Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (33 page)

  'All this wood cutting will be the death of me.'

  'You need a good massage,' Alan says.

  'Any offers?' He winks in my direction.

  'Sorry, Llorenç, I'm off to town to pick up the turkey.'

  He gives a hefty tut. 'Typical woman, eh?'

  Alan nods.

  'And what about your Catalan lessons?' he yells.

  'We've stopped for Christmas.'

  'Any excuse.'

  'If you must know, Guillem's given me a stack of homework to do over Christmas.'

  'A likely story!' he quips.

  Since getting back from New York, I've had a fair bit of catching up to do on my Catalan. I've missed a lot of lessons, which was borne out by the rather modest result I achieved in our first surprise
examen
, a few weeks ago. I had sat looking at the verb tables as the clock ticked by, realising that I hadn't got a clue about the imperfect and conditional tenses of
menjar
, to eat, neither was I able to fill in the blanks on a picture of a living room which required Catalan vocabulary. Rather desperately I had made up words combining French and Castilian vocabulary, to disastrous effect. Still, Guillem was full of smiles when he gave me the result, telling me that I'd somehow managed to pass, which was a good start. I've decided that some serious swotting up is in order over the holidays but when I'll find the time in between Christmas shopping, cooking and entertaining, heaven knows! I look at my watch. I've a mountain of shopping to do and am still to pick up some extra little under-the-Christmas-tree, gifts for Ollie. I jump into the car and start the engine. Alan taps on my window.

  'Don't forget to pick up Ollie from football practice at noon.'

  I roll down the window. 'Yes, and don't forget to collect the Christmas tree. Ollie's desperate to hang the decorations.'

  He gives me a self-satisfied grin. 'Actually, the nursery has kindly offered to deliver it this morning, so I don't have to pick it up.'

  'Great, so you'll have the tree up and ready to decorate by the time I get back?'

  He shakes his head. 'Never a moment's peace.'

  Llorenç catches the drift. 'Don't worry about her. We'll have a relaxing coffee when we've unloaded the wood.'

  'Good idea,' says the Scotsman brightly, waving me goodbye.

  Driving along the track proves hazardous this morning. Wolfgang and Helge arrived late the night before and are now in the midst of transporting their luggage into their house. Helge comes over to the car for a chat and to catch up on news. No sooner have I set off again than Llamp comes charging towards the car with a frowning Rafael following in close pursuit. I roll down the window.

  'What's the matter?'

  'He's wild this dog, and now he kill one of my chickens!'

  I draw to a halt outside his
finca
.

  'He can't have killed a chicken. He's just a pup.'

  He places his hands flat against the car door as if he's about to do a press up and juts his head towards me, eyes ablaze.

  'I caught him with it hanging from his mouth. The bird fly into his run and he catch it.'

  I fear this might herald the end of Llamp's days with Rafael and that the poor mutt will be packing his kennel and bones just as Franco the boxer did before him.

  'Give him a second chance. It's Christmas.'

  Rafael thumps my car. 'Crazy woman!'

  I reach the end of the track expecting to see the bustling form of Margalida, but the house is silent and shuttered. Perhaps she's staying with relatives today.

  The town is heaving with excited shoppers stocking up on Christmas fare, for eating in Mallorca is a serious business and each and every fiesta is embraced like an old friend and plied with as much wine and culinary delicacies as can be mustered. I stroll along in the sunshine, greeting various acquaintances on the way. In the main
plaça
children are playing with balls and weaving between the spiky trees on bikes. Rows of tiny lights have been strung across the trunks and branches of trees, waiting to be illuminated once darkness falls. At this time of the year the
plaça
looks magical at night, resembling a rather refined grotto with tiny twinkling white lights clustered in the dark trees surrounding the floodlit town hall. Throughout Christmas, standing tall on either side of the town hall, is a
gegant,
an enormous wood replica of a female and a male folk dancer in traditional and historic garb, while from the depths of the building Catalan carols are blasted out from huge speakers. It all adds to the festive atmosphere and it is impossible to walk by without humming one of the tunes. As I walk up Calle Sa Lluna, I spy Antonia sitting in her store like a spider in its web, smoking and contemplating a mountain of boxes around her. She calls out to me.

