FOUR
THE BURROWERS
The sky is clear and the air as hot and fiery as dragon's breath. Boring through the kitchen window an intrusive sun rests its honeyed gaze on my fingers as I sit sifting flour into a large wooden bowl. It would be a misnomer to tag me domestic goddess, and yet with all the cocoa powder and energy I can muster on a day crackling with heat, I decide that the time has come to earn filial respect. This is no easy feat. Cake day beckons at Ollie's school, an occasion when mothers are encouraged to bake and deliver home-made morsels which are sold for a charitable cause. In London it might be acceptable to breeze along to Waitrose or M&S to snap up some pre-packed cup cakes without a thought, but here it's not so simple. There's an expectation, unspoken though it is, that real mothers bake their own. With some impatience I scan the pages of the tattered American cookery book splayed out on the oak table. I've decided to make chocolate muffins. What can be easier than that?
Some time later Catalina bursts into the entrada holding a massive package. She dumps it on the table and in automatic pilot mode, fills the kettle.
'Something smells good. Cooking Alan a birthday cake?'
'He's on a diet, remember.'
She pounces on the cake bowl and runs her finger round it. 'Life's too short for diets. Where is he anyway?'
On cue, Alan strides into the kitchen. 'Is the kettle on?'
'I'll make you a coffee as it's your birthday,' she gives him a wink. 'By the way, that's for you.'
Alan follows the jerk of her head and approaches the table. 'Can I open it?'
Catalina leans against the work surface and watches as he removes the outer packaging. Inside, the head of a bonsai tree pops up. A shawl of red foil and silver ribbon billows around its neck. Alan is entranced.
'Just a little something from Ramon and me.'
'I've never had a bonsai,' he declares, gently examining the gnarled bark of its miniature trunk. 'I can't thank you enough.'
I look at my watch and declare that the muffins should be cooked. In anticipation, Catalina and Alan hover like vultures around the oven door. I lift out the trays one by one, immediately realising that something has gone awry. The muffins have risen up from their cases like enormous, brown mushrooms. How did that happen? We all look at each other.
'Too much baking powder,' I lament.
'So what? I bet they'll taste just as good,' says Catalina, helping herself to one of the largest. She takes a bite and then fans her open mouth with her hand. 'It's delicious.'
Alan pulls one from the tray then juggles it in his hands. 'It's a bit hot.'
I shoo them away. 'I haven't topped them with icing yet.'
There's a loud tooting from the courtyard. Catalina, carrying a mug of tea, walks through the entrada to the front door. She shouts over to us.
'Alan, it's a man from UPS. He has a delivery.'
A tall, cumbersome figure stands by the front door, holding an enormous box in his arms. He wrestles it to the marble floor and then returns to his car to fetch another, smaller carton. Catalina is full of excitement.
'What can it be?'
The Scotsman looks on, mystified. 'I've no idea.'
I wipe my hands on a tea towel, secretly amused at their growing curiosity. The parcels, I was informed by UPS, would have to be stored over the weekend at the Madrid depot. Given the nature of the content I was concerned that some catastrophic incident might occur, but the manufacturers in the UK assured me that nothing could escape and that everything would arrive alive and intact. I'm relieved that UPS has finally made it to the valley. The man mops his moist brow with a hankie.
'Could you sign this delivery note?'
Alan scrawls his name on the sheet and the man takes his leave.
'I suppose you know what's in here?'
'Maybe,' I give a small shrug.
'Let's get some scissors!' cries Catalina.
'Wait a minute,' I say, sounding a deliberate note of caution. 'Please be careful with the smaller package. The contents are very delicate.'
Alan is puzzled. 'Delicate?'
The telephone rings.
'Wait a second,' I hiss and flit back into the kitchen. It's Manuel Ramirez from H Hotels. His timing is always immaculate.
'Hello, I am Manuel,' he announces with aplomb.
In Spanish it would be considered normal to pick up the telephone and say, 'Soy Manuel', but, of course, it sounds silly in English.
I greet him warmly.
'Is this line safe?' There's a twitchiness in his voice.
'Of course. Why?'
'You never know who is listening.'
In Panama City, Manuel rides around in a limo with bulletproof glass and his trusted PA will never reveal either his home address or personal telephone numbers. Last time we spoke he mentioned en passant that he'd ordered some super lightweight, bulletproof outer wear from an ingenious tailor in Colombia who, he told me, kitted out the presidents of every Latin American country. He's an intriguing chap.
Manuel's voice takes on a strange huskiness. 'Listen, I will be brief.'
Thank heavens for that. I potter into the entrada with the cordless phone to my ear. Catalina has already fetched some scissors from the kitchen drawer and is jabbing at the outer packaging of the smaller box. Alan is trying to make head or tail of the label. Without pausing for breath, Manuel babbles on, swinging between English and Spanish. H Hotels has signed up another hotel in Tribeca in New York, and two in Cuba, he tells me.
