Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (41 page)

  'Don't forget they'd have to pay you off.'

  He sighs heavily. 'I can't imagine not working at the Beeb anymore. It's been my life.'

  'Has your boss hinted that you might be for the chop?'

  'Well, he's been giving me odd looks of late.'

  'But everyone does, don't let that worry you. Even I give you odd looks and I've known you donkey's years.'

  'Thanks.'

  'Look, Ed, I have to go. We'll discuss this when you know more.'

  'Are you off to a meeting?'

  I dread mentioning the cattery again. 'Actually, I'm off to meet Catalina and Stefan at Paddington Station. We're visiting The Cat's Whiskers.'

  He splutters into the phone. 'Not that place again! Don't tell me you've persuaded Catalina and her brother to go?'

  'It's a fact-finding tour, to see how we could build such a structure in Sóller.'

  He gives a snort. 'Words fail me.'

  'Good. Speak to you later.'

  I put the receiver down and look up to see Rachel standing in the doorway.

  'Off to your cattery?'

  I pick up my handbag. 'Yes. Let's catch up when I'm back home.'

  She has a curious expression on her face. 'You're quite serious about this cattery lark, aren't you?'

  'I think it's worth investigation,' I say cautiously.

  'But what would happen to the business? I mean, I'm not sure I'd be happy if you were completely out of it.'

  'There are loads of options. You could get a partner, or we could sell up.'

  She furrows her brow.

  'But that would be madness. The work's coming in fast and last night was a triumph. You couldn't exist without the buzz.'

  'Last night was fantastic, but there are other things I want to do.'

  'Such as?' she says crossly.

  'Maybe start a cattery and grow vegetables…'

  'Oh please!' she gives a cynical laugh.

  'It's good to have a change.'

  'As long as it's for the best.'

  I head off out of the office, pulling my suitcase behind me. 'True, Rachel, but how do you know that until you've tried?'

Catalina is sitting at Jessie's office desk tucking into an iced bun. She's spent a whole day working in the cattery with me and is pleased to have a break.

  'Mmm, this tastes good. I like English cakes.'

  Jessie stares out at the falling rain beyond the glass panes.

  'Well, a cuppa and a cake always cheer me up on a day like this.'

  We listen to the rain pattering on the corrugated roof above and shiver as a blast of cool air blows under the front door. Jesse sits next to me on the small sofa flicking through photos of some of her past inmates. She gives me a nudge.

  'Ah, that's Snowy. He was lovely. Used to come here every summer until his owner died.'

  'What happened to him?'

  She wrinkles her nose. 'Apparently a nephew inherited him. Lived alone. You know the type.'

  I'm not sure how to take this, but nod sagely.

  'And what about this Siamese?'

  'That's Tabitha. She was the German Ambassador's cat, but we're going back some years. She moved to Bavaria.'

  Catalina gets up and comes over to us, bending to see the photos.

  'How do you remember all their names?'

  'I just do. It's like being a headmistress, I suppose. Been doing this for fifteen years now.'

  Catalina takes a swig of tea from her mug. 'Do you think my brother will be OK with Willie? He can't speak much English.'

  '"Yes" and "no" will be more than enough,' she says without humour.

  The door springs open and a beaming Stefan enters with Willie. They're both wearing cagoules and wellies.

  'Shut that door before we all freeze to death!' Jessie shouts at her husband.

  He bangs the door behind him and claps his hands together.

  'Stefan understands everything. He's a clever lad. I've gone through all the architectural plans and we've had a good tour round the site. Builders speak the same language, see? Don't need words.'

  Catalina smirks at me. 'How did it go?' she asks Stefan in Mallorcan.

  
'Bé. Molt bé.'

  'My brother says all is good.'

  'Told you so. Now, all you have to do is take some photos of the place to show your mayor and later we can go for supper at the local pub.'

  'Great!' exclaims Catalina. 'I love English pubs.'

  'Not so fast,' chides Jessie. 'I need to explain about all the different cat food and diets there are. If Catalina's going to help at your cattery, she needs to learn all about that.'

  Willie raises his eyes. 'Well, when you're ready, let us know. We'll be in the kitchen having a pint.'

  Stefan gives me the thumbs up and follows his new best friend out into the rain.

  'Typical men,' mutters Jessie. 'Now, where shall we begin?'

Snow has settled on the highest peaks of the Tramuntanas and, like warm white icing, dribbles down the mountainous slopes in huge dollops. Trickling insidiously into verdant pine glades, it soon transforms to ice, glazing rocks and stones with a transparent film that makes them slippery and treacherous underfoot. Down in the valley the air is clear, but the cold is palpable. In the orchards animals huddle together, their communal white breath rising like steam from a New York air vent while rats and mice burrow deep within stone walls, home to the
garriga
field snake and a burgeoning insect population. Tonight the sky is punctured with tiny stars that glimmer in the dark night. In the courtyard a layer of white ice has formed on the car and the windscreen resembles a mini ice rink. The Scotsman, dressed as a gangster in black trilby, old raincoat and a dark suit, fumbles with the ignition key. Ollie is dressed as a Death Eater from the
Harry Potter
books and has difficulty locating the back door of the car.

