Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  “Stop! I have a question,” I said, when Joe had pronounced the chimney clean and I was restoring the living room to normality. He was preparing to attack the kitchen chimney and was kneeling in front of the stove, opening the glass door.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, why not clean the kitchen chimney from the top, too? I mean from the roof terrace? We can keep the stove door closed, and just wait for the soot to settle before we open the stove door and sweep it out. That way, I won’t have to cover everything up again.”

  “Um… That actually makes very good sense,” Joe conceded, and took his new favourite tool up the outside stairs to the roof terrace.

  I should have checked.

  But I didn’t.

  I foolishly trusted Joe would have shut the kitchen stove door before he started.

  WHUMPH!

  An avalanche of soot slid down the chimney tube and landed in the stove, billowing out in black clouds that filled the kitchen and settled in a fine film on every surface.

  “Did any come down?” Joe’s disembodied voice floated down the chimney, dislodging more pockets of soot that descended to join the slag heap below.

  “Yes!” I yelled up the chimney. “Why on earth didn’t you shut the stove door?”

  “Oh, didn’t I?”

  “No! You didn’t! There’s soot everywhere.”

  Both chimneys were clean, but it took me several hours to clean the kitchen and I found soot in crevices for a long time after.

  “Good news,” I said.

  I’d been walking round the village trying to increase my step quota for the day. My daily target was thirteen thousand, and it took dedication to achieve that.

  “What good news?”

  “I passed Marcia’s shop, and I saw Geronimo having an intense conversation with Valentina. Judging by their body language, I think they were making up their differences.”

  “Honestly, Vicky! As usual, I bet you were imagining things.”

  “I wasn’t! I’m making myself a coffee, would you like one?”

  “Well, as you’ve seriously interrupted my writing session already, I might as well.”

  Joe’s desk was near the window that looked out onto the street. It was a warm autumn day and our front door was open. Just as I was taking Joe’s coffee over to him, I happened to glance out of the window.

  Chorizo and Potatoes

  Although this recipe is basically sausage and potatoes, by using good quality chorizo and a pinch of saffron, it will taste very authentic.

  Ingredients (per person)

  One medium potato, peeled and quartered, or sliced thickly

  12 cms (4-5 inches) of chorizo, cut into thick slices

  Small pinch of saffron (use a pinch of turmeric if you can’t get saffron)

  Pinch of salt

  Small bay leaf

  Method

  Put the sliced potato and chorizo into a saucepan with just enough cold water to cover.

  Add the saffron, salt and bay leaf.

  Bring to the boil.

  Cover, and turn the heat down. Leave gently simmering for between 45 minutes and an hour, or long enough for the potato to be tender.

  Try not to stir it if you have chosen to slice your potato, as it may disintegrate. Don’t top up the water - it shouldn’t boil dry if you have the heat low enough.

  Remove the bay leaf and serve.

  8

  PARTINGS

  The window by Joe’s desk gave a perfect view of the street and I was delighted by what I saw.

  “Careful,” said Joe, “you’ll knock everything off my desk leaning over it like that.”

  “I was right!” I exclaimed, ignoring him. “Guess who I can see walking down the street, hand in hand.”

  “Santa Claus and Her Majesty the Queen?” said Joe, standing up and stretching.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s Valentina and Geronimo. Didn’t I tell you they were making up? Right again!”

  But I was stopped in mid-crow when I spied who was approaching the couple from the opposite direction, hips swinging, gypsy bangles tinkling.

  Lola Ufarte.

  The couple were staring into each other’s eyes, unaware of Lola. No time to lose.

  “Joe! Quick! Do something!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Distract Lola so she doesn’t disturb Geronimo and Valentina!”

  “What? How...”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  I shoved him out of the front door, straight into Lola’s path. Lola stopped short, her eyebrows raised.

  “Hola, Lola, I just wondered if...”

  Well done, Joe!

  “Yes?”

  Lola’s exquisite eyebrows arched in question, and her hands were on her hips as she waited, bangles resting. I think she always thought Joe a little strange, ever since she’d mistakenly accused him of being a peeping tom, years ago.

  “Er, um…” Joe stuttered.

  Joe was struggling. I knew his brain was racing, and Lola’s hostile stance wasn’t helping. Then he said the first thing that came into his head.

  Unfortunately, it sounded very random.

  “I have a brand new chimney brush.”

  Lola stared at him for a long moment, as though he’d just crawled out from under a stone.

  “You have a new chimney brush?”

  “Yes.”

  I watched from the shadows. Joe had that rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights expression on his face.

  “If you have a blockage in your chimney, I can push it out for you,” he said at last.

  Lola’s eyes widened as she continued to stare at him.

  “Thank you, I will remember that offer,” she said, and marched past.

  Geronimo and Valentina had turned off down a side street, and Joe’s delaying tactic had worked perfectly. I was delighted, but I sensed Joe was not pleased with me. I decided I needed to check the roof terrace. Urgently.

  “Vicky? Vicky, where are you?”

  Much later, when Joe had calmed down somewhat, we were discussing the incident.

