Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (42 page)

  'So, who was the vampire with the golden cape?' I ask.

  'That was Tolo from Banca March. I thought you knew.'

  'It was not! Tolo wouldn't go as a vampire!'

  'It was so, and the man dressed as Elvis Presley was Xavier from Colmado Sa Lluna.'

  I thump my glass down. 'Elvis Presley? That wasn't Elvis Presley! Xavier was supposed to be Tom Jones. Honestly!'

  Alan shakes his head. 'Well, if he wasn't Elvis Presley, why did he sing "All Shook Up"?'

  I have to think about that. 'Probably because he was cold.'

  The Scotsman rolls his head back and laughs. 'Don't be daft. Anyway, I suppose it doesn't really matter. It was great fun.'

  'Another carnival and another year over. I can't believe it!'

  He drains his glass. 'Imagine what we'll be saying in ten years time.'

  'More to the point, will we have exhausted our costume supply by then?'

  'Probably, but then we'll just have to go as ourselves. They'll never guess who we are!'

  And with that we turn off the lights and head up the stairs for bed, Alan hugging a violin and a trilby and me a riding crop and a pink rosette.

I am on my way back from Palma, having dropped Ollie off at his school. With relief, I have left the overcrowded Cintura highway behind and am coursing along the less congested rural roads that peel off to Valdemossa, one-time retreat of Chopin and his companion, George Sands, and Deià, home of the poet, Robert Graves. The almond trees are bushy with blossom, their delicate pink flowers exuding a fragrance so pure that it is tempting to stop the car and run wildly through the orchards gathering up the fallen petals to drink in the intoxicating perfume. But I don't. Not today. Instead, I wind down the windows, stick on some music and revel in the freedom of an open road flanked on both sides by orchard after orchard of unremitting beauty. It is only beyond the Sóller tunnel that I catch up with local traffic; two hay carts, a concrete mixer and an elderly man wavering precariously on a stuttering
moto
immediately in front of me. At every roundabout, at every slip road, I will him to turn off, but no, my elderly outrider stubbornly pop-pops along, one minute ahead, the next at my side. I consider parking the car and jogging home given that we're now proceeding at such a funereal pace that the car can hardly cope in first gear. I reach my turning and with relief see him crawling like a disabled
centpeus
in the direction of the port.

  At the mouth of the track I expect to see Margalida, but she is not in her garden and the house remains shuttered and still. Something's up. At the side of her chalet a lorry engine purrs as its driver connects the tank to a large pump drawing up water from a nearby well. The
agua portable
lorries are frequent visitors to our track especially in the summer months when these mountain dwellings, without their own water supply, rely heavily on such deliveries. The drivers know Margalida and always take time to chat with her and discuss local gossip. I call up to the driver.

  'Have you seen Margalida?'

  He shrugs. 'I don't know where she is. Maybe at Silvia's?'

  I walk up the steps to her front door and pick up the chocolate cakes. Inside the transparent bag small droplets of water have formed and minute flies, like black dots, cling to the plastic lining. I'm puzzled that they've been able to penetrate a sealed bag. With a sigh I take them with me, ready for the bin. I clamber back into the car and slowly level with Silvia's house. The cleaning lady is sweeping leaves in the front yard and comes over to greet me.

  'The elderly senyora isn't well.'

  'What's happened?'

  'She had another fall but this time it shook her very badly. Silvia and the doctor think she should rest for a few days here.'

  I nod in agreement. It's not the best news, but I'm relieved to know she's being well cared for.

  I arrive back to find Alan reading the
Majorca Daily Bulletin
and nursing a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. Roaring flames crackle and hiss from the fireplace in the
entrada.

  'I'm glad you're back. Nancy just called and asked if I could pop round to pick up some stuff for Ollie. She's been clearing out some junk before the move.'

  I put on the kettle and look out at the sky. 'I can't believe that she's going next month.'

  He drains his cup. 'That's life, I'm afraid. Nothing stays the same forever.'

  'A cheery thought.'

  He puts an arm round my shoulders. 'Look, much as we'll miss Nancy, I think the change will do her good and she needs all year round warmth with her arthritis.'

  'I suppose so.'

  'OK, well I'll be off. I've got to pop by Pep and Juana's on the way back. He's got me some discounted chicken feed apparently.'

  'It's one excitement after the other up here, isn't it?'

  He laughs. 'Sure is.'

  'You know Margalida's had another fall?'

  'Don't tell me!'

  'She's over at Silvia's recuperating. Lucky she didn't break anything.'

  I pull the cakes from my handbag and dump them on the table.

  'These won't be much use to her now.'

  He gives me a sympathetic smile. 'Ah well, you can make her some more when she's back home.'

  He strides off towards the car. I listen as the engine comes to life and he sets off up the drive. Leaning against a work surface with a cup of tea in hand, I contemplate some of the tasks I must get done today. First, I've got to fix a time with Catalina and Stefan to meet the mayor with the proposed cattery design, then call the owners of the overgrown orchard to discuss a sale. I've a pile of work to do for Rachel but it's not too urgent, which is fortunate because I've still a lot to organise for the fete next month. Various friends have offered to man stalls and make cakes and we've been deluged with old books and toys to sell on the day. I should feel positive that things are coming together, but I have a weird sense of foreboding. Absent-mindedly, I pick up the cakes and hurl them in the bin.

