Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  “Nanny, swim!” said Indy at my elbow. But something wasn’t right in the office. Karly had begun jumbling her words and was speaking so fast I could hardly understand what she said.

  “I believe you have ENOUGH GASKETS. Butyoumight, aaaggh need SOME MORE RISERS!” I heard the phone slammed down, then ...

  “MUM!”

  White-faced, she nearly tripped over us swimmers as she burst out of her office and headed to the kitchen at a super-fast hobble. I grabbed Indy and followed her.

  “Karly? Are you okay? Whatever is the matter?”

  “Aaaaaghhh! LOOK!”

  “What?”

  “Where’s the salt? Quick!”

  I looked down to see where Karly was pointing. Two dark-red, shiny, pulsating leeches were fastened to the back of her leg, feasting.

  “I felt my leg throbbing a bit when I was talking on the phone, so I glanced down and saw them!”

  We were aware that the neighbourhood bush is home to leeches because my son-in-law picked up a beauty once before when he took LJ for a walk. For this reason, when we returned this time, we had checked ourselves over.

  No leeches.

  We can’t have been sufficiently thorough, but I guess the hungry leeches were probably too small to notice at the time. Twenty minutes or so later they were well into their blood banquet and had swollen significantly.

  We doused the pair of parasites liberally with salt. They shrivelled and fell off.

  “Oh,” I said looking at the little shrunken worms on the floor. “I should have taken a photo for my next book while they were still huge and feasting.”

  I won’t repeat my daughter’s response. She used vocabulary I certainly never taught her.

  In Britain, Joe sat in a consulting room at the hospital, nervously waiting for the prostate specialist, Mr Reid, to speak. A nurse appeared.

  “I just need a blood sample, Mr Twead,” she said and plunged a syringe into his arm.

  She labeled it carefully. All the while, Mr Reid was studying a computer screen in the background.

  “Right, Mr Twead, pull down your trousers and underpants and lie on your side on the bed,” said the nurse. “Good. Now pull your knees up to your chest. That’s it. He’s ready for you now, Mr Reid.”

  Joe faced the wall and couldn’t see what was coming, but could guess. As Mr Reid began his examination, it occurred to Joe that anybody with a medical qualification now had carte blanche to insert his or her finger where daylight never reached.

  “Hmmmmm,” said Mr Reid, having a good feel. Then Joe heard him pulling off his surgical gloves. “Right, I’ve finished, you can pull up your trousers now.”

  Joe stood up, adjusting his clothing.

  “Everything okay, Mr Reid?”

  “Your prostate is slightly enlarged, but we’ll know more soon. We’ll be in touch when we have the results of your blood test.”

  Joe left the hospital, and tried hard not to worry about the verdict that would arrive in the mail.

  He didn’t have to wait many days before a letter dropped on the doormat.

  “What did it say?” I asked.

  It was early morning in Australia and the birds were in full voice. As always, the Happy Birthday bird was adding his song to the concert.

  “Well, it seems my PSA level is 9.”

  “That’s not good, is it?”

  “No. It looks like I’m going to need a prostate biopsy.”

  “Oh dear, that doesn’t sound very nice. What’s involved?”

  “Well, it’s quite interesting really. They’ll give me a mild local anaesthetic, then they’ll insert a needle and take ten carefully selected samples, in a circle. Then these will be investigated under a microscope in a laboratory.”

  “And what will that tell them?”

  “It’ll show whether my prostate is cancerous or not.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it won’t be!”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “When will they do this test?”

  “Very soon. Straight after Christmas, I think.”

  Christmas was upon us. School choirs, the kids dressed in shorts and summer dresses, sang carols in the shopping malls. Cam brought home a beautiful tree and set it up in the living room. We all helped decorate the tree, then Cam lifted Indy up to place the fairy on the top.

  “We’ve got everybody coming here for Christmas,” said Karly. “I’m going to make it as English as possible with roast turkey, sprouts, and all the trimmings, but we’ll also barbecue prawns and things, the Aussie way.”

