Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (45 page)

  'What a fantastic day,' I say, staring up into the sky.

  Catalina runs a hand through her short hair and squints at the sun. 'Hey, Ollie, she's only saying that because she got a good mark in her Catalan exam this morning.'

  'Yes,' he jeers. 'If you hadn't got a good mark, you'd be in a grumpy mood.'

  'Actually, I'll have you know that I'm in a good mood because I've finished all my work for Rachel and I've just pulled off a full page interview in
The Times
for Daniella Popescu-Miller.'

  'This is the vampire lady?' quizzes Catalina.

  'The same.'

  Ollie pushes his chair away from the table and potters over to me holding a clump of brightly coloured strings. 'Catalina and I have made fifty Scoubidou key rings and you can't even make one.'

  'True, Scoubidous aren't my forte, but I am good at making muffins.'

  'Yes,' says Catalina. 'At least she can cook.'

  He shrugs and resumes his seat. 'Suppose so.'

  Catalina gets up and stretches. 'Fancy a quick look at your new land?'

  Now that we've acquired our small strip of terrain I like nothing better than pottering down into the field to admire it, despite its wild and woolly state. We stroll across the patio and descend the stone steps to the field. Catalina picks her way gingerly through the undergrowth and plucks a lemon from a tree. She sniffs the skin.

  'These trees need pruning. You'll have a lot of work to do with this land.'

  'In time.'

  She rests her hand on the bark of a tree. 'How are you going to set up a cattery here with all your other work?'

  'Well, I'll have to cut down on the office stuff. I'd prefer to keep up my journalism and just do some ad hoc projects for Rachel.'

  'Would that be OK with her?'

  I shrug. 'Probably not, but she'll get used to the idea. If it wasn't the cattery it would be something else. She knows I want to do other things.'

  'I hope the cattery happens so we can work more together.'

  
'Segur!'
I say, squeezing her arm. 'I couldn't do it without you.'

  We suddenly hear a strange, deep hooting from inside the thicket and, exchanging mystified glances, venture forth. A few seconds later, on the only stretch of grass in the midst of bracken and wild bush, appears a male pheasant, it's magnificent, iridescent plumage glinting in the sun. We gasp.

  
'Precioso!'
whispers Catalina.

  Gorgeous it may be, but what's it doing here and where did it come from?

  In answer to my furrowed brow, Catalina gives a little smile. 'There are wild pheasants all over the island but it's rare to see one so close up. It's a good omen for the cattery.'

  'Do you think so?'

  'Of course!' she says with conviction. 'Why else would it be here?'

  Why else, indeed.

It's early morning and only the cats are stirring in the garden, stretching their long limbs in preparation for an assault on their food bowls. I close the bedroom windows since a chill is in the air, and tiptoe down the stairs to the
entrada. The
front door is gaping, testimony to our sloppy stance on home security. The Scotsman must have rolled up to bed long after me with little thought to the prowlers of the night waiting longingly for his moment of absent-mindedness. Before I even cross the
entrada
, two cats, unknown to me, hurtle up from the basement and skedaddle out onto the porch. The track is quiet and Rafael's house is shuttered. From his orchard comes the piercing sound of a baby lamb. I look inside the empty dog run, wishing that Llamp was curled up in the unoccupied kennel with his tartan blanket and chewed-up rubber toys. When I reach Margalida's chalet I walk into the garden and sit on the stone bench under her jacaranda tree. The leaves droop like tawny bats from the branches, for Margalida's beloved jacaranda blossoms are not yet in bloom. The house is asleep, its shutters clammed shut like heavy eyelids, and its door, a sealed mouth, no longer welcomes visitors. From nowhere I hear a cry and Margalida's tabby cat appears at my elbow. It sits like a Sphinx next to me, surveying the grass, the budding roses and jasmine clustering in the porch. It looks well fed so I imagine Silvia is caring for it. A gentle breeze ruffles the trees, and suddenly a shower of jacaranda leaves come twirling down, touching my face and hands and settling in my lap.

  'Never fear, Margalida,' I whisper, 'I haven't forgotten you.'

  There's the gnawing sound of a
moto
on the track and Jorge, the postman, appears. He turns off the engine and gives me a blindingly radiant smile.

  'Catching up with Margalida?'

  'Yes, sharing a few jokes.'

  He sits down on the bench beside me.

  'It's hard to believe she's gone but I keep telling myself that she had a wonderful long life.'

  He smiles encouragingly. '
Si
, and slipped away so peacefully with all her family around her. She wouldn't want us to be sad. Life must go on.'

  I give him a nod.

  'Margalida told me how pleased she was that you'd moved to that
finca
. Growing vegetables, learning Catalan, being part of things here.'

  'We can but try, Jorge.'

