'This will look splendid when it's all finished,' says Margalida, wafting her stick in the air as if it were a magic wand. If only it were. I look at the gravel in our courtyard, a reminder that we still haven't had it paved and that it will be some time before we accrue the funds to do so.
'There's still a lot more to do,' I mutter.
'Yes, there always is. It never ends.' Margalida eyes me critically. 'Of course, it doesn't help that you're always running back to London.'
'Come on, I'm there less than once a month now. We need the money.'
'What for?'
'To live, Margalida.'
She purses her lips, pats my hand and sets off along the track, leaning heavily on her stick whose polished amber surface glints like a shiny penny.
For a few moments I scan the front of the house and the courtyard, my eyes resting on the wild sea of jasmine surrounding the porch and the dark green canopy of ivy covering the loggia. In just a few years its tentacles have spread across much of the finca's facade and the supporting wall of the porch, reaching as far as the old stone pou, our much prized well, which it has all but stifled. To the left of the porch a short path leads to the pond where a band of rowdy frogs are led in daily song by a corpulent toad whom we have christened Johnny. Water trickles from a wide brimmed ledge high above and small geckos dart up the damp and mossy walls seeking dark and shady nooks. Across the bristly lawn, and beyond the crooked old olive tree, a profusion of roses, blushing pink, cling to the wall of a small stone shed, heads lowered modestly under the scrutiny of the sun. The rhythmic chanting of cicadas can be heard from the trees.
The garden is a far cry from how it once was. I remember the tangles of rusted wire and broken wood from long abandoned rabbit hutches, and the decrepit chicken coop whose volatile inmates had either all escaped or passed on. Where the pond is today, a crude, cement cisterna towered over sun-scorched weeds, full of putrid water and scum the colour of bile.
My mind takes me back to the day we impetuously made an offer on this finca while on holiday. A chance meeting with a zealous local estate agent at the villa we were renting set off a chain of events which in time found us relinquishing our former hectic London lifestyle for a more simple existence in rural Mallorca. The finca had been a complete wreck and so for five years we journeyed back and forth, gradually restoring it with the help of a local builder. When the house was just about habitable, we took the plunge and relocated to the island, although I continued to hop back and forth to London to run my Mayfair based PR company.
I am rudely interrupted from my reverie by the trilling mobile in my pocket. It's past lunchtime and it's a London number so that must mean trouble. I mean, who other than Rachel, my super efficient managing director, or worse still, a client, would call during siesta hour unless it was something urgent? And indeed, it is she.
'What's up?'
'I've got great news.' There's a pause. 'You remember that pitch document we did for Miller Magic Interiors in New York?'
'That was ages ago. Didn't Bryan recommend us?'
Bryan Patterson, president of The Aphrodite Corporation in New York, is a mover and shaker in the fragrance business, and one of our clients.
'That's right. He and the owner, Daniella Popescu-Miller, are great mates.'
'What of it?'
'Well, Daniella's assistant has just called to offer us their PR account in the UK.'
'You're kidding? Without even seeing us?'
'Actually, Daniella is coming to London next month and wants to meet up. You have to be there.'
'Why?'
'Because she's insisted.'
'I don't like the sound of that. You know I'm a magnet for nutters.'
'Come on, she's a close friend of Bryan's – and he's normal.'
'He sleeps with a rabbit.'
'Leave poor Tootsie out of this. I can think of worse crimes,' says Rachel.
I give a snort. 'Anything else I should know about her?'
'There is something. She's married to a Hollywood actor.'
I dredge up some mild, voyeuristic enthusiasm. 'Oh, and who's that?'
The name tumbles out in a flurry. Not one that would immediately jog the old memory bank, but the genuine article none the less.
Rachel's tone is brisk. 'It makes sense for you to work on our client portfolio in New York. You've already got Bryan and Greedy George.'
George Myers is a long-standing, insatiably acquisitive and demanding client of mine, known endearingly in the business as Greedy George. It just so happened that no sooner had I moved to Mallorca, than George decided to expand his brand, Havana Leather, in the States. He urged me to sell up my PR company and become his new head of communications, commuting between New York, London and Mallorca. On the surface, the idea of working long hours in order to earn a substantial salary appealed greatly – until I thought about it. After all, the very reason we'd moved to Mallorca was to escape the grind. There was still the old chestnut of having to earn a living so I handed over the reins of my PR company to Rachel, agreeing, in the short term, to continue working with her on our more challenging clients. Greedy George was one of them. My game plan, in time, was to develop some modest business enterprise of my own on the island.
Rachel rattles on like an unstoppable highway express. 'By the way, it looks as if Greedy George is in London at the same time as Daniella so we can kill two birds. We also need to hook up with H Hotels when you're over.'
H Hotels. What kind of a name is that? Manuel Ramirez, its founder, is a Panamanian multi-millionaire who has recently signed us up to handle his publicity. Rachel conveniently got me to negotiate with him on account of my vaguely acceptable spoken Spanish.
