Free The Galician Parallax by James G. Skinner

was adequate. The afternoon session kicked off with a series of headings that ranged from lost passports to incidents involving the police. Hospitalisation to accidents, especially road ones, followed and what to do in case of drug crimes.
    ‘I know you’re all very familiar with all the problems but we still need to review them, no different to routine lifeboat drill on a cruise ship.’ Danny touched a nerve.
    Juan Jose immediately put up his hand. ‘Cruise ship passengers. I’ve been harping on for some time now about the lack of care afforded to these people when they’re taken ill and I’m not talking about medical care.’
    Before Danny could answer, Jason Romney from Alicante butted in. ‘In my area the local shipping agents take care of any problems.’
    There was a sudden burst of laughter all round as Juan Jose, also showing a large smile answered, ‘I am the bloody shipping agent!’
    Once they had all calmed down, Juan Jose explained that the problem was mainly due to lack of agility and excess bureaucracy by the respective insurance agencies whenever they were informed of a hospitalised passenger.
    ‘I’ve written a full report on how to deal with these Brits, especially if they’re elderly and can’t speak a word of Spanish. A couple of phone calls from me as HBC can sort a problem out and above all, reduce the anxiety of these poor sods that are taken ill.’ Danny knew what Juan Jose was talking about.
    ‘Most of you honoraries don’t have these ships on your patch, and Juan Jose is right.’ Looking at Juan Jose, ‘… You may be pleased to know that our Spanish desk at the FCO is actually holding a general meeting with the British Insurance Association back in the UK to tackle the problem. Hopefully, we’ll see some action taking place in the near future.’ Jason just nodded.
    Danny changed the image on the screen and was about to continue when Juan Jose once again butted in. ‘Will you be addressing British cemeteries? I’ve got three up in Galicia and I keep hearing murmurs about getting rid of them.’
    Danny held up his hand. ‘We’ll deal with that privately, Juan Jose. OK?’
    The next slide was titled: “Terrorism”.
Falmouth, March
    Yolanda had moved in with Stan at his one-bedroom flat in Vernon Place overlooking Falmouth harbour a couple of months before she knew she was pregnant. The short span of their romance was intense both in the physical discovery of their bodies and the oddly accepted incompatibility of their characters. Yolanda had spoken openly of her life in Vigo and how she had constantly rebelled against the “nouveau riche” and snobbish lifestyle that she was plunged into by birth.
    ‘Tennis clubs, yachting and BMWs are the “in” thing,’ she said to Stan one day. ‘Then on to all-night swinging at dozens of clubs until your feet are bleeding, your butt is stiff and sore and your eyeballs no longer focus. That was “me” over the last few years until… well, you know the rest.’
    Her affair with Gerardo had ended in tragedy, she admitted but at least she was able to break away from the drug scene before it was too late. ‘“Mixed up kid” is what you Anglo-Saxons call us, right?’
    They were walking along the boat jetty, wrapped up in their winter woollies. Stan just hugged her. ‘Well, you know all about me, in fact there isn’t much, really.’
    ‘Don’t say that!’
    Yolanda looked quizzical for a moment. ‘Let’s see now, what do we have in common?’ She tried to compare what she had been accustomed to with Stan’s easy-going but open-air Cornish life when she just threw her arms up in the air and with a broad smile said, ‘I don’t know, you tell me? All I know is that I’m madly in love with you and enjoying every minute of it.’
    Stan and Yolanda were eventually married in a civil wedding at the town hall. It was a small ceremony followed by a not so small party laid on by Stan’s friends and coastguard colleagues at the