Two Old Fools Down Under
Two Old Fools Down Under
New York Times Bestselling Author
Victoria Twead
For Thea, who wears many hats: baker, guide, medic, ranger, weather forecaster, dog-sitter, etc.
And for Debbie Reynolds, my confidante, my guide to all things Australian, one of Lola’s favourite aunties and a brave lady.
And to the memory of Linda, a very special friend, much missed by her family and all who knew her. Readers may remember Linda. She was proclaimed the Pudding Queen in El Hoyo after winning the village fiesta Pudding Contest with her bread-and-butter pudding.
Contents
The Old Fools Series
FREE Photo Book
1. DOWN UNDER
Aussie Breakfast Bowls
2. HOUSE HUNTING
Summer Vegetable Lasagne
3. PURCHASES
Strawberry Swirl Pavlovas
4. A FRENZY AND PHONE CALLS
Easy Salmon Mousse
5. LOLA AND COLD FEET
Gender Reveal Cake
6. MOVING
Teriyaki Steaks
7. TRADIES
Lobster and Summer Fruits Salad
8. NEW FRIENDS
White Chocolate and Macadamia Biscuits
9. PUPPY SCHOOL
Thea’s German Cheesecake
10. GRASS
Silverbeet, Broccolini and Mozzarella Pizza
11. NEIGHBOURS
Baked Pumpkin Risotto
12. BATS
Fig and Walnut Breakfast Loaf
13. A BANANA AND BEETLES
Creamy Camembert Potatoes
14. CLONES AND A RUSSIAN
Speedy Beef Stroganoff
15. TERRY
Fast Food Minestrone
16. HOSTIBALS
ANZAC Biscuits
17. CATS AND DOGS
Home-made Dog Biscuits
18. MORE CATS AND DOGS
Strawberry Mice
19. WATER BALLET
Dead-Easy Damper
20. DEBBIE REYNOLDS
Debbie Reynold’s Mum’s Pavlova
21. A FRIGHT
Trout with Lemon Parsley Butter
22. BREATHLESS
Spinach and Feta Quiche
23. BED NUMBER FIVE
German Butter Cake (Butterkuchen)
24. ROLLERCOASTER
Honey-Glazed Spare Ribs
25. MONSTERS BENEATH
Slow Cooker Chocolate Fudge
26. BAD STUFF
Creamy Curried Snags
27. DIFFICULT DAYS
Aussie Ham and Cheese Pull-Aparts
28. WORMS
Cheating Apple Dump Dessert
29. SUMMER DAYS
Lemon Myrtle Cake
30. OXYGEN
Vegemite Pasta
EPILOGUE
A request…
So what happened next?
The Old Fools series
The Sixpenny Cross series
More books by Victoria Twead…
About the Author
Contacts and Links
Acknowledgements
Ant Press Books
Ant Press Online
The Old Fools Series
Available in Paperback, Large Print and Ebook editions
Two Old Fools Down Under is the sixth book in the Old Fools series by New York Times and Wall Street Journal bestselling author, Victoria Twead.
Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools
Two Old Fools ~ Olé!
Two Old Fools on a Camel
Two Old Fools in Spain Again
Two Old Fools in Turmoil
Two Old Fools Down Under
Prequels
One Young Fool in Dorset
One Young Fool in South Africa
FREE Photo Book
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For photographs and additional unpublished material to accompany this book, browse or download the
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1
DOWN UNDER
I’ve always wanted a dog. I’ve had cats, all big personalities and all much missed. I remember Fortnum and her brother, Mason, who grew up with the children. Fortnum was a beautiful, delicate tabby with the heart of a lion, unlike her brother, Mason. He was huge, but cowered behind his little sister as she fought all the battles with the neighbouring feline community.
And there was Chox, the Siamese mix who enchanted us in Spain and ended up living in Germany.
There were always excellent reasons for us not to have a dog: we were working and out of the house all day. Or travelling too much and unable to give a dog the time or stability it deserved.
So I made myself a promise. One day, when the time was exactly right, we’d have a dog.
It was September 2015, and I had just landed in Australia clutching my precious, newly-granted Permanent Residence visa.
We no longer needed to travel. Our year working in Bahrain had cured my itchy feet and Joe was probably not well enough to explore the far-flung corners of the earth.
We’d stopped looking for greener pastures because we’d found them. Home is where the family is. Australia was where the family was and Australia was where we would put down our roots.
The possibility of owning a dog was suddenly within my reach for the first time in my life.
“You won’t rush out and get a dog the moment you land in Australia, will you?” Joe had asked, watching me carefully.
“No! Of course not! I’m going to be far too busy catching up with little Indy, and house-hunting, to think about getting a dog.”
But I lied.
