought the German settees, which were still in the office and had to be disposed of, so we did have something to sit on.  Finally our personal effects arrived so that we had some more linen and cutlery etc. and the packing cases came in handy for seats and tables until better things were bought.        

                   

 After trial and error, we finally wound up with two Carmens - one we called Carmen Cookie and the other Carmen Doncella (or Maid) - and they were good and faithful servants to the end.  We overcame the lack of a Nanny by making each Carmen responsible for one child and increasing their pay accordingly, which had been only one pound fifteen shillings a month. They relished the increased responsibility and spoiled the children shamelessly.  We knew when we had to leave Hilary and Elizabeth that they were in loving and caring hands.

The staff was completed by José, a Galician peasant, who looked after the grounds and garden.  We met him first when his wife, the charlady, Consuelo, had enquired if her husband could come and take the rubbish away.  Why?  Did the municipality not collect it?       "No, Señor.  You have to make your own arrangements.   Unfortunately he is a poor man and could not offer to pay you much."  "Pay us!!"

It turned out that these rubbish collectors were mainly the poor who lived in  Caves outside Madrid, and we used to see them with their little donkey carts later on when we came home with the dawn. They sold what was retrievable - bits of partly-consumed coal, newspapers, tin cans etc. - and expected to pay for the privilege.  We assured her we would be only too grateful if her husband were to take care of our rubbish and that we certainly wouldn't expect any pay.  So in the very early morning we would hear the iron wheels of Jose's cart being pulled along behind him to collect our rubbish,.

 After a while he came to me and asked what arrangements we were contemplating for the garden. He understood animals, could look after rabbits and some chickens as well as maintain vegetables, if we should wish to plant them.  About flowers he knew nothing, but would be willing to learn.  And so that was how José came to be with us.  He was a dear old man; a real gentleman.  Like the Carmens, he adored our children.

So our staff consisted of three.  No lady's maid, no butler, no driver, no nanny.  A little down-market in the eyes of the Carmens, who now regarded the family and its prestige as their own.  I was made to realise this when I was reproached for opening the tall 12 ft front gates myself when returning from office.  This, apparently, really let the side down.  I was, please, to sound the horn three times as I approached the house and they would open for me.  So I did this, and they would duly open the gates, immediately close them invisibly and then scoot back to the kitchen and up the back stairs to receive my hat and coat.  (See how unkind it was not to have a butler?) We gradually learned how formal life in Spain was even for the public, who had to be respectably clothed at all times. No flesh to be shown.

As we moved in to the office, Mr. Bruce had pointed to the balcony outside his room, and said:  "We shall have to have a flagpole."  I filed the instruction for future action.  There were, I thought, other and more important priorities.  I was wrong.  One morning in February, I burst into Mr. Bruce's room with the news I had just heard on the radio that King George VI had died.  He just looked at me and said:  "Flagpole?"

Now where does one find a flagpole in a hurry, and in a foreign country at that?  Antonio!  Antonio should know.  And thank goodness he did, and in half an hour he had arrived, with his carpenter, and our flag was flying at half-mast.

  Now followed a typically Spanish episode.  When I asked him how much the flagpole cost, Antonio resolutely refused payment even though I made it plain that it would be our Government paying, not me.  He could not, he said, accept money from the death of our King.  After a while, the carpenter leaned forward and whispered in his ear.  A look of comprehension crossed Antonio's face and he turned to me.  "How much shall I make the receipt out for?" he said.   -  I'll leave you to work that one out for yourselves.  The switch from hidalgo to man of the world was smooth.

The death of the King meant that we all had to go into half court mourning - ladies in black dresses, men into black ties and sombre suits. At the Memorial Service the ladies had to wear the long black veil, which royalty still do, and Pam said it made you terribly hot and hard to breath.  No receptions or dinners allowed and no invitations accepted, for three months.

Thank goodness it was not full court mourning. It was also a break for us and gave us time to sort ourselves out. It had been embarrassing for us anyhow being asked out by other colleagues of the British and Canadian Embassies, who were the only Commonwealth ones represented there, as Pam had so few clothes to wear and no money to buy anything. We discovered that there were no ready-made clothes in Madrid at that time. All the Señore had them made.

 It was not only clothes but items such as stockings which we could not afford to buy, so she actually had to go down the trunks and found Lyle stockings she had worn at school, and went to cocktail parties in them hoping no-one would look at her legs! Luckily skirts were not too short at that time.  Can you imagine a diplomat doing that today? They would be applying for trauma relief!

 It certainly was not easy to learn to cope with language, customs, as well as changing from the private who did everything in England to the General in command. The locals were amazed to learn from the Carmens that Pam sewed and did things in the garden. Our dear neighbours, the Bristows from the British Embassy, who lived around the corner and knew Spain like the back of their hand, told me that some wives had breakdowns, and others just left. No doubt it was terribly character building!

 My lack of Spanish was borne in on me when I was sent to drop the Bruces' cards on Ministers and other dignitaries - two for the man and one for the lady - cards not turned down at the corner.  (If the card were turned down at the corner, this meant the card had been delivered in person.)  The trouble was that the Spaniards did not seem to understand me and I feel I was often ushered into the presence.  Whether they thought I was the Charge d'Affaires himself I do not know.  Probably they did.  (In one case I am almost certain.  I used to ask for the Segretario Personal - I should have been asking for the Segretario  Particolar - i.e. Private Secretary.)

So learning Spanish became a priority.  Through the British Embassy, which was our only source of enlightenment, we engaged a tutor, Don Angel Gargallo.  Don Angel, a lugubrious Madrileño, used to have lunch with us every day, and then follow this with an hour's lesson, thus cutting into the siesta, which we had come to realise as essential - and still do.  I fear we often used to nod, as Don Angel droned on, particularly since he was bringing us along at a snail's pace, no doubt with one eye on a lucrative avenue of employment and one square meal a day.

 He was, however, extremely useful in instructing us in how to deal with our new Spanish servants, warning us of pitfalls, although he could not speak one word of English. He amused us by telling the servants to do exactly what we required without question.  The implication was that we were clearly mad foreigners, but no matter - do exactly what they say.  This had a very good effect in general, but we shall always remember one particular episode when the principle backfired.

The Spanish had never heard of or seen a sandwich, as there were no loaves as we know them, so this had to be explained, in particular the necessity to butter both slices of bread.  We took some sandwiches to the Sierra one day and found our instructions had been carried out to the letter:  both pieces of bread had indeed been buttered - on both sides, added to which mayonnaise had been applied on the same lines.  Had to eat them, since we had brought nothing else, but can't face mayonnaise to this day.  Don Angel was a clinger, and we had quite a job to convince him we had acquired enough Spanish to be able to paddle our own canoes.

