Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  The real trick to this recipe is to cook it as slowly as possible so that the cubes of beef are ultra soft and tender.

  Ingredients

  1kg (2.2lb) of stewing beef, cut into 3cm (1 inch) chunks

  1 tablespoon of flour

  200 mls (7 fl oz) of beef stock

  1 glass of red wine

  2 leeks, trimmed and sliced into 1cm (¼ inch) slices

  6 to 8 garlic cloves, peeled and finely sliced or chopped

  2 medium onions, finely chopped

  1 large carrot, finely sliced

  1 celery stick, finely sliced

  1 tin of chopped tomatoes

  ¼ teaspoon of ground cumin

  1 teaspoon of paprika

  Olive oil

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Method

  Heat two good glugs of olive oil in a large saucepan or casserole dish.

  Brown the beef, then stir in the flour, cumin and paprika.

  Stir in the wine, then throw in all the veggies and stir well.

  Add the beef stock and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat down really low, cover it and leave for at least a couple of hours.

  Season to taste.

  Serve when the meat is tender, with rice, mashed potato or fresh bread.

  9

  BIRDS AND SPIDERS

  I found my luggage and passed through Customs without drama, although I felt light-headed from travelling and lack of sleep. Along with dozens of other weary travellers, I trundled my trolley to the Arrivals gate. My daughter and son-in-law sprang out from the crowd, and suddenly, the long journey was history.

  We hugged and all talked at once.

  “There you are!”

  “How was the journey?”

  “You look wonderful!”

  “Mum! I’m so pleased you’re here!”

  “I can’t believe I’m here!”

  “Are you tired?”

  “Where’s Indy?”

  “She’s staying with Cam’s parents. It’s a bit late for her, and we thought it’d be nicer if you see her tomorrow when you’ve rested a bit. Today she asked the cashier in Woolworths if she was her Nanny.”

  “Oh, bless her heart! I can’t wait to get my hands on her!”

  “Did you manage to get any sleep on the journey?”

  “A bit, but I had awful dreams.”

  “So did I last night! I dreamt that you didn’t approve of my parenting!”

  “Haha! As if! And I dreamed that I was a terrible Nanny!”

  Cam took charge of my luggage and we walked outside. Even though it was nighttime, everything seemed exotic, different. I looked up to see a million stars studding the clear sky.

  “It’s so warm,” I exclaimed.

  “The weather forecast is great, prepare to get very hot this week!”

  “We’ve decorated the house Griswold-style.”

  “You’ve what?”

  “You know, like the Griswolds! The movie, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation? They decorated the house with so many Christmas lights that they caused a city-wide power cut.”

  “I keep forgetting it’s Christmas!”

  “Wait until you see our lights, they are awesome!”

  And they were awesome. They lit up the lovely house that I had only seen in pictures. Tiny, white fairy lights ran along the eaves, dangling like icicles. More sparkled in the bushes.

  “I love it!”

  “Yes, we keep adding to it. Now, come and meet LJ.”

  I knew LJ was no longer a puppy, but I must admit to being rather taken aback when this giant hound bounded up and jumped up on me, putting his paws on my chest. He looked extremely threatening as his face was on a level with mine. I was to learn that he was a very gentle dog, and a perfect example of not judging a book by its cover.

  “Get down, LJ! LJ, get down!”

  But LJ wanted to play.

  “He’ll soon get used to you, he’s always like that with new people. He gets over-excited. Come and see everything else.”

  Tired as I was, I loved the guided tour. Everything was sparkly clean and smelled of polish. I could see how hard they’d worked to have everything perfect for my arrival, and when they flung open the door to my lair, I gasped.

  “It’s absolutely perfect!” I said. “I just love it!”

  The brick walls were painted white. I had a desk, TV, sofa, fridge, kettle, and unlimited Internet access. It was the ideal retreat, a place to sit and write during spare moments.

  It was too dark to see much outside, but I could see the silhouette of the new chicken coop.

