Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (22 page)

  'Ideally, I'd put it in the orchard.'

  'Are you sure? Think of the corral, and what about planning permission?'

  She's right. There are a lot of issues to think about aside from Alan's bad humour and the cost. After all, is a cattery what I really want or am I just clinging to a possible escape route from London PR drudgery? To complicate matters I'm having fun planning the Crown jewels event and am not even finding the demands of Dannie too onerous. Maybe the heat's getting to me, but coordinating PR for George's absurd dog fashion show in the Big Apple has been, as the New Yorkers would say, a real blast.

  Fireworks pop and crackle overhead and plumes of silver, turquoise and green sparks shower from the sky. Catalina emerges from the
plaça,
her clothes soaking wet.

  'The
bombers
cooled me off. Hey, Ramon, get me a
cava
, will you?'

  She sprawls down on a chair next to me and taps my leg.

  'What's wrong?'

  'Nothing. I'm just thinking.'

  'Don't think, dance!'

  She gets up and grabs my arm. 'Come on.'

  'Where are we going?'

  'To dance with the devils.'

  Before I can object, I find myself whisked across the square into a maelstrom of gyrating, whooping locals and prancing demons while a cackling fireman unleashes a hoseful of freezing water which gushes over my head and right down to the soles of my shoes and to the very tips of my dancing toes.

The valley is dipped in golden light as I head from the Port of Sóller back along the blazing asphalt road towards the town. Trailing me on his pop-pop
moto
is Gaspar, the paper delivery man who has finished his round and appears to have nothing better to do than shadow me as I run, calling out
bravo
and tooting his horn at intervals. I feel guilty about Gaspar. Ever since our first faltering conversation a few years back he has begged me to take him running, but given his immense girth and slow breathing this would, of course, be a disaster. The sudden demise of the popular paper delivery man would not, I fear, endear me to my neighbours. So my compromise is to let Gaspar tootle along on his bike at my side whenever it takes his fancy and somehow this seems to make him feel happy, as if he is actually running the course himself. When I reach the steep hill that curves up from the port towards Fornalutx, Gaspar toots and waves, carrying on towards the town. I watch him disappear in a veil of acrid smoke, his plump buttocks, like a couple of beef joints, hanging over the side of the ancient
moto
and providing useful ballast as he sways along the road. With only two months to go I am desperate to keep up my training schedule. Between clients, well-wishers and friends I have accumulated nearly two thousand pounds in promised sponsorship money and have no intention of giving up now, injury or no injury. The road to Fornalutx is clear as I fill my lungs ready for the ascent. Some minutes later, perspiring heavily in the intense heat, I turn off to the right and find a tractor advancing slowly in front of me. On the narrow lane which barely allows the passing of a single car, I know it will be difficult to pass so I trot behind in some frustration until finally the tractor grinds to a halt, its engine still shuddering. An elderly man leans from the driving seat and beckons me over.

  '
Perdoname,
I only just saw you.
Venga!'
he calls in Mallorcan. 'We don't mind waiting.'

  I smile up at him and squeeze past the vehicle, wondering why he said
we
, when he appears to be alone. Maybe he's got an invisible friend. Glimpsing back to offer a wave, I do a double take. Sitting on the seat next to the friendly farmer is a fat hog, one of the special Mallorcan black breed. He looks haughtily down at me and then shakes his head as if indicating that I should run along. The man sees me gawping in confusion and pats his pet as if somehow to reassure me. I keep up the pace, reminding myself that some things are never quite as they seem in our valley. Glimpsing my stopwatch, I see that I have managed an hour and thirty minutes on the road, and only the tiniest gnawing pain persists in my right thigh. Surely it must be almost healed?

  Margalida is standing outside her chalet watering plants. Her fat tabby cat watches me suspiciously as I approach.

  'I wish you'd stop all this running. At your age it can't be good.'

  'You used to say how young I looked.'

  'That's because I'm half blind but then you foolishly decided to tell me your age.'

  I swig at my plastic water bottle and throw some of the lukewarm contents over my head. Margalida is disapproving.

  'That's the best way to get a chill.'

  I wonder if the day will come when I meet with Margalida's approval, but then it doesn't seem to matter given that she humours me just the way I am.

  'I have a bag of figs for you.'

  She hobbles into the house, returning with a plastic carrier bag.

  'Here, they'll give you energy.'

  I give her a hug and hurry up the track. When I look round, I see her standing like a statue, her near sightless eyes following me as I go. Alan is out in the front garden hosing his herb patch as I puff into the courtyard.

  'You won't believe it,' he seethes. 'Those dratted cats have dug up my new seedlings. It's taken me weeks to nurture them.'

  Given that cats are becoming such a sensitive issue I mutter sympathetically and quickly slip away into the
entrada.
The windows and doors are flung open as Catalina makes her weekly assault on the house. Meanwhile, Ollie has returned to school, having complained as he left that three months' holiday simply wasn't enough.

  'Come here,' Catalina is calling from upstairs. I find her in what we call the snug room, the only place where we actually have a sofa of sorts. She is leaning out of the window.

