Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (43 page)

  'I see.'

  He puts an arm around my shoulders. It feels as heavy as an iron rod.

  'You know she lived a good, long life and had such strong faith. She never feared death.'

  I wipe my eyes on my sleeve.

  'She would want us to celebrate her life, not mourn her,' he says softly.

  'Yes, of course.' I give an involuntary shiver.

  He feels my cheek. 'It's like marble. Come on, let me drop you home.'

  'We'll never both fit on your bike.'

  
'Pues,'
he rubs the stubble on his chubby chin. 'You're not big. Come on. Let's try.'

  Numbly, I attempt to straddle his bike from behind. It seems to buckle with our combined weight.

  'There,' he says. '
No problema
.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'The worst that can happen is that we'll both fall off. No harm in that.'

  I cling to his damp windsheeter as he starts the scratchy engine and hesitantly pulls out onto the long, dark road. There isn't another vehicle in sight. So slow are we that I imagine the poor old dilapidated bike might expire at any moment.

  '
Bé?'
he yells cheerfully above the drone of the engine and the wind. Am I OK?

  
'Bé!'
I shout back.

  With his back to me, he gives the thumbs up and breaks into song. I see a tabby cat, surely not Margalida's, walking calmly along the tram tracks that follow the road all the way into town. It watches us impassively. Even at such a regal pace it seems to have taken the lead, leaving us trailing behind.
Errrr… crikey… pop-pop, errrr…
crickey… pop-pop
, the frail bike seems to whine and splutter. I laugh. Gaspar laughs and the bike wobbles so precariously that I think his ominous prediction might come true. No harm in that. Somehow, we cling on even when the bike takes a sharp left, quivering like a whippet with the effort, white, acrid smoke billowing from behind. It sets us off laughing again. Howling uncontrollably, until the tears pour down our cheeks.

  
'Bé?'
hoots Gaspar, his huge body overcome with mirth.

  
'Bé,'
I reply.

The creaky old oak door of Santa Maria church, witness over the centuries to countless celebrations and calamities ushers in new life and shoos out the old with the swift efficiency of a housewife with a broom. It has welcomed penitents, snarling marauders and pirates hell-bent on its destruction, tremulous brides and wailing newborns and, last but not least, those who arrive in state, slumbering in a box on the shoulders of hefty pallbearers, to attend their very last mass.

  We peer into the sombre belly of the church, dazed to see so many crammed into the pews. Huddles of men stand around the grey stone walls, hands loosely crossed in front of them as they pay their last respects to a woman well known and loved by them all. We close the door behind us, hoping its anguished moan will be drowned by the echoing mantra of the attendant priest. Heads swivel to see who the newcomers are. There's a rustle, a slight rippling of brows. No smiles. Formal in our London black, we appear alien, out of place among this simple gathering of local people dressed as if they were on their way home from work; maybe some of them are. Self-consciously, we tiptoe to the darker reaches of the church, solemn, keen to merge with the walls, the floor, the very fabric of the building. But then, like a blade of grass ignited in a breeze, a whisper runs the length of the pews, and suddenly a buxom lady tilts her head and turns.

  
'Venga!'
she whispers, jolting her neighbours so hard that they are squeezed together like sausages in a frying pan. We creep over to the pew, thank the senyora, and take our seats. A few pews ahead of us, the instigator of the whisper, Enric, who owns the local grocery store, dares to hover above his seat, turns to give us a nod. We smile back. A friendly face in a blur of anonymous mourners. And so the service rattles on in Catalan, words that soar above our heads, but the tone is sincere and inclusive. I run my eyes over the walls, the nave of the church, and strain to see the priest in his inky black tunic. On the wall, gilt-framed paintings of the Stations of the Cross depict in stark, visual episodes the grim story of Christ's crucifixion, and there staring down at me with redrimmed eyes is the Madonna herself in a shawl of blue, the colour of babies' eyes.

  The service changes tempo. The pews rise en masse and make their way to the front of the church, forming a long silent snake of a queue. Uncertainly, we follow the senyora and, shuffling behind her, eventually spy in the distance Silvia, Pedro, Felipe and the rest of Margalida's family. They are separated, the men standing together, a forlorn line up on one side of the altar, the weeping female relatives on the other. My stomach knots. What do we say, and how will we be regarded, the only foreigners at this most poignant of gatherings? But Catalina has briefed us. The word
'Pesame'
– it weighs on me – are all that is required. Is that enough? I want to say so much more. At last, we reach the line-up. Pedro takes my hand and smiles sadly.

  
'Pesame,
' I say huskily, my mouth devoid of moisture.

  Felipe, pale and gaunt, kisses my cheeks, his hand tightening on mine. Wordlessly, we walk on, acknowledging brothers and cousins, nephews and nieces. Silvia, her face chafed with crying, shakes her head and clasps me close, the lifeless, damp tissue in her hand wrinkled and twisted with use. Alan dabs a tear from his eye and Ollie, pinched with cold and silent, grasps my hand and together we return to our seats. We genuflect. Prayers are said and with hands raised high the priest makes the sign of the cross. Once again the old door stirs, yawning open to allow the cool night air to flood into our midst. The congregation spills into the courtyard of lemon and olive trees. Old friends greet one another, neighbours hug, animated voices rise into the stiff, cool air. In a corner, trying to ward off the chilly night, some frail elderly women grip their coats and jackets tightly about them while their husbands grapple for cigarettes and
puros
with shaky hands. As we take our leave, locals approach us, no longer anonymous, smiling, touching our coat sleeves sympathetically. Together we stand united in grief and also in celebration at the closure of an ordinary life.

