Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  Spicy Prawns

  Gambas Pil Pil

  Gambas Pil Pil is a really simple dish to make, plus it is extremely fast to cook.

  Ingredients

  Olive oil

  3 or 4 cloves of garlic - finely sliced

  A good teaspoon of paprika (smoked or sweet)

  A handful of raw prawns per person, shelled and de-veined if you prefer

  1 fresh chilli, very finely sliced, you choose whether to include the seeds for extra heat, or not

  Method

  Pour about 1 cm (¼ inch) of olive oil into a pan on a high heat.

  Sprinkle in the paprika and stir well.

  Throw in the garlic, chillies and prawns.

  They will cook very quickly, so keep turning until the prawns turn pink. It will only take a minute or so.

  Serve with fresh bread for mopping up that awesome chilli/garlic oil.

  10

  CHICKENS

  “So how was your first day in Australia?”

  “Lovely. Indy is just gorgeous, bright as a button. She loves imagining. We read her pretend books that all start ‘Once there was a little girl with blonde, curly hair whose name was Indy. She was a princess…’ and so on, and she turns all the pretend pages.”

  I went on to tell him about the house, the Christmas decorations, the warmth, the wonderful Australian light, the plan to get chickens, the spider game, and the Happy Birthday bird.

  “Are you telling me you heard a bird singing Happy Birthday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Vicky…”

  “It’s okay, Karly and Cam don’t believe me either. Now do you have any news?”

  “Actually, yes. As soon as I arrived, I phoned the surgery and they happened to have a cancellation with Dr Holland, so I took it.”

  “Gosh! That was quick!”

  “It was.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Scottish, gingerish hair, middle-aged, kindly. I liked him.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I told him we live in Spain, and I hadn’t had a proper medical since I was fifty, and that I felt I needed one. He agreed, and sent me for all sorts of tests.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, he took my blood pressure, I had a blood test, a chest X-ray, urine test, you know the sort of thing.”

  “That sounds pretty thorough.”

  “Yes. Anyway, I made another appointment with him for later this month to discuss the results.”

  “Good! Let’s hope they find absolutely nothing wrong, then you can come out here and sample Karly’s fossil shell flour cupcakes.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind.

  “Well, that was a good solid eight.”

  “What was?”

  “The spider in the saucepan.”

  “Haha!”

  The garden centre that we visited had everything a family could wish for. It had a play area with little cars for Indy to drive, a stall serving coffee, more plants and shrubs than you could shake a stick at, and chickens. Many of the chickens roamed free which delighted Indy.

  “Where are ’ooo, chick-uns?” she called as she chased the poor creatures round a row of potted palms.

  The chickens for sale were in a large pen. They were much younger, with stubby combs, than the ones roaming free. There were brown ones, and a few other, more showy ones.

  I had a memory flashback of the chickens we had bought over the years in Spain, and the horrible chicken shop where the hens were stuffed into tiny cages, five in each. Thank goodness, Australia seemed to be a great deal more humane in its treatment of the hen population.

  “How many do you think we should get?” asked Karly.

  “I think maybe four would be good,” I said. “That would give them plenty of room in the coop, and three or four eggs a day is plenty. Enough to eat and some to give away.”

  “Which sort should we choose?”

  “Well, we always found the brown ones to be more sensible, and reliable layers. The fancy ones were often a bit neurotic.”

  “Okay, let’s have three brown ones and that gorgeous black one over there.”

  The black chicken was much bigger than her brown sisters, and her glossy, black wings nearly touched the floor. The assistant caught the hens we had chosen and put them into two big boxes with big air holes cut in the side.

  We bought a sack of grain and Indy chose some feeders to hang in the coop. As we drove home, the chickens in their boxes remained quiet.

  “What shall we call them?”

  “Let’s see if they develop personalities, then we can think of names.”

  “Good idea.”

  At home, Cam carefully lifted the two brown chickens out of one box and set them down in their new home. At first they seemed a little bewildered and stood still, absorbing their new surroundings. Then they spied the new feeder and made their way over to it, happily tucking in as though they’d always lived there.

  The third brown chicken was next, and she behaved in the same way as her sisters. Cam concentrated on the last chicken, the black, flamboyant one.

  “Oh my goodness! Indy, come over here! One of the chickens has laid an egg!”

  In the box was a warm, perfect egg. The black chicken must have laid it during the journey on the way home. I drew on my rather sketchy chicken knowledge bank, and assumed it was the black hen because she was the oldest, judging by her larger comb.

  “Look, Indy, the chicken has laid an egg in the box!”

  “Look, Indy, our first egg! Feel how warm it is.”

  “Clever chicken! Thank you for laying a lovely egg.”

  “Indy do it,” demanded my granddaughter, holding out her little hands.

  “You must be very careful,” said her father, gently placing the egg in her outstretched hands, “because it will break.”

  Indy stared at the egg in her hands, then, without warning, she ran forward to the chickens and threw the egg.

  “Chick-uns! Ere y’are, chick-uns!”

