Two Old Fools in Turmoil Read online

  Two Old Fools in Turmoil

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  Victoria Twead

  Contents

  The Old Fools Series

  FREE Photo Book

  1. THE ENCHANTED POOL

  Breaded Rolled Jamón and Cheese

  2. VALENTINA

  Grilled Asparagus with Ham and Cheese

  3. STEPS

  Tuna with Onions

  4. A BAD PENNY

  Fish with Lemon

  5. VISITORS

  Catalan Spinach

  6. A LOST CHICKEN AND OBSERVATIONS

  Murcian Salad

  7. CHIMNEYS

  Chorizo and Potatoes

  8. PARTINGS

  Beef Stew

  9. BIRDS AND SPIDERS

  Spicy Prawns

  10. CHICKENS

  Fried Goats’ Cheese

  11. DARK SHADOWS AND DUCKS

  Fabulous Shellfish Stew

  12. GIVE ME YOUR BLOOD

  Prawns with Garlic and Lemon

  13. HOPS AND SPIKES

  Courgette (zucchini) and Cheese Balls

  14. FOUR, EIGHT AND TWO

  Tim Tam Cheesecake

  15. A STORM

  Chorizo Soup

  16. SHOCKS

  Pork and Tomato Stew

  17. LETTERS

  Cinnamon Cookies

  18. APPOINTMENTS

  Canadian Custard

  19. A STRESSFUL COUPLE OF WEEKS

  Easter Treats

  20. WORRIES

  Aubergine (eggplant) with Honey

  21. VIEWINGS

  Prawn Bites

  22. IT ONLY TAKES ONE

  Fruity Ice

  23. PREPARATIONS AND JANE

  Spicy Minced Pork

  24. SMALL CAR, BIG LORRY

  Spiced Chicken Kebabs

  25. SPELLBINDING STORIES

  Pork and Chickpea Soup

  26. TWO BECOME ONE

  Nuns’ Sighs

  27. TRADITIONS

  Figs with Honey and Cinnamon

  28. THE SEARCH

  Toast with Salted Chocolate

  29. THE HOLE

  Fried Chicken Livers

  30. SEPTEMBER

  31. EPILOGUE

  P.S. What about Mother?

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Ant Press Books

  Ant Press Online

  The Old Fools Series

  Available in Paperback, Large Print and Ebook

  Two Old Fools in Turmoil is the fifth 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 (NEW)

  Prequels

  One Young Fool in Dorset

  One Young Fool in South Africa

  FREE Photo Book

  To browse or download

  For photographs and additional unpublished material to accompany this book, browse or download the

  Free Photo Book

  from

  www.victoriatwead.com/free-stuff

  1

  THE ENCHANTED POOL

  When the phone rang very late in the evening or early in the morning, it was usually my daughter, Karly, ringing from Australia.

  “Hi Mum! How are you both? What’s the weather like in El Hoyo?”

  “Karly! Lovely to hear from you! Joe’s fine and you know what Spanish summers are like, sunshine every day. How are you? How’s Cam? How’s my gorgeous granddaughter?”

  “Indy’s fine. We’re all fine. Actually, we were thinking of getting a pet to join the family.”

  “Lovely! Like a guinea pig or rabbit?”

  “Well, no…”

  “Oh, a cat. Or dog?”

  “No…”

  “What then?”

  “We thought it might be nice to get a pig.”

  “Wow! Do you have enough space in your new garden?”

  “Yes. Plenty. Pigs are very intelligent and affectionate, apparently. Anyway, this weekend we’re going to visit the farm where they’re for sale.”

  “Keep me posted! I wish Australia wasn’t so far away!”

  “I will. Can’t wait for you both to come out to Aus this Christmas. You won’t believe how Indy’s grown, and I can’t wait to show you our new house. We love it!”

  “We can’t wait either!”

  It was the summer of 2014 and life was almost perfect. I say ‘almost’ because one thing was bothering me. I couldn’t talk to Joe about it. He wouldn’t let me.

  But for now we were soaking up the Spanish summer. We hoped to spend Christmas in Australia but that seemed a long way off.

  As a child, I used to love the feeling I had on the first day of the school holidays, when I knew I had six whole weeks stretching out ahead of me. It was the same in El Hoyo in June. Hot weather was guaranteed. Barbecues would never be rained off. The Spanish sun was so big, hot and heavy that it barely managed to heave itself over the mountain range. But it did, and as the day progressed, it rolled in a giant arc across the sky until it hung high, burning all within its reach.

  While the villagers hid from the sun, Joe and I drove out of the valley to a neighbouring small town where a cool, sparkling, public pool awaited us. We loved it. Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun so we often had the pool to ourselves until later in the afternoon.