  “We’ve got loads of things planned,” said Karly. “Tomorrow, don’t get up until you’re ready. I expect you’ll need to catch up a bit after that journey. I’ll go and collect Indy in the morning. Cam will be at work, then he has to put some finishing touches on the coop and perhaps later on we’ll go out and choose some chickens. And this weekend we’ve been invited round to Cam’s parents for a meal. They’ve got a lovely boat, and they’re going to take us all out for a sail sometime. Oh, and did you know this area of Sydney has a hundred beaches? Let’s see how many we can visit during your stay!”

  I crawled into bed, dog-tired, but my heart was singing. Images of chickens, a hundred beaches, my new writing retreat and fairy lights, whirled around in my exhausted head.

  I hope Joe comes out soon, I thought, and tapped out a quick text to him.

  Arrived safely, all well. House is beautiful. xxx

  Then I lay back and fell into a deep sleep.

  Next morning, I was woken up by a most unexpected sound. Somebody was playing the tune of Happy Birthday right outside my window. Not singing, but playing the first few bars, over and over again.

  Imagine an orchestra comprising strange unworldly instruments tuning up. Imagine shrieks, caws and whistles, with the occasional crack of a whiplash. That’s a typical Australian dawn chorus.

  Then add an instantly recognisable tune into the mix. The strains of Happy Birthday were unmistakable, although I couldn’t identify what instrument was producing it. It sounded a little like pan pipes.

  But it’s not my birthday. I’m dreaming.

  I opened my eyes and sat up, suddenly remembering where I was. Of course, Australia! And this dawn chorus was an event that took place every morning and so unremarkable to Australians that few ever even noticed it.

  I remember the birds in Britain for their beautiful songs, but they sang sweetly, politely. The birds in Spain were too heavily hunted to be very evident. However, in Australia, the birds are prolific and super-noisy. When Joe and I visited Queensland in 2008, we stayed in a house on the edge of a golf course. We delighted in the crazy dawn chorus, and this was exactly the same.

  I was not yet able to distinguish the different birds, so I couldn’t tell the difference between the sounds of the rainbow lorikeets, the Indian mynah birds, the cockatoos, and the magpies. (I soon learned of the existence of the whiplash bird, and heard it often, but I have yet to see one.)

  And then the tuneful rendition of Happy Birthday began again, and I understood. It was a bird singing it, but which bird had learned to reproduce the notes so perfectly? I had no idea.

  I lay back on the pillows with my eyes shut, listening to the wonderful sounds of nature, waiting for the house to wake up. It didn’t take long because most Australians are early risers. Their habits are in stark contrast to the Spanish who rise quite late, siesta in the middle of the day and don’t go to bed until the early hours of the morning. The Happy Birthday bird sang again, and I smiled. Three months in this lovely house with my family and surrounded by wonderful Australian birds was going to be heavenly.

  “Mum, I’m just off to collect Indy. Help yourself to coffee and toast.”

  I poured myself a coffee then prowled round the house, getting my bearings. From the back garden, LJ watched me through the windows. I explored the front and saw that we were at the bottom of a leafy cul-de-sac. Tall trees stretched up,
while colourful shrubs and bushes jostled each other beneath them. I’ve always enjoyed gardening, but I recognised none of the plants and flowers that grew so abundantly here.

  I sat on the doorstep, sipping my coffee. Everything was so exotic and strange, bordering on the slightly crazy. Gigantic spiders’ webs hung in the trees, giant beetles with outsize horns like antlers scuttled past, scaly lizards basked in the early sun, ants of every size laboured, while the birds, none of which I could actually spot, sang as though auditioning for concerts.

  The Happy Birthday bird was just repeating his song for the hundredth time when Karly returned. In the back, I saw a little face framed by a cloud of golden curls. I ran round the car and flung the rear door open.

  “Indy! Where’s Indy?” I asked. “This big girl can’t be Indy!”