This was a good thing, as we now became engaged in a battle with Spanish officialdom.  Our landlady was a German who had married a Spaniard and possessed the worst qualities of both races, a real Doña Perfecta!  The moment the lease was signed she immediately cancelled contracts for electricity and water, telephone etc.  Without informing us, naturally.  As a result, I would receive frantic calls from Pam to say that workmen had arrived to disconnect some service.

These would have to be bribed to go away, while I strove to get new contracts signed.  These took a long time to be concluded.  Why not, when it meant cutting off some useful earnings?  The mere idea of actually offering an inducement to the officials concerned in order to expedite the matter never occurred to me.  To a Spaniard, this would have been second nature. He would have said we were offering money at the wrong end.  Eventually, however, we were able to get our contracts in order, and the Carmens no longer guarded our front gate, refusing entry to representatives of the service companies waiting to cut off our supplies.

 Another episode showed us how ill-equipped we were to cope with the Spanish way of life.  To the left of our house, behind high walls, was a large house.  To the right was an occupied house.  The house to the left was apparently engaged in manufacturing rubber goods - what type, we never knew:    (Come, come, perish the thought!)

 The first time we realised something was wrong was when an evil-smelling pool appeared outside our kitchen door.  It took us some time to discover that the sewer outlet from our house had been blocked - from the house next door.  It took us even longer to discover why.  The reason was that the rubber factory was flushing unwanted rubber down the lavatories causing problems downstream.  The downstream dwellers had reacted by blocking the sewer where it entered their own properties.  We were the last house in the chain to be affected.

 We immediately telephoned our landlady.  She could not understand our problem.  Why did we not block the sewer where it came into our land as the others had done?  This would have meant that the authors of the misdemeanour would be caught themselves.  In the end the matter was resolved – someone dubbed in the rubber makers.

 Even towards the end of our stay in Madrid we were still green.  Our house faced an open field where sheep grazed, and a little light tram service ran to connect downtown with suburbs to the north.  The children used to go with the Carmens to collect water from a nearby fountain.  It was truly rural, and the road running past our house was a white unmade track. One day a gang of workmen started grading the road, and building gutters and pavements, preparatory to sealing it with tar.

I used to watch with some interest the progress made, and became a little worried about the dip the road was taking, since if it were to continue at that angle our own driveway would be left high and dry in the air.  I discussed this with the foreman of the gang and said I hoped a bite would be taken out of the pavement so that I could get in and out, and was assured that this would be done.

 One day, however, they speeded up and when I got home, they had passed our gate and, lo and behold, our gateway was left high in the air. When I challenged the foreman, he could not remember our discussion.  I informed our landlady, and she was distraught.  Why, oh why, had I not had the commonsense to slip the foreman a tip, or at least inform her, so that she could do it?  Now look what I had done! We had to cobble up wooden devices to allow our car to enter.  When the job was over, the foreman had the nerve to ask for a tip.  I sent him two pesetas by one of the Carmens.

Incidentally women did not drive around in Spain in those days because though there was little traffic it was very dangerous and most had chauffers anyhow. We did not, so Pam was stuck out at Chamartin until she learned to take the tram, which was another experience. You had to fight your way in at the back, out at the front, and there were many hanging on the outside, so apart from the odour it was quite a hair-raising and unpleasant occupation.

The amount of traffic in Madrid was small but dangerous too, not only due to lack of brakes and age of the cars, but lack of respect for any road rules. There were traffic lights, which had a resounding bell when one could cross the road, but there was also a policeman with a whistle on a type of plinth in the middle of the road.  It was rather like a “Charge” order to cross, hoping the traffic would stop. There were so many policemen killed they finally stood on a plinth at the corners of the street.

 We started to explore around for the first time. We went up to the Guadarama mountains which were quite beautiful after the plains of central Spain. There was still snow on the mountain tops and the air was pure and fresh. We went to our first bull-fight in the big arena in Madrid and Pam described it as a fascinating horror. She looked at it through her fan most of the time and was not aware that there was nothing to lean against for the full two hours while the six bulls were killed.

 As time went on we came to understand the whole process better and realised that one had to be brave to get anywhere near those bulls. It depicted the Spanish character - very brave but liable to  cruelty. Muy valiente! The scene and colour was so spectacular that it appeared more like a film before the eyes than real life. At five in the afternoon there is nothing quite like the atmosphere of the bullring, with the crowds venting their feelings too when necessary.

 Now that we had the Carmens we felt happier about accepting invitations to diplomatic receptions and cocktail parties, sometimes continuing the celebrations into the wee small hours.

  I hasten to add that this was an exception, and that we did not normally live such dissolute lives. To stay out as late as that also caused problems of getting back into our house. Nobody in those days had the keys to the home. A servant was always on duty, and there was also the "sereno" - a kind of night-watchman whose staff banging on the ground was a comforting sound in the night, to indicate that all was well.

Those operating in Madrid had the keys to a number of blocks of flats and could be summoned to let one in. This was done by clapping the hands. In the small hours of the morning all over Madrid one could hear the sounds of clapping echoing through the empty streets, followed by the sound of the sereno's staff banging on the ground to indicate that he had heard and was coming. He expected a tip, naturally, for his service.

 It was a job much sought after, and went only to those whose character was beyond suspicion. The sounds of clapping hands and the sereno's staff are no longer heard in today's democratic Spain. The serenos got mugged so often that they have disappeared completely. Moreover anyone standing outside his block of flats clapping his hands would probably get mugged himself.

Our sereno did not, however, have keys, due to the fact that we were all villas with servants, so we had to rely on the Carmens. They were most insistent that we should never let the side down by actually stooping so low as to let ourselves in. They would ask when we expected to get back so that they could be sure to be awake, but often, having said that we would not be late, we were, and had apologetically to ring at the front gate, at which the sleepy-eyed couple would double out, open the gate and then ask if we wanted coffee before going to bed. (This would have entailed reactivating a coal fire.) They never showed the slightest resentment at having been woken up at such an unearthly hour.

 We were also emboldened to give a few parties ourselves to return hospitality. In the early days we had perforce to make do without the aid of any furniture except the packing cases in which our few possessions had arrived, but that seemed to add to rather than detract from the enjoyment. Most cocktail parties are 'vertical" affairs, so to speak, in any case.

In the Legation's early days we were greatly helped by a German businessman, Mr. Anton Paukner, who occupied the floor above us. He represented the German State Railways and had a number of other irons in the fire.  He was, according to our friend from the Allied War Reparations Committee, the only German who had come forward to declare his assets, which were promptly taken over.  Now only six years later, he was well on the way to making a new fortune.  He was vastly experienced in doing business with Spaniards, and his advice was always soundly based.  For some reason he took a liking to us, and this was our good fortune.