  A waterfall cascaded down the mountain slope above the pool, fed by warm natural springs. Sometimes we saw wild goats cropping the dry grass on the crags above us. As they grazed, they stood silhouetted against the gigantic blue sky. Bright red dragonflies whizzed to and fro, often settling on the edge of the pool to rest.

  To us, the pool was enchanted.

  “Pah!” said Paco, our next door neighbour. “You go to that pool so much, you should get yourselves an abono.”

  Joe nodded sagely. I had no idea what an abono was and made a mental note to ask Mr Know-It-All later.

  “Have you heard about the King of Spain?” asked Carmen, her eyes wide with disbelief. “I can hardly believe it!”

  “Yes, we watched the news last night.”

  I didn’t know a great deal about Spanish history, but I knew that Juan Carlos became King on the 22nd of November, 1975, two days after the loathed dictator, Franco, died. Juan Carlos introduced reforms and gently guided Spain back to democracy. Ordinary people like our neighbours, Paco and Carmen, adored their King who they believed to have delivered them from evil.

  “¡Madre mía!” exclaimed Carmen, her double chins shaking. “When Prime Minister Rajoy called that emergency press conference, we didn’t expect King Juan Carlos to step down.”

  “Pah!” shouted Paco. “He was a good king! Exactly what we needed after that bastardo Franco.”

  “Paco!” chided his wife. “We have company.”

  “Pah, Joe and Veeky know what kind of a man Franco was. But Juan Carlos is only 76 years old, he did not need to step down!”

  “It’s a shock,” agreed Carmen, “but perhaps it’s time the young ones took over. Soon Spain will have a new king and queen in Felipe and Letizia.”

  Carmen was right. Less than three weeks later, Spain had a new king and queen.

  “What’s an abono, then?” I asked Joe when we were back home.


  He looked at me blankly.

  “You know, the thing Paco suggested we take to the pool. You nodded as though you knew exactly what it was.”

  “I have no idea. I guess it’s some kind of inflatable or a sun lounger or something.”

  I sighed and settled in front of the computer. I didn’t know it at the time, but the abono quest had just begun.

  I typed abono into Google Translate and read the results.

  “Fertiliser? Manure? Why on earth would Paco suggest taking fertiliser or manure to the pool?”

  Joe looked blank.

  “Oh, wait. There’s more. It also means season ticket.”

  “Ah.”

  “Now that would make more sense. We’ll ask about that.”

  The next day we arrived at the pool. Apart from the lifeguard, nobody was there.

  We were familiar with all the lifeguards who worked at the pool. Lorenzo was our favourite and we’d already decided he should get the EPLGY, or Enchanted Pool Life Guard of the Year award. Lorenzo was almost square-shaped, and although he didn’t look the athletic type, he took his job very seriously.

  He never stopped working. Even if there were no swimmers or sunbathers, Lorenzo busied himself. Using his net, he skimmed off invisible floating leaves, or polished the sun loungers with a soft cloth. When children arrived, he watched them with narrowed eyes. Woe betide them if they were over-excited, too boisterous, or threatened to endanger themselves or others. Picnickers were welcomed, but firmly instructed where to find the garbage bins and where to set out their meals.

  Our least favourite lifeguard was Alberto. Alberto was tall, handsome and bronzed by the Spanish sun. He rarely wore a shirt and his oiled six-pack and biceps gleamed. Girls stuttered when they spoke to him, and, believe me, even grandmothers found themselves staring in his direction.

  We would have awarded the WEPLGY (Worst Enchanted Pool Life Guard of the Year) to Alberto without hesitation because he did almost nothing. Alberto sat on a folding chair under a parasol, tapping out texts or playing games on his mobile phone. This took all his attention, and he rarely looked up from the task. New arrivals were forced to wait at the gate until he was ready and dozens of small children might have drowned before he had even noticed.

  Occasionally he would put his phone aside and stretch theatrically, thus attracting maximum female attention. He then strolled to the edge of the pool, poised and dived in like a harpoon, cutting through the water with hardly a ripple. After several lengths, he climbed out, water streaming from his muscular torso. Girls averted their eyes, trying not to stare. He would then resume his seat and take up his mobile phone again.

  Alberto was on duty that day, in the loosest sense of the word.

  “Ahem.”

  No response. Joe tried again.

  “¡Buenos días!”

  The game Alberto was playing on his mobile must have been enthralling. At last his eyes flicked up at us.

  “Four euros,” he said, resuming his game.

  “Thank you,” said Joe, placing the coins in a tidy little pile on the table. “Um, we were wondering if we could buy abonos, please.”

  “Not here,” said Alberto. “You can buy them at the bank.”

  Joe and I looked at each other. The bank? Really?

  Alberto’s dark head was bowed as he tapped away at the little screen on his phone. Unwilling to continue talking to the top of his head, we walked away.