  'You do OK,' he grins.

  'I'm glad you're back in the valley. Where have you been these last weeks?'

  'Oh, Argentina. To put some matters to rest.'

  I notice that, with a touch of pathos, he fleetingly glances at the tiny 'R' on his right wrist. Curiosity gets the better of me.

  'Does the letter "R" remind you of someone special?'

  He flushes pink. '
Si
, she was my fiancée but not any more. I returned to Argentina but we split so now I will stay here in Mallorca and maybe find a nice Mallorcan girl.'

  Lucky her, whoever she is.

  'I will have to lose this,' he says, touching the little initial on his wrist. 'Unless I find a girlfriend called Rosa.'

  I give him a shove. 'How cynical!'

  'No, just practical,' he laughs. 'But now I must be off.'

  'Where to?'

  'To deliver the mail, of course!'

  With a shake of his mane and a flash of his dazzling teeth, he mounts his bike and speeds off in a shaft of golden sunlight. No doubt when word gets round the valley a stream of local girls whose names begin with the magic letter 'R' will be lining up like would-be Cinderellas in the vain hope of claiming their Argentinean prince.

Salvador is strutting about the corral in furious indignation. Throwing our chickens some seed, I inadvertently shower some on his head. Such humiliation is hard to bear when you're leader of the pack. I apologise profusely but he points his beak in the air and stomps off, his harem following at a genteel and diplomatic pace behind. I could swear Minny and Della stifle a guffaw as they go. Alan beckons me over to the wilderness we have just purchased. I close the corral door behind me and follow him into the undergrowth.

  'It's like an undiscovered Eden,' he says in wonderment. 'I've just unearthed a huge palm and several fruit trees.'

  'Maybe we can start a jam-making business instead?' I proffer.

  He gives a brittle laugh.

  'Buying this land was the best thing we ever did. It means no one can build on top of us and we have a treasure trove of an orchard.'

  'The small downside is that we have to find the funds to pay for it,' I reply.

  'Admittedly, it's a hefty sum, but we'll manage it over time and if the cattery comes off...'

  In the last few days we have learned from Stefan that a new planning law affecting orchards has been introduced which could put paid to dreams of building a cattery on our newly acquired land. The mayor is doing his best to find a solution, but with local bureaucracy that could take some time. However, we're used to the slow pace of things around here. With a little patience, everything comes together in time.
Poc a poc
…

  'Senyor Bisbal's old troll of a chum has given me some specs for local land, but it's expensive and quite far away.'

  Alan shakes his head. 'No, I don't think that's viable. Let's stick to our guns and if it doesn't happen we'll have to look at other options.'

  'Such as?'

  'I'm not sure, but something will turn up. It always does. Anyway, this will please you.' He unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket. 'Came in this morning so I printed it off for you.'

  It is an email from Nancy Golding. She's arrived safely in LA, and has apparently found a beautiful sunny studio and flat near her daughter's home. Better still, she's coming back to visit in May.

  'You see, things always work out in the end. You've just got to have a little faith.'

  And with that, one side of the corral collapses, flat as a pancake, to the ground allowing Salvador and his chums to make a speedy break for freedom.

Catalina is singing as she turns into the drive. We are visiting our local Aladdin's Cave, the Cooperativa, which sits on a narrow country road en route to the picturesque villages of Biniaraix and Fornalutx. It is here that local farmers bring their harvests; olives, fruit and vegetables for sale. In the autumn it is tempting to dawdle outside the netted fences watching the olive production in progress, but in spring the mud-caked and battered machines lie dormant in the large concrete forecourt and attention is given over to the selection of oranges and lemons instead. Catalina screeches to a halt in the parking bay and leaps out of the car, leaving the door wide open. I scramble after her.

  'Here comes trouble,' yells one of the farmers. 'What are you after today?'

  '
Sacas!
' she yells.

  He spits on the ground. What type of sacks, he wants to know. They're for
una cursa de sacs
, she replies. A sack race? The old man slaps his leg and titters.

  '
Venga!'

  He beckons us into the deep interior of the building. Like a small air hangar, it is airy with a lofty roof but that's where the comparison ends. For piled high on its pitted concrete floors by the entrance are box upon box of animal feed, nuts, seeds, onions and shallots, tomatoes, potatoes and peppers. Inside, lining the walls above and running in rows the length of the building, are broad wooden shelves bulging with wine bottles and containers and buckets full of olives, herbs and flour. To one side, the entire floor seems to be covered in crates bursting with lemons and oranges. I stop to study them.

  'We receive thousands of these,' he proffers.

  'What do you do with them all?'

  The man's eyebrows lift a fraction. '
Pues,
some go to local stores and restaurants, but many just go rotten. There isn't enough local demand.'