Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  This piqued her interest. Her plucked eyebrows arched in surprise.

  “You are not flying today?”

  “No. I was told to speak to you. I’ve come to collect my suitcase which has been found.”

  “Your suitcase?”

  “Yes.” It was hard to stay patient.

  “Lost property? Then you are in the wrong place. I will phone a member of staff to meet you.” Crimson manicured fingernails clattered on the keyboard, and she spoke rapidly into her mouthpiece.

  I waited.

  “Please stand aside, my colleague is on her way.”

  I obediently stood back and waited. And waited.

  “Have I been forgotten?” I asked Crimson Fingernails after fifteen minutes had elapsed.

  “Oh no, my colleague is on her way.”

  I reflected that it was a good thing Joe was not with me.

  Half an hour went by before a uniformed lady appeared. She examined my passport and Property Irregularity Report, then I was taken to a small room off the big hall where the luggage carousels turned. The lady unlocked the door, and there was my suitcase.

  “Is that yours?” she asked.

  “Yes!” I said, relieved.

  “I will call customs to check it,” she said and spoke into her walkie-talkie.

  More time passed, and eventually two customs officers arrived.

  “Do you have anything to declare?” one of them asked, as he lifted my case onto a counter and unzipped it.

  “No,” I replied.

  Nothing to declare? Huh! I nobly resisting the temptation to declare my fury at having my case lost for thirty-five days, the letters, the emails, the endless, fruitless phone calls and tweets, the lack of compensation, being told to collect the case myself, and finally being kept waiting so long today.

  He swung the lid back and I caught a glimpse of the contents. Although rather muddled and disordered, my possessions looked familiar.

  “You can go,” he said, losing interest, and continued the conversation he was having with his colleague.

  Without another word, I zipped up the case and wheeled it out to the car. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was making a big mistake.

  Easter Treats

  Torrijas

  Spanish folklore says that these sweet treats were made by nuns centuries ago, and they're certainly a great way to use up day old bread.

  Ingredients

  Half a dozen slices of stale bread (if you don’t have any stale, lightly toast or microwave so that it doesn’t disintegrate during the dipping)

  100 mls (3.5 fl oz) of milk

  1 egg

  Vegetable or sunflower oil for frying (not olive oil as it is too strong)

  A couple of drops of vanilla extract (not essential)

  Sugar for coating

  Method

  Mix the egg and milk together in a large bowl.

  Add the vanilla extract.

  Gently heat the vegetable oil in a large flat pan.

  Quickly dip each slice of bread into the egg/milk mixture, flipping once so that both sides are covered.

  Transfer immediately to the frying pan and cook until golden brown on both sides.

  Once cooked, keep warm in a low oven whilst you cook the rest.

  Arrange on a plate and sprinkle with sugar, cinnamon, a drizzle of honey... or whatever else takes your imagination.

  20

  WORRIES

  I couldn’t wait to open my suitcase. In Australia, Karly had teased me about the size of my knickers next to hers on the washing line. Of course hers were tiny wisps of nothingness.

  I knew she would be asleep, but I sent her a text message.

  “I’m delighted to announce a touching reunion with my big bloomers.”

  But my glee was short lived. Alarm bells should have rung when the customs officer had opened my case at the airport and I’d glimpsed my possessions.

  I’m a neat packer. I fold everything carefully. I pay great attention to what should be carefully wrapped in towels, or padded out with soft clothing for protection. The contents of my case were all jumbled up, and definitely not how I’d packed them.

  And the reason?

  My suitcase had been ransacked. My camera, hard drive, and some other bits and pieces had been stolen. Once again, I sighed with relief that I had kept my laptop with me in my hand luggage.

  “Bad news,” I texted Karly. “Camera and stuff stolen from suitcase.”

  Karly must have woken up, because the reply came straight back.

  “Bet they didn’t steal your knickers.”

  She was right, of course.

  I was grateful, too, that they hadn’t stolen my journal and book notes, either. Nor my Filofax. So it could have been worse.

  I phoned Iberia, and after being kept holding the line for fifteen minutes, I told them my news.

  “Did you report your loss to the airport police and make a statement?”

  No! Of course I hadn’t. I hadn’t even realised that items had been stolen at the time, and making a list of what was missing wouldn’t be an easy task. The case had been missing for thirty-five days, and I needed time to compare its contents with the list I had already made. Yet again, I was told to write to the Madrid office.

  I washed all my clothes, dried them, then took them to the charity clothes bin. There was nothing wrong with the clothes, but I couldn’t bear the thought of dirty thieving hands rifling through my belongings.

  “Did you give your bloomers to charity?” asked Karly.

  “Excuse me, they are not ‘bloomers’, they are just sensible knickers. And yes, I did.”

  “Good. That way you can at least feel good that some poor homeless person has found shelter in your bloomers. Tents are so useful, aren’t they?”

  In the UK, Joe opened a letter from the Acute Services Division of the local hospital. Nurse Debbie instructed him to report for a CAT scan of his bones.

