Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (20 page)

It's Friday night. Rachel is on the blower, sounding breathless and keen to talk to me.

  'Did you get my phone message earlier?'

  'Rachel, I've only just resurfaced from a near-death experience on the open sea.'

  'Ah! The sailing course. You survived?'

  'Barely.'

  'I knew you'd enjoy it! I love sailing. Nothing like a bit of adrenalin to make you feel alive.'

  'So, what was the message?'

  She gives a jubilant sigh. 'Great news!'

  Oh, here we go. 'Which is?'

  'Are you ready?'

  'Oh, come on.'

  'We've done it!'

  'Done what?'

  She can hardly suppress her delight. 'We've won the Crown jewels pitch.'

Dwarfing the small
plaça
, the grand old parish church of Fornalutx waits patiently, as it has done countless times over the years, until the moment when it can announce kick off. Then, with a tremendous booming, its old clock begins to chime, and local children gather together with their parents in the
plaça
in preparation for the annual village procession. Falling into line, every child clutches a table-tennis bat on which a red bell pepper is attached with glue. Inside the belly of each one is an illuminated candle which flickers and radiates an amber glow in the gathering dusk. Despite the late hour, the air is hot and dry, for it is still August and the sun, like an irritable insomniac, hardly sleeps. To applause from those drinking at bars by the square, the procession slowly begins, winding its way from the church down the hill and along the cobbled streets of the village. As an adopted son of Fornalutx, Ollie has been invited, so together with Catalina and her twins we set off, holding our peppers aloft and attempting to join in with the singing as we march.
'San Bartoméu, estira te'l lleu, estira-te 'l tu…'

  I give Catalina a nudge. 'Whatever does that mean?'

  'It's an old song making fun of San Bartoméu, telling him, how do you say, to draw out his own bile?'

  'Charming,' mutters the Scotsman.

  Catalina flaps a fan in front of her perspiring face. 'So, you have the Swedish women arriving at Pep's flat tomorrow?'

  'I'll be there bright and early to greet them. I've put a welcome pack with a bottle of cava in the fridge, so they should be happy.'

  'Ramon thinks you're very lucky.'

  'Depends what they all look like,' he replies.

  We begin the steep ascent up through the narrow, cobbled streets towards Es Turo restaurant. Here, at one of the highest points in the valley, the Tramuntanas appear huge and menacing, their black and grizzled forms circling the village in a suffocating embrace. At Es Turo, tiny lights are strung around its terrace and mystified diners greet our arrival with puzzlement and delight. Xisca, the proprietor, whose own offspring are in the procession, comes out on the porch in a white overall and, like a Pied Piper, easily lures the children into the bar area with the promise of
caramels
. The children crowd inside, swooping on the huge tray of brightly coloured sweets and for some minutes the singing stops. Gradually, parents shoo them outside and we continue up the hill to Canantuna, the restaurant owned by Maria, Catalina's aunt. She steps briskly into the street, wiping her hands on her apron, and dishes out more goodies. Catalina's girls and Ollie pile their spoils up on their bats, arguing with one another about who has the largest stash. At the top of the hill we stop to catch our breath. Before us, the tiny village rises up in a rocky mound, its honey stone-terraced dwellings pale under the moon. Unseen in the darkness is the labyrinth of thin, meandering alley ways and twisting paths that run like veins through the heart of the village and up high into the hills. As we turn to make our descent, the delicious aroma of grilled peppers fills the air as the fluttering candles begin singeing their vegetable cages. My stomach rumbles and Catalina observes her watch by the light of her pepper.

  'Our dinner's already in the oven. When we get home, you can catch up with Ramon about your chickens. I told him about the genet.'

  George the genet, as I have christened him, has spent the last few nights stealthily circling our corral and once nearly managed to burrow under the netting. By sheer luck, Salvador, our cockerel, made such a din that Alan woke up and rushed down into the field in the nick of time.

  'He looks so sweet,' I say to Catalina.

  'You won't think so when he finishes off all your hens.'

  The procession reaches the square and, bidding goodnight to the assembled throng, we head off to Catalina's house for roast chicken.

  It is past midnight as we wearily turn up our track towards the house. Suddenly, in the glare of the car's headlights I see the frozen form of a large rat. It is standing upright, its eyes wide, its whiskers translucent in the glare. Alan sees it too late and careers towards it.

  'Don't hurt it!' I hear myself yell.

  There's a tiny thud, almost indiscernible as the car hits its mark. I round on him in fury.

  'Why did you kill it?'

  He is irritable. 'For heaven's sake! I couldn't brake in time.'

  'But I can tell you don't really care and now it's gone.'

  'Sorry, had you wanted me to invite it in for a nightcap?'

  'It wasn't doing us any harm. Just think of its family.'

  Alan gives a brittle laugh. 'Its family? What is wrong with you? It's vermin and that's that.'

  I hold my tongue, unnerved to feel tears pricking my eyes. I feel like an accomplice to a murder. We turn into the courtyard. Splayed out on the back seat, breathing deeply, Ollie continues to slumber. His thin, tanned arms and legs are flung across the seat and on his face there's the trace of a wry smile.

'Let me get this straight,' says Ed dramatically.