  'Might be an idea to take your mask off first,' I proffer.

  He finally stumbles upon the icy handle.

  'If I take it off someone might recognise me.'

  'We're not likely to see anyone about at this hour until we reach Fornalutx.'

  He doesn't budge. I settle into the front seat, stowing my riding crop and helmet under my feet.

  As the gate clanks open, our wall lights, created from old roof tiles, automatically spring to life, illuminating the front garden and courtyard. Normally, lizards cling to the tiles, but tonight there isn't a scaly limb in sight. We crunch along the stony track, the headlights illuminating Llamp's lonely, vacated run and Rafael's home which is cloaked in darkness. At Silvia and Pedro's
finca
, lights blaze above the olive green gates. I wonder if Margalida is dining with them tonight because when we reach her chalet the shutters are closed.

  'Hang on Alan, I need to drop off some cakes for Margalida.'

  'Go on, Florence Nightingale of the valley,' he says. 'Make it snappy.'

  I jog up the steps to Margalida's door and leave the sandwich bag of chocolate cakes on the mat. Even if it should rain, the porch will protect them from getting wet. I bob back into the car.

  'It's so cold out there. I hope they'll have heating on in the garage.'

  'I'm sure they will. Anyway, a few drinks will warm us up.'

  We set off along the quiet mountain roads, winding up towards this most traditional of Mallorcan villages for the annual carnival party. Last year I had given the mayor a jolt, dressing up as a geisha, so this time I've opted for a rather modest gymkhana outfit, having borrowed items from various local friends. As we arrive in the village, light fills the street and music thumps from the old underground garage where village festivities are often held. Various witches and ghouls are striding along the road from the little
plaça
and as we park the car four characters robed in black approach the vehicle.

  'Who are they?' quizzes Ollie.

  'Haven't a clue, but they seem to know us.'

  'They're wearing traditional burkas. Now who'd be able to get their hands on such gear?' says the Scotsman.

  'A Moslem?' says Ollie

  'A seasoned traveller?' I suggest.

  'Indeed, then it must be…'

  He springs from the car. 'I know who you are! Veils up!'

  They explode with laughter as they uncover their heads. Jack and Sarah, our Australian friends, give us a quick flash of their faces as Catalina and Ramon wrestle to lift up their hoods.

  'It's not easy to wear these, you know,' Catalina complains. 'I would need to practise for a long time.'

  'I picked them up when I was travelling in the Yemen,' says Jack. 'Thought they'd be just the ticket for tonight.'

  'At least we can wear thermals underneath,' adds Sarah. 'And what the hell are you supposed to be? A flasher?'

  Alan gives her an indignant look. 'Just watch.'

  He pulls a violin case from the back shelf of the car, sticks a
puro
in his mouth and dons an old pair of shades.

  'What do you think?'

  'Whose violin did you steal?' mocks Jack.

  'I borrowed it from Cristina's daughter, you know, at the Aimia Hotel. She's a budding violinist.'

  'Well, don't for Christ's sake lose it,' he shouts, accentuating his Aussie twang.

  All around us costumed characters are appearing out of the shadows. A team of Real Madrid look-alikes jog by and I notice that Stefan, Pere the plumber, and Llorenç are among them. They blow on their whistles and wave as they pass, disappearing into the bright garage interior.

  'Come on you lot, let's get going.' Jack stumbles ahead of us with unseeing eyes followed by his three robed accomplices. Ollie follows blindly in his black cloak and mask behind them. I watch as their arms flail wildly about as they edge their way cautiously towards the steep slope leading to the mouth of the garage.

  'It's worse than three blind mice,' sniggers the Scotsman. 'Go easy.'

  His words miss their mark. A moment later, a blur of airborne black gowns rushes at speed down the slope amid banshee-like shrieks, until at last halted by the embrace of Juan, the village
batle,
who stands welcoming the arriving guests. He steadies himself, a small grin imprinted on his lips.

  'Sometimes I wonder who's crazier, our resident Brits or resident Australians.'

  'What about Mallorcans?' says Alan, pulling at the side of Catalina's mask.

  Juan spreads his hands in agreement. 'You're right, Alan, she really does have to be the craziest of all!'

We arrive back at the house in the early hours. Ollie is asleep in the back of the car and Alan is singing some unrecognisable Scottish ballad.

  'Well, that was some night!' he declares as he turns off the ignition.

  'The costumes were fantastic this year but the garage was freezing,' I say as I exit the car with my riding crop and helmet.

  He opens the passenger door and lifts Ollie onto his shoulder.

  'If you'd danced you would have kept warm,' he replies.

  I open the front door and turn on the lights. Ollie wakes up and sleepily makes his way to his room. 'Who won the competition in the end?' he asks from the doorway.

  'Chicken Licken,' I say.

  'Oh good,' he mutters and disappears into his room.

  'Feel like a nightcap?' The Scotsman asks, bounding into the kitchen.

  'Why not? It'll warm us up.'

  We sit hugging glasses of
herbes
.