'Let's hope he doesn't bring his gun to the meeting.'
'What gun?' she exclaims.
'The gold Kalashnikov I told you about.'
'Oh God, how could I forget? The one he keeps above his desk in Panama City?'
'The same.'
'What did he say again?'
'I asked him if the gun was real and he said...' I imitate Manuel's heavy, deadpan, Hispanic accent, ' "I hope you won't have to find out".'
She giggles. 'I take it back, you are a magnet for nutters. Anyway, how's the marathon training going?'
'The ligament's still playing up, but it should be OK soon.'
'I hope so for your sake because Greedy George must have pulled serious strings to get you that place.'
'So he keeps reminding me.'
'It shows he's got a heart,' says Rachel.
'Or that he's got a hidden agenda.'
'Whatever his motives, you'd better get cracking because loads of clients and press contacts are lining up to sponsor you. Injuries aren't an option.'
Inko, our part-Siamese feline with a kinky, deformed tail, saunters from the front garden to the shade of the porch and eyes me steadily. She wants her dinner and begins pawing at my legs, imploring me to finish the call.
I bid farewell to Rachel and am just returning to the stairs when I hear the sound of tyres scrunching gravel and the hum of an engine. The boys must be back. A car door slams and fast feet patter up the steps of the porch. Ollie throws open the front door, skidding breathlessly into the entrada clutching a football before scanning the scattered debris around him. I play the irritating mother card and pounce on him for a hug. Now that he's reached the grand old age of nine he has little time for unbridled affection. He releases himself hurriedly and points at the splinters of glass. 'What happened?'
'A sheep came in.'
Wordlessly he shakes his head, and saunters off into the garden. Alan appears, somewhat dazed, in the doorway. He's burdened down with a bag of fertiliser and what looks suspiciously like a sapling in a large pot. His addiction to nurseries knows no bounds. He dumps everything on the floor and stares about him.
'Before you ask, a ewe broke into the house.'
The Scotsman furrows his brow. 'Not the same wretched sheep?'
'No, it
was a white one this time.'
He upends the overturned chair, replaces its cushion and looks thoughtful. 'You know, it must be one of Rafael's. How they're getting over the meshed wire or the gate beats me.'
We plod out to the back patio and garden. There's not a whisper or a baa-ing of a sheep.
'It went down into the orchard. Let's go and check.'
Our orchard of about forty lemon and orange trees sits cheek by jowl with a wild piece of terrain of the same proportions owned by a Mallorcan family. According to Rafael, the wife inherited this parcel of land from her parents a decade or so before and left it to its own devices. Over the years it has developed a biosphere of its own. It's a lost world of fauna and flora which Ollie and his friends relish exploring. They plunge into its dark recesses, pouncing upon harmless garrigues, the local field snakes, and rats rummaging about the swell of twisted brambles and long grass. A small stream trickles at its far end flanked by squat, spiky palm trees and dense, impenetrable scrub. It's likely that at one time it was sold off by a previous occupier of our finca, so that the pasture we now own is its forsaken twin. We would buy this strip of potential paradise and return it to its former glory, but so far, the asking price is too steep.
Alan braves the darkness within, believing that our unwelcome visitor is lurking deep in the undergrowth. He soon emerges with shirt covered in burs and hair askew.
'No sign of the creature!'
With stick in hand, he strides boldly among the lemon trees at the bottom of the orchard while Ollie and I, joined by a curious Inko, watch from the terrace above. There's not a trace of ewe number two. I'm beginning to think I imagined the whole episode, but then Ollie suddenly grips my arm.
'Look! It's over there.'
I spot a woolly head only a few feet from the Scotsman. We begin yelling and pointing. He follows our gaze, but fails to see the culprit as she lies low behind a thick clump of long grass. As in the best pantomimes, we both jump up and down as the sheep sidles out and creeps behind another tree.
'Where is it now?' bellows Alan, centre stage.
'It's behind you!' we cry in tandem.
The sheep bobs its head out a fraction and then takes cover. Alan spins round a second too late. Eventually, the panto villain is exposed, and the chase is on. Darting around the orchard in hot pursuit, the Scotsman tries in vain to head her off but she outwits him and makes an inelegant loop back around the trees. Ollie and I prance about like amateur matadors with flimsy sticks, trying to block her path back to the finca. Exhausted, Alan finally manages to steer her up into the front courtyard and to the exit, whereupon she hurtles down the track towards Rafael's house. We rush over to the wooden gate and pull it shut. None of us wants any further sheep encounters tonight.
We return to the house and clear up the mess. Lovingly Alan takes the young sapling he's just purchased down to the orchard ready for planting in the morning. After fussing around the vegetable plot, he walks heavily up the stone stairs and potters about the patio and garden examining his plants and puffing on an enormous puro, one of his putrid cigars. Some time later he appears in the kitchen, pulls two glasses from a cupboard and uncorks a bottle of red wine.
'I don't know about you, but I need a drink.'
'You bet,' I reply. 'Now, what might you like for supper?'
