Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (21 page)

  'There's no easy way to tell you this, boys. That little devil has just run off with our lunch.'

I awaken from a nightmare bathed in sweat and sit bolt upright in bed. The frogs are croaking hysterically from the pond, and the cicadas are hissing in the trees, but there's a rather more unsettling sound coming from the field. I leap from the bed and peer out of the window. The garden is bathed in muddy darkness, the milky pool water reflecting weird and sinister shadows under the light of the moon. I hold my breath and listen. Silence. Then I hear it again, a loud fearful clucking and fanning of feathers. I rush from the room barefooted down the staircase and out of the back door, grabbing a torch on the way. My heart is beating fast as I descend the cool stone steps to the orchard and head for the corral. The ground is strewn with clumps of brittle, sharp weeds and I wince with pain as tiny, sharp stones cut into my bare feet. Our pullets are frantically careering about in the yard, clucking and screeching in panic. Something has made them flee the hen house. Terrified, I shine my torch in the midst of the flapping throng and enter the corral. An insistent rustling in the long grass by the wooden hut catches my attention and I stumble towards it with trembling hand and torch outstretched. In my haste I trip over a plastic feeding bowl and nearly keel over, dropping the torch to the ground. It shines out eerily from a patch of long yellowing grass, so with trembling hand I pick it up and head for the hut, directing the beam of light on to the grass. I give a start. A lean, grey twitching face looks defiantly up at me, and then with a slither of its long tail, plunges into the darkness. Lying in a pool of blood is the lifeless form of a pullet. I sink to my knees, the torch at my side and lift her up. By the markings I can see that it is Daisy. The feathers are still warm, the eyes open, but the soft throat has been savagely torn apart. I stroke her beak, and wipe away tears as her friend Poppy tentatively bobs forward, seemingly confused at the spectacle before her. Around me, curious hens ruffle their wings and twitter.

  Lights suddenly illuminate the dark walls, and Alan's familiar form comes jogging down into the field.

  'What's happened?' he pants as he enters the corral.

  Seeing the dead bird in my arms, he crouches down beside me and puts an arm around my shoulder.

  'I was too late.'

  'Did you see what killed her?'

  'A rat.'

  He shakes his head and sighs. 'Come on. Let's have a cup of tea. There's nothing we can do for her now.'

  Having secured the hens, we shut the wooden gate behind us and make our way to the kitchen. Alan looks down at my bare feet.

  'You went in there without shoes on?'

  I nod.

  He squeezes my arm. 'Well, all I can say is thank goodness the rat didn't get you too.'

Sabine Ricard sits at the oak table sipping her coffee and staring critically around the kitchen and
entrada
. Her long russet hair is pushed behind her ears and a pair of red rectangular Prada glasses rest on her nose.

  'I cannot believe that you still haven't finished this house,' she exclaims in rich Gallic tones.

  Alan and I exchange glances.

  'I mean, you still have hardly any furniture. Where do you sit at night?'

  'On our hands.'

  She turns to me. 'No, don't joke. I mean when Michel and I bought our villa in Santa Ponsa, we made it perfect within a year.'

  'Yes, but our
finca
wasn't even habitable,' says Alan heatedly.

  'Look, I know Sóller is nice, but it's too rural. You really should live in a more civilised zone like us.'

  'All depends how you interpret civilised,' I reply.

  'At least we don't have killer rats by our pool,' she huffs. 'You could have been savaged. My grandmother in Brittany said that cornered rats can go for the throat.'

  'Well, it didn't this time,' I sigh, thinking gloomily of the lifeless Daisy.

  'Well, each to their own, I suppose. I'd rather live in a gated estate where we have proper security.'

  'I don't think a few security guards would worry the Mallorcan rat population.' Alan scoffs.

  'I can assure you that our estate is rat free,' Sabine bristles.

  Alan stifles a snort.

  She gets up and stretches her back. 'The views are nice here, but you haven't even started the outhouses. When will they be finished?'

  'When we win the
loteria
,' I say.

  She's not listening. 'What you need is a good architect and interior designer. I can recommend somebody. He's French of course.'

  'Actually, what we need are funds,' says Alan.

  I wonder why we put up with such abuse from Sabine, but the truth is that she's a lonely woman whose philandering husband, Michel, spends most of the week in Paris supposedly on business while she cares for their precocious daughter, Veronique, back home. This ballet-loving child is one of Ollie's class mates and his sworn enemy. Sadly, none of the children seem to like Veronique and parents run a mile when they see Sabine coming. I suppose that's why she persists in phoning us and popping by, even though we live miles away from her sanitised patch of the island. Given that she doesn't work or appear to have friends, I imagine she's bored witless and finds us a source of bucolic entertainment. If we were more courageous, we'd have dropped her like a hot stone long ago, but I pity her and so absurdly we keep up the charade.

