Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (44 page)

  'What on earth would possess me to do this?'

  'Money?' he suggests.

  'There's more to life.'

  'Give me a break! You need filthy lucre just as much as the next mug,' he yells. 'Come on, what d'you say? We'd have a blast.'

  'D'you know what, George? I'm going to get back right on my lilo and have a ponder about it all.'

  'Great. Call me with some ideas on fab locations. Oh, and we'll need sun.'

  'Oh, I'm sure you can whip up one of those with a few scraps of leather.'

  He wheezes with laughter and then with a click the line's dead.

  Where do you live?

  
'Visc a Sóller.'

  I live in Sóller.

  That was easy enough. Now he'll hopefully move on to the next row.

  Guillem flashes me with a Cheshire cat smile. He's still facing me.

  
'On treballes?'

  The rest of the class, like an impatient firing squad, shift in their chairs to face me. Where do I work? Mallorca… London? That's far too difficult to explain in Catalan, for crying out loud. Find an easier option. Quickly, you dolt.

  He's wiping his glasses.
'On treballes?'

  Some swot coughs impatiently behind me. It's the clever Swedish guy with the glasses. I know his superior cough.

  
'Er, en ca meva.'
I stutter
.
At home.

  The Swede tuts at my back.

  
'Treball a ca meva,'
corrects Guillem. I work at my house.

  
'Molt bé.'

  He pats my arm encouragingly and walks slowly past in search of a new victim. Julia elbows me in the ribs amid stifled giggles. She scribbles me a note in Spanish –
Has repasado para el examen?
Have you revised for the test? Bugger. No I haven't. This is my third exam, and having done reasonably OK in the second I'm annoyed that I'll fare less well this time. I'm ashamed to admit that I've missed a bunch of lessons with all my gallivanting to London. Ten minutes later, Guillem bounces cheerfully to the front desk and pulls out a sheaf of papers. There's a glint in his eye. 'This is just another little
examen to
see how much we've learned in the last few months,' he says winningly. A collective groan fills the room as he hands out the sheets. He looks at the clock then gives the word. Silence. The exam has officially begun.

Alan comes into the kitchen, washes soil from his hands and sighs. He has been planting
faves
all morning, the delicious baby broad beans that grow so effortlessly in our fertile valley.

  'I've got the lettuces, artichokes and beans planted too, but the beetroot will have to wait till tomorrow.'

  'Is your back stiff?'

  'Just a touch.'

  I put on the kettle. 'D'you want the good news or the bad news?'

  He collapses onto a chair, casting a weary eye over my face.

  'In whatever order.'

  'The bad news is that Sabine Ricard just called. She's in town and intends popping round with Veronique.'

  He hits his head on the table.

  'The good news is that she can only stay a few minutes. Lunch party with her lump of a husband back in Santa Ponsa.'

  'Thank God for that! What the hell does she want this time?'

  'I don't know. She sounded hysterical though. She said it was too terrible to speak about on the phone.'

  'She's probably broken a nail.'

  'Don't be a meanie.'

  He gets up and heads for the kitchen door. 'Sadly, I shall be otherwise engaged. I'm going to hide out in my
abajo
.'

  'Coward.'

  'Undeniably.'

  'Ollie?' he bellows. 'Veronique alert!'

  Fast feet scamper down the stairs. 'She's coming?'

  'Any moment. Let's hide.'

  'OK. I'll bring a packet of Top Trumps and some books.'

  He races back up to his room, returning with a pile of booty.

  'Thanks for the support, guys.'

  'Don't mention it,' says Alan, as they jog across the patio. Ten minutes later there's frantic tooting at the front gate. I slope out to the porch, watching as Sabine draws up into the courtyard. Veronique jumps out to greet me. I'm puzzled to see that her hair has been pulled into a severe bun befitting an elderly matron, but that could be the influence of ballet.

  'I can't stay long!' shrieks Sabine, crunching purposefully towards me across the gravel. 'We have had a nightmare!'

  'Whatever's happened?'

  She swings her handbag over her shoulder and, marching into the
entrada
, furtively looks around to check that we are alone.

  
'Piojos!'
she whispers.

  'Sorry?'

  'Nits!'

  She grabs Veronique's arm. Obediently the child flops her head forward like a ragdoll. 'Look. See anything?'

  I shake my head. 'Not sure about the bun though.'

