Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (35 page)

  I feel indignant on the German lady's behalf. 'I'll see what I can do.'

  I bid Julia farewell and call Victoria Duvall, knowing that she has many contacts renting property in the area. By luck she answers immediately and promises to come right back to me. It's five-thirty and the weather is getting more bleak by the second. To keep spirits up, I tell them all about my cooker blowing up. The woman tuts sympathetically and then with a big smile taps my hand and says, 'I have a great German recipe for poached turkey.'

  'Poached?'

  She is yelling above the wind. 'You boil it tonight with onions and have it cold with boiled potatoes tomorrow. It's delicious.'

  I try to look enthusiastic. 'Thanks, I'll think about that.'

  The mobile phone trills.

  'You're in luck!' says Victoria. 'I've found them a
finca
in Fornalutx. Tell them to come over now.'

  'She can help us?' the man asks hopefully.

  The Germans are ecstatic. 'We had wanted a nice Christmas by the sea but perhaps with this rain, mountain views are best,
ya
?'

  They break into hysterical giggles, reminding me yet again that German and British humour genes are at times quite at odds. In their situation I'd be blubbing into a double vodka and contemplating a brisk walk off the edge of one of the nearby cliffs.

  I scribble down Victoria's details as the woman enthusiastically hands me a card from her handbag.

  'Here, take this and if you want my recipe, just call me.'

  I wave them goodbye and study the card in the rain. She is a professor from Heidelberg University. I can only hope her lectures are a tad more inspiring than her cookery tips. Whatever happens, one thing's for sure: we shall not be eating poached turkey tomorrow. Imbued with the spirit of Christmas I feel certain that, in the immortal words of Charles Dickens' eternally optimistic Mr Micawber,
something will turn up.

It is Christmas morning and I have risen early to dress the turkey. Heaven knows why when I still don't know how I'm going to cook the wretched thing. Ollie was awake at some ungodly hour, desperate to investigate the fireplace downstairs for evidence of Father Christmas's visit. With delight he discovered a pillowcase in the grate stuffed with booty and at its side a half-eaten carrot and some mince pie crumbs presumably left by a litter lout reindeer. He now sits cross-legged on the rug in the
entrada
enthusiastically tearing at wrapping paper and whooping with joy at every item uncovered. A large tree, smothered in white fairy lights and decorations, sits in a far corner by the French windows underneath which Orlando and Minky play with a string of small gold stars. I hear someone plodding down the staircase and my nephew, Alex, appears in the
entrada,
hair dishevelled and yawning.

  'Alex!' screeches Ollie, launching himself on his cousin. 'Come and look at my presents.'

  'Wow. You're one lucky piglet.' He grabs Ollie under his arm and then spins him round.

  'Let go, Alex!' He gurgles with mirth. They fall on top of each other in a heap.

  'Fancy a coffee?' I yell above the din.

  Alex untangles himself and stands up to give me a hug, taking the mug at the same time. 'Wonderful! Now you know why you're my favourite aunt.'

  'You've only got one.'

  'That's very true,' he says contemplatively. 'Now, in the night I had an inspirational idea about our turkey problem.'

  'Am I going to like it?'

  'Hmm. I'm not sure but it's worth a punt. I was on the
YouTube
website at about three this morning…'

  'What?'

  'It's all right, that's what teenagers do, and I found a brilliant way of cooking a turkey on a clamp lamp.'

  I digest this information slowly while Ollie happily carries on unwrapping gifts and playing with his toys. Alex potters into the kitchen and sits down at the table, his long legs splayed out in front of him. I notice he's wearing a black Armani T-shirt and black pyjama bottoms. He's apparently stylish even in bed.

  'Do you have a clamp lamp lying around?'

  I give him a frown. 'I don't even know what it is.'

  'Ah well, it's simple enough. As long as you've got any kind of light source we can cook the bird.'

  'How?'

  He gives me an old-fashioned look. 'Well, you cook the turkey above a bowl which contains a clamp lamp and some DVDs. The reflected light creates heat which cooks the meat. All very simple.'

  'Have you done this before?'

  He tuts. 'Of course not. Law students don't cook.'

  My sister wafts into the kitchen, Ollie attached to one arm. 'You just live on kebabs in Manchester, don't you?'

  'Your son is proposing that we cook the turkey over a clamp lamp, which I doubt we even have in the house. I'll have to ask Alan.'

  Cecilia relinquishes Ollie's hold on her and fills the kettle with water. 'I'll play in a minute, sweetheart. I desperately need tea.'

  'It was that third bottle of wine we had last night.'

  'Don't remind me,' she groans, slumping at the table.

  Alan potters in from the garden.

  'A happy Christmas to one and all! Who's for breakfast?'

  'Do you have a clamp lamp?' asks Alex hopefully.