  “You can’t meddle in other people’s business,” said Joe. “If Lola Ufarte is going to come between them, you can’t stop that happening.”

  “I know,” I admitted sadly.

  “Hi Mum, how are you?”

  “Good, thank you! Guess what I unearthed from the garage today!”

  “What?”

  “You remember the musical nativity scene we used to have when you were little? It played Silent Night and you children weren’t allowed to open your presents until it had finished.”

  “Yes! We called it The Dreaded! That tune went on and on for ever. Every time we thought it had finished, it would play another few bars.”

  “It must be nearly an antique now. We had the same tradition when I was a child, and I decided you kids should suffer the same way as I did.”

  “Haha! I remember it was sheer torture!”

  “The tune’s a bit rusty-sounding but it still works.”

  “You’d also be a bit rusty-sounding if you’d been in a cardboard box in a leaky Spanish garage for ten years.”

  “Well, I’m going to pack it and bring it with me to Australia. Then you can decide whether you want to continue the tradition and torture Indy in the same way...”

  As our departure date drew closer, my thoughts turned to what we were leaving behind.

  I wasn’t concerned about the village cats. When we spent a year in Bahrain, we had worried about our favourite cats, but they had managed perfectly well without us. Now, Felicity’s youngsters had grown and left home. We sometimes left scraps out, but not regularly enough to make it a habit. The truth is, village cats are very capable of fending for themselves, which is why there are so many feral cats in Spain. They catch rodents and lizards and are wonderful opportunists. Villagers avoided leaving food unattended near open windows.

  The chickens, however, needed care. Our flock had dwindled to ju
st three elderly individuals and we didn’t want to introduce any more. Paco had kindly offered to look after them while we were away. Then one morning, Joe came back from feeding them, looking unhappy.

  He placed a single egg on the kitchen table. Being in their twilight years, our chickens rarely laid, so we were always pleased to find an egg.

  “One egg,” he said, “but I’m afraid one of the girls died in the night.”

  “Oh, what a shame. I hope she didn’t suffer. Do you know which one she was?”

  “Not really. Since they’ve got their new winter feathers, all three look the same to me. I don’t think it’s Mrs F though.”

  Mrs F was my favourite at the moment. Unlike the other two who were content to scratch and cluck in their run, Mrs F Chicken dreamed of a more glamorous, exciting life, living alongside us. She was the only chicken we ever had who plotted her escape every minute of the day. Whenever she succeeded, which was surprisingly often, she would come looking for us. Many a time I jumped as she sauntered into the kitchen. Often she’d appear at Joe’s elbow as he was typing.

  “Vicky! It’s that effing chicken again!” he would yell, which was how Mrs F Chicken earned her name.

  The next night, another chicken died in her sleep, leaving just Mrs F.

  “We can’t ask Paco to look after just one geriatric chicken,” I said. “Especially Mrs F who will be trying to escape all the time.”

  “Why not give her to Miguel up the mountain? He’s got loads of chickens.”

  “No, that would be cruel. He has an established flock. She’d be at the bottom of the pecking order and at her age it would probably kill her.”

  “Well,” said Joe, eyeing my casserole dish, “there’s always the pot… With bad weather coming, chicken stew would be very nice.”

  I hoped Mrs F hadn’t heard that. We’ve never been tempted to eat our own chickens and I didn’t intend beginning with Mrs F.

  The decision was soon taken out of our hands. Within a few days, Mrs F had also joined her sisters up in chicken heaven. It was sad to see our chicken coop empty, the first time in ten years. I missed the comfortable sounds they made, and I missed their company when I was in the garden. However, we no longer needed to find a chicken sitter.

  But it seemed that I was about to share a brand new flock of chickens on the other side of the world.

  Emails, Skype conversations and messages between me and my daughter increased in frequency as the departure date, 9th of December, approached.

  “Mum! We’re bidding right now for a chicken coop on eBay!”

  “Really? You’re going to get some chickens?”

  “Hang on... No! Somebody else is bidding!”

  “Oh…”

  “Yes, we want to get chickens! If we get the coop, Cam will assemble it all first, and build a nice run and stuff. When you get here, we’ll go and buy some chickens together.”

  “How exciting! Do you have foxes where you are?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but we have snakes and goannas and other chicken-eating stuff. It’ll all have to be enclosed properly. Oh! Yay! We won it!”

  “I wonder what LJ will make of chickens!”

  “We’ll soon find out.”

  The time had come to begin packing our suitcases. Of course, Joe couldn’t be trusted to pack for himself. Left to his own devices, he would have packed an assortment of books, his computer, and a few odd socks. Then he’d ask what all the fuss was about, and why do people take so much stuff when they go on a trip?

  Packing felt most peculiar. I had two open suitcases lying on the spare room bed, one for me and one for Joe. Swimming costumes, summer dresses, sandals, shorts and T-shirts were stowed in mine while in Joe’s I folded warm sweaters, long trousers, scarves and gloves. He would be staying with family in the UK for three of the coldest months, while I would be in Australia for three of the hottest. He had definitely drawn the short straw.

