The influx of refugees worldwide had slowed to a trickle as individuals made decisions to re-locate without national assistance. Many returned to Asia and re-joined families in the Indian sub-continent, Malaysia and Indonesia. Others travelled to join relatives in Australia, New Zealand and Canada where many grandparents were reunited with long lost family. In fact, many thousands of Commonwealth citizens returned to their land of birth or heritage and started the long journey back to a new life. It was going to be tremendously hard work – but at least they had family support.
When the dust settled, there remained well under a million ex-holiday makers, business people and general travellers languishing in the forty temporary transit camps run jointly by the UKRA, Germans and Americans.
Some of these refugees integrated into the various European economies, finding work and accommodation under their own auspices, reducing the numbers under canvas even more.
The remainder were fundamentally just everyday people.
Ordinary, uncomplicated British citizens who had flown out to sunny climes for Christmas, and had expected to return to their jobs, homes and schools in early January.
However, the snow had arrived and now they had nothing.
Basically, nothing but the clothes they stood up in.
No home, no car, no possessions, no money, no job and no prospects.
It was these people who sat in their tents and barrack blocks filling in the re-location questionnaires prepared by the UKRA in Brussels.
These were the people who could not help themselves.
They sat and waited for someone to dig them out of the mire.
They made little effort to get involved and became immersed in self-pity and inertia.
When the questionnaire arrived, many had the nerve to complain!
‘Why can't we go home?’ they bleated, in complete denial of the reality they faced. Many were blind to the future that must be confronted.
Many couldn’t bear to meet it.
Suicide rates were high.
Many entire families took their own lives as a reaction to the anguish.
The authorities reacted by launching a programme of re-education and slowly but surely, the refugees came to understand the permanence of their plight and the questionnaires started to trickle in to Brussels.
And, when the first allocations were announced for America and Australia, the trickle turned into a flood.
When refugees discovered that their neighbours were being resettled in Melbourne or Florida or Barbados or Montevideo or California or New Zealand or Texas or Japan or New York, attitudes altered markedly.
Over the following weeks, the outstanding questionnaires were duly completed and the grand exodus commenced in earnest.
By the first of April the following year, some five hundred thousand Britons had been relocated. Around one thousand families a day were being scattered worldwide.
This released some of the pressure in Germany, but elsewhere the strain was beginning to tell.
***
In Spain alone, there were tens of thousands of British citizens living temporarily on campsites - in caravans and motorhomes.
This was in addition to the tens of thousands on conventional pre-Christmas breaks. Fortunately airports in the UK closed by the sixteenth of December, so many potential holidaymakers never made it out of the country. However, there remained high numbers of short- term tourists accommodated in Iberian hotels, rented apartments and holiday parks. (This included the Balearics, Madiera and the Canaries).
Many of these people eventually flew back to central Europe in the myriad of British based aircraft marooned throughout Spain – and Portugal – when the transit camps in Germany had the capacity to process them. These citizens were now amongst those completing their questionnaires and awaiting re-location. Some had remained in situ – those with enough ready cash to pay their way – but these people were few and far between.
The more pressing problem was the fate of the long-term tourists; those who had travelled out to the Iberian Peninsula to spend around six months waiting-out the British winter – usually planning to return home by land and ferry in the Spring or early Summer.
Their French-based equivalents were in a similar predicament, but in the main were able to move closer to the UK and many were now holding up in the transit camps – but accommodated in their own caravans or motorhomes. However, it was probably inevitable, that the vast majority of these folk would be joining the droves bidding for re-location, unless they found a credible alternative – which was highly unlikely.
So, that brings us back to Spain.
Exact numbers of ‘snowbirds’ are very difficult to quantify, but it is possible to make an educated guess – which is what the UKRA team was trying to achieve.
There are about fifteen hundred campsites suitable for motorhomes and caravans in Spain and Portugal – but only about two thirds of these are within spitting distance of the sea – which is where these tourists wanted to be. Not all of these were actually open all year, so were unsuitable for winter stopovers. Around twenty-five percent of campsite occupants are British, so if one interpolates, the numbers of marooned British citizens who would need eventual rescue was anywhere between ten and twenty-five thousand – or even possibly more.
The minister running this aspect of the administration was in the process of contacting all campsites in Southern Europe to determine an accurate figure – and to sweep the populace for useful individuals whose profession could aid the relief operation.
Naturally, German, French, Scandinavian and Spanish campers had assisted their fellows – but only to a certain financially-based limit. The UKRA had negotiated with the Spanish government to allow ‘site fees’ to be waived for UK and Irish passport holders with a promise of full recompense in due course, and this prevented campers being turned out onto the street and being forced to ‘free-camp’. That is, just pulling up on a lay-by and trying to survive. However, many ‘vans relied on electricity and after a few days, any LPG stocks they may have had would surely run out – and without funds to buy more gas they were stymied – unless they had a solar panel for light; pumping water to drink, to wash and for the lavatory. Consequently, being allowed to remain on a campsite and to use the electricity and water was a definite positive.