  'Tomorrow we finally move!'

  HiBit's business is thriving and they are about to locate to larger premises. Albert and Antonia have found a well-lit store a hop, skip and jump from Cafè Paris. With a touch of nostalgia I remember back to my first months here in the valley when, without Internet access, I came to rely on this store as a home from home. Although I now have my computer connections functioning in the
finca,
I still need Albert's technical support and I continue to buy all my supplies here. It's always a good excuse to catch up on gossip with Antonia.

  'It's all very exciting,' I say encouragingly as I enter the small store.

  'You're kidding, right? I have the whole family for Christmas lunch, cooking and cleaning and now this move. Too much stress.'

  I lean on one of the cardboard boxes.

  'Once you've moved, it will all fall into place.'

  'Ha! You got a good sense of humour, girl, I give you that.'

  'Where's Albert?'

  'Kitting out the other shop. No electricity, no water over there… we're going crazy!'

  She wanders through the heaps of boxes, tutting to herself.

  'Oh, before I forget, I've got your boy's
Football League
DVD. You better take it now or I'll never find it again.' She fumbles in a box as if it's a lucky dip and pulls out a disc.

  'Ollie will be ecstatic! One more Christmas present for the pile. How much do I owe you?'

  She waves me away. 'Pay me later… the till isn't working and I trust you by now!'

  Out in the street, I bump into Nancy Golding, as always dressed in black and wearing her chic fedora hat.

  'Have you hung my picture yet?' she asks.

  'It's above our bed. It's so beautiful when it catches the light.'

  She gives a coy smile. 'That makes me happy.'

  'And what are you doing for Christmas?'

  She fiddles with her meagre shopping bag. 'Oh, you know, hanging out at the flat, I guess. Some friends are planning to take me out for lunch on Christmas Day.'

  My heart sinks a little. 'Can we come over?'

  'Well, if it's not too much bother. Rosie and I would like that.'

  Nancy's daughter lives in the States and work commitments prevent her visiting her mother at Christmas.

  'How about Boxing Day?

  She gives a little shrug. 'Suits me.'

  I watch her potter off along Calle sa Lluna, no doubt en route to Art I Mans to order some picture frames or new paints. At Ca'n Matarino, the butcher's, a swell of people crowd into the small interior so I decide to pop into Colmado Sa Lluna before returning there to pick up the turkey. Xavier is busily slicing chorizo while Teresa is diligently packing customers' bags. Bustling out from the
magatzem
, the store at the back of the shop, Xavier's mother greets me, her arms cradling two huge legs of
jamón Serrano. Sh
e dumps them down on the counter and wipes her hands on her apron. Although there's a queue, I don't have to wait too long and soon I am ordering everything from
jamones
and
salchichones,
spicy sausages, to kirsch,
dàtils,
dates, and rich Manchego cheese. Then there are the walnuts and chestnuts and special artisan biscuits and
dulces
from Barcelona.

  'How are you going to carry all this?' enquires Xavier. 'Shall I drop it off at the house?'

  'Are you sure?'

  He laughs. 'Do I have a choice?'

  Back in Calle sa Lluna, I grab my chance and dash into Ca'n Matarino's to collect the turkey. With relief I see that it's a far more modest size than the one we had for our first Christmas here. Ramon had reared us one of his own turkeys, but it grew out of all proportion and we couldn't fit it in the oven. I'm hoping this Christmas will be less eventful. Cheekily, I nip back to Xavier's shop and ask whether he might carry my turkey back home along with the other purchases. He dumps the heavy bag behind the counter and with hands on hips shakes his head theatrically and addresses the queue of customers.

  'I suppose she'll want me to cook it for her too?!'

