Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  “There’s a can of insect spray on the hall table...”

  Cam shrugged his shoulders and stomped off to get it. He returned, and watched by Karly, he sprayed the hapless spider which dropped to the floor and died.

  “There,” said Cam. “It’s dead. Can we go to sleep now?”

  He looked over to Karly, who was still sitting up in bed. Then his expression froze as something caught his eye. Above Karly’s head, over the headboard, was a framed picture. Probably disturbed by the activity, or by the spray, a huntsman spider came marching out from behind it.

  Karly caught his glance over her head and followed his line of sight.

  “Aaaah!” she shrieked, and executed a perfect take off, leaping out of bed and the bedroom in one giant bound.

  How long had it been lurking behind the picture, just above their heads? They didn’t know. Maybe days, or weeks. If they hadn’t sprayed the other spider, they would have carried on sharing the bedroom with the huntsman. Karly still shudders at the memory of it.

  The long weekend at The Entrance was wonderful and gave me another glimpse of Australia. We stayed in a spacious Airbnb apartment with ocean views. We hired a little boat and chugged around the lagoon enjoying the sea air and views.

  In the afternoon we watched the pelicans fly in and congregate on the purpose-built water-front pelican feeding platform. Twenty years ago, the staff at the local fish shop threw scraps for the pelicans. Word soon spread amongst the pelican colonies and more and more of the seabirds arrived. By 1996, the town realised that it had a major tourist attraction on its hands and built the Pelican Plaza expressly for feeding these giant, majestic, almost prehistoric, birds. Thanks to continued donations from fish shops, volunteers and sponsors, these pelicans are fed whole fresh fish 365 days a year, given daily health checks, and the public is enchanted and educated by the spectacle.

  I watched and cherished every moment of little Indy staring at the ‘peliquins’, her blonde curls stirring lightly in the sea breeze.

  My time in Australia was nearly over.

  Tim Tam Cheesecake

  For those, like me, who hadn’t encountered Tim Tams before, they are very similar to the British chocolate Penguin. I see no reason why Penguins couldn’t be used instead.

  Ingredients

  350g (12 oz) Tim Tams

  80g (3oz) butter, melted

  375g (13oz) cream cheese, cubed and softened

  ½ cup caster sugar

  1 tsp vanilla essence

  1 cup thickened cream

  3 tsp gelatine powder

  ¼ cup boiling water

  200g (7oz) white chocolate, melted but cooled

  Method

  Place 250g (9oz) of Tim Tams in a blender and whizz into fine crumbs.

  Add the butter and combine.

  Press the mixture into a spring-form baking pan and refrigerate 30 minutes.

  Beat the cream cheese, sugar and vanilla with an electric mixer until smooth, then beat in the cream.

  Dissolve the gelatine in boiling water, stir in with the white chocolate.

  Roughly chop the remaining biscuits, add to the cream cheese mixture, then pour over the Tim Tam base.

  Cover and refrigerate until set.

  Recipe from

  http://www.bestrecipes.com.au/

  15

  A STORM

  “Have you packed?” asked Joe.

  “Yes, I’m very glad I took the big red case because I seem to have acquired stuff. I had to sit on it to close it. Indy helped.”

  “Can you believe that three months has shot past already?”

  “Nope.”

  “In two days, we’ll both be back in El Hoyo.”

  “I can’t wait!” I said.

  It was true, I couldn’t wait to see Joe and the village again, but I was also leaving a large, jagged piece of my heart behind in Australia.

  “This is probably the last time we’ll talk until we see each other in Spain.”

  “Safe journey. Can’t wait to give you a big hug.”

  “You too. Safe trip. See you at the airport.”

  It was March 2nd, 2015, the day I was returning to Spain. We left home in bright sunshine, but as Cam drove us towards Sydney airport, the sky was darkening ominously. Australia’s weather is often dramatic, and this day would prove to be no exception. Great clouds like sooty avalanches rolled in and, although only early afternoon, it felt like dusk had fallen.

  I sat in the back next to Indy, who was in her car seat, and I played games with her. She had a toy CD player that played nursery rhymes, and every time she switched it on, I would ‘dance’ to it by nodding my head and waving my hands about. Then she would press ‘Pause’ and I would freeze. If my attention wandered, she’d exclaim, “Nanny! Dance!” Unfortunately, she never tired of the game but at least it helped take my mind off the painful parting ahead.

  At the airport, Cam parked the car and hauled my case onto a trolley. We all hugged and I kissed Indy’s blonde curls for the last time.

  “Bye, bye, darling, I hope I’ll see you again very soon. Give my love to Bandsaw.”

  Karly took Indy from me. Indy suddenly understood that I was going and burst into tears.

  Leaving Karly, Cam and Indy was agony. As I headed to the Departures entrance doors, I could hear Indy’s howls in my ears just as the first raindrops fell.

  Checking in was straightforward. I was pleased that I wouldn’t need to reclaim my luggage until I reached Almería, our little airport in Spain, even though my thirty-seven hour journey included stops at Singapore, London Heathrow and Madrid.