'Marvellous,' I say distractedly, clicking the fingers of my left hand to attract Catalina's attention. She's already managed to yank up one of the side flaps of the box.
Catalina frowns at me. 'Que?' she mouths.
I frantically click my fingers again and point at the box with a warning grimace hoping this will stop her from delving any further inside.
Manuel stops dead. 'What was that? I think someone's tapping the line.'
'No, Manuel, I can assure you everything's fine. Carry on.'
Catalina ignores me altogether and with Alan's help begins pulling at the polythene inner wrapping.
'We will have a November launch for the Tribeca hotel,' Manuel is steely. 'And I expect you and Rachel to attend.'
'Of course, but is there any chance of it coinciding with the marathon? You remember I'm running in it?'
He suddenly breaks into hysterical, manic laughter. 'Of course, woman. I've timed everything to coincide. The hotel launch will take place the day after the marathon. As far as that's concerned, you will run in under four hours and I will give you a donation of two thousand dollars.'
'In under four hours?'
The Scotsman is thrusting his hand into the package. I jump up and down and shake my head, but he and Catalina are too engrossed.
'A second over and you fail me,' Manuel says darkly.
Perhaps that's when he'll pull the gold Kalashnikov from the wall and finish me off.
'That's very generous of you, Manuel, but it's a bit of a tall order.'
He is deadpan. 'I have made you my final offer. Tomorrow, I'll send you the hotel launch brief for your comments. Don't show anybody. Now I must go. Adios.'
The line hums. He's gone. The man's a completely paranoid lunatic and now he's my client. Thanks a lot, Rachel. I drop the telephone onto the sofa.
'Ah!!!!!'
It's too late. With fumbling, eager fingers, Alan has delved into the smaller cardboard box and with a sharp cry of surprise, pulled out his hand which in turn releases several wriggling worms. Catalina recoils in horror.
'I told you to wait. It's full of worms.'
The two of them stare at me in disbelief.
'I can see that!' snaps the Scotsman. 'I thought it was a box of bulbs.'
'There are two thousand worms in there. It's a wormery.'
Catalina pokes the soil inside the box. 'This is full of cuques? Two thousand of them?'
'Well, so they say, but I'm not going to start counting.'
&nbs
p; Alan wipes his hands on his shorts, a troubled expression on his face.
'You could have warned us,' he mumbles.
'What is a wormery?' Catalina persists.
'I suppose you'd call it a Cuques Hotel in Catalan. It creates great compost.'
Although somewhat shaken, Alan opens the larger box to reveal sections of wood ready for construction into a wormery. Having coped with the initial sensory shock of touching an untold number of squirming little bodies in the dark soil, he is clearly delighted with his new toy. He gives me a wry grin.
'Don't you ever spring a surprise like that on me again!'
Remembering my towering, deformed muffins, I return to the kitchen and begin reviving the icing, which has become rigid. Adding some hot water from the kettle and some melted chocolate, I whip it up and hurriedly spread it over the muffins. The hot mixture dribbles down the sides of the cakes, but I pay no heed. With a flourish I take our various small packets of brightly coloured sugar and chocolate decorations and sprinkle them over the tops. Catalina is suddenly at my side, clucking. 'I never see a worm hotel before. My father won't believe his eyes.'
She studies the trays of muffins. 'You have so many.'
'Well, I've made some for Margalida too. She has a sweet tooth.'
Alan walks into the kitchen and winces at the gaudy home bakes.
'What on earth are those supposed to be?'
'Monster muffins. Didn't you know, they're the latest vogue in home bakes?'
The small huddle of men standing around the wooden wormery are deep in discussion. Catalina's father, Paco, dressed in old cords and checked shirt, squats at the side of its legs and pulls out the bottom tray on which some loose soil sits. Miquel, our young taciturn siquier, the town's irrigator, lifts off the lid and examines the squirming worms inside.
'They are British worms?' he asks suspiciously.
'Through and through,' replies Alan.
Miquel shrugs a little sulkily. 'So what happens if you need more? You get British or Mallorcan worms?'
Alan puffs out his bottom lip. 'Well, I suppose there's no harm in mixing them, is there?'
Paco's face displays a rascally smile. 'Apart from a few linguistic problems, they should be fine.'
Catalina and I have been standing quietly behind the men. I waggle a finger at her.
'Hello old chap, my name's George Worm.'
'Ah, mi amic, som José Cuc!' she replies in a squeaky voice, 'You like Mallorca?'
Miquel turns round and observes us coolly. 'You may joke, but it is sometimes bad to combine species. You don't know what might happen.'
Rafael, who has up until now been drinking a coke and slouching against the wall with Llamp playing at his feet, claps his hands together theatrically.
'Yes, you could create a monster breed, Alan, or maybe they end up fighting. We Mallorcans are very nationalistic, remember!'
'Don't say I didn't warn you,' Miquel growls.