 Anton Paukner had had an interesting war career. He had been in charge of supplies to the Afrika Korps, and had become so dissatisfied with the support given to Rommel that he had been too outspoken for his own health, and had had to take refuge in Spain, pursued by the Gestapo.  His Spanish friends saw to it that he was moved into a different detention camp every time the Gestapo got too close.

I found the Legation work both interesting at best and boring in the extreme at worst.  I had always been poor at arithmetic, and keeping the accounts was a chore that I did not enjoy.  Also a bit of a nuisance was checking visa applications against what was known as the Suspect Index - a list of crooks and other undesirables sent out by the British which went on and on and on, and had to be amended every month as some names were struck off and others added. Fortunately we had very few resident South African citizens in Spain, and therefore very few to get into trouble or appeal for consular assistance.

 The British Embassy had a consular section, presided over by a very knowing and experienced old bird. His advice to me was to start off with the presumption that every citizen who called for assistance was a rogue, a cheat and a liar. One could always modify that opinion as one went on, but one could never fail by starting off the way he suggested. He warned that a new Mission would inevitably attract all the Bad hats amongst one's citizens who would hope that they would not be recognised as such by the new boys. I am afraid he was right, but thanks to this advice I did not get caught. I was grateful to him,

 Another “custom” I met was when Spaniards came in for a visa. I always found money already in their passport, and they could not understand why I handed it back. They were amazed to receive their request without a bribe. It was a way of life in those days.          

                           

Unlike South Africa House in London, where there were innumerable departments to deal with varying matters, in Madrid all was grist that came to our mill.  One of the problems we faced was the difficulty in getting departments at home to grasp that what was standard in Pretoria was not necessarily so in Spain.  I used to battle every month with a really stupid task, trying to supply statistics for the establishment of a comparative cost of living index, required by Treasury.

 Amongst the items whose prices I was required to check were:  sandshoes, khaki shorts, mealie meal  (none of which were exactly standard in Spain!) and things like mild steel reinforcing rods for concrete, which drove me around the twist, considering that no Spanish firm would give you a price on anything without knowing who you were and how many tons you would be requiring.

 The Department, too, showed few signs of realising that we were no longer working at the Union Buildings in Pretoria.  In Madrid the cold in winter is severe, and we applied for a mat or carpet for poor Joan Feehan to put her freezing feet on.  Not possible, said the Department - locally recruited staff were not entitled to carpets in their rooms.  We got a carpet, nevertheless, by selling newspapers and odds and ends, quite illegally, and it gave us some satisfaction at the thought that when our successors came to take stock, they would find a carpet for which there was no authority.  Ho! Ho!

 Another brush came when our Minister, Stephen du Toit, made his first official visit to Madrid to present his credentials.  He drove up from Lisbon in the official car.  Why, asked Accounts in Pretoria, did he not come up by train, and hire a car while in Madrid?  We dealt with this by sending them copies of photographs of cars for hire (some of them were Hupmobiles, a brand which became extinct in the 30's).  They did not pursue the matter.

 In July of 1952 we took a holiday in the south of Spain.  I went on a reconnaissance and found a good hotel at Benidorm, near Alicante. It stood on a rocky promontory and had a pathway which led directly down to the beach. The bathing seemed to be safe and eminently suitable for small children.

Whilst I was away, Pam had to experience a nerve-chilling night. As she was about to go to bed, a murderous sounding row erupted from the servants’ rooms below. For those who know the sound of the guttural Spanish “jota” (letter J) you can imagine how blood-curdling it can sound in anger.  As she was about to investigate, the noise ended abruptly, and she wondered if she would find a body below!

 As this would be better in daylight than in the dead of night, she decided to wait until the next morning.  To her horror the cook appeared with her tea instead of the maid, but descending below, she found the maid, once she heard Pam’s voice, peering out of her bedroom door. She had locked herself in after a terrible fight, so it was time to replace both, which we did, finding the two Carmens.

 Finally, we set off early one morning for the south of Spain and our trip nearly ended in disaster.  I had put the car in for servicing shortly before so as to be certain all was well, and had been assured that everything had been checked and found to be in good working order. Alas! Before I had got out of Madrid I suddenly found the temperature gauge showing in the danger area.  I turned into the nearest garage and found out that there was no oil in the sump, which had been drained but not refilled by the garage! No doubt there was a resale value even in partly used oil.  Just as well the discovery was made early. One lives and learns!

We traversed the desolate plains of Andalucia, and stopped for lunch under the only tree we could find  (we did the same on the way back) and met for the first time bloodsucking flies - not horse-flies, flies.  This was La Mancha country, but we did not see many windmills, only big brown barren plains where the next town announced itself in the distance by its church tower and nothing else.  (All changed by irrigation now, I'm told.)

Our stay at Benidorm, a little fishing village at that time was idyllic in many ways. The hotel had the only source of running water, so the whole village came there regularly to fill up their botijas (water carriers). We were the only foreigners on the beach, and as the Spaniards appeared at midday and disappeared for lunch and siesta by 2.30 pm, it was very relaxing.

There were very few guests at the hotel, and in the evening we would sit on the balcony enjoying dinner watching the moon making a silver path in the water, and the lights of the fishing boats. This was usually by candlelight because the electricity had given out by then. We would occasionally be joined for our after-dinner drink by the hotel manager, an amiable man with a fine baritone voice, who had sung with the Barcelona Opera Company.  He would entertain us with a few arias.  We enjoyed his company, and were sorry when our holiday ended and we had to leave.

To our surprise, when we came to settle the bill, we found that there was no charge for Elizabeth - she was on the house.  Spaniards cannot resist baby blondes with blue eyes, and all thought her very brave, as at 15months she would rush into the water. Hilary was half price with her “ojos azules (Unfortunately Benidorm is now filled with high-rise hotels and fish-and-chip shops – qué lastima!)

It was very difficult to get to know the average Spaniard, as family was a very closed circuit. Oddly enough, it was through firing our first maid that we met the people who were to become our first (and only) Spanish friends.  (Perhaps even then we shouldn't call them Spanish, for they were Catalans, and between them and the Madrileños was a world of difference.  The Catalans drink beer, they are miners and industrialists, and they play rugby.)

 One Sunday we were working in the garden when the Carmens had their day off, and there was a ring at the front gate. (Spaniard never let all their staff off at any time, but we enjoyed a breather from them) Even though we were somewhat scantily dressed, there was nothing for it but to answer the bell.  I had no shirt on, and Pam, in a sundress, opened the gate to find two immaculately dressed visitors come to check the credentials of Angelines, who claimed she had worked for us.  When they had recovered from their shock, they gingerly accepted an invitation to take coffee with us.