  'So, can I have your chocolate monster muffin recipe? Veronique is desperate for it.' Sabine views me intently.

  I give a guffaw. 'Don't be silly!'

  'No really, Veronique told me that Ollie sold all his cakes at the school charity sale while her strawberry cheesecake was left untouched.'

  'That's because most kids prefer chocolate.'

  She eagerly gets out a pen and minuscule notepad from her handbag.

  'Sabine, I'm afraid my recipe is just a hotchpotch. I make it up as I go along.'

  She pouts at me. 'You don't want to share it?'

  'I simply can't trust that it'll work.'

  'No problem,' she says in a wounded voice hurling the pen and pad back into her bag. 'Veronique will be upset of course, but that's life. It is full of disappointments.'

  I refuse to be drawn by her amateur dramatics and begin clearing away the coffee cups. She stands in the kitchen doorway and stares across at the mountain range facing her.

  'I would hate to live here,' she says with passion. 'Every day would feel like waking up to loneliness. All you can hear are animals and birds. It would feel as though I was the last person left in the world.'

  'Is that so bad?' asks Alan.

  'Yes, it's a horrible thought.'

  She scoops up her car keys from the table and scans her watch.

  'I'm afraid I must leave you. I have to collect Veronique from ballet. It was nice to pop by.'

  She clops out to the courtyard in her elegant mules and jumps into the silver Mercedes. We wave her off at the gate. Her visits always leave me feeling drained.

  'I think hell really will freeze over before we ever make it to Sabine in sanitised Surrey-on-Sea,' says Alan.

  Ollie appears in the courtyard. 'You finally got rid of her.'

  'Don't be mean. She's a sad woman.'

  He pulls a face at me. 'Anyway, something great has happened.'

  'What?' we say in unison.

  'The hens have finally laid some eggs.'

  I am overcome with joy. 'But they had such a terrible shock.'

  'At last, a ray of light,' the Scotsman sighs.

  'And something else.' He cups his mouth and looks down, giggling naughtily.

  'What?' I say tremulously.

  'I found Sabine's handbag on the front seat and hid an egg inside it. She'll get a shock all right.'

  'Oh, Ollie. How could you?' I gasp.

  'That was very naughty indeed,' scolds Alan in rather contrived tones. 'I'm shocked that you'd do such a terrible thing.'

  Ollie feigns contrition as his father strides back into the house, his shoulders heaving up and down with laughter.

It's a hot and sticky evening in August. The
plaça
is teeming with demons and masked ghouls in black capes while up on a wide stage in front of the town hall a home-grown rock group bashes out a wild rhythm amidst rising pink and green smoke. This is the Nit de Foc, otherwise known as the Night of Fire, when hundreds of locals voluntarily hop and jump around the square as devils shower them with burning sparks and throw fire crackers at their feet. At midnight there is a spectacular firework display and everyone goes home nursing scorched legs and toes. Handily, the local firemen, known as
bombers
, turn up and hose down anyone who gets too singed during the proceedings. For the less valiant, the occasion offers a wonderful opportunity to meet up with friends and enjoy a sadistic sideshow completely free of charge. A large group of us are sitting outside Cafè Paris , drinking wine and discussing everything from politics to catteries. Llorenç the woodman, comes over to Alan and commiserates over his worms.

  'Maybe you just need to put the wormery in a shady spot with lots of ventilation.'

  'Well, a nursery in Santa Maria has offered me a stock of local worms so I'm going to start again,' Alan replies.

  'To be honest, I think the English worms couldn't cope with the sun,' says Paco. 'Get some good macho Mallorcans and it'll be fine.'

  Albert from HiBit gives a wry smile. 'How about some laid-back American worms? If they're from California, the heat won't get to them.'

  Paco laughs aloud and nudges him. 'Miami worms might be even better because they'll probably speak some
Español.
'

  Albert throws Alan a sympathetic look. 'Well, I think Paco's right. Get yourself some trusty Mallorcan worms.'

  'I'll do that,' nods the Scotsman stoically.

  Paco strains his head to see what's going on in the
plaça, fi
nally standing up to get a better look. 'What's wrong with my daughter? She does this crazy thing every year.'

  Aside from bull running up in Fornalutx annually, Catalina also likes to hop around the firecrackers at the Nit de Foc.

  'She's just a daredevil,' I laugh, straining to see her in the dark crowd.

  'Well, it's her life,' he shrugs. 'Anyway, what have you done about your hens?'

  'Alan's secured the run. We think the gate might not have been closed properly.'

  'These things happen. The important thing is to learn from it,' he taps his cigarette on the ashtray. His wife leans across and touches my hand.

  'Catalina's told us about your cattery idea, but where would you put it?'

  This is a moot point. If we could afford to buy the land next to our orchard it really would make an ideal spot.