  “Sounds wonderful!”

  “Yes, we always have a few drinks and end up in the pool at Christmas. Oh, and by the way…”

  “Yes?”

  “Apart from immediate family and kids, we’ve all agreed not to give presents. There are too many of us, and we decided it would just get out of hand.”

  “Oh, that’s a good decision. I’m relieved because I had no idea about what to get anybody.”

  Christmas Eve arrived. Indy left out carrots for the reindeer and a hefty glass of red wine for Santa. In the morning, the carrots and wine had gone, but a bulging pillowcase stuffed with presents waited on her bed.

  Indy unwrapped and examined each with excitement, but it was obvious which was her favourite. As she pulled out a glove puppet from the paper, her blue eyes were as large as Karly’s serving platters.

  “Noddy!” she squealed.

  Big Ears was revealed next.

  “Big Weirs!”

  Then Sly and Gobo, the bad goblins, joined the group. Indy loved them all but Noddy was her favourite.

  More presents were piled under the Christmas tree.

  “We’ll open them when everybody arrives later,” Karly told Indy.

  But Indy didn’t hear, she was too busy showing Noddy her freckle.

  Christmas Day was a blur of kisses, wrapping paper, food, drink, chatter, sunshine and laughter. Indy solemnly showed Noddy every present she opened.

  And the adult No Presents rule?

  Absolutely nobody seemed to have heeded that, and mountains of gifts were unwrapped amidst squeals of delight.

  Apart from toys, Indy was presented with her first bed. It was made to look like a pink Lamborghini, and probably satisfied her daddy’s passion for flashy cars more than her own. I hoped it would prove easy to assemble. I’d heard that Indy’s play kitchen had taken Cam (a carpenter by trade) and a cousin (a qualified kitchen fitter) two days to put up the year before.

  Finally, Indy was put to bed, tucked up between Noddy and Big Weirs. It had been a wonderful, memorable, family Christmas. I wished that Joe had been there. I also felt sad at the thought that my time in Australia was limited. Apart from visits, and Internet time, I wouldn’t see Indy grow. I wouldn’t be there to be part of her future birthdays, Christmases and childhood milestones.

  And what if Indy ever became a big sister? I would miss that little one growing up, too. Karly and Cam said they didn’t feel ready for a new baby, after the devastating miscarriage they’d suffered, but maybe they would feel ready one day? The tiny embryo that had died before it was born would never be forgotten, but perhaps that pain would fade someday.

  But today had been a very special day filled with love, laughter and generosity. Perhaps my favourite gift was a ticket to a night concert of 60s music held in the open air at Taronga Zoo, overlooking Sydney harbour and the illuminated Opera House. Between numbers, one could hear the lions roar.

  And Karly was very happy too. As one of her presents, I’d made her three Lie-In tokens that she could cash in at will. I promised to look after Indy while she and Cam had a few extra hours in bed.

  New Year followed Christmas, marked with another family event. From the comfort of the living room, we watched the fireworks explode over Sydney harbour and welcomed in the new year, 2015.

  Did I say comfort? Well, not everybody was comfortable because, in my honour, the family had decided the evening should have a Spanish theme. The wearin
g of red underwear was compulsory. In Spain, wearing red underwear on New Year’s Eve is thought to bring luck for the coming year. However, it isn’t always easy to buy red underpants for men, and I know one particular member of the party (who shall remain nameless) had reluctantly squeezed himself into a pair of his wife’s, much to all our amusement.

  To complete the Spanish theme, we all attempted to swallow twelve grapes, one at each stroke of the clock at midnight. As usual, I failed, choking on the seventh.

  What would the new year bring? I hoped it would bring health back to Joe. Only time would tell.

  Prawns with Garlic and Lemon

  Fresh prawns are always best. Avoid using frozen peeled prawns if you can because they will probably be very watery and need cooking longer.