'Lamb chops?' he proffers, with a waggish smile.
I'm off on one of my runs and passing Rafael's house when I hear a strangled cry from his kitchen.
'Hijo de puta! You want to bite me, eh?'
I turn to see my neighbour stride out onto the porch sucking his thumb. Trailing behind him is a cream Labrador pup, wagging its tail and yapping playfully at Rafael's side.
'What a beauty. Is he yours?'
Rafael's previous canine companion, Franco, a rather ebullient boxer, was sent packing when he began chasing chickens and then took to killing and eating them. The local animal sanctuary found him a new owner in Germany with whom I imagine he's having a great time eating wurst and learning the word for 'Catch!' in German. I miss Franco.
'Si, I buy new dog, but already he bite me. I must train him.'
'He's only a baby.'
He shakes his head. 'You English are always so bad with animals. You spoil them too much.'
Animal welfare is not a subject close to most Mallorcans' hearts. I've learned that it's best to side step the issue in order to maintain good neighbourly relations.
'So you start training for New York marathon. You take me next time?'
Rafael is a talented runner, having breezed through three full marathons and surpassing my best time by at least an hour in each one.
'Not a bad idea. You can carry my respirator.'
Once again I'm on the self-inflicted agony trail. Having completed the London marathon twice for charity, I have masochistically agreed to undertake a third for a small Sri Lankan orphanage of tsunami victims. It was Greedy George's idea that I should run in the New York marathon and seemingly overnight he managed to secure me a much prized place. Given his loathing for charitable causes, I'm not sure how or why he did it. What I do know is that I've got at least seven months to train, so things could be worse. Rafael comes over and punches me on the arm.
'I see from my bathroom window Senyor Alan knocking at my door last night, but I was in the shower. He want something?'
Ah. I feel a sheep moment coming on.
'He was going to ask about your sheep. We've had two running around our land in the last week.'
Rafael juts out his chin and rubs it vigorously with his right hand.
'Sheep? But I get rid of my sheep. Now I just have lambs.'
'Oh dear. I'm afraid we sent one ewe down the track yesterday thinking it was yours. Heaven knows what happened to the first one.'
He fixes me with a long stare. 'But where are they now?'
'Don't ask me. Perhaps they're with your lambs?'
'No. My lambs go. They stay in my friend's field for a month while I clear the orchard. Were they branded?'
That's a good point. Did either of us actually examine this latest ewe's hide to see if it had any identifying marks? Of course not.
'We didn't look.'
'Per favor! Now we don't know who they belong to. Mind you, no one around here has sheep.'
Aside from Rafael, I can't think of a near neighbour with sheep either.
He gives me a slow grin. 'You sure you saw sheep? Segur?'
'Oh, very funny. Look, I'm feeling a bit guilty about the one we sent off. Poor thing might be lost.'
'More likely some lucky tio will have both of them on his grill by now.'
I can't bear the thought of some passer-by or opportunistic neighbour snaffling them for his barbecue. Rafael throws his head back and laughs, whisks the Labrador up into his arms and returns to the kitchen. I stick my head round the door.
'Hey, what's the dog's name?'
'Llamp.'
'Yamp?'
'Is Mallorcan word for lightning. You pronounce it yamp but you spell it l-l-a-m-p.'
And why not? It's always good local sport to fox the hapless foreigner with the vagaries of the Catalan language and if the double ll, pronounced y in Catalan, seems tricky, the x presents an even greater challenge. Take for example the word xarxa, meaning net, which curiously should be pronounced charka.
I leave him with his excitable puppy and jog down the path. The days of putting off lessons in Mallorcan are coming to an end. Catalina, my close Mallorcan friend, has persuaded me to enroll on a free language course, courtesy of our town council, after the summer. In the meantime I shall continue to muddle along as best I can.
Out on the main road, I head off running up a steep track which eventually takes me onto the pine-clad slopes of the Tramuntana mountains. It's cool and musty and the soft powdery soil is gentle underfoot. At this time of the year, I keep an eye out for processionary caterpillars, the toxic little beasties that form huge candy floss nests at the top of the pine trees. When hat
ched, they march robotically in fast phalanxes down the tree trunks in search of new territory to destroy. Just to brush past one of these hairy fiends can cause skin irritations so grave that the victim can be incapacitated for weeks. Given that I'm already nursing a recurring leg injury I decide to avoid further handicaps and skirt round the trees.
An hour later as I puff my way back onto the winding lane leading to our track, the rain begins. It's April, so what should I expect? The first few drops are quite refreshing until the sky, like a gigantic, upturned bath, unleashes torrents of water and the drains cough and choke, spewing up thick chocolatey water. Painfully, I sprint through the cold spume bubbling up from the gutters and spilling onto the road, and reach the house just before I'm soaked to the core. Ollie is reading in the kitchen and munching on roasted sunflower seeds. With infinite patience, like a dexterous monkey, he cracks open each one with his teeth, chews the kernel within before systematically discarding the shell in a bowl.
Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Page 2