  To kill time, I walked round the airport, past the stands selling toy kangaroos and boomerangs, past perfume and duty-free stores, past foreign exchange kiosks and back to the beginning again. I thought it might be a good idea to increase my daily steps total now, because I would be seated for long periods when the journey began. I completed circuit after circuit, noticing that raindrops were now bouncing off the floor to ceiling windows in the waiting lounge.

  At last it was time to board the plane, but not before I had performed one little deed that I always do before going on a long journey. I like to leave a copy of my first book, Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools on a seat somewhere in the airport. Inside, I write something like,

  Hello,

  I am the author of this book, and it’s not lost, just roaming. Please feel free to take it with you. When you’ve finished with it, it would be awesome if you could then leave it somewhere for somebody else to pick up.

  I’d love to know how far this book travels, so do join me on Facebook.

  Thank you so much,

  Victoria

  Usually the books disappear without trace, probably thrown away by a zealous cleaner, but a few have travelled the world. One went to Texas, then Florida, then Sweden, before I lost track of it when it was left in the VIP lounge at Bangkok airport.

  We boarded the plane as the rain beat a tattoo on the roof of our walkway. I found my seat and got settled, looking forward to the familiar routine of takeoff. I had a window seat and watched soaked airport staff loading our luggage as the rain drummed down on them.

  I made no effort to start chatting with the lady in the next seat. Sometimes it’s nice to make a new friend and chatting helps to while away the time, but today I preferred to keep to myself. I wanted to think about my wonderful stay in Australia, and look forward to reuniting with Joe. I thought about the many photos I had taken and couldn’t wait to download them from my camera when I got home.

  The hostesses checked that we were all wearing our seat-belts, doors were locked and cross-checked, and we were all set to taxi off down the runway.

  But the plane didn’t move.

  I checked my watch. It was already ten minutes past our departure time. I peered outside again in time to see sheet lightning, the flash illuminating the rain that pelted down in straight lines. Then another flash, and another.

  The public address system
crackled into life.

  “Good afternoon, this is Tim Evans, your captain, speaking. We do apologise for the delay, but the weather has worsened in the last few minutes and we are waiting in a queue. Air Traffic Control has not given us clearance to take off. We hope the storm will soon pass so that we can start our journey to Singapore. Thank you for your patience.”

  Can’t be helped, I thought. I guess a few minutes won’t make much difference.

  I peered outside. I could see no movement. No vehicles, no people, no planes rolling by, no activity at all. Because the plane was so well sealed, I could hear neither the rain nor thunder. But I could see the rain pounding down on the tarmac, lit by lightning flashes across the dark sky.

  Minutes, then a quarter of an hour ticked by.

  “May I extend my apologies,” boomed the captain’s voice again. “We are all anxious to be leaving, but this storm seems to have dug itself in. I’ll keep you posted, but at the moment we are being told to remain here.”

  A long-haul journey is bad enough in ordinary circumstances. But to be delayed, held captive, forced to remain in one’s seat in the plane before the colossal journey ahead has even begun, is almost unbearable. My heart sank to my toes.

  It can’t be for much longer, I comforted myself.

  But it was.

  “Hello, this is Tim Evans again. I’m afraid I’ve just been advised that the whole of Sydney airport has been shut down due to the storm. No planes will be arriving or leaving until further notice. I do apologise, but, of course, safety is our main concern.”

  For two deathly-slow hours, I watched giant raindrops race across the porthole until finally, the pilot spoke again.

  “This is Tim Evans again. I’m delighted to tell you that the storm has now moved on sufficiently for us to take off. Thank you for your patience and we hope you enjoy your journey with British Airways.”

  “Hooray!” shouted the passengers, and burst into a spontaneous round of applause.

  It had occurred to me that the two hour delay would have a knock-on effect. I would probably miss my connecting flights at Singapore, London Heathrow and Madrid. Would Joe think of checking my flight?

  There was nothing to be done, and I left my fate in the hands of British Airways.

  The rest of the journey was uneventful, thank goodness. Yes, I missed all my connections, but seats were found on other aircraft and I eventually found myself in the familiar airport of Madrid not much later than planned.

  Surrounded by the clamour of Spanish-speaking voices, I really felt I was on the last leg of my marathon journey. I pulled out my phone and tapped a message to Joe, as we had planned.

  At Madrid boarding plane now. See you in 1.5hrs xxx

  Although tired, I almost skipped onto the little connecting plane. As we soared over the mountains, my heart beat fast.

  Just over an hour later, the plane circled over the sea and landed. I was exhausted but it didn’t matter because I was home. I had just one last job to do: collect my luggage from the carousel. Then I would be outside and in Joe’s arms.

  The suitcases began rumbling along the conveyor belt, every shape and size and all colours of the rainbow. Mine was large and red, and I would recognise it anywhere.

  “Aquí está la mía,” called Spanish voices around me. “Here’s mine.” They grabbed their luggage, manhandling it off the conveyor belt and heading for the exit.

  I waited patiently until every suitcase had been claimed and the hall was empty of people. The carousel continued to rumble round and round, but no more cases were being spat out onto the chute.

  A member of staff appeared and approached me.

  “You wait for suitcase? All finished. No more suitcase today.”