  'Look at those stupid cats! They're sleeping on the roof.'

  Following her lead, I peer out of the window and there, curled up on the hot clay roof tiles below us, are Minky and Orlando.

  'They must have climbed out of the window. Do you think they're safe?'

  'Yes,' she considers. 'As long as they don't fall.'

  'Very funny.'

  She bustles downstairs. 'Remember the mayor is coming in an hour. You'd better be ready.'

  The Mayor of Sóller also doubles as the town's vet and has agreed to pop by the
finca
to assess whether our orchard could possibly house a cattery and if not, to discuss other options. With a growing population of feral cats in the town and the local villages, I'd also like to suggest a possible solution to the problem.

  I am upstairs in my office writing my weekly column for the
Majorca Daily Bulletin
when a car draws up at the gate. Catalina is bawling up the stairs.

  'It's the
Batle!
Come!'

  The mayor is accompanied by Stefan, Catalina's brother who, I am pleased to learn from her, is securing an increasing amount of work with the local council. In the few years we have known him, he has risen from lone stone mason to respected building contractor, employing many. Without ceremony, the mayor strides into the
entrada,
greets Alan and me warmly and then proceeds to look around the gardens.

  'What a nice house,' he exclaims. 'Your work?'

  Stefan nods. 'There's still a lot to do though. Paving, installing a better irrigation system and then we've got to start on the
casitas
…'

  Ah yes, the outhouses by the pool. Another little task we've yet to accomplish.

  '
Poc a poc,'
I say, using the 'little by little' refrain that used to drive me to near insanity when I first arrived in the valley. Now I can look at wires spewing from walls, tiles unfinished, gaping sockets and turn a blind eye to it all because it will, as the locals say, be done in time.
Poc a poc
.

  'You must explain to the mayor about your cattery course,' says Catalina.

  Stefan is already leading the way down the stairs into the orchard. Excitedly, he shows the mayor the area that could accommodate a modest wooden agricultural building.

  'You own all this land?'

  'Ah, no,' says Stefan, answering for us. 'Only half, but they want to negotiate for it.'

  Alan is chewing his lip thoughtfully and remains taciturn.

  I tell the mayor about the cattery course, a phenomenon that he finds mildly curious, but he nods encouragingly.

  'Look, in principle, I have no problem with the idea. In fact, it's a good one – especially if, as you say, you would also like to address the feral cat issue in the valley. We can discuss that further. However, first we need to check planning permits. We will be in touch.'

  He heads off to the courtyard with Stefan. Alan trails behind with a troubled expression on his face.

  'What's this idea of yours for helping the feral cats?' he asks suspiciously.

  'Well, a sort of Pied Piper pilot scheme whereby we lure the cats away from the bins to central feeding points out of the main thoroughfares.'

  'And who provides the food?'

  'That's for discussion.'

  He gives a cough. 'It wouldn't involve us by any remote chance?'

  Catalina quickly interrupts. 'That was encouraging, wasn't it?'

  'You think so?' I ask.

  'Well, it's a start, but the first real step will be negotiating for that land.'

Pep is sitting at our kitchen table pouring over a large desk diary.

  'OK, so tomorrow this nice British hen party arrive at eleven.'

  Alan sits across from him with his own diary. 'I hope they're not as moody as those Swedes.'

  'Well, they were all right in the end. Your handsome plumber told me they kept inviting him round even when the water was back on,' Pep chuckles.

  'Poor Pere. He must be pestered by women all the time,' says Alan.

  'You mean like you and me,
mon amic?'

  I give Pep a look. 'In your dreams.'

  Alan doesn't bother to respond. 'After this lot, your flat's free until early October.'

  'Yes, so you can have a little respite.'

  'Respite? You must be joking. I might be up for another commercial.'

  Pep looks up from the table. 'Another bank advert?'

  'No, it's for shampoo.'

  Alan leafs through his diary, refusing eye contact with either of us.

  I can see that Pep is savouring the moment. 'Shampoo? No self-respecting
macho
would do a shampoo advert.'

  'Not even for six hundred euros?'

  He demurs. 'Admittedly, that's not bad, but how long will the filming take?'

  'Half a day, apparently.'

  'And he gets to kiss his co-star,' I add helpfully.

  Pep drops his pen and grabs my arm. 'What? You're joking?'

  Alan is coy. 'I only have to peck her on the cheek.'

  'Why do you have to kiss her at all?'

  'Because she buys me a bottle of shampoo.'

  Pep gets up and runs his hands through his grey mane. 'That's ridiculous! No man would kiss a woman for buying him a bottle of shampoo.'

  Alan strolls over to the sink area and impatiently plugs in the espresso machine.

  'Calm down. It's probably just his excuse, you know, to kiss her.'

  '
Per favor!
No Mallorcan would need an excuse to kiss a woman.'

  'Oh God, why did we start this?' Alan battles with a packet of ground coffee and manages to spill a small heap of it onto the work surface. Messily, he begins to dab at it with a cloth.

  'How do you work this wretched machine anyway?'