  I potter out into the garden with the cordless phone to my ear. He is wheezing into the receiver.

  'You're thinking of opening a cattery?'

  'Yes.'

  'You're being serious? I mean, this isn't one of your sadistic little jokes?'

  I stifle a snort of impatience. 'I'm totally serious. Where does sadism come into it?'

  He gives a heavy sigh. 'The whole idea is preposterous. Have you forgotten about my cat allergy?'

  'I wasn't planning on inviting you to the opening.'

  'Well, this is complete madness and this training course in Dorset sounds positively dreadful.'

  Orlando and Minky watch me from under the olive tree. As usual they lie together in a heap, their paws and tails intermingled.

  'What do you think, boys?'

  Ed is confused. 'Hello? Who are you talking to?'

  'Our new cats. They both say it's a fabulous idea, as long as they don't have to mix with the inmates.'

  'You're exasperating. Trust me, next month the reality will set in when you go on this course.'

  'Let's wait and see, Ed. Anyway, why are you coughing so much?'

  'It's some terrible summer flu, possibly avian. I'm off work today. So how is the corral?'

  'We have a wicked genet called George casing the joint, but other than that the hens seem perky. We're still waiting for them to lay an egg though.'

  'This whole livestock obsession is absurd, especially with an avian epidemic gathering momentum.' He gives a distraught cough. 'And how is your leg?'

  The leg issue is becoming rather concerning. Having reached a stage of near agony a month ago, I decided to pop by to see Joan Reynes, our local physiotherapist, who told me that to be fit enough to run in the New York marathon I would need to follow his advice to the letter. This meant a period of several weeks' rest, followed by a programme of sports massages and cold compresses.

  'It's on the mend. Just another week or so and I can start training again.'

  He is mumbling like a disgruntled wizard.

  'Why do you have to put so much pressure on yourself? Besides, running is terribly bad for the heart.'

  'Don't be ridiculous.'

  I try to manoeuvre the conversation. 'By the way, how's Charlene?'

  'She's a breath of fresh air. I've agreed to visit her in November.'

  'What about the plane journey?'

  'Valium cures most ills.'

  There's a tooting at the front gate. 'Ed, I have to go. Email me.'

  I amble into the kitchen, dump the phone back on its cradle, and push the gate entry button. It's Alan. Moments later he plods into the kitchen.

  'Sorry, I forgot the gate key. Well, those Swedish girls were hard work.'

  'Oh?'

  'All of them were dark-haired and plump and told me the flat wasn't what they'd expected. Then, when I tried the tap, the accursed water wasn't working.'

  'What did you do?'

  'I've had to call Pere. He's over there now.'

  Pere the plumber, one of the studs of the valley, should cheer the Swedes up.

  'What on earth do you think Pep was playing at?' he grumbles.

  'To be fair, it's not necessarily his fault. Maybe there's a problem in the whole block. Can't you call him?'

  'He's in Switzerland. I'm not spending a fortune on my mobile.'

  He dumps some fertiliser on the table. 'By the way, my worms have been a bit sluggish of late. I hope the heat's not getting to them.'

  We wander outside and examine the wormery. Alan lifts the lid and pokes about with a stick under the vegetable peelings. There's a slight squirming in the debris, but to our dismay we see many inert bodies.

  'Oh dear.'

  'It's worse than I thought,' says the Scotsman glumly.

  'Can't you call the manufacturer?'

  'I'll have to.' He holds a dead worm in his hand. 'Poor old chap.'

  He fiddles around with the compost drawer at the bottom of the wormery.

  'Maybe Miquel was right,' I say.

  'About what?'

  'Mixing Mallorcan and British worms.'

  'Don't be daft.'

  As soon as I say it, his face clouds over.

  'I hope not.'

  'Cheer up. Let's go and see Ollie. He's with his beloved hens.'

  We walk down into the field, the sun burning our backs. I stop for a moment, distracted by the abundance of tomato and aubergine plants on Alan's vegetable patch. He fusses around the leaves and pulls up some weeds.

  'This heat is a killer. I'm losing so many tomato vines. They need constant watering.'

  'I'll help water.'

  He shakes his head sadly. 'You can't. The cistern's almost empty and the water channel has completely dried up.'

  'Well, I suppose we'll just have to make do.'

  Ollie is inside the corral, talking with Minny and Della, his favourite hens, while Salvador struts about with a disdainful expression, pecking at grain and occasionally nipping at the ankles of his harem. Sitting under the shade of a lemon tree, Daisy and Poppy, our youngest pullets, seem to be in deep, animated discussion.

  'Did you open the front gate?' asks Ollie. 'Llamp's just been in the field. He was trying to get into the corral.'

  Alan frowns. 'He must have sneaked in when I drove through. I'll have to tell Rafael to keep him in his run. What else can go wrong today?'

  A streak of fur suddenly darts across the courtyard, a large bronzed object hanging limply from its mouth. It's Llamp heading for the closing gate with what looks like… He squeezes through just before it shuts.

  'What on earth did he have in his mouth?' Ollie asks.

  I think nostalgically of the fragrant roast chicken I took from the oven minutes earlier and left to cool on a plate by the kitchen table.