Our visitors were Mario and Josefina Rottlant de Franch, and we became good friends, once we had sorted out each other's peculiarities.  Once while taking a morning stroll, Pam thought she might drop in on the Franchs.  It was 11.30 a.m. and she felt this was not an unreasonable hour to call.  Alas!  Josefina had not yet risen and there was consternation.  For their part, they had to learn that informality between friends was quite acceptable to us, so that when we used to invite them over on a hot Sunday evening for a drink, Mario would ask in bantering fashion "Short sleeves?"  They would respond by inviting us sometimes, and from them we learnt quite a bit about Spanish social customs.

 Up until then we had never crossed the threshold of a Spaniard's house.  Home was not to be invaded by guests:  they were entertained in restaurants.  Moreover, wives were very often left at home. It was not unusual for a guest to come on his own, making apologies for his wife who was indisposed.  Moreover, punctuality is not a virtue practised by many Spaniards.  Unfailingly polite, indeed courteous in the extreme, they can still gaze at you candidly and tell the most whopping untruths.  One may be in a man's ante-room, on appointment and at the agreed hour, only to have his secretary tell you that, unfortunately, he had been called away urgently to Barcelona.

And while this is going on, you can hear his voice in the next room, speaking on the telephone.  When you meet him a few hours later on the golf course, it would be considered the height of bad manners to wonder aloud how he had managed to get back from Barcelona so quickly.  Nobody can give you the run-around as comprehensibly and politely as a Spaniard.  After negotiating with Franco for three days without getting anywhere, Hitler is quoted as saying that sooner than repeat that process he would prefer to have all his teeth pulled out one by one.  This may be the only area in which I have sympathised with Hitler.

 In time, I learned that the only way to achieve anything in Spain was to place yourself on such terms with a man that he would feel either in honour bound or out of simple friendship to help you.  This was the relationship which had grown up between Antonio from the Rastro and us.  I was also able to establish good relations with the messengers at Foreign Affairs, and it was amusing how this helped me in various ways.  (Later, in Rome, I was able as Ambassador to get on the same footing with messengers at the Farnesina, some of whom had been prisoners of war in South Africa during the war.)

So, in Madrid, a successful man was known by the number of "enchufes" he had.  An "enchufe" is an electric light socket, so such a man would be called "bien enchufado" or "well plugged in".

 Why was it useful to make friends of the messengers?  First of all, remember the saying of Daniele Varé, that reputation rises from the bottom.  Secondly, these factotums were, like the Barber of Seville, wheelers and dealers.  They would help to get word to somebody you had been trying to see for days, that it was really time that he received you.  You would telephone early in the morning.  Don Pablo had not yet arrived.  You telephone later.  Don Pablo has arrived but is in conference.  You telephone still later.  Don Pablo has gone to lunch.  In desperation you ring your messenger friend and in a few minutes you get the word that, if you were to come now, you would be able to catch him.  That time you do. So sorry, dear colleague, to have kept you waiting  - an urgent conference called by the Undersecretary. Quite.

 At Christmas time, never forget the messengers.  In Spain more than anywhere else in the world, perhaps, diplomatic success depended on personal relations.

 While we were negotiating these tricky rapids, Pam and I were also finding some of the delights of Madrid - the little restaurants with flamenco singers behind grilles, Spanish foods - baby eels in hot garlic sauce, freshly fried sardines, grilled prawns, all the sea food brought up to Madrid in salt water tanks so that it was ocean-fresh.  In the bars, the floors were covered with sawdust and there were "tapas" available in bowls to be nibbled with your drinks - little bits and pieces of seafood.  You drink, eat, chew and throw the shells and shrimp tails over your shoulder.  Marvellous!

Seafood marvellous, meat not so good, the best being veal.  Paellas I enjoyed - saffron rice baked with either seafood or chicken.  Sausages hot and spicy.  Stews ("cocidos") not too bad.  Bread appalling.  Oil worse - the smell of oil used in cooking was apparent on entering a Spanish building and it never ceased to make my nostrils twitch

 Our purchases were made by Carmen Cookie after consulting the Señora.  Sometimes she would bring a sample of live chickens or rabbits for the Señora to choose for herself.  Uck!  The poor animals have such a trusting look in their eyes. I might add that apart from the fact that it was not acceptable for a Señora to do the shopping – if she had, she would have been charged twice the price as a foreigner!

And talking of rabbits, we had some too, so that the children would have soft animals to cuddle.  We must have had a pair, for suddenly baby rabbits began to appear.  Jam for the children, of course, but since we didn't want to flood the world with rabbits, we built another pen and separated the pair.  To our surprise, we still got more rabbits.  When José was asked to explain this phenomenon, he confessed sheepishly that he had felt sorry for them and had reunited them from time to time!

We also had chickens, another area in which José ruled.  He understood about animals he had told us.  And he did.  Suddenly some of our chickens began to stagger about with their beaks open, showing signs of distress.  This, I am told, is what is known as "the gapes".  I don't know what the vets do in these circumstances, but José's remedy was swift and effective.  Seizing feathers from the tail of an indignant cock, he thrust them through the nostrils of the affected chickens.  They looked grotesque, as if sporting large moustaches, but it certainly cured them.

 José was full of peasant skills and wisdoms.  His method of growing tomatoes was to plant the seedlings in ditches and then to lay a lattice-work of saplings over the top.  He would lead water into the ditches, being careful not to let the water touch the foliage, and as the plants grew up they would collapse and flop over the saplings.  Unlike us, he would not take off any side shoots.  His system worked admirably.

 Every so often we had misunderstandings.  We had planted some maize and it grew very well.  When it was just right for eating, we picked some ears.  Next morning José reported the loss, full of indignation.  Some thief, some vandal, must have come during the night and stolen some of our maize.  And it wasn't even ripe.  We had to confess that we had taken them and then explain that we had taken them to eat.  Eat?  Green?  José had never heard of such a thing.  He thought we had planted maize to feed the chickens.

Another misunderstanding was when I asked José (or thought I had asked him) to clean up some leaves at the base of the small privet hedge along the driveway.  He paused for a while while he looked at me as if wondering how to explain things to an ignorant foreigner, then said:  "The Señor knows perhaps that the moon is waning -' Ca luna eqta in menquante'".  "No", I said.  "I did not".  "Well, then".  I went away in some puzzlement to consult the Carmens whose Spanish I could understand a little better than José's Galician.  No, they said, they couldn't understand either.  Everyone knows that you should not cut your toe or fingernails during the waning moon, but.....   We'll go and ask José.  They did, and came back smiling.  All a laughable misunderstanding.  José had understood the Señor to say he wanted the hedge pruned, and of course you shouldn't prune when the moon was waning.  Even I should have known that!