  It was a worrying time. If the cancer had been discovered too late, and had spread to his bones, then Joe’s prospects would be extremely bleak.

  “Remove your clothes and put on this gown,” said a nurse.

  Joe did as commanded and was shown into another room. This one had a narrow flat table that would slide through a donut-shaped machine which, Joe presumed, recorded the images.

  “Now, Mr Twead, just hop up onto the bed,” said the nurse.

  Joe’s hopping days were over, but he hoisted himself up and lay on the table obediently.

  “Now, don’t move,” instructed the nurse.

  Don’t worry, thought Joe, I’m too scared of falling off this wretched table.

  Twenty-five minutes later it was all over. A series of clicks and buzzes was all that broke up the monotony of having to lie still for a prolonged period of time.

  “It was no problem,” Joe confided later. “It’s the MRI I’m a bit nervous about. I’ve heard it’s not so easy.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I said.

  I worked like a beaver keeping the house as tidy and fresh as possible at all times. I never knew when Kurt might phone to bring viewers. And at the weekends, villagers often knocked on the door to view the house. It was always women, and often in groups of three or four.

  “We have family who may be interested,” they would say, not quite meeting my eye.

  Off they would march, from room to room, opening cupboards and peering into drawers. The ladies had probably seen the house eleven years ago, when Alfonso had owned it, and it didn’t have a kitchen, let alone bathrooms.

  “¡Guapo!” they exclaimed. “It looks good!”

  I could tell that some things left them rather bemused. For instance, the rather ornate, though now empty, chicken coop with its water feature and mirror. And the sun loungers on the roof terrace were eyed doubtfully. No Spanish person ever lies in the sun by choice.

  I am almost sure that none of these viewers really had family with a genuine interest in buying our house. I think the vi
sits were pure curiosity but I had to tolerate them, just in case. As Kurt said, we only needed one buyer.

  Then one of the ladies would ask about the price of the house. When I told them, there was a unanimous intake of breath and they would roll their eyes at each other. In whispered tones, the younger ones would convert the sum to pesetas for the benefit of the older ones, even though Spain had embraced the euro in 2002, thirteen years before. More gasps and eye-rolling.

  “Honestly,” I said to Joe, “you’d think we were asking a ridiculous price. It’s about the same as what we paid all those years ago, when it was a ruin. Do you think we’re asking too much?”

  “No,” said Joe, “don’t worry, it will happen. Kurt knows what he’s doing. We just have to be patient.”

  I tried to take my mind off it all with my writing, but there was a lot to worry about. Had Joe’s prostate cancer already spread? What about his breathing, how quickly would that deteriorate? Would we ever sell the house? What about Australian visas? Could we afford a house in Australia?

  I did some research on the Internet and discovered a depressing fact, one that I had already guessed. Houses in the Sydney area would be well beyond our financial reach.

  “They are like London house prices,” I told Joe on the phone. “Crazy prices, unless we opt for a tiny flat in a grotty area. They call them ‘units’.”

  “How tiny?”

  “Well, one bedroom, no outdoor space… Garage in a complex, that sort of thing.”

  Silence. I’m sure we were both thinking the same thing. We were remembering what we were giving up. We lived in a spacious home with three good bedrooms, two bathrooms, an enchanting walled garden, roof terraces and a 360 degree view of the mountains.

  “I think I may have thought of a couple of options,” I said. “I’ll run them past you, and you can have a think. Then we can discuss them properly when you come home.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, we could move further afield. The Central Coast is about an hour and a half north of Sydney, and property prices are much cheaper.”

  “That’s quite a long way away from the family.”

  “I know, but the roads are good.”

  “Okay, and the other option?”

  “Um, we could probably afford to move into a retirement village.”

  “Really? What are they like?”

  “Well, they vary, but some have bungalows with gardens. They are much cheaper to buy, and the village provides loads of amenities like a pool, dining rooms, gym, outings, library, gardeners, visiting doctors, and stuff like that.”

  I could almost hear Joe thinking.

  “Outings? Gardeners? What’s the average age of people in a retirement village?” he asked.

  “Well, I don’t know. Probably quite a bit older than us…”

  “Vicky, I don’t think we’re ready for a wrinkly-ville yet.”

  “I know, but we might be surprised. It could be worth checking out.”

  “Let’s get the house sold first, and I have the MRI appointment, too. The results of that could change everything.”

  On the day of the MRI, Joe was again asked to don a hospital gown.

  “Are you claustrophobic by any chance?” asked the nurse, who had probably read Joe’s body language.

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Don’t worry, we are just in the next room. Nothing will go wrong, so do try to relax and don’t move. You will be in the scanner for about thirty minutes and you will hear a lot of loud noises. Don’t be alarmed, they’re perfectly normal.”

  She was strapping Joe to the table ensuring he could not move. Joe eyed the huge, donut-shaped machine which would envelope him entirely.

  “Now, what music do you like?”

  “Music?”

  “Yes. We play music through these headphones.”

  She showed them to Joe and he realised that they would also serve as ear protectors.

