Alice Piddens was caught out.
That didn’t happen often, because she was as canny as a Dundee bagpipe dodger.
But this time when vicious rains flood-flashed her, she found herself on the town side of crucial creeks when she wanted to be on the home side with her books up and a good foot (it had been a long day in town).
There was nothing for it but to call upon the kindness of strangers (actually her strange relatives in town) and sit it out.
Wes would have to fend for himself.
Wes was good at that.
He thrilled to his own cooking and would contentedly cobble together his own singular cuisine, based as it was upon four ingredients: cayenne pepper, meat, vegetables and ‘whatever’.
She got on the phone.
“I’m stranded, Wes.’
“Hell of a thing, still…”
“I’ll head back to town and stay with Yvonne.”
“Hell of a thing, but still…”
“Listen, there’s stuff in the freezer, meat, vegies and whatever…”
“Whatever? My favourite!”
“Listen. Just shut up and listen. Cook up your bloody stir-fry debacle, but wipe down the walls afterwards.
And do one thing for me. Please.
One thing.
Wash everything in the laundry basket. I don’t want to come home after a week of rain and find all my clothes covered in mould and fungus and trench foot because you’ve left them in there festering.
“Right. Consider it done. Take that to the bank.”
“Just take it to the washing machine. And hang it out on the veranda.