And then there was the time when I decided I would like to have a patch of lawn in the back garden.  Most Spanish gardens had plants in pots and not a blade of grass to be seen anywhere.  José was puzzled.  Why did I want to do this thing?  Never mind, I said, I want it.  Very well, said José, but please don't go to the expense of buying seed.  He would bring pieces of turf from the fields.  He would have to get up very early, because the shepherds wouldn't like it, but he thought the thing could be done.  I was far from sure that the transplants would take, but he was sure they would.

Well, to cut a long story short, they didn't, and so I did buy seed.  We prepared the ground properly and sowed the seed, and, miraculously, it came up.  We watered it diligently and watched it grow with some pride.  When it was long enough to be cut I asked José to mow it.  Once again he was puzzled.  What should he do with the grass once he had cut it?  I suggested he feed it to the chickens.  A great light broke upon him.  "I see, I see", he said.  "The Señor wished to grow a crop to feed the chickens.  How sensible, and how stupid of me not to realise this.

Another matter on which José and I did not see eye to eye was the question of flowers.  To him, flowers per se were a luxury - unless they could be put to some practical use.  Sunflowers, he said, were what we should be growing:  the seeds could be fed to the chickens.  When I wanted tulips, he was horrified.  Goodness knows what they would cost, surely not less than 3 pesetas each.  I dared not tell him how much they actually cost.  We planted them and up they came.  They looked beautiful, all one hundred of them -

 One day in the garden I feared we had caused a scandal.  A nunnery bordered on our back wall, against which we had a fig tree growing.  One hot morning, Hilary and I were in the top branches, me bare to the waist and Hilary with just a pair of broekies, when we saw the Mother Superior break away from a group of nuns at “Prayers”, and bear down on us with a purposeful gait.  I was already preparing a defence against a charge of public indecency,  (in those days you could be arrested for wearing a bikini, and men were required by regulation to wear jackets in public - the restaurants would not admit a man without a tie) when the majesty of the church spoke.  "I'll have you know", she said, "that the figs that hang over our side of the wall belong to us".

  So much for nuns forsaking worldly goods!  Pam was so incensed at this that when, the following week, one of the nuns' hens flew over the wall, she was, with the enthusiastic support of the Carmens, all for keeping it, on the general principle that everything our side of the wall belonged to us.  Preferring to avoid a diplomatic/religious incident, I dissuaded her.

 Bullfights.  Yes, bullfights are unavoidable in Madrid.  You have to see one at least.  To English eyes it is a cruel sport, but once you think of it as a sport you are already on the wrong track. There is no sport in it at all.  The bull must die.  Why?  Because in the short time he is in the ring he will learn enough to kill a man with certainty the next time.  So the end is not in dispute:  it is how the bull dies that matters.  It is a ballet with death, and once you can blank out the cruelty you realise that it is not only the bull whose life is at stake.  One false step, one treacherous gust of wind, and it is the bullfighter who will die.

You may be shocked at a bullfight; you will never be bored.  To see a first class bull being played by a first class matador is an exalting experience.  It is almost like watching Nureyev and Fonteyn dancing.  There is great beauty in the swirl of the cape, in the powerful rush of the bull, deflected like a top cricketer playing a leg -glance off his pads.

We really went to only two bullfights of our own volition - the first one, and one given by the Dominguin brothers at the smaller bull-ring at Carabanchel. This second one was a good one, the brothers even donating a sixth bull, which was banderillead, caped, played and killed by Luis Miguel Dominguin on his own.  The other fights we went to because South African visitors used to implore us to accompany them, to explain what was going on.  Few of them enjoyed the experience.

 In November we got a telegram one morning, which really had us on the hop.  We were instructed to obtain, immediately, overflying and landing permission in Madrid for a South African Air Dakota carrying twenty-two SAAF officers on their way to the United Kingdom, also overnight accommodation.  They were to arrive the following morning.

 I despaired of getting the necessary permission in time since Spanish bureaucracy can be extremely sluggish.  Mr. Bruce was on the telephone immediately. To our surprise the Spanish Air Force was extremely forthcoming and everything went like clockwork.  (Apparently our airmen had been diverted to a Spanish base in North Africa because of bad weather.  They had apparently got on so well with their Spanish counterparts that the latter suggested that they should stage in Madrid.)

My part in the proceedings was more difficult.  We would offer the airmen a party, said Mr. Bruce.  I was to see to it that twenty-two young ladies attended to partner our men.  It was, I suppose, a compliment, but I frankly did not know twenty-two young ladies.            The problem was solved in a surprising way.  I thought of the British Institute, a body devoted to disseminating British culture, including English language lessons.  I went there and dropped a notice with the Secretary.

 “The South African Legation would like to invite young ladies to a reception to be held at the Residence the following evening in honour of visiting South African airmen.  This would be an ideal opportunity for practising spoken English in pleasant company.  The Legation would guarantee that those attending would receive all courtesies.  I myself would be at the steps of the Residence to greet and conduct those accepting to the Chargé d'Affaires.”  I frankly doubted whether, in a country where dueñas (chaperones) were still common, and where young couples were never left alone, an invitation such as ours had any hope of success.  To my surprise, car after car drove up and young ladies emerged, assuring Papa that they would be home at a reasonable hour.  Never under-estimate the power of an intrigued young woman!

Briefly, the party was a howling success; our pilots behaved themselves admirably, and all of them left money behind for flowers to be sent to their partners.  For days afterwards the telephones rang as grateful mamas thanked us for the wonderful time their daughters had had. Since the parents of the young bits of frippet were all important people, this was probably the single best thing in the field of relations with the Spaniards that we achieved.

 Shortly afterwards, I was sent to Paris as part of the South African delegation to UNESCO'S Annual General Assembly (UNESCO is the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization).  Josefina Rottlant was horrified to hear that I was not taking Pam - a man alone in Paris spelt trouble to her.  Pam was able to reassure her.  I didn't know whether to be pleased or not.  Pam may have wondered the first Sunday she telephoned, to hear a female voice in the room.  This was the maid, actually, but......

Paris in November is dank and foggy, but as fascinating as I had always expected it to be.  The bistros, the escargots, the Coquilles S. Jacques, the wine!  Looking back on this adventure, the only thing I regret was that I did not enjoy it all more.  I had never been to a United Nations Conference and believed that an organization dealing with scientific and cultural affairs would be devoid of the sordid political manoeuvring and squabbling that mars the United Nations deliberations in New York.  I therefore attended all my committee meetings, working sometimes well into the night, while less committed members of other organizations went on the town.  And, alas!  I was to find as much political dirty work in Paris as there was elsewhere.  Proper Charley, I was.