  The Scotsman eyes him curiously. 'Down in the
abajo
I have an old one.'

  'Excellent. Then all we need are some containers and a few DVDs.'

  'Are you doing an experiment?' asks Ollie.

  'Yes, he's going to blow up the house,' I rejoin.

  Alex squeezes my arm. 'Have faith, auntie dear. Now Alan, let's get to work.'

A weak sun is shining in the sky and we all feel in good spirits as we huddle around a large tin bowl in the garden waiting for a miracle to happen.

  'Well, it's starting to smoke,' says Alex.

  'Are you sure it's safe?' I ask.

  'Well, if it blows up at least we're outside,' says Alan. 'Running the flex out from the kitchen was a good idea.'

  'I'm full of them,' says my nephew with a huge grin.

  Cecilia and Ollie nudge each other and then creep off inside. 'Tell us when it's cooked,' my sister says. 'We're off to eat the chocolate tree decorations.'

  Smoke soon begins billowing out of the sides of the lid covering the turkey.

  'That's good, Alex,' says Alan. 'It must be cooking.'

  We stand back.

  'How long do we wait?' I'm not convinced this is going to work and I'm very concerned about my old
Die
Hard
DVDs being used as turkey bait around the clamp lamp.

  'We just leave it for about an hour or so, I think,' says Alex.

  Cecilia potters out with some mince pies. 'Here, have one of these to keep you going.'

  We all swoop on them.

  'What time are your friends coming over?' she asks me.

  'About two o'clock. Remember, no one eats early around here.'

  'That's great. We've got bags of time to get the turkey cooked and…'

  At which point there's a strange sizzling sound followed by a loud pop like a champagne cork going off and the clamp lamb bulb explodes. We all leap back and exchange looks.

  'Perhaps we should move on to plan B?' beams Alex.

  'And what is plan B?' I say with irony.

  'Well, I've just had an idea,' he says.

Alex and I are picking at a plate of smoked salmon blinis and slurping champagne while Ollie sits drinking cola and eating olives.

  'I feel a bit guilty about Alan and Cecilia doing all the relays up to Fornalutx while we're stuffing ourselves back here.'

  He stretches his arms out in front of him. 'Look, I can't drive and you've got to be here to welcome Pep and Juana so we had no choice. Feeling guilty is a complete waste of energy.'

  'I suppose you're right,' I say, thinking about the turkey which at this very moment is hopefully cooking in the oven of my sister's new home. Alex's plan B was actually rather clever. He remembered that a gas cylinder had been delivered to their new house for the oven – piped gas not having reached our mountains yet – and suggested that we ferry the bird and potatoes up to their village for cooking. The Scotsman and my intrepid sister offered to take it in turns to baste the turkey at intervals and check on the roast potatoes. The mobile phone rings. It's Alan reporting that Cecilia's on her way down the mountain and that he will stay put until the bird's cooked.

  'That's good, Alex. The turkey's nearly done. We'll have to eat as soon as Alan returns or everything will go cold.'

  'That's OK,' he yawns. 'Pep and Juana can have a drink and by the time Alan gets back it'll be time to eat.'

  There's a loud tooting at the gate.

  'That must be my mother.'

  But it isn't. Catalina pulls up in the courtyard and comes bustling in to the kitchen with presents.

  'Hey, where's my glass of cava?'

  Alex flips open the fridge, ever grateful to have an excuse to open a bottle.

  'So, your mother and Alan are cooking the turkey, and what about you, Alex?'

  'I'm needed here to keep my aunt plied with cava.'

  She pokes him in the ribs. 'You're a bad boy.
Molt dolent
.'

  Many years ago, Catalina au-paired for my sister in Kent, and was the one who persuaded us to first visit the island on holiday. Little did she realise then that she'd be the catalyst for our complete change of lifestyle. She has a special fondness for Alex whom she looked after when he was a toddler.

  'I love Christmas,' sighs Catalina. 'So much food and chocolate. I'm at my aunt's restaurant with all the family for lunch today and then dinner with Jack and Sarah at Es Turo this evening. What a crazy day!'

  Alex gives a smirk and refills her glass.

  'Don't get me drunk, Alex. I have to drive back up the hill.'

  There's more hooting at the gate and within minutes Cecilia arrives in the kitchen.

  'Thank God I don't have to drive up to Fornalutx again. That's my third trip.'

  'Have a drink, mother,' says Alex cheerfully.

  Having given Catalina a hug, she takes a glass and we all stroll out into the sunny garden.

  'Look how beautiful it is today,' says Catalina.

  'Maybe we'll be eating al fresco after all,' I add.

  'Why not?' says Cecilia. 'Let's transfer all the dishes outside.'

  'Christmas under a Mallorcan sun,' I sigh. 'Now whoever would have thought that possible?'