Free Watercolours by Adrienne Ferreira Page B

wispy ponytail and her face was full of wrinkles but her grey eyes were clear and her cheekbones sharp beneath the sag of soft flesh, giving her an elegant appearance so unlike that of his own grandmother — she was as wide as she was tall. Dom struggled to guess the woman’s age. Eighty, maybe? Her lips, pink with a layer of fresh lipstick, were caught in a half smile. She seemed as surprised as he was. For a moment they simply stared at each other. Her eyes wandered over his bare chest. He crossed his arms.
    â€˜You’re a boy,’ she said finally.
    Dom ignored the insult.
    â€˜I was expecting a girl!’ She sounded put out. ‘You’re teaching primary, are you?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I thought only girls taught primary these days?’
    He felt himself bristle. Nosey old biddy. But eventually the pink lips and all the wrinkles drew upwards.
    â€˜Well, good for you! I’m Mavis Hammond, your neighbour. From number 8.’ She bobbed her head towards the door across the hall. It was the first time Dom had seen it open since he moved in.
    â€˜Dom Best.’
    â€˜Pleased to meet you, Dom. You’re working with Mal Donaldson, then?’ She smiled, emanating a generosity and goodwill found only in women her age — whatever that was.
    â€˜That’s right,’ he replied.
    â€˜Well, how lovely! Here, I’ve made something for your tea.’ She pushed the casserole dish towards him. ‘I would have popped over sooner but I’ve been in hospital.’ She waved her hand. ‘You don’t want to hear about all that, though.’
    It was true, he didn’t. He was afraid he might get stuck talking about her ailments for the rest of the afternoon so he just smiled and cautiously took the still-warm dish from her mottled hands. Dom always found food offered by strangers slightly sickening. Normally he trusted grandmotherly types but lately he’d grown wary thanks to the antics of his own grandmother. She prided herself on her culinary authority, scoffing at cookbooks and insisting on passing on to her grandchildren the numerous recipes she had filed away in her memory. But in the last year or two she’d started taking shortcuts; she just couldn’t be bothered anymore. Now, instead of making everything from scratch, she cheated, adding strange flavourings to her dishes — Vegemite was the most recent. Worse, she had also become obsessed with the health of everyone’s bowels and took it upon herself to add laxatives to her cooking — the previous Boxing Day various members of Dom’s unsuspecting family had spent the afternoon scrambling for the toilet after several servings of colon-cleansing tiramisu. Most disturbingly, when Dom reached the bottom of her latest batch of lemon butter, he’d discovered a layer of solidified boiled lollies stuck to the base of the jar that she hadn’t bothered to remove before re-using it. Once legendary disheswere now approached tentatively, as everyone wondered what had been added or left out.
    He thanked Mavis for the food.
    â€˜Bung it in the oven for twenty minutes or so on high when you’re ready to eat.’
    He nodded, wondering how anyone could think of turning on an oven on a day like this. Or wearing a tracksuit, for that matter. He lifted the lid off the dish and examined its sloppy contents. ‘It looks delicious,’ he lied.
    She pursed her lips. ‘It looks dreadful, love. But it tastes delicious. Chicken tagine. I hope it’s not too spicy for you. Traditionally it’s a mild dish but I prefer it with a bit of zing.’ She glanced down the corridor and lowered her voice. ‘Now, Beryl downstairs will tell you the secret to a good casserole is a packet of French onion soup mixed in at the end. But don’t listen to her — that woman’s salt intake is criminal and she’s had three kidney stones to prove it. Ever tried passing a