He plods off across the patio, past the pool and down the steps to the field.
'Where's he going?' asks Rafael.
Alan looks glum. 'To check on our water level.'
This is a critical time of the year for gardeners. As June approaches, the free, gushing mountain water we receive through a series of sluice gates in the field dwindles, and our water tank, the old safareig, runs dry. During the summer months, the water is rationed and must be used sparingly. It's a worrying time for the Scotsman.
'So,' says Rafael. 'Explain to us again how this contraption works.'
Alan, who is finding the Spanish hard to keep up with, sighs. 'Can I explain in English and Catalina will translate?'
'Vale,' says Rafael.
Catalina views him sternly. 'OK, but you shouldn't have given up those lessons with Paula. You're forgetting your Spanish.'
He pulls a face. After a lengthy translated explanation, Rafael fiddles with the shelves of the wormery. 'So you put the kitchen rubbish in here and the worms eat it. Then some weeks later, by some magic, it turns into compost?'
'That's just about it.'
He and Paco look admiringly at it.
'No waste, no electricity and good compost. It's a fine investment,' Paco says.
'We should all get them up here,' adds Rafael.
Alan has a glint in his eye. 'Not a bad marketing idea.'
I give him a thump on the arm dreading that this might become another fanciful business idea for him and his chum, Pep to explore. 'Don't even think about it.'
For the past few days, our builder Stefan and two of his men have worked tirelessly on building a stone wall at the front of our house to which they have attached an electronic gate. Now it is finished, Ollie and his father spend an inordinate amount of time trying the newly installed entry button which is linked to an internal telephone on the kitchen wall. They seem to derive infinite pleasure in seeing the gate open and close of its own volition.
The telephone has been wailing all morning. A friend in the village of Fornalutx has been caring for a pair of abandoned male kittens and, with much lobbying from Ollie, we have agreed to give them a home. She calls to say that she will deposit them at the house this afternoon. Much as the Scotsman might prefer the presence of a dog around the house, he has a sneaking affection for Inko and has finally succumbed to the idea of two more felines joining the family. I barely finish the call when Catalina is on the line, making final arrangements for this evening. Together with her wonderful aunt, Maria, we are off on a midnight snail hunt. The hunting of cargols is a national sport and late May is the best time to find them lurking in the hedgerows and in the long grasses. I flit outside and begin telling Alan about the kittens and the timing of my snail excursion but the shrill sound of his mobile stops us in our tracks.
'Blasted phones!' he mutters, dropping his hoe and extracting the vibrating fiend from the pocket of his gardening shorts.
'Who?' I hear him cry irritably. He potters off towards the house.
I stroll over to the garden pond and peer into its murky depths. Tiny, gymnastic frogs dive from the stony wide-lipped fountain into the water, intimidated by my sudden appearance. There's an urgent croak and Johnny, my wisecracking American toad, appears from nowhere and watches. I give him a smile, but he continues with his impassive stare. Since moving here, Johnny and I have had many a profound chat. A cynic might say I'm mildly delusional and that Johnny is just a figment of my imagination, but to me he's very real. He helps me mull over things and gives me a wonderful excuse to slip out of my office and sprawl at the pond's edge taking in the music of the trickling water with the sunshine on my face. When I worked full-time in London, I always had colleagues to chat with but now when Ollie's at school and the Scotsman is out for the day, I have to make do with Johnny or the cats for conversation. I cock my head towards the house and turn to leave. There's a small cough.
'Not so fast!'
He's squatting on a lily pad, his low slung girth resting on its cool surface.
'Did I hear you right? You're getting more cats?'
I take a deep breath. 'Look, Johnny, I know Inko's been a pain at times, but she's not been near the pond for weeks.'
'Pah!' he shakes his head. 'That cat is a nightmare and so is the fat tabby next door. It's bad enough being stalked daily by a psychotic heron without this extra stress.'
He's right about the heron. For some months now our amphibians have been plagued by this arrogant and fearless creature that carries off unsuspecting fish and tiny frogs in the early hours of the morning. We have tried to keep vigil, without much success.
'Don't worry about the kittens. I'll keep any eye on them.'
He sniffs and gives me a sullen expression. 'When you came here you didn't give a rat's ass about cats. Now you're all over them. And what's with the worm hotel?'
'It creates great compost.'
'Next thing', he groans, 'you'll be opening a cat motel.'
I step back, startled. Can he read my thoughts?
'On
my mother's lily pad, you are!' he splutters, eyeing me keenly. 'Jeez! You've finally lost the plot. Wake me up when you're back on medication.'
He plunges into the scum. I sigh heavily and walk back into the house. Alan is standing in the kitchen doorway with hands on hips.
'You won't believe who just rang.'
'Surprise me?'
'That nice girl we met from Channel Four. She said she's recommended me for a TV advert.'
'Well, I never.'
'I'll have to audition with a local production company called Focus Films.'
Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Page 7