Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (16 page)

  'You're just fretting about the Crown jewels pitch. We have to accept there will be competition. As you always say, if it's meant, it's meant.'

  'You're right. Anyway, we'll know soon enough.'

  The managing director of The Stationery Office has promised to let us know if our company is successful in a few weeks' time. Fingers crossed.

  'By the way, Frankie Symonds rang earlier. She thinks
The Telegraph
might do a piece on Dannie. Can you call her?'

  My ears prick up. Frankie is one of my oldest journalist chums and has been tirelessly trying to get a feature placed about Dannie. I owe her big time if this
Telegraph
article comes off.

  'Thank God for Frankie! I'll call her from the taxi.'

  Rachel pushes her long hair behind her ears and shoves a file under my arm. 'Take a look at all this on the plane, will you? Some potential clients I'm unsure about.'

  'I was contemplating a vodka and tonic and a quiet read.'

  'Too bad. Listen, don't worry about Manuel. He's just a bit insecure. You'll sort him out. Besides, just think of the big fee.'

  At this precise moment I'd quite happily throw Manuel's fee to the wind. Rachel gives me a peck on the cheek.

  'Have a safe flight and don't speak to any strangers on the plane.'

The warm air engulfs us as we speed away in a taxi from the airport in the direction of Sóller. I am sitting next to Victoria Duvall, erstwhile Hollywood film director and one of my long-time fellow commuters, and now a good friend. By happy coincidence we live a mere fifteen minutes' drive from each other and found ourselves on the same flight back to Mallorca.

  'You seemed pretty chilled on the flight. Are you over your flying phobia?' Victoria asks.

  'It comes and goes. A vodka helps if I'm feeling nervous.'

  She sinks back into her seat. 'It'll be good to get home.'

  'Mmm. I miss my boys and the frogs.'

  We stare out at the darkened sky, both of us in our own sweet reverie. I can smell grass and rosemary, sage and bitter lemons, but it's a sensory mirage. We are still on the Cintura motorway, a good forty minutes from Sóller. Soon my eyes close and I drift off into a timeless zone, miles away from stress, lunatic clients and the rigours of London.

Under a penetrating blue sky the ancient town of Sineu rises before us, clinging doggedly to a small hill like a grizzled limpet on a rock. We are flanked on either side by orchards abundant with olive trees and flat, pastoral land that rolls monotonously like green baize to the foot of the crouching Serres de Llevant mountain range in the east and the Tramuntanas in the west. Choked with dust, the road stretches like a parched tongue across the Central Pla, the agricultural heartland of the island, willing itself to reach the cool, salty kiss of the coast beyond.

  In the back of the car, Ollie, Ramon and I play cards and swig from small battered bottles of warm mineral water, our damp clothes sticking to our skin. In the front, Alan and Pep puff on
puros, ex
haling smoke into the stifling, still air beyond their open windows while a wild Arabic song bursts from the CD player. Pep jiggles about and slaps his thigh as he attempts to warble along with the music.

  'Where on earth did you get this CD?' bellows Alan.

  'From Sineu market. As you will see, they sell everything, not just animals.'

  'Are we there yet?' says Ollie with fatigue.

  Ramon tickles him and points out of his window at the swell of people swarming around the streets.

  'We're here,' he shouts in Mallorcan. 'Now we'll find us some chickens.'

  Jutting his head forward he begins making mad rooster cries and soon Ollie joins in, crowing and flapping his arms about. As we slow down, passers-by turn to look at our car and I can't blame them. It's resembling a mobile asylum and the din is dreadful.

  'Can you lot be quiet,' I yell above the hysterical Arabic voice.

  'What?' cries Pep.

  'Turn the music down!'

  He bobs his head round the seat. 'Senyora can I remind you that this was supposed to be a
machos
trip? You are, what do you say in English, a
passatger clandestí
?'

  'I can hardly be a stowaway in my own car.'

  Ramon claps me on the back, laughing. '
Si, estàs un passatger clandesti!'

  Alan turns down the music and follows a lean, cobbled road up past the main
plaça
where crowds of shoppers are picking over goods in the sprawling market. After a fraught fifteen minutes, we find a parking place in a sundappled street, a stone's throw from the market place.

  'That was really lucky,' clucks Pep as we head off towards the livestock pens in the
plaça
. Above the square, the enormous church with its sombre stone facade glowers down at the bustling scene below while its haughty bell tower shoots up into the sky, a defiant rural landmark on the hazy horizon.

  'You know this market was created in 1306 by King Jaume II?'

  'Oh no, not another of your history lessons,' I moan.

  'You live here, so I give you no choice.'

  He puts his arm round my shoulder and pulls me towards a massive cage containing a none too chirpy young bull.

  'Can we do an exchange?' he says in Mallorcan to the elderly vendor, pointing towards me. The farmer grins and nods vigorously. Other crusty accomplices sitting on a nearby wall join in the joke while I give them a watery smile.

  'Right,' says Ramon, rubbing his hands together. 'The man I buy my chickens from is over there. Come.'