  Indy gurgled.

  “Where’s Indy?” I asked again, pretending to look for her.

  “I’se Indy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Indy nodded earnestly.

  “And how old are you?”

  “Two!”

  By now I’d unbuckled the straps to her carseat and released her.

  “So you’re quite sure you’re Indy?”

  More earnest nods.

  “Well, then, come here, gorgeous girl!”

  I grabbed her and smothered her with kisses, making her giggle.

  “Look, Nanny!”

  She was holding up her wrist to show me. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be looking at.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh,” said my daughter, “she’s showing you her freckle.”

  I didn’t even have time to admire it before Indy remembered something else to show me.

  “Nanny, Nanny! Chick-uns!”

  I set her down and she tugged me by the hand, leading me to the new chicken coop.

  “She can’t wait to get the chickens,” said my daughter. “We’re planning to get some from the garden centre but as you’re a chicken expert, you can help us choose.”

  “Well, I’m hardly an expert…”

  Indy stuck her head into the empty coop.

  “Chick-uns! Where are ’ooo?” she yelled.

  “Did you have a coffee and a look round the house while we were gone?”

  “I did, thank you. I love the house, and the garden, and everything! And how cool to have a Happy Birthday bird!”

  “A what?”

  “You know, the bird that sings Happy Birthday.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The Happy Birthday bird. Stop teasing me!”

  “Mum, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  I checked her face to see if she was joking. She wasn’t.

  “There’s a bird round here that sings the first few bars of Happy Birthday. I heard it when I woke up, and lots of times since.”

  “Ha! I think I would have heard that! Perhaps you’re suffering from jet-lag or something.”

  “You must have heard it! Listen, it’s probably singing now.”

  I put up my hand for silence, and we stood still and listened.

  Nothing.

  Plenty of other random birdsong and trills. But no Happy Birthday bird.

  “I did hear it, honestly.”

  “Of course you did, Mum.”

  She had the same expression when she caught me wearing odd shoes, or trying to unlock the front door with the car key. Yes, I am absent-minded, particularly when I’m writing a book, which is most of the time.

  I sighed. There comes a point when one must admit defeat, and I had reached it. She hadn’t ever heard the Happy Birthday bird’s song, but I was positive she soon would hear it and when she did, she would eat humble pie and regret her scepticism. I was prepared to wait.

  “Let’s take LJ to the off-leash dog park. He needs a good run, and there’s a kids’ playground there which Indy will like,” suggested my daughter. “Then we’ll have some lunch.”

  LJ cantered round the park like a pony, Karly following him, while Indy and I concentrated on the playground’s offerings.

  “Pider!” said Indy, and showed me how to remove the webs with a long stick. Australian spiders are prolific, and the slide, seesaw, climbing frame and swings were all draped in cobwebs, no doubt constructed overnight.

  I was pleased to see that Indy was developing a healthy respect for spiders. I didn’t want her to be frightened of spiders, like her mother and I were, but Australian spiders should be avoided as many will deliver a painful bite, and there are some that are downright dangerous.

  Lunch was uneventful until Karly handed me a little pot.

  “Can you give that to Indy, please?”

  I stared at the stuff.

  “You give your daughter frogspawn to eat?”

  “It’s chia seeds with yogurt.”

  I stared blankly at her.

  “They’re great for her digestion and give her energy. She loves them.”

  “Really? How come I’ve never heard of chia seeds before?”

  “I guess you can’t get them in Spain?”

  “Maybe. Can I have a look in your cupboards, see if there are any other edible surprises that may have passed me by?”

  “Be my guest.”

  I should explain that when she was eighteen months old, Karly refused to eat any food apart from sausages.

  No vegetables. No fruit. No meat.

  Just sausages.

  I tried everything, then in despair, I went to the doctor and explained the problem. It was 1982, and the doctor was unconcerned.

  “Is she healthy?” he asked. “Happy? Sleeping well?”