The stones make a grinding sound as I jog along the dark track past Rafael's house, and down towards Silvia's shadowy gate. There's not a sound in the valley and the screech owls are yet to appear for their habitual evening prowl about the skies. My body is shaking with cold despite warm running kit so I quicken my speed. Clinging to the ancient rock walls withered ivy tendrils and sharp twigs occasionally spring out like the gnarled fingers of a witch's hand, scraping my face and arms and caressing my hair. I shudder with the chill, cheerfully imagining my return run from the port, heading back home for a bowl of home-made vegetable soup by a dancing fire. I glimpse back at the
finca
which in the distance emits warm, amber light. Ollie will be in his room dawdling over his homework, and Alan pottering about the corral with a torch, trying to fix a broken fence. Margalida's chalet looms before me, its white facade stark in the blackness like an exposed and luminous bone. I arrive onto the lane and, panting, pause to set my sports watch. It is then that I hear it. A cry. I swivel round, the hairs on my neck stiffening. Someone is sobbing my name. The voice is weary, filled with anguish and despair. Frightened and trembling, I turn to see a man's silhouette back along the track. Like the light from a firefly, his cigarette burns a vivid orange tracing a slow pattern in the air as it is wafted this way and that in the impenetrable gloom.

  'Who are you?' I shout, retracing my footsteps.

  'It's Felipe.'

  'Felipe?'

  I am disorientated, not having seen Margalida's grandson for some months. As a busy architect and artist in Palma he rarely has time to pop up to the house when he's visiting his family. With increasing dread I draw nearer, not wanting to hear the words I know in my heart he will say.

  'She's dead.' And then as if for reaffirmation, 'She's died.'

  He attempts to stifle a tremendous sob. 'Just like that. Slipped away.'

  I see his eyes dancing in the treacley night, wet with tears and shock. In her ninetieth year she may have been, but Margalida seemed eternal, the matriarch of the track, a hopelessly endearing and loveable friend and grandmother. I throw my arms around him in silence. In this grim moment all Spanish and Catalan words are lost. My mind is blank. I hear myself mumbling incoherently about the funeral. It will be tomorrow at eight. In Spain death is a stickler for punctuality. Bodies are whipped from the houses before they're practically cold and squirreled away to morgues for a quick stay before being buried or cremated. The hurriedness of it all seems strange and callous, but in hot countries it was born of necessity. The tradition still stands.

  'She regarded you as a grandchild,' he is saying quietly.

  My eyes well with tears. A flashback of images fill my head; Margalida at my gate with jacaranda flowers, Margalida in her kitchen poring over an antiquated photo album. I can see her as clearly as if she were with us now, standing in her Sunday best, her snowy hair teased into little waves, her trusty crucifix and walking stick glinting in the sunshine. It seems impossible to imagine her chalet unoccupied, her tabby cat bereft of its mistress. In truth, how can life ever be the same again around here?

  Felipe is at the gate of his mother's house. He gives me a sorrowful wave and is gone. I stand on the track, unsure what to do. My body is shaking with the chill. A light rain begins to fall, tears shed from a helpless sky. In automaton state, I find myself sprinting, running faster, faster, down the track, out onto the open road, pounding the pavement until my limbs seem to pulsate with heat. I forget where I'm heading but my body carries me along, down to the roundabout and right onto the port road. A blur of lorries and cars race by, their flickering tail lights whispering in the falling rain
she's gone, she's gone
. And now I'm running parallel to a wild and fretful sea that coughs spume up onto the beach and curses the wind and rain. I drag myself on and on to the very end of the esplanade and, deluged by water and fighting for breath, crumple onto the floor and cry. And why am I crying? For Margalida, for loss and the fragility of life. For things we puny humans cannot control. In London, distraction, noise and frenetic living can so insidiously mask the senses, kill emotion and dissolve the fear of what might be, but here there's no escape. Life and death walk fearlessly hand in hand; every day, all around us, new life forms and old life bites the dust.

  Wiping my eyes, I walk back onto the port road, the sea howling over my right shoulder. The rain has stopped and a light wind rustles the brown leaves of the trees, coaxing them to pirouette in small showers to the ground. Feebly, I begin to jog, the clothes sticking icily to my skin. Margalida is frowning and waggling a finger, 'Yo
u'll
catch your death of cold running in the rain!'
I find myself laughing – laughing at what I have no idea. A tram rattles by, its bright lights momentarily casting a pale glow, the colour of straw, on the road. And then, with a loud toot, I see Gaspar, his thick thighs astride his
moto,
waving manically as he pootles slowly along. He flags me down and with great effort brings his bike to a shuddering halt. He dismounts and gives me a hug.

  'You're all wet.'

  'Yes. I got caught unawares.'

  A small frown wriggles across his forehead. 'You look sad. Has something happened?'

  I drop my head. 'My neighbour, Margalida, has died.'

  He exhales deeply and shakes his head.

  'Yes, I know.'

  I wipe the tears from my eyes. 'How can you know already?'

  Gaspar is slightly taken aback by my reproachful tone. And rightly so. Why should I seek exclusive first rights to such sad tidings?

  'Of course, I knew she was unwell and then, when I popped by yesterday, her cleaner told me the news.'