Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (2 page)

  This will no doubt constitute hot news in the valley. Until now, Josep, the postman, has never made it as far as our
finca
, preferring instead to dump our mail at the town post office for collection whenever we happen to be passing by. Margalida fares better because her chalet is at the mouth of the track, and does not require the tiresome, lengthy walk needed to reach our terrain.

  'Good. Maybe the new one will make the effort to deliver our letters to us.'

  She shakes her head in the negative. 'I don't think so. He's not a local and he has long hair.'

  I dissect this information carefully. 'Have you met him?'

  '
Segur
. He's given me your post this morning. That's why I'm here.'

  She delves into the pocket of her vast floral overall and slaps a handful of dog-eared envelopes on the table. I've often pondered the allure of the garish polyester overalls adopted by many elderly Mallorcan women. Even in sizzling heat, these voluminous, smock-like creations are unleashed, worn either over blouses and skirts or as a stand alone fashion statement, often accompanied by pop socks the colour of workmen's tea and woolly slippers. I fan through the pile, clocking that it's mostly bills and unsolicited marketing bumph. It irritates me that junk mail has insidiously found its way to the mountains.

  'I thought it was a woman at first,' Margalida is muttering. 'I called him senyora, and he laughed and said his name was Jorge.'

  Given her atrocious eyesight, I'm hardly surprised at this reported exchange.

  'Why didn't he bring us the mail himself instead of making you walk all the way up here?'

  She gives a scratchy little cough starting her explanation with
pues
, a handy Mallorcan expression, meaning 'well'. '
Pues
, he was thinking about it, but I told him that Josep never bothered and always left your mail at the post office. He liked that idea. Anyway, I needed the walk so I offered to take it today.'

  I sigh. That will no doubt have put the kibosh on any future postal deliveries to the house.

  'Jorge says he's from Argentina.'

  'Really?' I prompt, in hopeful anticipation of further revelations about our new postman. Absurdly, I find myself wondering whether he's any good at catching sheep. Margalida doesn't respond because, as is habitual these days, she has glided effortlessly to another plane. Her eyes, caught in a new, angelic dimension, are still and glassy and her breathing slow and ponderous. I wait a few moments and then give a polite cough. Rudely transported back to the present, she begins fiddling with the crumpled hankie on her lap and with small, quivering fingers reaches for the gilt crucifix that hangs about her neck. 'I think the rain will come from the east.'

  She rises slowly, steadying herself on her stick and for a brief moment peers round the kitchen and
entrada.
In some confusion, she fumbles about in her pocket and, unearthing some heavy-framed spectacles, settles them on the bridge of her petite nose and scans the room once more. Then she frowns and turns to face me.

  '
Dios mios!
What's happened in here?'

  Supporting her right arm, I guide her gently to the front door and try to sound nonchalant. 'A stray sheep came in and ran amok.'

  'If you fenced them in, this wouldn't happen.'

  'But we don't have any. It isn't our sheep.'

  She sniffs and grips the front door frame. 'Then it must belong to young Rafael. His sheep and hens are always running wild. I shall have a word.'

  I'm not sure if this is the way forward. Rafael, owner of the town's main cake shop, gets impatient with Margalida, whom he regards as a rather bothersome grandmother. He now occupies the family
finca
in which he was born and has therefore known Margalida and her extended family since he was a child. They are usually on cordial terms, but occasionally the sparks fly when historical inter-family squabbles are resurrected.

  'Don't worry, Margalida, I'll go and talk to Rafael.'

  She hunches her shoulders. 'Better to get the senyor to speak with him.'

  Old macho habits die hard in Spain. To Margalida's generation, it wouldn't be appropriate for a woman of my age group, and a foreigner to boot, to question a male neighbour about his tearaway sheep. This is a job for the man of the house.

  
'No problema,'
I hear myself say, using that all-weather refrain beloved of Mallorcans. I walk with Margalida across the gravelly courtyard, feeling the hot sun on my neck. As we reach the makeshift wooden gate, she pauses to release my arm.