  We traipse behind him, battling our way through the throng of shoppers browsing the tightly packed stalls. On all sides, fruit and vegetables are piled high on cartons, their skins baking in the sun. Bizarrely, in amongst the food are tables loaded with terracotta crockery, junk, CDs, clothes, handcrafts and even tractor and machinery parts. Ollie gravitates towards a stall selling lethally sharp kitchen knives and instruments of torture which Ramon assures me are for everyday use on a farm. Hanging from rusty metal hooks, red, meaty sausages and salted
jamones
swing above the heads of a queue of busty matrons waiting patiently for cheese and cold meats. Huge rounds of Manchego cheese and terracotta vats of green and black olives and pickles swimming in brine crowd the counter. I peer through the forest of heads to catch a whiff of the aromatic fare, but am whisked back by Pep.

  'Chickens first, food later,' he growls.

  Ollie and Alan have reached the far side of the square where rows of old metal cages house exotically feathered songbirds, parrots and finches. Ollie walks solemnly up and down, peering inside the crowded cages and talking sympathetically to the diminutive prisoners. Their song is melancholy, and I feel a sudden sadness at their captivity. It seems so wrong that on this beautiful day they should be sweltering in ugly enclosures, forbidden the freedom to spread their wings and soar up into the sky. Sitting on the floor beside a low wire pen full of tawny chicks is Ramon's contact, a ruddy faced, cheery fellow chewing on a chorizo sausage. He gets up slowly and shakes our hands one by one before smiling down at Ollie and ruffling his hair. He listens attentively to Ramon and Pep as they talk rapidly in Mallorcan and, nodding his head, beckons us over to where he has a van. As soon as the back door creaks open, a tremendous clucking and rustling of feathers can be heard. Stacked in metal cages, hens and cockerels peer out from between the bars, their heads making miniscule staccato movements as they survey the faces clustering before them.

  'Are you sure you want cockerels?' asks Ramon.

  'Well, we might as well try breeding,' says Pep.

  '
Molt bé
. So we need to select a few cockerels and some
gallines joves.'

  'What are
gallines joves? Yo
ung birds?' Alan asks Pep as he scrutinises the different types of fowl in the cages.

  'It's what you call a pullet. This man says he has a batch of April chicks which could start laying in about another four weeks.'

  'In August?' Ollie looks hopeful.

  'Maybe, if you're lucky,' says Ramon.

  Ramon and his chum disappear into the van and begin examining various birds. After some time they emerge, having agreed the selection. Alan and Pep are already in deep discussion about the merits of corn and oat feeds and how to protect their corrals from rats.

  'He suggests six pullets for each of you and one cockerel. He's offering a good price and says he can drop them off later today.'

  'Hang on, Ramon. We've only just got the corrals up. I wonder if we need more time to organise the runs?' says Alan.

  Pep gives a snort. 'It's now or never,
mon amic.
We can sort out the details tomorrow.'

  Ollie is ecstatic. 'Come on,' he grabs Alan's shirt sleeve. 'I can look after them tonight.'

  I decide not to get involved in this discussion. Pep and Alan have spent some weeks building corrals around the hen huts in their respective orchards and I am none too sure that they are secure enough to withstand assaults from local predators despite the reinforced wire surrounding the enclosures. I haven't seen them purchasing grain either, so our new arrivals may well go hungry.

  'Have we got food for them?' Ollie pipes up.

  Alan frowns. 'No, we haven't.'

  'Easily remedied,' says Pep. 'There's a man selling all sorts of grain over there by the sheep pen.'

  We pay for the pullets and cockerels and pop back into the van to view our purchases. The scrawny little grey faces stare plaintively up at us as they utter weak little
cheep cheeps.
One of the cockerels throws me a mean scowl.

  'He's cool,' says Ollie. 'I'm going to call him Salvador.'

  The vendor finds this very funny and he gives a hoot of laughter. Rooting about in the back of the van he unearths a box full of assorted feathers and offers them to Ollie.

  'Have the peacock one too. It'll bring you luck.'

  Overcome with delight, Ollie gathers them up and thanking the man gratefully accepts his additional gift of a small plastic carrier bag for his spoils.

  We set off through the
plaça
to one of Ramon's favourite cafes where an outside table has just been vacated.

  'A little coffee and repose and then we continue shopping,' says Pep, flopping into a chair.

  A waitress approaches the table and, recognising Ramon, gives him a smile and nod of the head.

  'Where's Catalina today?'

  Ramon shrugs. 'Looking after the
niñas
at home.'

  She slaps his shoulder and tuts. 'You men have all the luck. So what would you like?'

  '
Ensaïmadas
and coffees all round,' he replies with a complicit smile.

  'And chocolate milk for me,' Ollie blurts out before she takes her leave.

  Ramon is pleased with our purchases. 'Did you know that some pullets can lay more than three hundred eggs each year?'

  'What?' Pep's eyes bulge. 'But surely that's exceptional?'

  Ramon shrugs. 'It depends on the feed and the quality of the pullets, but it's possible.'

  'Do all the eggs become chicks?' asks Ollie.

  'Only if they're fertilised and then they take about twenty-one days to hatch.'

  'I hope we have lots of chicks.'

  'The object is to have lots of eggs, Ollie,' Pep tuts.

  Ramon raps on the table. 'Buying the hens is the easy part. Now I need to teach you how to rear them.'

  The waitress arrives with a tray of steaming hot coffees, Mallorcan
ensaïmada
pastries and a chocolate milkshake for Ollie. We tuck in with gusto.

  '
Vale
,' says Ramon, when he has our attention. 'Get out your notebooks because your first lesson in poultry care is about to begin.'