  Ingredients (per person)

  A good handful or two of fresh raw or part-cooked prawns, de-veined. Leave the tails on for presentation if you like

  Half a clove of garlic, peeled and very finely sliced or crushed

  Tablespoon or so of unsalted butter

  A squirt of freshly squeezed lemon juice

  A pinch or two of paprika

  Method

  Sprinkle the raw prawns with the paprika.

  Melt the butter in a frying pan and add the garlic.

  Stir for 1 minute, but don’t let the garlic burn or it will become bitter.

  Add the prawns and cook (turning once) for just a couple of minutes until they turn pink.

  Remove the prawns and pop them onto a plate.

  Turn the heat up on the pan which should still contain the butter and garlic, and squeeze in the lemon juice.

  Cook for 30 - 45 seconds

  Drizzle the sauce all over the prawns.

  13

  HOPS AND SPIKES

  One of the many things I adore about Australia is the outdoorsy life that is the norm for the population. Public sports fields, or ‘ovals’, are rarely empty. They are used by everybody, whether for family keep fit sessions, organised events, joggers, dog walkers or youths who simply want to kick a ball around. Nature reserves abound and visitors are welcome.

  Eating outside is standard. A barbecue is an event in England, but in Australia the barbie is merely an extension of the kitchen, and used all year round. Councils provide free gas or electric barbecues at beauty spots, lookout points, parks and nature reserves, and they are well used.

  “Hey Mum, let’s have breakfast at the wildflower park,” Karly suggested one morning.

  Of course I readily agreed and we packed a hamper with bacon, eggs and bread rolls.

  The wildflower reserve we visited was green and lush, with clearings offering children’s climbing frames, shaded seating and barbecues. We dumped our hamper on a table and joined Indy in the children’s play area. Indy has inherited her father’s daredevil gene so we needed to supervise her climbing. When she reached the top of the frame, she pointed at something over our heads.

  “Wobbly!”

  I looked blankly at Karly, hoping for a translation, then in the direction of Indy’s pointing finger.

  Bouncing over to our seating area was a wallaby. Remembering that we had left food unattended, I made my way over, but I doubted that the wallaby would be interested in our breakfast ingredients.

  For me, it was a magic moment. The wallaby was unafraid, and allowed me to come extremely close. Indy came running up, and still the wallaby stood its ground, as though aware we meant it no harm.

  “Wobbly! Look!”

  “I don’t know if wallabies are interested in freckles,” said Karly, approaching from behind.

  But the wallaby was polite. He solemnly studied Indy’s wrist for a few moments, then slowly hopped away into the bush.

  Joe entered the hospital and found the Acute Services Division of the Urological Department. This was not an appointment he relished. Kindly nurses divested him of his clothes, exchanging them for a gown that covered his front, but left his back woefully bare.

  “I must have looked very fetching in my socks, slippers and gown,” he remarked later.

  He was shown into a darkened room where flickering green computer screens served as the only illumination. It was all very space-age and could easily have belonged in a scene from Star Trek. A male voice floated out of the darkness.

  “Do lie on the bed on your side, Mr Twead.”

  Joe’s eyes had not yet adapted to the dark and he feared that, should he move, he might step on something expensive. Also, he was not too enthusiastic about the procedure he was about to endure.

  Best I buy myself time with a little meaningless conversation, he thought.

  “Um, thank you um...Mr...” said Joe, searching the dark for the owner of the voice.

  “Reid,” said he from just behind, making Joe jump.

  “Ah, Mr Reid! Fine room you have here. All these marvelous computer monitors and …”

  “Thank you. Now be a good chap and lie on the bed.”

  Joe was reluctant, but his arm was seized firmly by a nurse who appeared from nowhere.

  “I’m Anna,” she said, steering Joe towards the bed.

  Generally speaking, I believe hospital beds come in two sizes. The ward bed can be machine adjusted and is fairly comfortable. The other is found in doctors’ surgeries, operating theatres and diagnostic rooms, much like the one Joe was in now. These beds are more like boards and are elevated, narrow and extremely uncomfortable.