  Alan and I walk silently up the stony track, arm in arm, while Ollie skips along beside us, relieved to have escaped the confines of the church. Suspended in a velvet sky, a full moon smiles benignly, and drifting across the valley is the soft, insistent, tinkling sound of bells. The calling card of our woolly mountain sheep.

March has slipped in through the back door and unpacked its swag bag of blue skies, white clouds and soft breezes before we've had time to shake off our February woes. Birds are clamouring from the trees and baby fish, slivers of gold foil, dash about the pond in search of fast food – low flying insects. Ollie is at school and, having polished off my column for the
Majorca Daily Bulletin
upstairs, I amble into the front garden and head for the pond. Our musical frogs, newly returned from their long winter break, dart among the weeds and bulrushes while I stretch out on the rocky edge, catching the warm rays of the sun on my face. Even with eyes closed I can feel his presence, the haughty features surveying me with impatience.

  'Miss me?'

  As if in a trance, my eyes click open and there is Johnny, emblazoned in sunlight, his olive brown skin glistening with water as he puffs out his broad chest from atop a mossy rock.

  'You're back. Did you have a good time?'

  He blinks. 'You know how it is. Too many relatives pushing food down your neck. I don't wanna tell you how many bluebottles and midge mojitos I've knocked back in the last few months.'

  'Life's for living.'

  'Yeah, well just don't look at my waistline!'

  It's true. He is somewhat tubbier, but he's got attitude. A sort of Orson Welles of the toad world.

  'So, what's new?'

  I shrug. 'It's been a bit bleak. Nancy Golding's just left for the States, Margalida died last month. Even Llamp's gone.'

  He's chewing something, maybe a passing fly.

  'Get over it.'

  'Thanks for the sentiment.'

  'What do you want me to say? Life's tough, but you gotta keep trucking. This island ain't Utopia, honey. It's real life.'

  'I know that,' I snap.

  He blows out his cheeks. 'That Margalida was a nice old dame, I admit, but she was ninety for Crissakes! You can't go on forever. Nothing stays the same.'

  I fiddle with a stray tendril of ivy.

  'So, what are you gonna do, just mope around feeling sorry for yourself? Pathetic!'

  A sadistic thought strikes me. 'Remember my cattery idea?'

  'Jeez, you're not still stuck on that track? Please!'

  'As it happens we've got a meeting about buying that land today.'

  'And where's the loot coming from, Miss Smarty Pants?'

  'Well, that's a slight obstacle, but where there's a will…'

  'Still on Planet Daydream, I see. Well, wake me up when you've had a reality transplant.'

  He splashes into the water, casting ripples across its glassy surface.

  Alan calls me from the house. 'Greedy George is on the blower.'

  I groan and slump into the house. George is yelling into the receiver.

  'Hi guv! Got you off your sun lounger?'

  'No, my inflatable lilo.'

  He's gurgling. 'Funnily enough, that's what I wanted to talk to you about.'

  'Inflatables?'

  'Sort of. I've come up with a whizzo idea. Havana Mediterranean, a range of leather beach products.'

  'Excuse my ignorance, but doesn't leather blanch and dry up in sea water?'

  'Well, Miss Sarcastic Fantastic, you're absolutely wrong. I've developed a new leather finish that makes it impregnable and soft as a baby's bum. I can do lilos, rubber rings...'

  I'm in no mood for such lunacy at this time of the morning. Mad dogs, or rather frogs, and Englishman are supposed to strike at midday, aren't they? I've had both well before eleven.

  'Ever struck you that rubber rings are made of rubber for a reason?'

  'I know all that tosh, but they've got no style. Anyway, my leather sun loops have a rubber inner tube which makes them float.'

  'Leather sun loops? You've really lost the plot this time.'

  'Don't forget, guv, that I've made a cool few million on my pet gear. Who's laughing now?'

  Whether I like to admit it or not, Greedy George is right. The madder the concept, the more it seems to sell.

  'I'm thinking leather lilos, loungers, parasols. Sort of cool urban chic in the sun.'

  'Why stop there? What about towels, buckets and spades and suncream?'

  'Now you're just being silly.'

  'OK, so when are you planning on launching all this?'

  'That's the thing. I thought we could do a launch photo shoot near you in a couple of months. Be fab, guv! I come out with a crew and we get the whole thing wrapped up in Mallorca.'

  Oh God. How can I allow it? Greedy George set loose on this poor, unsuspecting isle. Will it ever recover?

  'But won't you need to develop the products first?'

  'I've got some prototypes hot off the factory floor.'

  He fills the void.

  'And I can look over your cattery plans. Sort out a range of pet wear for the cat boutique.'

  'What boutique?'

  'The one we discussed.'

  'Oh, not that again. I thought you were joking before.'

  'Course I'm bloody not. I've already sketched a design for the shop and I've worked out what we can sell.'