“Good. When I’ve finished my treatment in the UK, and we’ve got a place of our own to live, then there’ll be plenty of time to discuss whether we want a dog or not.”
Back in Spain, Joe and I had discussed what type of home might suit us best in Australia. At one point in the past, Karly and Cam had considered building a granny flat for us, but it hadn’t been feasible.
“I’ll leave it totally up to you,” said Joe. “Something not too big, something easy to look after, low maintenance. A place that doesn’t need any work done at all.”
I had agreed, but I was in for a shock. House prices in Sydney were amongst the highest in the world. Our budget would barely buy a flat, or unit as they are called in Australia, let alone a house.
“I had no idea they were so expensive!” I said to my daughter. “I think I’m going to have to think again. Perhaps a retirement village might be the answer? Some of them look really nice. They have nice grounds, swimming pools, gyms, medical facilities. You can even have pets in some of them.”
“A wrinkly-ville? Are you quite sure?” A ‘wrinkly-ville’ was Karly’s rather disparaging description of a retirement village. She was dubious. “I don’t think you’re old enough to be happy in one of those. Not yet.”
“Well, I think it’s worth considering. I’d enjoy having big gardens.”
“Shared with all the other residents.”
“And some of these places are close to a beach. And there are some not too far from you. If it’s comfortable and affordable, I should at least look. I think it might suit Joe very well, and there’d always be doctors available.”
“Okay, we’ll look.”
There was so much to think about.
Indy was delightful. Three years old and full of mischief and imagination. Her favourite game was Princesses and she chose to wear tiaras on most days. Not only did she wear bejewelled crowns, but Princess Nanny was expected to wear them, too. In addition, Indy had sheets of multicoloured plastic sticky-back jewels.
“Di’ monds,” she said as she pressed huge sparkling ‘jewels’ onto my earlobes. “I make you a little bit quite pretty.”
Sometimes I would completely forget about my tiara and generously-sized earrings when I answered the door.
“Sign here, please,” said the delivery man, looking at me strangely.
Only much later, when I caught sight of myself in a mirror, did I remember my finery.
Often we’d play ‘mermaids’ and swim together across the dining room floorboards. Or ‘shops’ in the side garden where my son-in-law, Cam, had set up a Wendy house, called a cubby house in Australia. That little side garden was full of interest with its chicken coop, Balinese hut, cubby house and trampoline.
Adjoining the chicken garden was my den. If I needed peace, I could retreat to this, my writers’ lair, which had been created especially for me. I had a desk, Internet access, a TV, a kettle for coffee, a sofa, and a cupboard where I kept a few toys for visits from Indy.
It was here, sometimes accompanied by Indy’s tabby cat, Bandsaw, that I conducted all my research into retirement villages and houses for sale. In the evenings, I would Skype with Joe, or write, while bugs the size of small family cars threw themselves at my window.
During the day my lair was cool and I could gaze out of the window at the blue sky. It was springtime and the air was full of birdsong. Not the polite, tuneful tweeting we expect from British wild birds, but the raucous shrieks of cockatoos and the repeated snaps of whiplash birds.
The Happy Birthday bird sometimes sang his song, although nobody ever believed me when I mentioned it. Now that I know a little more about Australia and its wildlife, I’m guessing it might have been a magpie. Magpies sing beautifully and can be excellent mimics. They also live for many years, which would explain why I
heard this particular bird repeatedly over several years. I’d first heard it on previous visits from Spain, and it was still performing the same birthday song.
Not so melodic was the sound of next door’s dog. He was an enormous basset hound, usually silent, but given to occasional bouts of miserable howling. I wondered what was making him so unhappy.
“So how is the house-hunting going?” asked Joe during one of our online sessions. “Any possibilities yet?”
“Well, actually, I’m quite excited. We’ve got an appointment in the morning at a wrinkly-ville that’s only about ten minutes away from here. It looks fabulous. Very leafy, lots of trees, and it’s built round a lake.”
“Hmmm. I’m still not convinced that we’d be happy in a retirement home. Mini-bus outings and weaving baskets in craft clubs are not exactly my scene.”
I tried to imagine Joe basket-weaving and failed.
“Oh, I’m sure they’re not really like that. I’ll bring back a full report after the visit tomorrow. Has the hospital given you a start date for your radiotherapy?”
Joe already had the tiny gold beads (called fiducial markers) inserted in preparation for his radiation therapy. They are inserted painlessly and provide greater accuracy for targeting the cancer whilst sparing healthy tissue. We hoped that this course would successfully eliminate his prostate cancer.
“Ah, yes. I have to endure twenty sessions spread over four weeks. It’s all going to happen in December.”
“So it’ll all be finished by Christmas?”
“Yes, that’s the plan.”
“That’s good news! How’s your breathing?”