  The two very different suitcases were a constant reminder that Joe and I would be separated for some time. We could only hope that the doctors would find nothing amiss, and he could then book a flight to Australia without having to worry about his health.

  “Indy is so excited about you coming,” said my daughter on the phone. “Whenever we see a lady, doesn’t matter what age, she asks her, ‘Are you my Nanny?’”

  I smiled. Indy was two and a half now. The last time I’d seen her was when she and her parents had visited us in Spain on her first birthday.

  Joe and I had been careful to book flights that were departing within hours of each other, despite having destinations to opposite sides of the globe. This would allow us to leave the house and village together and our wonderful neighbour, Paco, had kindly offered to drive us to the airport.

  But first, we had to secure the house for the three months we’d be away. Winter in the Spanish mountains can be wet and wild, and we were glad of our recently installed windows and doors, and confident, too, that our roofs no longer leaked.

  “Strange to think that when we come back, the vine will be sprouting new leaves,” I said.

  Joe nodded. The grapevine, in its winter state, looked lifeless, and it was hard to believe that it would ever burst into bud again.

  “I feel so torn,” I said. “I’m counting the days until I go to Australia, but at the same time I’m missing you already, and I know I’ll miss home.”

  I didn’t vocalise my other terrible fear, that the UK doctors might find something seriously wrong with him. I was sure Joe was having the same thoughts, because he seemed to read my mind.

  “We’ll be back in El Hoyo in no time,” he said. “And if we get any unexpected bad news, we’ll cope. We always do.”

  We hugged, and a million unspoken words hung in the air.

  “I think it’s very likely that I’ll be pronounced fit, in which case I’ll jump on the next plane to Aus.”

  “That’s what I’m praying for,” I said.

  In December, the village was almost empty of inhabitants, although many families still spent weekends in their cottages. It was easy to see who was home by looking for the smoke curling out of chimneys.

  “So you will be coming back to El Hoyo in March?” asked Marcia.

  “Yes, we’ll be away for exactly three months.”

  “I shall tell Valentina to give me your mail. I will keep it safe for you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Talking of Valentina, how is the romance?”

  Marcia tossed her head and a silver hairpin slipped out of her hair.

  “I’m afraid that romance flew out of the window last week,” she said, shaking her head and sending more hairpins flying.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “What went wrong?”

  I had asked the question, but I think I’d already guessed the answer.

  “Somebody in the village rather enjoyed getting between them, I think,” said Marcia.

  I nodded.

  “Enjoy your trip,” she said, kissing me on both cheeks. “Safe journey.”

  An hour later, Carmen, Joe and I watched Paco lift our suitcases into his Range Rover as though they were filled with feathers.

  “Are all the doors locked? Water turned off?” I asked Joe.

  “Yes, all done, stop worrying.”

  I handed our spare keys to Carmen.

  “Have a wonderful time, and we’ll see you in three months,” she said.

  “Pah! They’ll be back before you know it!” said Paco.

  Suddenly I was transported back to the last time he took us to the airport when we’d just signed the contract to teach in the Middle East for a year. Back then, we had no idea what shocking events lay in store for us, and I felt as though the same thing was happening now. What would the British doctors find when they examined Joe? How would it affect our lives? Would my stay in Australia be eventful? Would Joe join me?

  We drove through the village and past the square. It was early afternoon, but I saw Geronimo sitting on hi
s own, an empty beer bottle standing beside him on the bench. His eyes stared at nothing, and no expression played across his face. One hand was pushed deep into his coat pocket, and the other gripped a full bottle of beer. He lifted it to his waiting mouth.

  We all have different problems, I thought, and squeezed Joe’s hand, grateful that we still had a little time together.

  The next hours remain rather a blur to me. At the airport, we thanked Paco, and waved him goodbye, promising to let him know when we were coming home. We bought coffee, and sat holding hands as the precious minutes trickled by. Neither of us wanted to prolong the agony, so we hugged and whispered our goodbyes, then set off in different directions, heading for our respective boarding gates.

  People milled around me.

  Where are they all going? I wondered. And why? Are they leaving family behind?

  I have very little recollection of my twenty-seven hour journey to Australia. I can’t remember who I sat next to on the flight to Madrid, or on the flight from Madrid to Dubai. I remember killing time in Dubai airport by walking briskly, trying to reach my daily steps target.

  I attempted sleep on the long trip from Dubai to Sydney, but only managed short naps as I sat next to a Russian couple who’d had a manners by-pass and insisted on climbing over me at unreasonably regular intervals.

  Joe will have arrived hours ago, I thought.

  I had strange, disturbed, distorted dreams that I’d arrived and my daughter didn’t recognise me, then announced that I wasn’t as good as she remembered. I woke sweating and scared.

  And then the plane’s engine changed note, the air hostesses prepared for landing and our wheels finally bumped down on the tarmac of Sydney’s airport. It was nighttime, but the airport lights blazed. I’d left Spain on a winter’s day, and arrived in Australia on a balmy summer night.

  Beef Stew

  Estofado