Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof

by Anna Nicholas

  'What kind of advert?'

  'It's for a bank. Apparently, I have to play golf.'

  'Who knows,' I say. 'This could be the start of a new career.'

  The sky, a bale of oyster silk, cups an exquisite pearl of a moon in its soft folds and envelopes the highest peaks of the Tramuntanas. Entwined in a wicker basket, our new arrivals, Minky and Orlando, sleep softly, their tiny grey paws twitching as they dream of darting mice and lizards and ponds abundant with baby frogs and fish. The kitchen door is open and a sudden gust of warm, aromatic air tickles the dog-eared corners of a pile of paper on the old oak dining table and flutters the velvety petals of a solitary white lily in a vase by the window. I glance at my watch. It's midnight. Catalina and her irrepressible aunt, Maria, should be here by now. Where are they?

  There's the sound of hollow metal clanging as the front gate creaks opens and a battered, old white van slowly drives into the courtyard. Grabbing my torch and plastic carrier bag, I close the doors of the kitchen and entrada gently behind me. The Scotsman and Ollie have chosen their beds in preference to a night's culinary excursion on the snail trail. I jump into the backseat, wincing at the brightness of the interior light. A beaming Maria sits with arms folded in the front passenger seat while Catalina takes the wheel. I greet them both as Catalina loops round the courtyard and swerves out of the front gate.

  'Is the electronic key working all right?'

  She smiles at me in the mirror. 'It's perfect. So nice not to have to stop and open the wooden gate any more, no?'

  We reach the end of the track and head off up into the mountains. The inky road unfurls like a smooth black snake, its skin glistening in the headlights of the car. We climb higher and soon ours is the only vehicle on the road. The predictable terrain of black, squat rocks and stubbly grasses soon changes and we find ourselves flanked on either side by austere and craggy mountains, and dark, impenetrable forestland. Gusts of warm air with the dry tang of rosemary rush through our open windows, rustling the plastic carrier bag at my side and caressing our hair. The road widens and Maria indicates that we should take a left turn. We follow a narrow, dusky track for a few miles until she instructs Catalina to park under a sturdy olive tree. Shards of ivory moonlight pierce through the leafy branches, but in the deep undergrowth beyond there is nothing but thick, treacly darkness. We are surrounded by woodland and, I sense, thousands of alert and bright-eyed diminutive lookouts with spindly limbs, wings and antennae. The ghostly silhouette of a screech owl, like a streak of white flame, scorches the sky and is gone. In the higher reaches of the valley, there's the muffled clanking of sheep bells and the soulful braying of a donkey. Armed with plastic carrier bags, we clamber out of the car onto the muddy track and switch on our torches. The soil is still very damp from a sudden and prolonged rainfall earlier in the evening.

  'This is a good place for finding cargols,' announces Maria, whose snail dishes at her Fornalutx restaurant are renowned far beyond the confines of the valley. She is also queen of seta mushrooms, and in October is to be found combing the mountains at dawn for these much prized fungi to serve to her customers. We trudge into the forest and by the light of our torches begin our search. The wet leaves have made the ground slippery underfoot and we take care as we weave through the maze of trees. Maria stops abruptly to feel a handful of soil.

  'The rain is a godsend. There should be plenty of snails here.'

  I'm relieved that she's switched from Catalan to Castilian Spanish, which is so much easier for me to follow. Catalina has already alighted on a huddle of snails, their viscous antennae recoiling in the light of her torch. She picks them up one by one and pops them in her carrier bag.

  'You like eating snails?' asks Maria, her compact form turning to face me.

  I flinch at the question. In the past I have tolerated the odd plate of the delicate, petit-gris Gallic breed dressed in a sauce of garlic and shallot butter, but their more robust Mallorcan cousins have never quite appealed. They seem so much fatter and more voluptuous than the French variety and, dare I say it, look rather chewy.

  'Only the French ones because they're so nice and small.'

  She gives me a little frown. 'You're wrong. The snails from Burgundy are just as large as ours. You pick them during the winter months. The thin ones you speak of are from Provence.'

  With a tremulous hand I whisk two snails with enormous protruding heads into my empty carrier bag and wipe the slimy residue on my jeans.

  'Well, you can tell I'm no cargols expert, Maria. I promise to try your snails at the restaurant tomorrow.'

  She puts an arm round my shoulder. 'Then you will taste a morsel of heaven.'

  We roam the forests, the needles of light from our torches illuminating rats and bats, lizards and wide-eyed geckos. Insects tickle my legs and spiders' webs embrace my face as I duck the higher branches and try to concentrate on the booty's silvery, luminous trails under the trees. Time, an old peasant, ambles along unhurriedly while we forage around the long grasses, our carrier bags bursting with squirming little bodies that burrow forever deeper into the dark recesses of their brittle homes. At two o'clock we head back to the van, and dump our haul in the boot.

  'So, tomorrow you sample fresh cargols with my niece,' says Maria, bobbing her head towards Catalina. There's a flicker of amusement in her small hazel eyes.