  “Well, yes…”

  “Then I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “Keep giving her things to try, but don’t upset yourself, or her, by trying to force her. It’s a phase, she’ll pass though it.”

  It proved to be a very long phase that lasted many years. Unlike her big brother, who ate everything and had become quite the little gourmet, Karly only ate sausages. Every day she had sausages for dinner. If we ate out at a cafe or restaurant, she’d ask for sausages.

  At Christmas, while we enjoyed turkey and all the trimmings, Karly’s plate sported a sausage decorated with a piece of holly in an attempt to make it look a little more festive.

  Gradually, she began to eat other things, but not particularly healthy foods. She’d eat sweet things, then bread, potatoes, and cheese. The big breakthrough came when she was about twelve and went to stay with a friend in Hong Kong. She returned having discovered she liked chicken, fish and lots of other foods. I guess she had no choice but to try these things while she was a guest in somebody else’s house.

  As the years went by, she began to eat more variety of foods, and I knew she had developed a passion for cooking. But I didn’t know how far she’d come. I didn’t know she was cooking and consuming health food items I’d never heard of. Heck, I couldn’t even spell or say them.

  “What’s this? Psyllium husks?”

  “Ah. Yes. That’s a digestion aid, extremely high fibre.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “You can add to flour, or pasta, or whatever.”

  “And this?” I peered at the label. “Quinoa?”

  Of course I pronounced it as I saw it, ‘quin-oa’, but was sharply corrected.

  “Mum, it’s pronounced Keen-wah.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I don’t know! I can’t believe you’ve never come across these basics.”

  “Now, hold on, Mrs I-only-ate-sausages-until-I-was-twelve-years-old. And what’s this? Shouldn’t it be in your gardening shed?” I squinted at the label. “Diatomaceous earth? Fossil shell flour? You must be joking! And this? Green banana starch?”

  Karly shrugged.

  “All good stuff,” she said.

  I abandoned my scrutiny of the pantry, feeling out of my depth. It was more like an apothecary’s workshop than a cook’s larder.

  Something on the floor moved into my line of vis
ion and I instantly forgot all about health foods.

  I froze. It was the biggest, blackest, hairiest spider I had ever seen, and it was heading straight for me. I opened my mouth to scream.

  “My pider!” said Indy, pointing, her finger slimy with chia seeds.

  Just a second, spiders don’t hum, I thought. Karly’s grinning face appeared round the corner.

  “Did I get you?” she asked, showing me the remote control in her hand. “How scared were you, out of ten?”

  “That was a very robust eleven,” I said, as my heart retuned to its normal pace.

  That was the day that the Spider War was waged.

  There were no rules. The aim was to hide the spider in unexpected places and scare the skin off each other. The higher the scare factor out of ten, the more satisfaction for the prankster.

  After lunch, Indy was allowed to watch a little of her very favourite DVD before her afternoon nap.

  “I’m secretly quite pleased she’s chosen this as her favourite,” said Karly. “You couldn’t get anything more British!”

  “What is it?”

  “Noddy and Big Ears. She loves it. Can you sit with her for a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  She gave me the DVD which I slid into the player. I fumbled with the remote control but Noddy refused to pop onto the screen.

  “Indy do it.”

  My granddaughter, age two, knew exactly how to control both the TV and DVD player. Soon Noddy was driving his little red car into Toytown.

  As I sat with my arm around my little granddaughter, I couldn’t help being transported back nearly sixty years. Of course, we didn’t have a TV when I was little, but I remembered the Noddy books I had as a child. I may have changed a great deal over the years, but Noddy hadn’t aged a day.

  What with playing with Indy, catching up with family news, and watching Cam finish the chicken coop, the day slipped away delightfully.

  I was tired, but before I went to bed, I tiptoed into the kitchen, looked around, then popped the spider into an empty saucepan.

  I climbed into bed at eleven o’clock that night, and wondered whether Joe, in the UK, was awake enough for a chat. To my delight he was.