Strawberries and Other Short Stories

By Mary Brooks

This is another book of various short stories by author Mary Brooks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jul 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524515249

Book preview

Argentinian Storm

H ot, hot sun streaming down on hatless heads, but thank goodness my face was smothered with sunscreen. Not so countless others, the start of an exasperating day.

The Argentinians were so proud of their national park and the Devil’s Throat Falls, part of the magnificent Iguazu Falls. After arriving on the train and walking several kilometres in the hot sun with the filmy flash of flying spray, we were drenched, or at least others were drenched—some of us wore ponchos. Even the poncho reflected Argentinian business sense. It cost me US$16 whereas the day before I could have bought one in Brazil for only US$2.

The falls were massive; the spray was almost impenetrable. All I could do was point my camera and hope I caught a glimpse of the falls. Afterwards, I looked at the pictures and was pleased. The filmy spray was cooling in the heat on the long walk back.

I’m afraid that for me, the Brazilian side of the falls was a much more spectacular experience with nearly a whole day flashing fabulous photos. Some argued the Argentinian side was better.

After lunch, the plan was to catch a flight to Buenos Aires. Unfortunately, after such a hot morning, the skies opened and thick dense rain fell plus thunder and lightning for several hours. Our plane was delayed and then cancelled.

When we finally retrieved our luggage, it was drenched. I think mine must have been on the top of the pile. Standing there while our guide was on the phone making frantic phone calls to the company to make alternative arrangements, my bag seeped out a large puddle of storm water.

Our poor guide, Rodrigo, spent over an hour on the phone and negotiated to cancel the hotel in Buenos Aires and find us rooms in a hotel in Puerto de Iguazu.

At the hotel when I unpacked my bag, I was horrified to find everything, all my clothes and a few papers, soaked through. My hotel room looked like a laundry shop once I had spread out wet clothes on the chairs and tables.

It was a pleasant hotel, but our evening meal was not until 9.30, two hours later. I fell asleep for an hour. I was still jet-lagged, and found myself very tired in the late afternoon then wide awake from midnight to 4 a.m.

Dinner was a disaster too. The frustrated and very stressed maître d’ was sweating and sharp. Half of the staff he called into work didn’t arrive, and so he was further pressured to accommodate service for the thirty-two of us with only three waiters.

Firstly, drinks like water, soft drinks, and beer were not part of the meal, and so were charged to our rooms. People who wanted a glass of wine had to buy a whole bottle. Then entrées eventually turned up with prosciutto, cheese, and potato salad. Unfortunately, five of us were vegetarian and finally negotiated ‘cheese only,’ so we ended up with a whole plate of thick slices of lovely cheese arranged in a cartwheel pattern around the plate. It was too much to eat—what a waste!

Everyone had a choice of simply beef, fish, or chicken, and this was very slow in coming. Of course, every dish had to be cooked from scratch. There was a large piece of Argentinian steak with tapioca chips, a flat thin boneless fish with a neatly constructed pile of potato chips, or chicken in a cheese and mushroom sauce—I couldn’t tell for sure. Most people enjoyed the meal. Eventually, the vegetarians were brought a plate of steamed rice with tiny red and green pieces of vegetable scattered through it. Overall, it was tasty but not very filling at 10.30 p.m. after a very long day where we had gained two hours by crossing country borders making it feel like 12.30 a.m.!

Dessert was coming, and for the few people who remained at the tables to eat it, plain ice cream arrived at 11.15 p.m.

Two Indian people spoiled the meal and had the poor maître d’ terribly upset. Firstly, the husband wanted a separate empty plate to share his wife’s cheese entrée. Eventually, the message was translated, and the empty plate arrived as others had already finished their entrée. I am afraid this man left the rest of us ashamed and disgusted, and the poor tour director too, as he had to translate all the man’s demands into Spanish—obviously having to also apologise for his behaviour. The Indian man chose the fish dish, and first of all wanted chilli sauce to go with it. I am sure his meal would have been cold before it arrived. He kept hopping up and down and demanding the sauce in a loud voice until it arrived, carried to him by the harassed maître d’ who was mopping his sweaty brow with a serviette. Then the Indian man wanted yoghurt to go with his meal. The other people at the table laughed nervously behind their hands, embarrassed by his performance.

With difficulty, Rodrigo translated yoghurt and explained this was apparently something the Indian expected with his meal. Finally, the exasperated and exhausted maître d’ returned with a glass of yoghurt—of the drinking kind. (This sort of yoghurt appeared again at breakfast next day and was apparently what the Argentinians knew as yoghurt.) The man now jumped up and down some more, saying he had asked for yoghurt not milk! He burst into an angry defeated laugh, which broke the tense atmosphere and everyone at the table laughed with relief. He further embarrassed everyone by just picking at the cold meal and sending it back to the kitchen. Rodrigo was ashamed of his behaviour too, and the poor maître d’ looked like he would collapse with exhaustion.

I think everyone slept well after the long day. Next morning, we ate breakfast. It was a poor contrast to the big buffets we had at other hotels, but I really don’t think anyone cared. The Indian couple were noticeably absent until it was time to leave.

The weather was sunny, and at last we could catch our flight to Buenos Aires. We would be late for the planned programme with a visit to the Fiesta Gaucho delayed to the afternoon, and the city tour the next day. The Fiesta Gaucho was on an authentic three thousand acre estancia dating back to the late nineteenth century with a barbecue lunch, folklore music and dance, and a horse demonstration typical of an estancia. This was one of the most anticipated features of Buenos Aires, and no one wanted to miss it.

So despite the storm, the tour went ahead successfully.

Divorce

D ivorce seemed like the only answer. Dianne and George had been married for seven years. They had two children; Ellie aged 5 and Peter aged 3. They had nothing in common and theirs was a loveless marriage. Dianne felt the marriage had been a big mistake. The only good things to come out of the marriage were Ellie and Peter. She wanted to move on.

George was eighteen years older than she was, and he had been married before. He had two grown-up daughters from the marriage, and three more from another relationship. Dianne blamed herself for letting herself be persuaded into the marriage. He had great charisma. They worked in the same department, and he always had a circle of ladies around him at lunchtime, while he regaled them with stories. At first, Dianne was one of those ladies.

In fact, one of earliest memories she had of him was him boasting about his first grandchild. Because she was friendly, she bought him a ‘Congratulations, Grandad’ card.

She always saw him more as a ‘wise old man’ than as a lover, and when he asked her out on Anzac Day to a barbecue in the park, she mistakenly