  Catalina relishes the moment. 'Yes, tomorrow we'll see how much of a Mallorcan you really are.'

  The car door slams and Ollie runs up the front steps of the porch clutching a small paper bag. I don't need to enquire about its contents as this is a weekly ritual. Every Saturday he will spend a few euros of his pocket money at Cavall Verd, a tiny Aladdin's cave of a shop in Sóller where the owner, Bel, sells the most magical marbles. They are not the clear cat's-eye marbles of my childhood but delicately painted creations in every conceivable size and hue which sit in a glass jar by the window, glistening in the lambent sunlight like iridescent bubbles.

  'I've bought five new ones, bringing the total to two-hundred-fifty-eight,' Ollie announces loudly as he scuttles up the stairs to his room.

  Alan marches into the kitchen with numerous shopping bags which he deposits in a heap at my feet. He plods back out onto the porch and begins heaving some large wooden planks against the stone wall. A few minutes later he reappears, running a hand through his tousled grey hair.

  'That was hard work.'

  I pour us both a glass of cool water from a bottle in the fridge.

  'What exactly are you going to do with all that wood?'

  'Ah. It was going to be a bit of a surprise.'

  'Let me guess. You're going to make another wormery strictly for Mallorcan worms.'

  'Don't be inane. I'm going to build a corral.'

  'As in a corral for hens?'

  'Exactly. Pep and I have decided to build our own. I recently sent off for a gem of a book all about how to make corrals.'

  I recall the small package he was so keen to retrieve from the post bag a few weeks ago.

  'It would have been nice to have been consulted.'

  'Talking of which,' he says, 'I picked up a package for you today and couldn't help but notice the intriguing words on the front of it.'

  He pulls the offending item from one of the bags heaped on the tiled floor and hands it to me. My eyes are drawn to the British stamps and my Spanish address written by hand in neat block letters, below which runs a line of black print. It reads:

  FAB. Feline Advisory Bureau. Boarding Cattery Manual.

  He studies my face.

  'It's just a little business idea I've been mulling over.'

  'A cattery?' he sinks into a chair at the table, a blank expression on his face.

  'More a chic cat hotel.'

  He gives a cynical grunt. 'Is this one of Greedy George's madcap ideas?'

  'It's nothing to do with him.'

  'That doesn't make it any less ridiculous.'

  'Why are you being so negative?'

&n
bsp; 'Because we've already got our hands full, what with the chickens and...'

  'That's the point,' I say, cutting him short. 'If we've got a wormery and a corral, would a cattery really make much difference?'

  FIVE

  HIDDEN TALENTS

  With the golden village of Deià a blur of sun-scorched stone melting fast behind me, I course along the winding mountain road, distracted by the sparkling sapphire sea to my left and the yachts gliding on its glassy surface like tiny specks of white spume. It is June and yet the route is clear of the usual cyclists and kamikaze hikers spilling out of the forests onto the open road. I have all the windows lowered and the wind races inside, tousling my hair, flapping the newspaper lying beside me and churning up Alan's pyre of cigar ash and old cellophane puro wrappers hidden beneath the front seat. They rasp and flutter, eventually disappearing from the car window altogether, floating high up into the sky. This morning, as is habitual on a Saturday, I finished my Pilates class and headed off with my companions to Cafè Sa Font Fresca for an espresso and an entrepà, a crusty roll with Manchego cheese, accompanied by sweet tomatoes the size of tennis balls thickly sliced on the plate. Normally, I would loll in a chair catching up on local news for some time longer, but today my budding thespian is making his acting debut in a NatWest advert, so I must hasten home with all speed so that he can use the car.

  I reach the end of my track and see that Margalida is shuffling around her small front garden and patio, leaning laboriously on her stick. I call out to her and she walks stiffly over to me.

  'Un moment. I have something for you.'

  I stealthily look at my wrist and realise that I'm not wearing my watch, a lazy habit of mine these days.

  'Vale, but I must be quick. Alan needs the car.'

  I jump out, leaving the engine running, and follow her to the patio where she has placed three delicate branches from a jacaranda tree on a stone bench

  'These are for you. A thank you for the chocolate magdalenas.'

  Having sampled my first batch of monster muffins and developed a penchant for them, Margalida is delighted when I bring her new supplies but insists that I am rewarded with fruit or flowers from her garden. I've given up remonstrating.

  'These are beautiful. I love the jacaranda flower.'

  She peers into my face for a few moments. 'It's my favourite flower because my husband…'

  I wait, but the words dissolve into silence as her head droops, a little gasp catching in her throat. Gripping her scrawny arm, I guide her to the stone steps leading to the front door, but she falters at the bottom.

  'I don't think I want to go inside just yet. I'll sit here for a while.'

  She lowers herself onto a step and squints up at me. Her eyes have pooled with water.

  'What are you wearing?'

  'Just some old sports clothes.'

  'I think you'd look nicer in a skirt.'

