Arguing about all sorts: the third year of our Spanish adventure

I also had to protect and defend Dad from unwanted visitors. He didn't want people to come and have a 'social occasion' with him when he was writhing in agony.
One man from his 'Stammtisch' (a local German group which met in a social club) tried to gain an audience with him one day. I blocked him in the corridor.
'And who are you?' he asked, in a superior tone.
'I'm his daughter,' I replied. 'And he's too ill to see anyone at the moment. Sorry.'
'But I've come all this way.'
'Sorry.'
I'd never seen nor heard of this man and I knew most of my Dad's friends at the Stammtisch. Talking to me like that; asking me who I was.  I was the most important person in my father's life, that's who (my Dad's will which was due to be dug out soon stated: 'And to my daughter, Rebecca, who has supported me financially since she left home I leave everything. To the others I leave nothing, as they do not need it.' The last bit would have been suggested by the lawyer, to ease the blow to my siblings. Financially, I was better off than the three of them put together).
Another afternoon, the girlfriend of his German taxi driver friend, Rudolf, turned up. My Dad had often spoken about her: 'I can't stand dat vooman.'
Even Rudolf said this on-off girlfriend was unhinged. Before he'd started seeing her, Rudolf had used to pop in for chats with my Dad a few times a week. My Dad was like a surrogate father to him. But he couldn't abide Sylvia.
So when she tried to march onto the ward I stopped her in her tracks.
'Oh no,' I said. 'He's not dressed appropriately.' 
He was in a nightgown, often not done up properly at the back and it had a tendency to ride up in a revealing way. He also had what looked like white pop socks on, right up to his knees - dressed like a little girl; although somewhat incongruously with his brown, 'Continental' large-featured face and mop of wild, white hair (people used to say he resembled Inspector Morse).
'No,' I repeated. 'He has said he doesn't want any women to see him.' (as in: 'He can't stand you love, because you're bloody loopy and not a nice person and I'll fight you to the ground before he has to face the likes of you.')
'Well,' she puffed and spluttered, but she gave in.
I felt like a sentry on guard. Just as my Dad had been in 1942. He and his mate (they would have both been 17 at the time) had been guarding a building one night - he on the left and his mate 20 yards away on the right. At 1am they had changed positions. Some time after this a shell exploded/a bomb fell/something happened (I was never any good at paying attention to Dad's stories). Anyway, all that was left of his mate were the boots he'd been wearing, with his feet and lower legs inside them.