‘I’ve a pen pal, Mam, in Liverpool.’
‘Liverpool!’ Myrna snorted. ‘Couldn’t you have found somewhere more exotic than Liverpool? Sure, the world’s a big place you know, Bronagh.’
Bronagh carried on writing. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Liverpool, Mam, it was home to the Beatles after all and besides, my pen pal’s very well-travelled.’ He was too. He’d been a shipwright in the navy and had seen the world. Each week he shared an anecdote from this time and she looked forward to reading it because she was seeing a little of the world through his eyes.
‘I’m not saying there is and I’m as fond of Paul McCartney as any other red-blooded woman but I’m saying you could have struck up a friendship with someone from Australia or New Zealand for instance. I’d have liked to have heard what it’s like to live on the other side of the world with kangaroos and snakes and things. How did you come to be writing to this lass in Liverpool anyway?’
Bronagh hadn’t corrected her mother’s assumption her pen pal was a woman nor did she tell her there weren’t any kangaroos or snakes in New Zealand, not that she’d ever heard of at any rate. Instead she was economical with the truth. ‘A guest, Mam, who stayed at O’Mara’s, we struck up a friendship and decided to keep in touch.’
‘Well, I suppose they had yer Cilla Black one too, she’d a lovely voice,’ Myrna had said, wincing as she shifted in the armchair trying to get comfortable.
Now, Bronagh glared at the telephone daring it to ring while she took five minutes to scan the familiar old-school handwriting.
Dear Bronagh,
The sun’s been shining this week and I saw my first daffodil while I was walking Bessie. The warmer weather’s doing wonders for her old bones, and mine! It’s far too early for spring bulbs of course but it brought a smile to my face as did the rise in temperature. Winter seems to go on for such a long time, don’t you think? While summer passes in the blink of an eye. Last Sunday I went to see an afternoon session of Erin Brockovich. You know the film people are talking about. Very good it was too. I think you’d enjoy it although you might think twice about drinking water straight from your, kitchen tap again. Julia Roberts played her part well too. Normally I find it hard to take her seriously with that enormous mouth of hers but she did herself proud. Hats off to Julia.
Some good news, Harry and I ended our month-long losing streak by winning at bowls this week and we enjoyed a celebratory pub lunch and pint or two after. The Duke of York does a lovely roast. I can’t remember the last time I had roast pork with crackling and apple sauce not to mention the plumpest Yorkshire puddings you’ve ever seen. It went down a treat.
This week I thought I’d tell you about the time the Orwell docked in Montevideo, Uruguay. I’d not long turned twenty-one and didn’t know much about much and all I knew about Uruguay was, it’s home to the gaucho. This conjured up wide open spaces and sprawling estancias. The other fact I was aware of was the people love football and eat lots of meat. So, it was a pleasant surprise to disembark the ship and be greeted, not with men on horseback, but a grandeur from the city’s Spanish and Portuguese history I hadn’t expected. I set off exploring on foot down the cobbled lanes near the port with no preconceptions as to what I might find and it wasn’t long before I heard drums. I waited to see what would happen and was rewarded a few minutes later by the sight of a large group of people parading down the middle of the street banging out a beat that sounded African in its roots.
The Uruguayan’s call it the candombe and it was infectious, prompting those on the sidelines into spontaneous bursts of dancing. I may or may not have kicked my heels up.
An aroma of broiled and barbequing meat hung on the air and I decided to follow my nose. It led me to the Mercado Del Puerto, the undercover port market where the tantalising smells began to mingle with the odour of fish caught from the briny waters of the Rio de la Plato. I was feeling adventurous because I stepped out of my comfort zone to sample a dish called choto, which translates as barbequed lamb tripe. I think perhaps it was a dish that would grow on one but I didn’t hang around long enough to find out. Nevertheless, the meal filled the gap and I carried on to the central Plaza Independencia to admire the city’s hub before winding my way into the surrounding labyrinth of streets.
It was hot, a sticky close heat akin to how I’d imagine it would be to wade through soup and I was drawn into a bar to enjoy a cold beer while observing the tango being performed. There was something voyeuristic almost in watching the intimacy of the couples dancing and feeling as though I’d intruded, I downed my ale and carried on.
I finished my time ashore with a brisk stroll along the Ramblas, a stretch of continuous avenue running the length of Montevideo’s coast. The mighty Atlantic crashed on one side of me and children played football in the green spaces on the other.
I always thought I’d go back there one day, Bronagh, but it wasn’t to be. It’s a funny thing, you know, because I thought I’d revisit a lot of the places I saw as a young man once I retired but the inclination was gone by the time I was of a pensionable age.
Now then, let’s move on to more important matters. I have to say the lemon drizzle cake is the leading contender to date and, as always, I