  The egg smashed open and spread over the ground. The chickens jostled each other to suck it up.

  “Oh!” said Karly.

  “Oops!” said Cam. “That wasn’t the plan.”

  “Oh dear,” I said. “Never mind, they’ll all be laying eggs soon.”

  The black chicken stretched her neck upwards and crowed.

  “I thought only cockerels crowed, not hens,” Karly remarked.

  “Me too! How very odd!”

  But the black hen was definitely female because she continued to lay eggs as the days went by. But she didn’t cluck, she crowed.

  “Perhaps she’s a transvestite,” suggested Karly. “We’ll call her Tranny.”

  “Okay, but what about the other three?”

  “I can’t tell the difference between them, can you?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Actually, they all remind me of Margaret Thatcher.”

  “Do they?”

  “Yes. I think we should call them Margaret.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good idea. No mix-up then.”

  It reminded me of when Karly and her brother were small. We used to have three goldfish which we couldn’t tell apart, so we named them Wet Wet Wet, after a popular 1980s band. Poor Wet died, but we had Wet and Wet for years afterwards.

  Visiting the Margarets and checking for eggs became an enjoyable daily ritual, although only Tranny produced eggs. I knew that the Margarets would lay soon, but Karly was impatient.

  I was in my writing lair when Karly stuck her head round the door.

  “I’m off to the gym, can you check the Margarets’ food and water, please? Oh, and see if they’ve finally decided to lay an egg. Indy’s coming with me, she loves the gym creche.”

  “No problem. Don’t pull any muscles.”

  I read the last few paragraphs of what I had written the day before, then pulled my desk drawer open.

 
An enormous black spider crouched in the corner.

  Just for a nanosecond, I was terrified, but reason took charge as I recognised the monster my beloved daughter had placed carefully in my drawer. I had reached an eight on the Fear Scale.

  I no longer felt like writing, and went on the prowl instead, looking for the perfect place to conceal the spider, unexpected enough to scare the heebie-jeebies out of her.

  Broom cupboard?

  No, she might not go in there for a couple of days.

  Fridge?

  No, somebody else might come across it. I finally decided on her underwear drawer, but looking in the fridge had given me an idea.

  I took out a box of eggs and transferred them to a bowl. Then I went back to my writing lair, taking the eggs with me. I went back to work but listened out for Karly. Soon she drew up in the drive, and I was ready.

  I went out to meet her, carrying the bowl of eggs.

  “Hi, Mum.”

  “How was the gym?”

  “Good. Tiring, but good. Everything okay here?”

  “Yep, all good. I did a bit of writing, and I checked the Margarets, and look what I found!”

  Karly swung round and saw the bowl of eggs for the first time. Her eyes grew large.

  “You are kidding! The Margarets laid all those today? Wow!”

  “Yes, they did really well, didn’t they?”

  “Are the eggs still warm?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Have a look, though, they’re perfect.”

  “But there are loads of them! I thought they laid just one a day.”

  “Yes, it’s rather unusual to get so many at once,” I agreed, but I was struggling to keep my face straight. “And I’ll tell you what else is unusual.”

  “What?”

  “It’s unusual for chickens to stamp the date and ‘Farm Fresh’ on each egg.”

  Karly stared at me, then at the eggs piled in the bowl.

  “Mum!”

  The relief of being able to laugh out loud was enormous. I had tears running down my cheeks.

  “Don’t listen to Nanny, Indy, she’s being silly,” said my daughter haughtily, and stalked into the house.

  “Silly Nanny,” said Indy, and rolled her eyes.

  “You’re going to have to try harder than that, you know.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The spider in my underwear drawer.”

  “Ah.”

  “Barely a six on the Fear Scale.”

  That weekend we were invited to Cam’s parents’ house for lunch. We’d met many times before so it was good to catch up. When we arrived, the sky was overcast, but didn’t give us cause for concern.

  Their lovely house is in a wonderfully leafy suburb, with wide tree-lined streets. The kitchen window had a gorgeous outlook over the garden, and our hostess clearly had green fingers. (I learned later that Australians say ‘green thumbs’.)

  “It looks so beautiful,” I said, admiring the lawn, the pool and the masses of delicate white flowers with their backdrop of glossy, deep green leaves. “It looks very cool in this heat.”

  “Ah, I struggle,” said Cam’s mother. “We have so many rabbits round here, and they eat everything. And if the rabbits don’t eat it, the wallabies do. Whatever I plant, shrubs, roses, whatever, the rabbits and wallabies come and destroy it.”

  “Well, I think the garden looks amazing. You must teach me about the plants out here. I loved gardening when I was in England, I had a greenhouse and everything, but I’m a complete novice when it comes to Australian plants. I don’t recognise any. What’s that, in the big pot?”

  “Ah, that’s one of Australia’s most popular plants, the lilly pilly. Flowers in summer and has berries in winter.”

  Suddenly, the sky blackened as though a light switch had been flicked.

  “I think we might be in for a storm,” somebody said as a sudden, violent gust of wind tore through the garden.