UKRA had also negotiated with the LIDL and ALDI shopping chains to allow credit for UK citizens who could prove their plight. Monies from the relief fund in Brussels was now filtering through to their German head offices to reimburse the two companies, who were generous enough to charge for goods at cost.
However, even with the assistance from their fellow campers, the forbearance of campsite managers, funding from the Spanish government and supermarket chains, these people were essentially destitute.
The single most critical issue was hard cash.
People needed Euros or US dollars – because GB Pounds were worthless.
Almost without exception, the British camping tourists were pensioners, who relied on private and government pensions for their income. Of course, some had funds in banks and building societies, in shares and Premium Bonds and property – but as things now stood – all of this was inaccessible. The computers had failed and the businesses were defunct – and the housing they owned was merely a pile of rubble – like twenty million or more other properties.
As a direct result of the snow, all official payments had stopped.
And would probably never start ever again – certainly not in their lifetimes.
It was a catastrophe.
With no immediate solution.
The only benefit these poor souls had over their fellows in the German transit camps was that they enjoyed the warmth of the Iberian sun and lived in reasonably private lodgings.
However, this situation was transient.
Unless they absorbed their lives into the Spanish economy, emigrated to relatives outside of Europe, or had a huge stash of fifty Euro notes hidden under the b
ed – they found themselves in exactly the same boat as the corresponding travellers in the transit camps.
Essentially, their fate was always going to be the same.
The Franco-Spanish border was still closed to UK and Irish registered cars and vans, so moving out of Spain was a non-starter. In fact, there were thousands of vehicles parked up in make-shift camps within fifty kilometres of the border. Many had foolishly tried to reach home in the early days of the snow but had been foiled by the quick-thinking, hardnosed and uncompromising French government. One could hardly blame them, as the prospect of thousands of extra Brits clogging up Southern France was not a brilliant idea. However, the Spanish authorities were also very keen to rid themselves of this mass of humanity, which was slowly but surely degenerating into chaos, lawlessness and anarchy. Extreme anxiety was the catalyst and the Spanish Police were hard pressed to keep control of riotous Brits who were in desperate and urgent need.
Clearly, the UKRA needed to act swiftly, and all campsites in Spain were contacted via the British Embassy, and the alternatives were put to the British refugees.
The options were not attractive, but were born of necessity:
Relinquish all rights as a British refugee and absorb yourself into the Spanish or Portuguese social system.
Emigrate to willing relatives worldwide – and the British government would fund connecting flights.
Complete the re-location questionnaire, sell up ones chattels in Spain, and move abroad as allocated.
Using one’s own funds – remain with the 'van and continue the life in Spain (or elsewhere) – but without UKRA funding of any kind.
The future was stark.
The twilight years planned by many of these people had turned into a total eclipse.
And, it was a similar story across the world.
British citizens had been presented with a simple choice – resettlement or destitution.
Clearly, the resourceful would always survive – but many did not.
Day 33
Thursday 16th January – 1200
Arbroath – Scotland
Nigel Harris and Danny Stodhart were old and deep-rooted friends, who had migrated to Scotland in the late eighties to escape the wagging tongues and bigoted views of their neighbours in London’s suburbia.
They had lived together as partners since the seventies, but had grown tired of the innuendo and sordid whispering campaign of the narrow-minded and elderly spinsters living either side of their smart detached home in Wimbledon.
They were both highly successful professional men, not overtly gay in any way, and had always kept themselves to themselves – their intimate private lives always private. However by 1988, they decided that the time had come for a move, so they resigned from their well-paid jobs – Danny taking a nice redundancy package – sold their house for almost a million pounds, packed up their four cats and moved up to Arbroath to start a new life.
They bought an established Smoke House business and learned their trade producing the world famous kippers. They kept the manager and small workforce on, and allowed the company to prosper without overdue interference. Nigel was an IT expert, so he developed a smart website, whilst Danny dealt with sales and distribution.
As the World Wide Web developed, so did their trade and by 2005 Danny and Nigel owned the most profitable Arbroath Smokie business in the country and employed a staff of over fifty.
When the snow began in mid-December, the factory had already been closed for the Christmas holidays. All orders had been fulfilled, and the staff had scurried away home with a fat bonus in that month’s pay packet. Nigel and Danny had planned a month in the West Indies and were due to fly out to Martinique from Heathrow, via Edinburgh, on the Tuesday morning.
However, the storm was so bad by Monday evening that when Nigel rang the airport to check on their early morning flight to London, he was brusquely informed that it was already cancelled. Danny received the same response from Air France who had decided to leave their aircraft in Paris rather than risk it being marooned indefinitely at Heathrow.
In any case, they would never have reached Dundee in the car, let alone Edinburgh airport. Consequently, they accepted their plight and settled down for a cosy Christmas at home. If and when the snow abated, they might be able to catch a later flight. Both men were now in their late sixties, but fit and well for their age, and lived in a large converted barn on the edge of Arbroath, just off the Forfar Road, which provided spectacular views of the local Abbey.