  Joe patted the bed and ran his hand over it.

  “It’s … um… very …”

  “Up you get,” urged nurse Anna, ignoring his reluctance. “Now, lie on your side with your back towards me. That’s it. Bring your knees up to your chest. Don’t worry, I know it probably feels like a knife edge, but you won’t fall off the bed.”

  Joe doubted that but eventually he found the position that seemed to satisfy her. He lay perfectly still, convinced that the slightest movement would send him crashing to the floor. With a mighty effort, he clenched his muscles, not daring to move. His entire concentration was centred on staying on the bed, rather than on the activity behind him.

  “Right,” said Mr Reid, “I am now going to administer the anaesthetic which will sting a little, but that’s all.”

  He inserted something narrow into Joe’s rear, and Joe heard a click. He felt a brief but mild pain, then nothing.

  “We are now going to take the samples from around your prostate,” said Mr Reid.

  The nurse and doctor set to work collecting the material for the lab. Apart from clicks, buzzes and a spattering of medical terminology intelligible only to the medics, Joe was aware of very little else.

  Half an hour later, Anna helped him off the knife edge. The procedure was over.

  “Now, Mr Twead,” she said, “you must urinate before you leave. Please don’t be concerned if there is a little blood, that’s normal. We need to make sure that your waterworks are okay and that you feel no pain when you pee. Take these two tablets, please.”

  “What are they for?”

  “In case you picked up a little infection during the procedure. It’s highly unlikely but we must take precautions. Now would you like a nice cup of tea?”

  Joe knew this was a ploy to encourage his waterworks but the cup of tea was welcome nonetheless. Anna’s ruse succeeded and he soon felt the need. He entered the adjoining bathroom and nervously began to do what came naturally.

  “Nurse!”

  “Yes, Mr Twead?”

  “Is this normal?”

  “What, Mr Twead?”

  “There’s no wee, just blood!”

  “Do you feel any pain, Mr Twead?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then all is well.”

  “But there’s so much blood!”

  “Don’t worry, that’s quite normal and it will only last a few weeks before disappearing altogether.”

  Emerging from the toilet, Joe imagined he would be a whiter shade of pale and require a blood transfusion. But Nurse Anna had
heard and seen it all before and continued as if nothing untoward had happened.

  “We will write to your doctor who will prescribe more tablets for you.”

  “Thank you. When will I know the results of the biopsy?”

  “That will take some time but we will contact you.”

  Shopping malls in Australia are excellent. Although not as decadently glitzy as the ones I remember in Bahrain, in the Middle East, where Joe and I taught for a year, they were far better than those in our corner of Spain. The choice of merchandise seemed endless, especially to me. I am not a natural shopper, so I never pined for sophisticated malls in Spain, but I enjoyed the novelty in Australia.

  One particular weekend, we were browsing the shops, when we happened to pass a pet shop. In the window were two tiny kittens. Karly, Indy and I ground to a halt. What female can resist kittens? Meanwhile, Cam marched on, oblivious, and had to double back and search when he discovered he’d lost his entire family.

  Pasted on the glass was a sign.

  Can you give us a good home?

  Karly and I stared at the kittens, then at each other, then back at the kittens. One was a comical little thing with black and white patches that reminded me of Felicity in El Hoyo. The other was a tiny tabby with wonderful stripes.

  We read the notice which explained that these were rescued kittens and that the pet shop was displaying them for the day, on behalf of the local animal rescue centre, in the hope that somebody would come along, fall in love with them and take them home.

  Yes, we’d come along and fallen in love with them. Well, with one in particular.

  “Look at the tabby, isn’t she beautiful?”

  “She reminds me of Fortnum,” said Karly.

  As children, my son and daughter had a kitten each. We’d named them Fortnum and Mason after the posh shop in London. Fortie, the tabby, was sweet-natured and delicate, but with the heart of a lion. She was the one who kept neighbouring cats at bay, while her big brother, Mason, hid quivering under the couch.