  The sentence had hardly been uttered when we were deafened by missiles pummeling the roof. Giant hailstones, larger than golfballs, pelted down from above.

  We stood in a row, pressed to the window, watching the unbelievable scene outside.

  Like countless white cannonballs, the hailstones pounded down, snapping off branches, twigs and leaves in their path. The swimming pool water danced and splashed and lumps of ice floated with the debris. The beautifully swept patio turned grey with ice which began to pile up in dirty heaps, driven by the wind. We watched the garden being destroyed before our eyes. The delicate blossoms I had admired just minutes ago had already been hammered into the ground by the hail.

  “We’ve put on an event to welcome you to Australia,” Cam’s father joked.

  We’d all been staring out of the window overlooking the back garden, but somebody thought to open the front door and look out on the front drive. Karly’s car was being pounded, and even from that distance we could see the pits forming in the bodywork as the vehicle was bombarded. A tiny part of me felt relief because I had been given permission to drive her car, and I was quite nervous about it. Perhaps if I dented it now, it wouldn’t show.

  Those gigantic hailstones did much damage that day and it was my first personal experience of Australia’s sudden and unexpected extreme weather. But it wouldn’t be the last.

  We were well into summer now, and approaching Christmas. It still felt strange to see houses, malls and streets decorated for Christmas, and Christmas carols being played as background music in shops while we sweltered in the heat.

  One evening we visited a nearby street renowned in Sydney for its extravagant Christmas decorations. Every house was draped in Christmas lights. Inflatable Santas, snowmen and reindeers stood on every roof, swaying slightly in the warm breeze. A dozen different Christmas songs could be heard. One house and front garden had even been covered in fake snow.

  Cam was carrying Indy and her eyes were huge as she pointed at all the wonderful sights. Me, I was just pleased I wasn’t footing the electricity bill.

  My daughter and I fell into step.

  “That was a fairly weak six, you know,” I said. “You’re losing your touch.”

  “What was?”

  “The spider in my sponge bag.”

  “Ah. You found it.”

  “I did.”

  “Has Joe had his test results back?” asked Cam.

  “He’s going to the doctor today. We’ll know everything very soon.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Yes, a bit. I guess we just need to know if there’s anything wrong, then we’ll know exactly what we have to face.”

  Karly and Cam nodded.

  To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t looking forward to my next chat with Joe.

  Fried Goats’ Cheese

  Queso de cabra frito

  These are fine on their own as a starter or a tapa, but you could also serve them with a leafy salad for a light lunch.

  Ingredients (per person)

  1 large egg yolk

  Teeny dribble of milk

  Handful of breadcrumbs

  2 slices firm goats’ cheese (take it out of the fridge at the last second) about 1½ cm (½ inch) thick

  Olive oil for frying

  Some honey, jam or cranberry sauce for drizzling

  Method

  Whisk the egg yolk and teeny amount of milk in a shallow bowl. Just a gentle whisk - you don’t need to put too much air into it.

  Put the breadcrumbs on a plate.

  Heat the olive oil in a pan over a medium to high heat.

  Dip the slices of goats’ cheese in the egg/milk mix.

  Roll them gently in the breadcrumbs - this can be a little messy.

  Place straight into the pan. Don’t disturb much as they can be fragile.

  When the underside is golden, flip carefully. They’ll take only a couple of minutes to cook.

  Meanwhile, heat some honey in the microwave or in a small pan.

  Serve immediately, drizzled with the warmed h
oney or jam.

  11

  DARK SHADOWS AND DUCKS

  “How’s everything with you?” asked Joe.

  “Never mind me, everything is great here. How did you get on? Did you have your appointment with Dr Holland?”

  “I did.”

  “Well? Did he have the test results? Don’t keep me waiting!”

  “Slow down, Vicky. I’m going to tell you the whole story.”

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  I could hear him take a breath, while on the other side of the planet, I held mine.

  Everybody else in the waiting room seemed to be absorbed by their mobile phones. Joe was just thumbing through an ancient National Geographic magazine, when Dr Holland’s door opened.

  “Joe Twead?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  Joe stood up and followed Dr Holland into his room. The doctor plonked himself behind his desk and Joe settled himself on the chair he indicated with a wave of his hand. Dr Holland was a man of few words.

  “The test results are in. Let me see...”

  Joe waited and found himself staring at the eye test pasted on the wall, seeing how far he could read down the chart. Dr Holland was absorbed by, what Joe presumed to be, his chest X-rays. He was right.

  Dr Holland spoke, without preamble.

  “I see that there are a few dark areas on your lungs, but nothing to worry about. It’s not cancer.”

  Joe’s brain attempted to process this information.

  Is this good news?

  Yes! I don’t have cancer.

  But, dark areas? What does that mean?

  What is the doctor seeing?

  “Do you have any trouble breathing?”

  “Yes, actually I do a bit. I think I’m just unfit.”

  “Your ankles look swollen.”

  “Yes, they are. They’ve been puffy for quite a while.”