Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (10 page)

  She studies the trays of muffins. 'You have so many.'

  'Well, I've made some for Margalida too. She has a sweet tooth.'

  Alan walks into the kitchen and winces at the gaudy home bakes.

  'What on earth are those supposed to be?'

  'Monster muffins. Didn't you know, they're the latest vogue in home bakes?'

The small huddle of men standing around the wooden wormery are deep in discussion. Catalina's father, Paco, dressed in old cords and checked shirt, squats at the side of its legs and pulls out the bottom tray on which some loose soil sits. Miquel, our young taciturn
siquier,
the town's irrigator, lifts off the lid and examines the squirming worms inside.

  'They are British worms?' he asks suspiciously.

  'Through and through,' replies Alan.

  Miquel shrugs a little sulkily. 'So what happens if you need more? You get British or Mallorcan worms?'

  Alan puffs out his bottom lip. 'Well, I suppose there's no harm in mixing them, is there?'

  Paco's face displays a rascally smile. 'Apart from a few linguistic problems, they should be fine.'

  Catalina and I have been standing quietly behind the men. I waggle a finger at her.

  'Hello old chap, my name's George Worm.'

  'Ah,
mi amic, som José Cuc
!' she replies in a squeaky voice, 'You like Mallorca?'

  Miquel turns round and observes us coolly. 'You may joke, but it is sometimes bad to combine species. You don't know what might happen.'

  Rafael, who has up until now been drinking a coke and slouching against the wall with Llamp playing at his feet, claps his hands together theatrically.

  'Yes, you could create a monster breed, Alan, or maybe they end up fighting. We Mallorcans are very nationalistic, remember!'

  'Don't say I didn't warn you,' Miquel growls.

  He plods off across the patio, past the pool and down the steps to the field.

  'Where's he going?' asks Rafael.

  Alan looks glum. 'To check on our water level.'

  This is a critical time of the year for gardeners. As June approaches, the free, gushing mountain water we receive through a series of sluice gates in the field dwindles, and our water tank, the old safa
reig
, runs dry. During the summer months, the water is rationed and must be used sparingly. It's a worrying time for the Scotsman.

  'So,' says Rafael. 'Explain to us again how this contraption works.'

  Alan, who is finding the Spanish hard to keep up with, sighs. 'Can I explain in English and Catalina will translate?'

  '
Vale
,' says Rafael.

  Catalina views him sternly. 'OK, but you shouldn't have given up those lessons with Paula. You're forgetting your Spanish.'

  He pulls a face. After a lengthy translated explanation, Rafael fiddles with the shelves of the wormery. 'So you put the kitchen rubbish in here and the worms eat it. Then some weeks later, by some magic, it turns into compost?'

  'That's just about it.'

  He and Paco look admiringly at it.

  'No waste, no electricity and good compost. It's a fine investment,' Paco says.

  'We should all get them up here,' adds Rafael.

  Alan has a glint in his eye. 'Not a bad marketing idea.'

  I give him a thump on the arm dreading that this might become another fanciful business idea for him and his chum, Pep to explore. 'Don't even think about it.'

For the past few days, our builder Stefan and two of his men have worked tirelessly on building a stone wall at the front of our house to which they have attached an electronic gate. Now it is finished, Ollie and his father spend an inordinate amount of time trying the newly installed entry button which is linked to an internal telephone on the kitchen wall. They seem to derive infinite pleasure in seeing the gate open and close of its own volition.

  The telephone has been wailing all morning. A friend in the village of Fornalutx has been caring for a pair of abandoned male kittens and, with much lobbying from Ollie, we have agreed to give them a home. She calls to say that she will deposit them at the house this afternoon. Much as the Scotsman might prefer the presence of a dog around the house, he has a sneaking affection for Inko and has finally succumbed to the idea of two more felines joining the family. I barely finish the call when Catalina is on the line, making final arrangements for this evening. Together with her wonderful aunt, Maria, we are off on a midnight snail hunt. The hunting of
cargols
is a national sport and late May is the best time to find them lurking in the hedgerows and in the long grasses. I flit outside and begin telling Alan about the kittens and the timing of my snail excursion but the shrill sound of his mobile stops us in our tracks.

  'Blasted phones!' he mutters, dropping his hoe and extracting the vibrating fiend from the pocket of his gardening shorts.

  
'Who?'
I hear him cry irritably. He potters off towards the house.

  I stroll over to the garden pond and peer into its murky depths. Tiny, gymnastic frogs dive from the stony wide-lipped fountain into the water, intimidated by my sudden appearance. There's an urgent croak and Johnny, my wisecracking American toad, appears from nowhere and watches. I give him a smile, but he continues with his impassive stare. Since moving here, Johnny and I have had many a profound chat. A cynic might say I'm mildly delusional and that Johnny is just a figment of my imagination, but to me he's very real. He helps me mull over things and gives me a wonderful excuse to slip out of my office and sprawl at the pond's edge taking in the music of the trickling water with the sunshine on my face. When I worked full-time in London, I always had colleagues to chat with but now when Ollie's at school and the Scotsman is out for the day, I have to make do with Johnny or the cats for conversation. I cock my head towards the house and turn to leave. There's a small cough.