 However, we did have one real night on the town.  We went to Montmartre to a club called "La Nouvelle Eve", having heard that some of the dancing girls were South Africans.  It was a glittering Parisian show:  the girls wore very little clothing, the comedians and other acts were all first class.  Greatly daring, we sent a message to the dressing room, asking the South Africans to meet us.  They came, and as they did, the champagne corks popped, before the girls could stop it.  (I hasten to add they were not deshabillés.)

They turned out to be charming girls, dancing at "La Novelle Eve" to support themselves while they studied ballet.  We invited them to dinner, and they accepted eagerly, warning us, however, that they would only be free at 1 a.m. after the last performance.  We were prepared to wait.  At 1 a.m. they appeared, and we went to a restaurant nearby that they knew which was not too expensive.  Nice girls. I have, however, never seen girls with better appetites.  They were ravenous, devouring steaks as if they were on the edge of starvation.  Possibly they were.  Their bodies must have taken a great deal of punishment and they weren't paid very much, being able to afford only one square meal a day and chocolate in between.

Being frankly curious, we interrogated them at length about their life at "La Nouvelle Eve".  Everything, we were assured, was very strictly controlled.  Any male who made a nuisance of himself was dismissed without ado.  To them it was a job and they had become used to it.  There was no sense of embarrassment or shame.  We were impressed.  From time to time, a seedy-looking character would look in and say in a husky voice:  "Aren't you girls ever coming home?"  Turned out he was a White Russian taxi driver who would see them safely home as his last fares.

Unfortunately I had developed a heavy cold, and as the night wore on my enthusiasm diminished, and I was more than happy to crawl into bed.  How very unromantic. 'Twas ever thus.  Shortly afterwards, the conference ended and I went home to Madrid.

It is hard to believe now that in Madrid, during the summer months, there was no electricity from 8 a.m. until 8 p.m. This was due to the fact that electricity was run by water-power, and there was not enough water. Not only was this the reason for the coal-stove for cooking, but also that lifts, all year round, could only be used for ascending, but in the summer months, between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., for neither up or down. The other fact, unknown to strangers, was that water did not reach the top flats of any apartment block either.  We found that very often the electricity would come on at 8. pm. and then disappear, so that we had dinner by candlelight. The other service affected was our little tram, which came to a grinding halt, and meant everyone had to walk instead.

In spite of the lack of water in Madrid, all year round, even if it had been raining, the streets were washed down. The reason for this was that there were no public toilets available, so children used to squat in the ditches around the trees, and evacuate themselves, while men would urinate out into the road.  There were notices around churches saying, “Do not make waters against this sacred edifice”.   It was a habit one had to get used to!

There is an old saying in Madrid, that the light breeze off the Guadarramas, ”Could not blow out a candle but would kill a man”.  Unfortunately Pam suddenly succumbed to the effects of this, developing very painful congestion, infected from the neck up.  She was in bed for three weeks. We had always wondered why the Spanish children went around with scarves over their faces, as well as wearing capes and large hats like their parents, and we now realized why.  The result of this complaint also produced another unpleasant habit we had to get used to. Due to the congestion it caused, it was very common to have anyone spitting out in the street.

The British Embassy staff were very helpful and "our kind of people", although we struck a couple of odd ones. The Head of Chancery used to keep his eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling when talking to one, and there was a poisonous wife who said to Pam:  "So you are Mrs Mills! I have seen your husband with a red-haired girl so often".  I had given Joan Feehan a lift on many occasions.

The British Ambassador was a special case, one of the true Foreign Office eccentrics.  At an early stage of his career, being transferred from Sweden to Portugal, he reached his new post on foot, having hiked from Stockholm to Lisbon.  He was reprimanded for wasting time, and on his next transfer he chartered a private plane at Foreign Office expense.  At Lisbon, having been reprimanded for showing insufficient respect to his Chief, he came into the Ambassador's office on hands and knees, bringing the morning's mail in his mouth, which he laid at his master's feet.

 I remember his kindness in inviting me, together with Jack Bruce (with a name like that, he couldn't miss) to a Burns Nicht.  Between each pair of us was a bottle of whisky, and the haggis was duly piped in, in time for the toast -"To the Immortal Memory".  My own memories are rather dim, but I do recall the Ambassador reciting a most bawdy Burns ballad, which, he said, had been presented to him when he left New York after a spell as British Consul-General.  I will spare your blushes by not quoting from it.

One of the pleasures of Madrid for Pam was her dancing classes.  There was a Danish ballet school with a Spanish section headed by professional Spanish dancers of the day.  As dancing was one of Pam's great pleasures in life, she learnt to stamp her feet and play the castanets with the best, in her Sevillana Spanish dancing dress she had made at the Teatro Español.  We were fortunate to see some of the best-ever Spanish dancers. . Famous Carmen Amaya with her gypsy group, and Antonio, the incredible male.  Spanish dancing can only be truly enjoyed and appreciated with a Spanish audience, who create an atmosphere with Ole´s as only they know how. Fortunately, too, one heard only Spanish music wherever one went.

 My sporting activities were restricted to golf.  "Tiene Usted un eswing  muy  descompuesto" said the old pro of the Club de Campo, at that time still only a nine-hole course. (it has gone up in the world since, and now rivals its more aristocratic neighbour the "Real Club Puerta de Hierro"  I knew my swing was not too good, but to call it decomposed was, I thought , carrying things  a bit too far.  For a few dollars on a non-busy day you could play nine holes with the pro, and have him comment on every stroke and let you practice a few more.

 Before long it was Christmas, celebrated in Spain then as a religious festival, devoid of the crude commercialism that dominates our lives today. Gifts there were, but they came on 12th Night, and were brought not by Father Christmas, a German concept, but by the Three Kings - the "Reyes." We took the children to a party organised by the Anglo-American community. Elizabeth, two years, was excited by the whole idea, and as the Kings  (played by parents and looking magnificent in robes and beards) entered, she ran down the aisle, shouting "Los Reyes! Los Reyes!"

We did try skiing in the Sierra Guadarrama not far from Madrid.  These were early days, and the ski-lifts were not operating.  (We sometimes thought that "No Funziona" (Out of Order) was the national motto of Spain. The skis one hired were made of solid wood:  they weighed a ton, and after a run downhill you had to carry them back over your shoulder.  We had no tuition whatsoever and just used to career down the slopes without any control at all, shouting "Pista!" (Make Way!)  Why we didn't break our necks was mystery.