  “What music did you choose?” I asked. “Can I guess?”

  “Go on then.”

  “Something classical… No, wait, the Beatles!”

  “Yup.”

  “Did the Beatles help?”

  “Yes. You can’t imagine how loud it was in that machine. Nothing could have prepared me for that cacophony of screeches and groans. It was almost unbearable being strapped down. Seriously, I thought it would never end. But I forced myself to close my eyes and listen to the Beatles, song after song, and that saved me.”

  “Great! Now what?”

  “Well, that’s pretty much it. I have an appointment with the respiratory nurse, and I need to know the results of the MRI, then I can come home.”

  My heart soared.

  “I vill come tomorrow at two o’clock,” said Kurt. “A man from England vants to see your house.”

  At two o’clock, I opened the door to Kurt and a middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap at a jaunty angle.

  “This is Barry,” said Kurt.

  I shook hands and introduced myself, then left Kurt to provide the guided tour. I couldn’t help overhearing snippets of conversation and they didn’t fill me with hope.

  “Good house, Kurt, but it’s much too big for me.”

  “It vill be good to have space if your family stay.”

  “That’s why I’ve come to Spain, to get away from my family!”

  “Oh, but you said you vanted a bigger place than you haf now.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But my place in London is unusually small.”

  “Ah, it is an apartment? Like a grandmother apartment?”

  “No, it’s a houseboat on the river Thames.”

  When I bade them goodbye, I already knew that Barry the Boat would not be buying our house.

  The next viewer was a single lady, English again.

  I was clearing out a cupboard in the workshop and was surrounded by various tools, oily rags and pieces of pipe. When one lives in a remote village, where the nearest proper stores are half an hour away, one tends to keep odd bits and pieces in case they come in useful someday. The telephone rang in the house. I ran to answer it and got there just in time.

  “Today I cannot be at your house,” said Kurt. “Anastasia is coming up the mountain now. Please show her your house.”

  “No problem, Kurt.”

  Would this be the one?

  I put the phone down and zoomed round the house, lightning-fast, making sure it was tidy and ready for viewing. In the workshop, I threw the stuff back into the cupboard. I washed up a few bits in the kitchen, wiped the bench tops and was just opening some windows when I heard her arrive.

  Yikes! No time to change my clothes.

  A red, open top sports car drew up and parked outside the front door. Luckily it was a weekday, or that might have caused a problem. Our street was one of the main arteries of the village, and only one vehicle wide, with no room to pass. Paco would not have been able to drive his tractor past, and this lady’s thoughtless parking would have blocked off the bread, fish or vegetable vans, had they arrived. The car was a beauty, with gleaming paintwork and cream leather upholstery.

  I peeped out of the window and watched the lady get out of her car. In true model style, her legs came first, then her body followed. I was transfixed by her shoes, which were bright red with heels like skewers. Bleached blonde hair was teased into waves that rippled over her shoulders, and she wore a red dress that clung to her curves. Almost her entire face was shielded by oversized dark glasses. The lady was dressed for a cocktail party on the deck of a glitzy yacht in Marbella, not a property viewing in a remote mountain village.

  I opened the door and stood on the doorstep wearing what I hoped was a welcoming smile, painfully aware of the dirty stains on my T-shirt.

  I greeted her and shook her manicured hand.

  “You must be Anastasia,” I said. “I’m Vicky.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she replied, though her expression didn’t match the sentiment. “Will my car be safe here?”
<
br />   “Oh yes, of course,” I said confidently. “Perfectly safe.”

  Aubergine (eggplant) with Honey

  Berenjena con miel

  A really easy recipe, so easy that, as they say in Spain, "No es moco de pavo" which directly translates as "It's not turkey snot”. Yes, you read that correctly… Bleugh!

  Ingredients

  One eggplant, or aubergine, or whatever you want to call it

  Couple of tablespoons of honey for drizzling

  Couple of spoonfuls of flour for coating

  Plenty of olive oil for frying

  Method

  Slice the aubergine really thinly.

  Pop the slices into a bowl of water and leave it for half an hour. Soaking before cooking takes some of the bitterness out.

  Drain well and toss in the flour, ensuring a good coating.

  Deep fry in batches. When they are golden brown and floating, they are ready. You can keep them warm in a low oven while you fry the rest.

  Drain on paper towels and arrange on a plate or in a bowl.

  Drizzle with honey, or miel de caña which is molasses.

  Serve immediately.

  21

  VIEWINGS

  Anastasia hesitated for just a moment before pointing her car keys at the car and pressing a button. The headlights flashed briefly and the car beeped to signify it was locked.

  “The car is new,” she said. “I only picked it up yesterday.”

  “It’s a lovely car,” I said. “Do come in and I’ll show you the house.”

  I began the tour in the living room, pointing out the wood-burning stove and the alcove that had been a bread oven years ago. She didn’t seem particularly impressed.

  “Tell me about the village,” she said.

  “Well, it’s very quiet,” I said. “Of course it’s much busier at the weekends, and in the summer months.”