Over the years the pair had installed all mod-cons, high-tech energy saving devices, a generator, LPG gas stores and piles of sawn logs were lying in an annex connected to the main house by a heated, covered walkway.
To all intents and purposes, they were self-sufficient.
However, the extent of the storm took them by surprise.
The house was isolated – about half a mile from the next dwelling, and only connected to civilisation by a muddy single-track pathway, which their two Porsche 4x4s squeezed through with some difficulty during the winter. The plan for next summer had been to tarmac and widen the track, making the barn more user friendly for visitors.
However, by the Monday evening – sixteenth of December – the track was impassable. The storm was vicious and the snow began to drift to impossibly high levels. By the Tuesday morning, they were well and truly stranded in the barn – and the mains electricity had already failed.
They switched to LPG and solid fuel for heating and cooking, and this kept them going for about a week, after which food and water supplies began to run short. The fridge and freezer stocks had been deliberately allowed to run down, since the two were due to be away for almost a month.
By the twenty-second of December, the food had gone, the LPG had run out and the firewood was burned. This meant that water began to run dangerously short – as they hadn’t had the foresight to fill baths and other receptacles with fresh water before the pipes froze.
Danny had developed a nasty dose of flu, which turned into bronchitis, making him extremely weak. Nigel became exhausted tending to Danny’s needs, and the all-encompassing cold took its toll on both of them.
On Christmas Eve, Nigel collapsed in the kitchen and died of hypothermia during the night .
The next morning, Danny succumbed to his bronchitis and expired where he sat.
The couple lay in the cold for a day or two before the four cats started to do what cats do when they are starving.
Danny and Nigel had continued to feed the cats – even at their own expense, passing precious meat, water and milk to their beloved charges.
However, the four felines felt no similar loyalty.
Two started on Nigel whilst the others picked at Danny.
They started on the face and hands, as they were the only exposed areas and thankfully, after about a week, ran out of edible human flesh and started on each other. The law of the jungle prevailed and eventually only one cat remained and he prowled the barn for several weeks, and was still alive when rescue came in mid-January.
As the liberators cleared a way to the front door and forced their way in, the stench was indescribable.
‘Jesus, Jimmy! What the hell happened in here?’ asked one soldier to his mate.
‘I dunno, but this smell is unbelievable. Let's make a quick search for survivors and get the fuck out of here,’ replied his pal.
The two men covered their face and mouths with gloved hands whilst they made a swift recce of the isolated house. They found three dead carcasses of the devoured cats and were then startled and scared shitless by a fourth animal, which sped past them, shrieking wildly as it made for the front door.
Of Nigel and Danny, they found nothing.
No bodies, no remains – nothing.
***
‘Alpha Five Six from base, do you read?’
The army sergeant now based in Arbroath conducting search and rescue operations was attempting to contact the two soldiers he had dispatched
out to the ‘New Barn’ on the edge of town.
‘Where the fuck are they? If they’ve stopped for a whisky somewhere, I’ll have their guts for garters!’ the sergeant moaned aloud.
‘Alpha Five Six, check-in, you’re an hour overdue.’
There was silence.
Neither soldier was ever seen again.
Day 33
Thursday 16th January – 1200
Hospital Ship – English Channel
Patric and Joanie Silver had been picked up from the UK mainland in dramatic circumstances on the ninth of January and a great deal had happened in the following seven days.
Joanie had immediately fallen seriously ill with pneumonia and had been confined to the hospital ship, undergoing treatment. Her recovery was going well and she was now safely out of danger. The antibiotics had kicked in and the dry, hacking cough had receded. She was able to take solid food once more and was building up her strength before making the attempt to join her husband in Brussels.
Patric, meanwhile, had certainly not allowed the grass to grow under his feet. He had been recruited by the UKRA on the very next day, had been promoted to police Commander, and had become the personal protection officer to Dame Ann Fletcher no less.
He soon discovered that it was a thankless task.
Ann Fletcher was a charming and charismatic figure – but a class one bitch!
Everyone had warned him – but now he was finding out for himself.
She demanded absolute loyalty and dedication and called on Patric at all hours of the day and night for protection duties – insisting that he escort her wherever she randomly decided to go. Then, just as quickly, she would summarily dismiss him and designate a time when he should appear on her doorstep to resume his duties.
She was certainly hard work and high maintenance, but Patric was used to difficult personalities in his previous life as a Royal Protection Officer, so he decided to take the rough with the smooth, and accept his fate.
To be honest, he was extremely fortunate to have the job – the sense of security in such fragile times. He certainly wasn’t going to prejudice his future by ‘losing his rag’ with the deputy Prime Minister! He had a recuperating Joanie to consider – and as soon as she was fit, it would be wonderful to install her in the trendy flat which he had been allocated in Brussels.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 85