In June of 1953 we had another family holiday - this time on the Costa Brava, north of Barcelona.  It did not start well.  Our car had suffered a good deal already on the rather poor Spanish roads, full of potholes.  As a result the shock absorbers needed replacing.  Ford's agents in Madrid had no spare parts, so I sent a telegram to Dagenham in England.  After a week, Ford replied referring me to their agents in Madrid.  Parece mentira, but that's what they did.  As a result, we had to leave carrying the shock absorbers with us - they arrived at great expense by air the day before as a result of a furious telegram from me, and our garage could not put them in in time.  Speed and urgency were basically unknown in Spain at that time - whether it has changed yet I cannot say.  At least they managed to stage the Olympics - or was that the Catalans?

 So we went to Barcelona as if we were riding a rocking horse.  It was a narrow track, and every time we hit a hole we went Bump, Bump, bump, bump, bump.  It was a hair-raising ride. Luckily in Barcelona we were able to get the shock absorbers installed immediately.  No problem for Catalans!

  Eventually, after negotiating many, many curves and many, many headlands along the coast, (there were no direct highways in those days) we arrived at the Playa de la Fosca, on the Costa Brava.  Our small hotel, and the ONLY hotel, was right on the water's edge, and to the left swept a nice beach with shallow water, ideal for the children.

The Mediterranean was blue, the food and accommodation was excellent and the days were sunny, and unbelievable today, there were only a handful of people there in the entire district. All in all a happy time - the only problem was solved before it really became a problem.  One morning the manager said to me:  "My word, your children are early risers!"  My heart sank and I apologised, saying we did our best to keep them quiet:  had the neighbours complained?  Yes they had, but this had been solved by sending them to the annexe.  Not us, you will observe, but the complainants.  In Spain, children could do no wrong!

 In the summer heat Madrid can become unbearable - tres meses de infierno - and we were lucky to be able to find relief not too far away, in the Sierra Guadarrama, scene of some bitter fighting in the civil war - you can read about it in the Hemingway novel "For Whom the Bell Tolls." It was an area covered by pine trees, and at the base of the Sierra we found one day a little stream next to an old monastery, shaded by trees and with a green sward leading down to a weir.

 We were picnicking happily there when my attention was captured by what seemed like a flurry of activity at one end of the weir. I strolled over to have a look, and saw to my surprise that the flurry was caused by a young trout trying to escape from a snake, which had it by the nose. As my eyes grew more accustomed I saw to my horror that the water was full of snakes swimming under my boots. I beat a hasty retreat.

There was another picnic spot to which we had privileged access. It was a national park not far out of the city.   Although the notice boards proclaimed it as " Patrimonio del Estado" the public were not admitted, but as diplomats we were exempted. It had a little stream flowing through it. It was delightful to lie on an inflated Li-lo and just drift with the current and feel the coolness of the water on one's hands and feet. Ah! water in a dry country is such a boon. Verde, verde, que te quiero verde. A green thought in a green shade.

In the summer months we kept Spanish hours, that is we got to work at 9 a.m. and knocked off at 1.30. There was little point in staying longer, for the Government repaired to the sea-coast town of San Sebastian for two months from July, and the Foreign Office figuratively put up the shutters. If one had any business that was at all urgent it was as well to see to it that it was completed before July.

After then you would be told that Señor Dominguez who dealt with the matter was unfortunately at San Sebastian. Any suggestion that the file be sent up for a decision was, greeted with such a look of horror that you realised you had dropped a brick. On one occasion I went in to the Foreign Office on spec, and was delighted to find someone who had dealt with the matter in question and could give me an answer. It was unexpected and gratifying. As I left, after thanking him profusely, I commiserated with him at being left behind to hold the fort while his colleagues were disporting themselves at San Sebastian. "Oh no", he said, 'I only look in on Thursdays to see if there is any mail for me. You were lucky to find me in." It was Talleyrand, I believe, who said that above all public servants should show no zeal.

 Sadly, because in spite of all the initial “ups and downs” we had weathered, we felt fortunate in experiencing true Spanish culture before the advent of “westernization”, a telegram arrived instructing us to leave on transfer to Head Office in Pretoria at the end of the month.  Since it was received on the 10th September, Mr. Bruce sent a reply pointing out that I was obliged by contract to give two month's notice to my landlord, and enquiring whether I might therefore report after this period.  Another few days elapsed, and then came the reply.  I remember saying:  "Well, it's short at least", as I set out to decode it.  It read:  "No.  Repeat No."

This was the Department at its absolute shocking worst.  I never did find out who was responsible.  I could think of a suitable punishment for him.

 Since Pam was pregnant with Andrew, after packing all our personal possessions, she and the girls were sent to Nanna and Grandad in England, while I battled with getting out of my contract - not easy, and the landlady made it as awkward as possible.  It cost me a lot of money.  Then there was the matter of disposing of the car, and getting the money out of the country.  At that time no-one, diplomats included, could take more than the equivalent of $50 out of the country.  Approval had to be obtained, and amazingly agreed on, for me to pay the proceeds of the car into the Mission's account, and to be able to draw it out in South Africa, - a very special concession.

  Next, I had to find a buyer.  This was not too difficult, since Mario Rottlant was eager to buy.  I should explain that Spanish regulations required anyone wishing to purchase and import a foreign car must also pay the Treasury the equivalent of the purchase price in the foreign currency required.  One had to be rich indeed to afford this - or have a friend who was a diplomat on transfer. I agreed to sell to him somewhat reluctantly.  I could not charge the full market rate to a friend, and I also felt some diffidence in having business dealings with a friend in any case.

As luck would have it, the deal nearly fell through.  The day before I was due to hand the car over, I was run into by a taxi, which put a nasty dent into the bodywork of our poor little car. (The taxi-driver’s explanation to the policeman who was trying to halt him, was that policeman would have to put up his hands sooner than he did, as he had not bakes!) What was worse, it was established by the traffic policeman that what I had thought for two years was my driving licence (after all, it was entitled "Permiso di Circular" or Permission to Circulate) referred to the car, and not to its driver.

Fortunately, the policeman's sergeant came along, and on hearing the facts, dismissed the man to continue directing traffic, saying he would take over himself.  When the taxi driver and the policeman had left, the sergeant said to me:  "Well, Señor Mills, we have a problem here.  If you don't have a driving licence the insurance company will not pay, and you may have to answer a charge yourself."  How did he know my name?  Simple.  Many Spaniards, in order to make ends meet, had two, or sometimes three jobs - one for the morning, one for the afternoon and so on.  In his afternoon job the sergeant was an usher in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and we knew each other well.  An enchufe.

