Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (34 page)

We arrive back at the
finca
laden with bags. Ollie nibbles nervously on his bottom lip. In his hands he twirls his sealed football report. An interesting phenomenon in Mallorca is that football reports are treated with almost as much respect as their school counterparts. These typed documents are lengthy and detailed, focusing on the student's psychological state, response under pressure, alertness to trainer instructions, team spirit, tactical ability and attitude. Finally, there is a handwritten paragraph from the trainer himself, noting any special attributes and commenting on the student's overall rating. Ollie takes it all very seriously and I hope one day he'll show the same gravitas when it comes to his school reports.

  The Scotsman helps carry bags from the car.

  'I thought you'd have more stuff.'

  'Actually, Xavier's coming up with the rest.'

  His shoulders sag with the weight of the load. 'I might have known.'

  He glances at the huge cardboard box. 'Whatever's in there?'

  'A giant
ensaïmada
, a Christmas gift from Senyor Bisbal.'

  He shakes his head. 'Trust you!'

  He strides into the house in conversation with Ollie and plonks the bags down on the kitchen table. Some minutes later I find Ollie and him absorbed in the football report.

  'Excellent, Ollie. All 'A's and 'B's.'

  I lean over the paper.

  'An '
A'
for psychological state? They've slipped up there.'

  Ollie gives a loud grunt and splays his legs out in front of him at the table. 'I'd rather have got an A for striker skills.'

  'You can't win them all.'

  He raps his fingers against the table. 'By the way, when does Alex arrive?'

  Alex is my nineteen-year-old nephew whom Ollie considers the epitome of cool. On Christmas Eve he and my sister, Cecilia, will be arriving to take possession of a house in Fornalutx village. Having completed the deal last month, they will be camping out at the sparsely furnished property for three weeks and spending Christmas itself over at our
finca
. When Alex returns to university, my sister will begin her new life in the valley, gradually renovating the house and commencing work as a language consultant in Palma.

  'They'll be here the day after tomorrow.'

  Ollie looks deflated. 'That's ages away.'

  Alan folds up the report. 'How about helping me in the garden?'

  He rolls his eyes. 'No thanks.'

  'All right then, what about decorating the Christmas tree?'

  Ollie's eyes light up. 'It's here? Where is it?'

  Alan taps his nose. 'It's outside. Come and see. It's enormous.'

  Ollie rushes out into the back patio, closely pursued by his father.

  I start unloading the food into the fridge, a task I dread at this time of the year because it's nigh impossible to squeeze everything inside. A few minutes later they return.

  Ollie is bubbling with excitement. 'It's awesome! I'm going to start sorting out the decorations.'

  He patters off in the direction of the cellar where the decorations are stowed away in an old wooden chest.

  I turn to Alan. 'I saw Nancy in town. I said we'd pop over to see her on Boxing Day.'

  He looks up. 'Good idea. We can bring her Ollie's present then.'

  Two days earlier, while Christmas shopping in Palma, Ollie had found a marcasite brooch of a cat which he deemed a fitting gift for his beloved Nancy.

  'Talking of old friends, Margalida's chalet is shuttered up. D'you think all's well?'

  He gets up and stretches. 'She's probably staying over at Silvia and Pedro's for Christmas. I wouldn't worry.'

  Despite Alan's reassurances, I find it odd that Margalida would sleep at her daughter and son-in-law's home when she only lives across the track from them. Something doesn't add up.

  There's a loud tooting at the gate. Xavier has arrived.

The wind is blowing wildly, petulantly throwing garden pots about the garden and rippling the cats' fur. Alan slams the kitchen door behind him, unzips his Barbour and peers out at the sky.

  'The rain's starting again.'

  It is Christmas Eve and the rain has been falling solidly for two days. Cecilia and Alex are arriving later tonight so Ollie and I have been busy placing presents under the Christmas tree, putting up decorations around the house and cooking. He's an enthusiastic sous-chef, and between us we have made the chocolate log and brandy butter and baked several batches of mince pies and sausage rolls. Tomorrow, Pep, Juana and Angel, will be spending Christmas Day with us all so I am trying to prepare as much as I can in advance. Their kitchen is being renovated so it's impossible for Juana to do any cooking at their house for another week.

  A final batch of mince pies are in the oven and with the washing up finished Ollie and I sit at the table munching on some chocolate biscuits. I take a gulp from my mug of tea, contemplating what I need to prepare for dinner.

  Ollie frowns. 'The oven's making a bit of a funny noise.'

  'Well, we've been doing so much cooking. Poor thing probably needs a rest,' I reply.

  He shrugs his shoulders and starts flicking happily through a comic.

  'I think this is going to be the best Christmas ever!'

  'I hope you're right, Ollie.'

  I listen to the rain on the window pane, pleased that we're warm and cosy inside the kitchen. Alan suddenly looks up from a gardening book he's reading.