  I gaped at her.

  “You put suitcase in Madrid?” she asked.

  “No, Australia.” I showed her my luggage receipt, issued in Sydney.

  “Ah. Come with me, we must make paper.”

  I hadn’t slept much on the flight and was so tired I could hardly answer all her questions as she filled out the many forms. At last we were done, and I was free to go.

  “I will say to my colleagues in Madrid,” she said. “Then perhaps suitcase can come on plane this night or tomorrow.”

  I was upset, but optimistic. I was far too tired, too excited to be home, and I couldn’t wait to see Joe who would be waiting for me beyond the swing doors.

  But nobody was waiting for me.

  I sighed, not very surprised. I checked my phone. Nothing except a Welcome to Movistar message from the telecommunications company. Perhaps Joe had assumed I missed the plane because I was so slow coming out of Arrivals? Unlikely. It was far more likely that he was late.

  Joe is always late. I have learned that the only way to keep him on time is to lie to him, add an hour to any appointment. If he needs to be somewhere at twelve o’clock, I tell him the appointment is at eleven. It works, and luckily he always forgets this sneaky trick of mine.

  I exited the building, enjoying the bright sunshine. Almería airport is tiny, built on a strip of land with achingly blue ocean on one side, and a terracotta-coloured range of low mountains on the other. The plane I had arrived on took off, no doubt heading back to Madrid. A warm breeze fanned the palm trees. Taxi drivers carried on smoking and chatting with each other when they realised I was not looking for a ride.

  I looked out across the car park, and at last, there he was, marching towards me, grinning from ear to ear. Then his warm arms enveloped me and time stood still. I no longer heard the taxi drivers, or the house martins chattering as they built their homes above our heads under the eaves of the airport building.

  “How are you?” he asked at last, holding me at arms’ length and looking into my face. “How was the journey?”

  His cheeks looked a little more hollow than I remembered, but his eyes were the same. He seemed breathless, but I put that down to excitement and the walk across the car park.

  “Oh, you know what these long-haul journeys are like. I never get used to them.”

  “I’m sorry I’m a bit late, I wanted to make sure everything was perfect for you at home. Where’s your case?”

  “I’d like to know that, too! You didn’t keep me waiting too long because I was held up, filling in forms.”

  I explained about the storm, and the delay at Sydney airport, and how I’d missed all the connecting flights.

  “Goodness only knows where my suitcase is now…”

  “Your big red case is lost?”

  “Yes, but never mind that now. I still have my hand luggage and luckily, my main computer is in that, and not in the lost red case. Come on, I can’t wait to get home.”

  We walked back to the car but I didn’t let him carry my hand luggage. I didn’t want to tire him out even more. Even so, he needed to rest once before we reached the car.

  I had left Australia in autumn and I was arriving in Almería in spring. Already the grass verges looked lush, and early wildflowers were peeping out to smile at the sun.

  “It’s so good to be back,” I said, as we drove past almond orchards, the pale pink-white blossoms clothing the trees, and wafting to the ground like confetti when the breeze tugged at them.

  “Any sign of another baby?” asked Joe. “Indy really should have a brother or sister.”

  “No,” I said sadly. “I don’t think they want another baby now. I think they were so devastated at losing one, that they don’t want to put themselves through it again. And they are so enjoying Indy. Karly’s really busy at work, too. I think Indy will be an only child.”

  It suddenly occurred to me that I had done nothing but chatter about Australia since we’d got in the car.

  “Enough about Australia,” I said. “I want to hear all about everything. You, the village, everything.”

  Chorizo Soup

  Sopa de chorizo

  This warming, filling chorizo soup recipe is fabulous as a quick lunch, or if you thicken it slightly and omi
t the rice, it works well poured over pasta.

  Ingredients

  15 cm long (6 inches) chorizo, sliced or diced into little pieces

  2 tins of chopped tomatoes

  200g (7oz) of cooked butter beans

  100g (3½oz) long grain rice (uncooked)

  A finely chopped small chilli (or more if you like it spicy)

  Handful of finely chopped fresh basil

  Small tub of creme fraiche (optional but recommended)

  Method

  Fry the diced chorizo on a medium heat. No need for oil.

  Add the chilli and cook for a couple of minutes.

  Pour in the tinned tomatoes, rice and beans, and turn up the heat a little.

  Simmer for about 20 minutes, then bring the heat down to low again.

  Stir in the creme fraiche and basil, and cook gently for another 2 minutes or so, just to warm it through.

  Serve with fresh bread.

  16

  SHOCKS

  We sailed down the mountain and into the village.

  “No dramas with my journey from the UK,” said Joe. “I arrived around midday, took a taxi home, and that was it. ”

  “And the house was okay?”

  “Yes, apart from a cheeky pair of house martins building their nest under the eaves, everything is just as we left it three months ago. I opened up the windows to air the house a bit, and that’s all it needed. The car started first time, too.”

  “That’s good news! Have you seen anybody?”

  “No, there’s nobody in next door, and the village is quiet. So, did you bring me back a present from Australia?”

  Oops! I hadn’t.

  “Yes,” I said, thinking quickly, “but it’s in the lost suitcase…”