“Not great. I get very out of breath at the slightest thing. I have an appointment at the medical centre this week.”
We’d been given the dreadful news that Joe had COPD, or Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and we knew there was no cure. However, it could be managed.
“Perhaps they’ll give you stronger inhalers.”
“Maybe. It’s just so cold here. I’m not used to it after Spain.”
“Well, you’ll soon be out here in the sunshine and moaning about the heat. Right, I must go. Speak again tomorrow.”
Finding somewhere to live was a matter of urgency. Of course, we could both stay with Karly and Cam as long as we needed, but I wanted to have found somewhere to live before Joe arrived. He needed a tranquil environment. Sharing a house with a young family, which included an active toddler, a large dog, a cat and a baby on the way was not ideal. Neither did I want us to outstay our welcome.
I had three months to find us a home.
And the clock was ticking.
As I hadn’t bought a car yet, Karly was chauffeuring me around. Indy was at her paternal grandmother’s house, so Karly and I set off alone. I was excited. Maybe finding somewhere to live would be easy.
I’d read the particulars of the retirement village we were visiting from cover to cover, and it seemed ideal. There was usually a waiting list for new residents but they had a vacancy pending. Whenever a home became empty, the policy was to strip it out entirely, paint it throughout, and refit it with new flooring and appliances.
This village wasn’t near any beach, which was a pity, but as we turned in, we admired the homes shaded by pine trees. A pretty fountain played in the centre of a small lake. At Reception, we were met by Margo, who shook our hands enthusiastically.
“Welcome!” she said. “I’ll give you a tour, and I can show you the unit. It’s got workmen in it at the moment, but it’ll give you an idea of what it’s like.”
“Perfect!”
“This way! I’ll show you the clubhouse and dining hall first. If you do join us, you may like to eat in the dining hall occasionally.”
She clicked off in her high heels with Karly by her side. I trailed behind a little, absorbing the ambience, trying to imagine living there. Would we fit in? Would Joe like it?
“And here’s the gym! Hello, Stan!”
The gym was well-equipped but deserted, apart from an ancient chap wearing shorts and T-shirt perched on an exercise bike. He stared straight ahead with glazed eyes, veins standing out on his forehead. His lips were drawn back revealing clenched teeth, and his knuckles were white as he gripped the handlebars. Sweat poured from him as his skinny white legs pumped relentlessly.
“How’s it going, Stan?” cried our guide, but Stan didn’t even glance our way.
“I’ll show you our pool,” said Margo gaily, not at all troubled by Stan’s lack of response. “It’s hugely popular with our residents. Bye, Stan! Catch up with you later!”
But Stan ignored her cheery wave. Whether he was hard of hearing or deep in some kind of sporting coma, I couldn’t say.
The pool was nice. Two ladies stood at one end, chattering. They didn’t look very wet.
“Muriel, Evie!” hailed Margo. “How are you?”
They waved back then continued their discussion.
“We have weekly aqua-aerobics classes,” said Margo.
I tried to imagine Joe jogging and bouncing alongside a bunch of others but doubted that would ever happen.
“And we have loads of other activities! We have trips to places of interest and clubs. Do you like crafts? We have a thriving scrapbooking club and a make-your-own Christmas decorations club!”
Oh dear.
I might enjoy marching to music in the swimming pool, and even fashioning a festive Christmas bauble or two, but Joe would regard it all with horror. I consoled myself with the knowledge that none of these activities was compulsory. If Joe didn’t want to join in, he wouldn’t have to. He could simply pop out to the clubhouse and take part in the occasional Happy Hour if he felt like it.
“And here’s the library,” crowed Margo, pushing open some swing doors. “We have thousands of books and the library is always buzzing.”
I could see the books but there wasn’t a soul in the library. Definitely no buzzing. Just a rattling snore rising from one of the armchairs in the far corner.
“Oh, I think that may be Lily,” said our guide in hushed tones. “We won’t disturb her. I’ll take you to see the houses and the vacant property instead.”
Many of Sydney’s suburbs are hilly and this retirement village was no exception. The little streets were nicely laid out, but steep. Joe would struggle. Karly and Margo chatted and I did my best to keep up.
“Do you have much of a problem with big spiders?” asked Karly. “I imagine these big trees would attract them.” Karly and I shared a spider phobia.
“No, never heard anybody complain about spiders,” said Margo, shaking her head. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but we do see quite a few pythons.”
Karly and I stared at her. Pythons were not part of our lives in England. Or in Spain for that matter.
“Ah, here we are,” said Margo. “Number 75. Just as I thought, the tradies are busy working on it.” In Australia, tradesmen are often referred to as ‘tradies’.
She knocked on the door but the power tools within drowned out the sound and nobody answered.