  'Maybe, Margalida, but it wouldn't be very practical for my exercise class.'

  She gives me a small smile. 'I suppose.'

  I leave her sitting dreamily on the steps of her home, her face vulnerable and expectant like that of a young child.

  Alan greets me in the courtyard. He's carrying a trug full of artichokes and peas.

  'Last of the crop. I've just planted the tomatoes and aubergines.'

  The thrill of planting and eating our own vegetables and awaiting the new crop never dwindles, although I miss my regular forays to the local market to see my friendly stallholder, Teresa. I observe the perspiration clinging to Alan's well-worn, blue linen shirt.

  'I thought you'd be ready to set off. What's the time?'

  He looks at his watch. 'Actually, I was an hour out. I don't have to leave just yet.'

  'Well, I hope you'll have a shower before you go.'

  He eyes me with some exasperation. 'Of course I will. I've got to change into golf gear anyway. They want us spruced up and ready to film on arrival.'

  Despite the outwardly calm veneer, the Scotsman has been getting fretful about the impending shoot, fussing over his dusty golf clubs and unearthing a pair of archaic golfing shoes, a gift from his time as a director at Dunlop. For the next three days, along with three other willing victims, he will be spending his time on a Palma golf course, wheeling around a set of clubs and driving a golf buggy. The producer, who obviously has a sense of humour, has described them all as 'distant talent'. Still, he'll get paid a daily fee and might even have time for the odd round of golf.

  Ollie greets me in the porch with a face like thunder.

  'Have you been stealing my marbles?'

  'Well I lost my own years ago, but I wouldn't dream of taking yours.'

  'It's no laughing matter,' he says grimly. 'Five of my favourite marbles have gone from my jar.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Of course I'm sure. I count them every night. Daddy claims he hasn't touched them either.'

  'Maybe it's the ghost?'

  Our resident ghost has apparently been a regular visitor to Ollie's bedroom since we moved here. Though Alan and I have never actually seen him, our son matter-of-factly tells us that he's an elderly man in a long black dress who wanders around his room and takes his leave through the external wall into the garden. We used to put all this down to Ollie's fertile imagination until Margalida informed us that back in the annals of history, at least a century ago, our house used to be the local presbytery. Apparently, in those days the priest would walk across the fields to the church from the front door that was at the time situated where Ollie's outer bedroom wall is today. That certainly gave us food for thought.

  'The ghost? Why would an old man want my marbles?'

  Ollie throws his arms up in the air dramatically and stomps off into the house.

  Alan knits his eyebrows. 'Not guilty.'

  I wrestle my unwieldy exercise mat out of the car and retrieve the ruffled newspaper, the Majorca Daily Bulletin, from the front seat. Alan takes it from me.

  'What photo have they used in your column today?'

  'Ken Livingstone.'

  'Were you writing about him then?'

  'Well, I had a bit of a rant about his discontinuing Routemaster buses in London.'

  'Oh, not that old chestnut again?' He taps me on the head with the rolled-up paper and ambles into the house with it under his arm.

  For a while now I have been writing what my sister describes as 'the weekly rant' for the island's English daily newspaper. It's a great way of letting off steam.

  In the kitchen I find our new feline twins, Orlando and Minky, curled up in their basket. The knot of soft, grey fur purrs deeply, oblivious to life going on around it. Alan scans the pages of the Bulletin while I make myself an iced coffee.

  'By the way, I posted off that application form.'

  The Scotsman lowers the paper and observes me over the top of his tortoiseshell reading glasses.

  'You're quite serious about all this, aren't you?'

  'Of course.'

  Having taken out a subscription with the wonderfully named FAB, I've decide to take my business idea a little further by enrolling on a tailor-made training course at a top Dorset cattery. A year ago we went on holiday for two weeks and packed Inko off to an island based cattery. The experience was a disaster. We returned to find our beloved cat a shadow of her former self, withdrawn, full of infections and with a weepy eye. I was so incensed that I vowed to open a small, elite cat hotel for islanders who loved their felines as much as we did. At the time, Alan assumed I was joking but the idea took hold and I began working on the framework for a business plan. I decided that the adjoining piece of orchard land would make an excellent plot for my cattery but then we didn't own it, and neither did we have the funds to buy it. Nothing has changed but now we've finished most of the costly building work on the house it might be time to revisit the matter.

  'So, when do you start?' he says stiffly.

  'Mid September.'

  He takes his glasses off and rubs hi
s eyes. 'I'm really not happy about it all. I mean, this course seems like a complete waste of money.'

  'It's hardly expensive.'

  'But what's the point of doing it? We don't have a place to build a damned cattery and we don't have money to invest in such a hair-brained scheme.'

  'Oh and I suppose your whisky shop was such a brilliant idea?'

  'That was just a passing fancy of Pep's and mine. We certainly didn't waste any money… '

  'Ollie reappears in the entrada. 'I think one of my sea monkeys is ill.'

  'He holds the small plastic sea tank aloft and points at a black speck the size of a pinhead.