  We’d been given the clue, and the second phase of the abono quest had begun.

  “Honestly! Alberto doesn’t deserve that job! How can anyone be so unhelpful?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Let’s not bother today, it’s too hot. Tomorrow we can come earlier and go to the bank first.”

  We shrugged off our outer clothes and slipped gratefully into the cool waters of the pool. Bliss.

  The next day, we parked the car at the far end of the town, near the bank. It was late morning and the bank was busy with queues at every counter. My heart sank, and I remembered why I avoided shopping with Joe at all costs.

  Running errands and getting groceries was Joe’s task. Curious friends often asked me why I didn’t accompany him, and the answer came easily. I didn’t go with him because I valued my sanity. In fact, I’d rather have my brains pulled out through my nose than go shopping with Joe.

  Nobody enjoys queuing, although most of us accept it as a necessary evil. However, queuing and Joe are like cats and water; he detests it. At first he just grumbles loudly, and scratches himself, which is bad enough. If things don’t improve, he will begin to heckle, making me shrivel with embarrassment as people turn to stare. It amazes me that no stores have banned him from entering their premises.

  “I’ll sort this, why don’t you wait outside?” I suggest sweetly, but he ignores me, preferring to stand with me and complain at the top of his voice.

  I have to admit that I prefer the polite British attitude to queuing. You know exactly where you are, who is in front and who is behind. This concept is usually ignored in Spain and the person with the sharpest elbows gets served first.

  Our local chemist, or farmacia, had recently adopted the ticket system. Simple, take a ticket from the machine and wait for your number to show on the screen. Even Joe was pleased.

  “How did you get on at the chemist?” I once asked, when Joe returned from a shopping trip.

  “It was frightful, you won’t believe what happened.”

  I groaned. What had annoyed him this time?

  “Go on, what happened?”

  “I pulled ticket #63, and when it was my turn, this dreadful old goat pushed in front of me. I jumped forward, showed her and the assistant my ticket, but the old goat still got served before me! Can you believe it? So I stood back and waited. By the time she’s finished, #64 is being called and another old goat barges past me.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “This one flashes me her #64 ticket, and points to the screen showing #64, so the assistant serves her!”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Do? DO? I exploded!”

  What a surprise.

  “I went up and down the queue and showed everybody my ticket and told them what I thought of their queuing system. When the number changed again, I marched up to the counter, but so does another customer! The assistant looked at both of us, from one to the other.”

  I winced, imagining the scene.

  “Everybody is watching now. I waved my ticket at the crowd, pointing at the number: ticket #63. The assistant looks again at the screen, and the other man’s ticket. Then she raised her eyebrows, not sure who to serve. So she looked at the other waiting customers in question. “Who’s next?” she asks.”

  “And?”

  “All the other customers swung around. “Serve him! Serve him!” they said, pointing at me, knowing I would erupt again.”

  I had to laugh at the story, but I was very glad I hadn’t been there.

  No, Joe is not at his best shopping, or waiting in queues, but he behaved himself quite well as we made our way closer to the bank teller that day. When it was our turn, I did the talking.

  “Good day,” I said, in Spanish. “We would like to buy two abonos for the public swimming pool, please.”

  The girl behind the counter smiled and ignored my Spanish.

  “Good morning! I speak English very nice.”

  “Oh, thank you!” I said brightly. “We’d like two season tickets for the public swimming pool, please.”

  “I have no problem.”

  “Oh, that’s good news. You sell abonos here at the bank?”

  “Yes. How much you want pay?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You must say to me how much you want pay.”

  Was this a game? A strange Spanish tradition? Was she trying to catch me out?

  “But we don’t know! We don’t know how much a season ticket costs. Don’t you know how much it is?”

  Joe’s foot was starting to tap the floor da
ngerously. Other bank customers were beginning to stare.

  “No, I do not know how much euros. You must go and find out, then come back and say me and give me money.”

  “But who will know? Where do we go?”

  “This is like some stupid treasure hunt,” growled Joe at my side. “Let’s go and find a gypsy. I’m sure she’ll tell us if we cross her palm with silver.”

  “Gypsy? I am apologetic. I do not understand. What is gypsy?”

  “Shh, Joe!” I said. “I’m sorry,” I said to the girl, “we just weren’t clear about who could tell us how much the season ticket will be.”

  “Ah, they will tell you how much euros at the, (pause) I don’t know how you say, ayuntamiento.”

  “Town hall,” growled Joe.

  “Yes! I had not remembered the words! Town hall! Yes, please asking the mens at the town hall. Is there any more one thing I can kindly help with?”

  “I think not,” said Joe.

  “Thank you, no,” I said, “but we’ll be back.”