  'I can walk back by myself. You go and tidy up before the
Senyor
gets home.'

  No way José, but I'm not going to share such a bolshie sentiment with my elderly neighbour. She places her small and delicate hand on mine. Like the dried petal of a poppy, the skin is pale and papery. At nearly ninety years old, Margalida is as close to a Mallorcan grandmother as I could find, and treats me as a wayward granddaughter, indulging me one minute and chiding me the next. She is still feisty and resolute, and aside from the odd lapse of memory, is as sharp as a tack. She can recall life on the island during the Spanish Civil War with searing clarity and, unlike me, has an uncanny ability to remember useful details such as the dates of the annual fiestas and the telephone numbers of the local plumber and electrician.

  'This will look splendid when it's all finished,' says Margalida, wafting her stick in the air as if it were a magic wand. If only it were. I look at the gravel in our courtyard, a reminder that we still haven't had it paved and that it will be some time before we accrue the funds to do so.

  'There's still a lot more to do,' I mutter.

  'Yes, there always is. It never ends.' Margalida eyes me critically. 'Of course, it doesn't help that you're always running back to London.'

  'Come on, I'm there less than once a month now. We need the money.'

  'What for?'

  'To live, Margalida.'

  She purses her lips, pats my hand and sets off along the track, leaning heavily on her stick whose polished amber surface glints like a shiny penny.

  For a few moments I scan the front of the house and the courtyard, my eyes resting on the wild sea of jasmine surrounding the porch and the dark green canopy of ivy covering the loggia. In just a few years its tentacles have spread across much of the
finca
's facade and the supporting wall of the porch, reaching as far as the old stone
pou
, our much prized well, which it has all but stifled. To the left of the porch a short path leads to the pond where a band of rowdy frogs are led in daily song by a corpulent toad whom we have christened Johnny. Water trickles from a wide brimmed ledge high above and small geckos dart up the damp and mossy walls seeking dark and shady nooks. Across the bristly lawn, and beyond the crooked old olive tree, a profusion of roses, blushing pink, cling to the wall of a small stone shed, heads lowered modestly under the scrutiny of the sun. The rhythmic chanting of cicadas can be heard from the trees.

  The garden is a far cry from how it once was. I remember the tangles of rusted wire and broken wood from long abandoned rabbit hutches, and the decrepit chicken coop whose volatile inmates had either all escaped or passed on. Where the pond is today, a crude, cement
cisterna to
wered over sun-scorched weeds, full of putrid water and scum the colour of bile.

  My mind takes me back to the day we impetuously made an offer on this
finca
while on holiday. A chance meeting with a zealous local estate agent at the villa we were renting set off a chain of events which in time found us relinquishing our former hectic London lifestyle for a more simple existence in rural Mallorca. The
finca
had been a complete wreck and so for five years we journeyed back and forth, gradually restoring it with the help of a local builder. When the house was just about habitable, we took the plunge and relocated to the island, although I continued to hop back and forth to London to run my Mayfair based PR company.

  I am rudely interrupted from my reverie by the trilling mobile in my pocket. It's past lunchtime and it's a London number so that must mean trouble. I mean, who other than Rachel, my super efficient managing director, or worse still, a client, would call during siesta hour unless it was something urgent? And indeed, it is she.

  'What's up?'

  'I've got great news.' There's a pause. 'You remember that pitch document we did for Miller Magic Interiors in New York?'

  'That was ages ago. Didn't Bryan recommend us?'

  Bryan Patterson, president of The Aphrodite Corporation in New York, is a mover and shaker in the fragrance business, and one of our clients.

  'That's right. He and the owner, Daniella Popescu-Miller, are great mates.'

  'What of it?'

  'Well, Daniella's assistant has just called to offer us their PR account in the UK.'

  'You're kidding? Without even seeing us?'

  'Actually, Daniella is coming to London next month and wants to meet up. You have to be there.'

  'Why?'

  'Because she's insisted.'