  'Not so fast!'

  He's squatting on a lily pad, his low slung girth resting on its cool surface.

  'Did I hear you right? You're getting more cats?'

  I take a deep breath. 'Look, Johnny, I know Inko's been a pain at times, but she's not been near the pond for weeks.'

  'Pah!' he shakes his head. 'That cat is a nightmare and so is the fat tabby next door. It's bad enough being stalked daily by a psychotic heron without this extra stress.'

  He's right about the heron. For some months now our amphibians have been plagued by this arrogant and fearless creature that carries off unsuspecting fish and tiny frogs in the early hours of the morning. We have tried to keep vigil, without much success.

  'Don't worry about the kittens. I'll keep any eye on them.'

  He sniffs and gives me a sullen expression. 'When you came here you didn't give a rat's ass about cats. Now you're all over them. And what's with the worm hotel?'

  'It creates great compost.'

  'Next thing', he groans, 'you'll be opening a cat motel.'

  I step back, startled. Can he read my thoughts?

  'On my mother's lily pad, you
are!
' he splutters, eyeing me keenly. 'Jeez! You've finally lost the plot. Wake me up when you're back on medication.'

  He plunges into the scum. I sigh heavily and walk back into the house. Alan is standing in the kitchen doorway with hands on hips.

  'You won't believe who just rang.'

  'Surprise me?'

  'That nice girl we met from Channel Four. She said she's recommended me for a TV advert.'

  'Well, I never.'

  'I'll have to audition with a local production company called Focus Films.'

  'What kind of advert?'

  'It's for a bank. Apparently, I have to play golf.'

  'Who knows,' I say. 'This could be the start of a new career.'

The sky, a bale of oyster silk, cups an exquisite pearl of a moon in its soft folds and envelopes the highest peaks of the Tramuntanas. Entwined in a wicker basket, our new arrivals, Minky and Orlando, sleep softly, their tiny grey paws twitching as they dream of darting mice and lizards and ponds abundant with baby frogs and fish. The kitchen door is open and a sudden gust of warm, aromatic air tickles the dog-eared corners of a pile of paper on the old oak dining table and flutters the velvety petals of a solitary white lily in a vase by the window. I glance at my watch. It's midnight. Catalina and her irrepressible aunt, Maria, should be here by now. Where are they?

  There's the sound of hollow metal clanging as the front gate creaks opens and a battered, old white van slowly drives into the courtyard. Grabbing my torch and plastic carrier bag, I close the doors of the kitchen and
entrada
gently behind me. The Scotsman and Ollie have chosen their beds in preference to a night's culinary excursion on the snail trail. I jump into the backseat, wincing at the brightness of the interior light. A beaming Maria sits with arms folded in the front passenger seat while Catalina takes the wheel. I greet them both as Catalina loops round the courtyard and swerves out of the front gate.

  'Is the electronic key working all right?'

  She smiles at me in the mirror. 'It's perfect. So nice not to have to stop and open the wooden gate any more, no?'

  We reach the end of the track and head off up into the mountains. The inky road unfurls like a smooth black snake, its skin glistening in the headlights of the car. We climb higher and soon ours is the only vehicle on the road. The predictable terrain of black, squat rocks and stubbly grasses soon changes and we find ourselves flanked on either side by austere and craggy mountains, and dark, impenetrable forestland. Gusts of warm air with the dry tang of rosemary rush through our open windows, rustling the plastic carrier bag at my side and caressing our hair. The road widens and Maria indicates that we should take a left turn. We follow a narrow, dusky track for a few miles until she instructs Catalina to park under a sturdy olive tree. Shards of ivory moonlight pierce through the leafy branches, but in the deep undergrowth beyond there is nothing but thick, treacly darkness. We are surrounded by woodland and, I sense, thousands of alert and bright-eyed diminutive lookouts with spindly limbs, wings and antennae. The ghostly silhouette of a screech owl, like a streak of white flame, scorches the sky and is gone. In the higher reaches of the valley, there's the muffled clanking of sheep bells and the soulful braying of a donkey. Armed with plastic carrier bags, we clamber out of the car onto the muddy track and switch on our torches. The soil is still very damp from a sudden and prolonged rainfall earlier in the evening.

  'This is a good place for finding
cargols
,' announces Maria, whose snail dishes at her Fornalutx restaurant are renowned far beyond the confines of the valley. She is also queen of
seta
mushrooms, and in October is to be found combing the mountains at dawn for these much prized fungi to serve to her customers. We trudge into the forest and by the light of our torches begin our search. The wet leaves have made the ground slippery underfoot and we take care as we weave through the maze of trees. Maria stops abruptly to feel a handful of soil.