  'Let me tell you,' she spits. 'that I spent five hours last night pulling nits from her hair. I nearly fainted.'

  'Loads of kids get them. It's not a big deal.'

  'You don't think? Never in my life have I seen these things. It's absolutely
dégueulasse.
In Paris, Veronique never had them. They don't exist in France.'

  'That's silly, Sabine. Of course they do.'

  
'Non, pas du tout!'

  Whenever Sabine is in high dudgeon, she breaks into her native French.

  'Here, you must spray everything immediately. I bought you this.'

  She pops a can out of her bag and begins waving it about in the
entrada
, and before I can stop her, the kitchen.

  'Stop! I've got fresh bread on the table.'

  She hovers by the fridge. 'Too late. What a stupid place to leave bread!'

  Coughing on the noxious fumes, I snatch the offending can from her grip and rush out on to the front porch.

  I read the label. 'This is Permetrine. It's horribly toxic.'

  'Who cares? It zaps the little bastards.'

  'Can I just point out that Ollie doesn't have any nits?'

  She faces me belligerently. 'Maybe not now, but he will. That school must be crawling with them. I don't want him to give them to Veronique.'

  'But any child could.'

  'Exactly, so I will visit every parent in the class to warn them.'

  'It's better just to inform the school on Monday and they'll put a note round. A good scalp rub with tea tree oil and alcohol for a week or so and Veronique will be fine.'

  She seems disappointed. 'I thought you'd take this more seriously.'

  'It's just a fact of life.'

  'For me it is the straw that breaks the camel's back.'

  'What do you mean?'

  She gives a dramatic sniff. 'Michel and I are returning to France.'

We're sitting in the kitchen with Juan and Lucia, the couple who own the other half of our orchard.

  'That's a lot of money,' says the Scotsman morosely. 'The amount's gone up since we last spoke.'

  Juan gives a nonchalant shrug that seems to say
take it or leave it
.

  Pep, like an astute poker player, flicks his ash away and raises a conciliatory hand.

  'Maybe there's just been a little misunderstanding.'

  Stefan, who has joined the meeting as joint negotiator with Pep, looks embarrassed and purses his lips together.

  'It's a lot for us as it is,' growls Alan. 'This new figure would be impossible.'

  Lucia seems anxious to compromise. 'When could you pay us?'

  'In a few instalments over, say, a year,' says Pep nonchalantly. 'The bank would vouch for them. We could draw up a quick contract. Deposit now, the rest later.'

  'How soon?' asks Juan.

  'Tomorrow? We can sign it front of the
notario
for security,' Pep reassures.

  A silence descends on the table. I squirm with embarrassment. This couple are immensely likeable. We were enjoying an incredibly warm and cheerful conversation with them until negotiations, rather like milk curdling, took a turn for the worse. Money really does close as much as open doors. A sheep cries from some far off field and Orlando stretches his body out across the kitchen tiles, oblivious to the tension building at the table. Pep is huddled over his notebook, inscrutable as ever while Alan and I study the fruit bowl. Stefan spreads his hands before him and appears to be counting his fingers.

  'We'll do it.'

  Everyone looks up, startled. Lucia has spoken.

  'It's my parcel of land. We agree your price.'

  There's visible relief on the faces of all the men. Smiles all round. I give Lucia a squeeze of the arm.

  'Thank you.'

  She gives me a wink. 'It's time.'

  Handshakes and hugs are exchanged and finally they all leave, save Pep. We return to the table and exchange looks.

  'You were a star,' I say to Pep.

  'But what suddenly made Lucia change her mind?' quizzes Alan.

  'I think she felt sorry for us,' I hazard.

  'Not really,' says Pep. 'We Mallorcans are good negotiators. We like to push a deal to the limit but with a little gentle persuasion we're happy to compromise in the end.'

  
'Poc a poc,'
I say.

  He has a mischievous grin on his face. 'Yes, as we Mallorcans say,
poc a poc
.'

Catalina is sitting in the garden with Ollie weaving Scoubidous while I sift through a cardboard box full of Barbie dolls and old toys. We have been gearing up for the big day when local children will descend on our field to sample our interpretation of a traditional English fete. We intend to serve scones and jam, cucumber sandwiches and cups of tea, and are planning on doing an egg and spoon, sack and three-legged races among others.