  'I don't like the sound of that. You know I'm a magnet for nutters.'

  'Come on, she's a close friend of Bryan's – and he's normal.'

  'He sleeps with a rabbit.'

  'Leave poor Tootsie out of this. I can think of worse crimes,' says Rachel.

  I give a snort. 'Anything else I should know about her?'

  'There is something. She's married to a Hollywood actor.'

  I dredge up some mild, voyeuristic enthusiasm. 'Oh, and who's that?'

  The name tumbles out in a flurry. Not one that would immediately jog the old memory bank, but the genuine article none the less.

  Rachel's tone is brisk. 'It makes sense for you to work on our client portfolio in New York. You've already got Bryan and Greedy George.'

  George Myers is a long-standing, insatiably acquisitive and demanding client of mine, known endearingly in the business as Greedy George. It just so happened that no sooner had I moved to Mallorca, than George decided to expand his brand, Havana Leather, in the States. He urged me to sell up my PR company and become his new head of communications, commuting between New York, London and Mallorca. On the surface, the idea of working long hours in order to earn a substantial salary appealed greatly – until I thought about it. After all, the very reason we'd moved to Mallorca was to escape the grind. There was still the old chestnut of having to earn a living so I handed over the reins of my PR company to Rachel, agreeing, in the short term, to continue working with her on our more challenging clients. Greedy George was one of them. My game plan, in time, was to develop some modest business enterprise of my own on the island.

  Rachel rattles on like an unstoppable highway express. 'By the way, it looks as if Greedy George is in London at the same time as Daniella so we can kill two birds. We also need to hook up with H Hotels when you're over.'

  H Hotels. What kind of a name is that? Manuel Ramirez, its founder, is a Panamanian multi-millionaire who has recently signed us up to handle his publicity. Rachel conveniently got me to negotiate with him on account of my vaguely acceptable spoken Spanish.

  'Let's hope he doesn't bring his gun to the meeting.'

  'What gun?' she exclaims.

  'The gold Kalashnikov I told you about.'

  'Oh God, how could I forget? The one he keeps above his desk in Panama City?'

  'The same.'

  'What did he say again?'

  'I asked him if the gun was real and he said...' I imitate Manuel's heavy, deadpan, Hispanic accent, ' "I hope you won't have to find out".'

  She giggles. 'I take it back, you
are
a magnet for nutters. Anyway, how's the marathon training going?'

  'The ligament's still playing up, but it should be OK soon.'

  'I hope so for your sake because Greedy George must have pulled serious strings to get you that place.'

  'So he keeps reminding me.'

  'It shows he's got a heart,' says Rachel.

  'Or that he's got a hidden agenda.'

  'Whatever his motives, you'd better get cracking because loads of clients and press contacts are lining up to sponsor you. Injuries aren't an option.'

  Inko, our part-Siamese feline with a kinky, deformed tail, saunters from the front garden to the shade of the porch and eyes me steadily. She wants her dinner and begins pawing at my legs, imploring me to finish the call.

  I bid farewell to Rachel and am just returning to the stairs when I hear the sound of tyres scrunching gravel and the hum of an engine. The boys must be back. A car door slams and fast feet patter up the steps of the porch. Ollie throws open the front door, skidding breathlessly into the
entrada
clutching a football before scanning the scattered debris around him. I play the irritating mother card and pounce on him for a hug. Now that he's reached the grand old age of nine he has little time for unbridled affection. He releases himself hurriedly and points at the splinters of glass. 'What happened?'

  'A sheep came in.'

  Wordlessly he shakes his head, and saunters off into the garden. Alan appears, somewhat dazed, in the doorway. He's burdened down with a bag of fertiliser and what looks suspiciously like a sapling in a large pot. His addiction to nurseries knows no bounds. He dumps everything on the floor and stares about him.

  'Before you ask, a ewe broke into the house.'

  The Scotsman furrows his brow. 'Not the same wretched sheep?'

  'No, it was a white one this time.'