No Pasarán

Terry stepped out of the kitchen door into the cold, winter air. It was just passed dawn and the sun was slowly rising over Torquay, casting beams of sunlight across the façade of Fawlty Towers.

Soon the first of the guests would begin to rise, and Terry's kitchen would burst into life as breakfast began. Before that, though, one final cigarette. A moment of calm before the inevitable storm.

Normally, this was a ritual Terry carried out alone, but today - as he quietly closed the door behind him and patted his pockets for a packet of Benson - he realised someone was out here already. It was Manuel, puffing on his own cigarette a few metres away. Terry could smell it from here, one of the pungent Spanish brands the waiter somehow still secured from home.

The two men nodded at each other, then Terry turned his attention back to his pockets. It wasn't unusual for them to bump into each other this way, but both men instinctively knew that this wasn't a time for conversation. So Terry found his cigarettes and pulled one out of the packet. Then he began searching for his matches.

"Oh for fuck sake," he said, realising he must have left them indoors. Terry turned, pulling out his keys and looked for the right one to reopen the kitchen door. Before he could finish, though, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Manuel, proferring his lighter.

"Cheers mate," Terry mumbled, as he placed the cigarette between his lips. Cupping his hands around the flickering flame to protect it from the wind, he leant in to light his tab. To do this, he had to pull Manuel's hand a bit closer and, as he did so, the shorter waiter's sleeve slipped back to reveal a tattoo that Terry had never seen before.

It wasn't large, just a faded insignia and then beneath it a couple of words inked onto Manuel's forearm.

No pasarán!

Terry looked up at the waiter with a start. For a brief moment, Manuel looked unsure. Terry held up a finger, then rolled up his own sleeve. On his shoulder was a pair of distinctive wings. The symbol of the Parachute Regiment.

Manuel relaxed and nodded. He pointed at his forearm.

"Is why I'm here." The Spaniard said, in faltering English.

"I always wondered." Terry said, with a chuckle.

Manuel leaned back on the wall and closed his eyes, enjoying the first rays of morning sun on his face. Terry could tell he was trying to figure out his words.

"Say it in Spanish if you like, mate." Terry said. "Or at least, what you need to. I know a bit. Was in Gibraltar for a while."

"Jarama." The waiter said, quietly. Terry drew in a breath.

"We were told to hold the San Martin Road." Manuel continued. He was switching between English and Spanish now, but Terry managed to keep up. "And they kept coming. And coming. And coming. We were young and idealistic. Stupid maybe, but stupid for the right reasons, you know? But the fighting there was..."

The Spaniard took another draw on his cigarette.

"We were breaking. People were running. They told us: Hold the road! Hold it with your lives! But there were so many. And then... and then they were there. Coming up behind us. Beside us. All young and fresh. The British Battalion. I remember, above the bullets, I heard my brother shout God Save the King!"

Manuel laughed, but it was a sad laugh.

"What happened?" Terry asked, quietly.

"We held. We held long enough." Manuel said proudly. "But my brother died. They all died."

Terry realised Manual was crying. Then he felt a tear running down his own cheek. Sympathetic memories.

"Fawlty was there." Manuel said. "That is how we met. Fighting with fire. Alongside me. As the rest fell. When we ran out of bullets I saw Fawlty kill two men with a knife, and when I got this..."

Manuel pulled up his shirt, suddenly, revealing several scars. Bullet wounds. Serious ones.

"...It was Fawlty that pulled me away. Could have left me." Manuel smiled. "But that is not Fawlty. Fawlty is brave. Passionate. We fought together for almost a year. And when it all ended... Fawlty got me out to here."

Terry was stunned. For a moment he didn't know what to say.

"Fuck me Manuel," He said, eventually. "I didn't know the grumpy old bastard had it in him."

Manuel burst into laughter. He was laughing so hard that he almost doubled over. Terry was confused.

"You think Mr Basil?!" The waiter wheezed, in English, "Not Basil. Mrs Fawlty!"

Manuel dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with his shoe. As he walked past the wide-eyed Terry, he patted the chef firmly on his shoulder."

"Mrs Fawlty." Manuel said, chuckling to himself, "She has same tattoo."

Manuel held up a finger of warning.

"But if you want to see where," he continued. "You have to get her very, very drunk."

And with that, the waiter walked off into the cold, dawn light.

With thanks to Alex Wilson on Twitter for the writing prompt.