 Tell me, Senor Mills.  You know Alvarez in Protocol ?"   (Fortunately, I did, because I used to go each month in person to Alvarez to collect our diplomatic petrol coupons - most Missions sent a driver or messenger.)

"Well, then.  Here's what to do.  I'll tell him what happened and then you go and ask him if he will make out a diplomatic driving licence for you, backdated, say, three months, and then you can show that to the insurance company and all will be well."

 "I really don't think I could do that."

"Senor Mills, I'm only trying to help.  If you don't do this you're in trouble.  Alvarez will do it, I'm sure.  He's a decent sort of chap."

 And so, with many misgivings, I did.  Alvarez made no bones about it, reached into his drawer, drew out a diplomatic licence and stamped it with a flourish.  I thanked him most warmly.  "There is no need", he said.  "A pleasure to be able to help."  Now there was another enchufe, and although Mario was distressed to learn what had happened, it was easy to transfer the insurance to him - and the damage was fortunately merely superficial.

 By now I had left our pleasant home, having seen the family off to England, and sadly said goodbye to the Carmens and José, who were desolated at our departure. We had found all of them other employment.  Also I had given José as a farewell present all the garden tools, which he had put to such good use during his time with us, and it reduced him to tears. He could barely be persuaded not to come to the airport to bid Pam and the children farewell.

I must add that when I sent him to our friends, the Knox, to confirm he could work there, he had returned saying he could not work for the same wage. When I mentioned that the Knox would pay more if necessary, he said,” Oh no! Their garden is much smaller than yours, I could not accept so much!”  Where would you find such a gentleman today? Peasants were the salt of the earth.

By this time I had finally extricated myself from my contract after several unpleasant sessions with my landlady and was living in a pension not far from the office.  Whether as a result of all these "disgustos", as the Spaniards call them, I began to develop severe stomach cramps.  Trying not to put too great a strain on the old tum, never too reliable at best in those days, I used to eat lightly boiled eggs, only to find this made matters worse - much worse.  I used literally to double up with pain.

 One final task remained - getting our luggage out of Spain, across France and to the Union Castle boat which was to take us all to South Africa.  This luggage was contained in the twelve trunks, which Pam had packed before leaving.  American Express said:  "Leave the whole thing to us", but having experienced the Spanish way of doing things, I was not prepared to trust them.  I said I would wish to travel all the way with the precious luggage.   But you can't, they said.  You have to change trains at the border, and you only have ten minutes to do it.  Very well, I said, have your man there to see the luggage transferred.  They weren't happy but agreed that, with luck, the thing could be done.

  So when we chugged across the border I was feeling quite relaxed.  The American Express man was there at Hendaye, running beside the train.  I handed him the necessary papers and he disappeared towards the guard's van to collect the luggage.  I picked up my little suitcase containing my shaving kit and a few odds and ends and made a leisurely exit, only to be confronted by the American Express man racing back.  "Señor", he cried.  "Your luggage isn't there."  "Nonsense", I replied.  "I saw the luggage with my own eyes being loaded onto the train.  It must be there."

"It was there", he said, "but obviously it was unloaded in Irun.  They could have endorsed it only as far as the frontier."  Omigod!

               "Take a taxi.  Go back across the bridge and get it."

               "Impossible.  There's no time.  Your train departs in five minutes."

               "What can I do?"

               "Nothing, Señor.  You'll have to leave it to us.  We'll get the luggage to you."

Should I stay and collect the luggage and catch another train, or go and hope for the best?  In the end I was too dispirited and too unwell to do anything but climb on the Paris train and chug miserably away.

 When I got to London, I was in considerable pain and when Pam met me at Waterloo station and enquired urgently where our luggage was, because it had to go down on the boat-train at once, all I could say was that it was probably still skulling around on the Franco-Spanish border.

It took almost all the available time before it was reported as having arrived at Dover.  Pam wanted it sent up to London, because there were items that she wanted to go to her sister Pat.  This meant, unfortunately, that the luggage had to enter Britain, which meant passing Customs.  We were quite prepared for this to be done, but in London…. “No,” said British Customs, “it must be cleared at the point of entry.”  Either I must go down and clear it personally, or I should have to send the keys down so that the luggage could be inspected and cleared. Surely not?  What about some assistance to a diplomat?  South Africa House tried all it could but to no avail.  I was no longer accredited in the United Kingdom and so entitled to nothing.  Porca miseria!

 So we sent the keys down, and when the trunks arrived we found that one of them had been burst open, presumably with a crowbar.  Either a key was missing, or it didn't fit, or they did not try hard enough.  I know that Customs officials in any country have a wretched job, continually having to be on the lookout for smugglers and cheats, which must sour their characters, but of all the Customs officials with whom I have had to deal throughout my career, the British were without doubt the worst.

 And so we travelled down to Southampton in the boat train with all our trunks - the trunks that were supposed to have been sent down the week before to go into the hold.  We were not popular with the ship's officers. To make matters worse, the female who was our cabin attendant took one look at Pam and said, "You're pregnant, aren't you?"  "Yes", replied my poor Pam.  "Well, I'll just make it plain to you that I am not a nurse, nor am I a nanny!"

 This was a fitting start to a wretched journey.  Pam was seasick, I was often rolling around in pain in my bunk, the children were not allowed to eat with us, and there was no-one to look after them at table when Pam and I were both out of action.  Moreover, there was a Nanny in the nursery only for an hour at our mealtimes, leaving the children to wander around if we were delayed. We could not afford to have our laundry done, so Pam had to go below herself and do it.  Fortunately there was a young South African male at our table whom Pam managed to recruit as a sort of male nanny.  Many people thought he was her husband by the end of he voyage.  What a dear young man he was.

We reached Cape Town finally and staggered ashore into the welcoming arms of Granny and Grandad Mills, who were wondering why we were not on deck at 6 am when the ship docked.  We had had a dreadful night, broken by the howls from a man who had gone insane during the voyage and had been put into the ship’s sick-bay next to us. Once arrived at my parent’s home, Pam was put to bed by a very worried doctor: in fact, she stayed there until Andrew was born - a period of three months.  After a few days I left by train for Pretoria. My father, seeing I was in pain, wanted me to report sick, but I could just imagine the reaction I would have got from the staff people in Head Office.

 After reporting for duty I went immediately to the Military Pensions Office.  The consulting physician, a Dr Marquard de Villiers, told me to pack my bags immediately and move into the Arcadia Nursing Home.  And there I stayed for six weeks while Dr de Villiers tried to find out what had put hundreds of small ulcers into my bowels. After a variety of drugs one worked and I could report back at the Union Buildings.

 So - welcome back to South Africa after six and a half years overseas!