  General titters and guffaws follow me out onto the street. I pop into one of my favourite haunts, Calabruix, run by Margarita and Margalida. This is Sóller's version of a good old-fashioned British bookshop where nothing is too much trouble and any title, however obscure, can be ordered swiftly and without fuss. The owners will spend precious time discussing the merits of one Catalan dictionary over another and they have a wonderful Aladdin's cave at the back of the shop housing many more titles. I select a few children's paperback novels in Catalan and Castilian Spanish and dump them on the counter.

  'These look a bit difficult for you,' jokes Margalida with a glint in her eye.

  'Too right! They're presents for Ollie.'

  
'Poc a poc!'
she replies with a grin.

  Tolo, our friend and guardian at the local branch of Banca March, greets me as I walk back across the
plaça
and pulls one of his bank's Christmas calendars from his bag. This is an annual tradition, and so I take it with some ceremony and promise that Alan will hang it above his desk. I have two more stops to make and I'm fast running out of time. Bel greets me as I squeeze into her tiny shop, Cavall Verd, which rather curiously means The Green Horse. The interior is crammed full of boxes of gifts and toys. Wooden mobiles, Christmas decorations and streamers hang in profusion overhead and scented candles line the shelves by the door. I look at my watch.

  'Bel, I'm in a hurry. Can you suggest some small toys to put under the tree for Ollie?'

  She catches the eye of a customer, a robustly built elderly senyora, and they have a brief word.

  'I have just the thing! This lady says her grandson's favourite toys are a spinning top and a
diabolo
. They're all the rage now in schools.'

  '
Diabolo,
as in diabolic? That sounds a bit dubious.'

  Bel rustles around at the far end of the shop and hands me a small funnel shaped, wooden item with grooves which is attached to a long piece of string. I look mystified.

  'What do you so with this?'

  'It's a traditional spinning top,' she replies.

  The elderly lady comes over and, taking it from my hand, bids me follow her into the busy street. Once outside, she winds the string around the base and then with great dexterity unrolls it quickly in the air and watches it tumble onto the pavement. It spins round and round at speed, attracting an immediate crowd of onlookers, mostly children.

  'Wow!
Fantàstic!'
I exclaim.

  She smiles modestly then shows me how to accomplish the task. The children laugh as I make several lousy attempts at it, until finally getting the wooden top to spin. She then bustles inside, returning with the second strange object, the
diabolo
. It appears to be a twin-headed top made of plastic. She carries two wooden sticks with a string attached between the two.

  'You have to juggle the top on the string between the two sticks,' she explains. 'All these toys have been around since I was young. You know,
diabolo mean
s devil on two sticks.'

  I watch as she spins the top deftly between the two sticks which she joggles from side to side. It amazes me that a woman of her age has the agility and patience to perform these tricks. The spectators applaud and, panting a little, the senyora takes a small bow and re-enters the shop. Bel is delighted with the sudden attention her little boutique is attracting. Before it's mobbed I pay for my spoils, thank the senyora and leave. Now, I just need to make a brief stop at Rullan, the toy shop, and I'm done.

  It is nearly noon as I leave Rullan with gifts for Catalina's twin girls and head for the car. Just as I pass Cafè Paris , someone touches my arm. It is elderly Senyor Bisbal. He greets me cordially.

  'I'm glad to see you today.
Venga
, I want to buy you a little Christmas gift.'

  I remonstrate but it's no good. He leads me into one of the main
patisserias
, Forn de Campo, and buys an enormous, family-sized
ensaïmada
, the popular Mallorcan sweet pastry, filled with custard cream. It is ceremoniously packaged in a large carrying box which Senyor Bisbal hands over to me, before doffing his cap and disappearing into the street. I stagger out of the shop with all my wares and hear my mobile trilling. Oh no, now what? I manage to extricate the phone from my bag. It's Pep.

  'Hey, where are you, lazy woman? I picked up Angel and Ollie from the football pitch. You left the poor boy stranded.'

  I look at my watch. 'I'm afraid I'm running late.'

  
'Tranquil.la!
What are friends for, eh? We're in Cafè Paris. Come and join us for a coffee.'

  Never has an invitation to coffee sounded so good.