  'Aren't you supposed to be seeing your chum at the port this afternoon?'

  I give a groan. Indeed he's right. I have agreed to meet Julia, my Venezuelan friend from the Catalan class, for a festive coffee but I'm not relishing the drive in heavy rain.

  'I might as well set off soon. With all this rain, the roads will be bad.'

  'Good idea. When will you be home?'

  'About five. By the way, can you keep an eye on the mince pies? Just turn them off in about ten minutes.'

  'Fine.'

  We stand by the sink, looking out at the rain which is now falling in heavy white sheets on the patio.

  'So much for Christmas lunch al fresco,' the Scotsman sighs. 'You can't even see the mountains.'

  A cloak of silver grey mist has descended over the Tramuntanas and there's a chill in the air. I pull on my jacket and am on the point of opening the front door when there's a tremendous bang from the oven. Ollie and Alan both yelp in unison and rush over to the stove. Smoke billows from its sides and there's a strange crackling sound. I rush back into the kitchen.

  'Please don't tell me it's blown up,' I cry.

  'I told you it was making a funny noise,' says Ollie.

  Alan carefully opens the door, fanning away a plume of grey smoke, and rescues the semi-cooked mince pies.

  'God knows what's wrong with it.'

  'Great timing,' I mutter.

  'Maybe it's just a fuse,' he says doubtfully.

  He potters off to the basement and returns with a long face. 'Hmm, it's not the fuse. Maybe it's an electrical fault.'

  I watch as he plods off again, this time to get his toolbox. When he returns he removes the front panel encasing the temperature dials and examines the electrical circuit and wires behind.

  'I think it's completely buggered. The wires seem to have melted. We'll have to get the engineer up.'

  'You're joking? On Christmas Eve?'

  He is silent for a second.

  'Were you planning on using it tonight?'

  'That's not the issue. I'm thinking about the turkey tomorrow,' I groan.

  He gives a sigh. 'What about microwaving it?'

  I cast him a scornful look. 'Of course we can't. It would never fit in there.'

  'There's always Pep and Juana's house,' he says.

  'Aha! That's true,' I say brightly.

  'But their kitchen's all upside down,' says Ollie.

  'Damn, I forgot.' Alan plods over to the espresso machine. 'Look, you go to the port and I'll have a ponder. I'll try getting hold of an engineer.'

  Inko and the grey twins cautiously re-enter the kitchen. They had bolted under the piano when they heard the bang. Despondently, I pick up the car keys and an umbrella by the front door. How can the fates have conspired to wreck the oven the day before Christmas? Let's hope nothing else can go wrong. Alan suddenly calls after me.

  'Before you go can you remind me how to work this blasted coffee machine?'

The Faro bar sits up high on a hill above the busy shops and restaurants of the port, and offers breathtaking views of the wild sea below. A narrow track runs beyond its entrance to a path with a steep cliff face on one side and the lashing sea on the other. Inside, cheery amber flames leap from the hearth and the wooden tables are festooned with holly and berries. Behind the bar, Marga, the waitress, wipes glasses and stares out at the rain. Julia is sitting in front of the fire and warming her hands. She drains her cup of coffee.

  'You poor thing. As I said, if I didn't have twelve Venezuelans arriving for Christmas lunch, you could have come to me.'

  I shake my head. 'Don't worry, we'll work something out. One of life's little challenges.'

  She brightens up. 'If the rain stops, you could maybe spit roast the turkey in your field.'

  Some time ago, Alan reliably informed me that in his youth he was a Queen's Scout, an honour apparently bestowed on boys able to perform the most difficult of scout tasks, so I now have visions of the Scotsman erecting a precarious pyre, losing control of the flames and reducing the turkey to ashes whilst setting the entire field on fire. We get up to leave and I glimpse the bill.

  'I'll go and settle up at the bar.'

  As I take my change, the front door springs open and three rain-sodden creatures hurtle inside. The woman's glasses are misted up and her jumper is heavy with water. A teenage girl looks out miserably from under a thin hood while the man shakes an umbrella and stands against the door.

  'You speak German?' she asks forlornly.

  Marga shakes her head in the negative.

  'English?'

  Marga looks at me hopefully.

  'Can I help?' I ask.

  The woman seems exhausted and her face is pale and drawn. 'We desperately need somewhere to stay. We only arrived yesterday late evening at a rented flat, but in the night the roof collapsed with the rain and now we are out on the street.'

  I thought I was the only one with problems today. Julia doesn't understand what the woman says so I translate. She puts a hand over her mouth and makes the sign of the cross.

  'Can't the owner of the flat help you?'

  She runs a distraught hand through her unruly grey hair. 'No. We called her and she just told us to leave. She gave us the money back and left us stranded with our belongings.'