Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof

by Anna Nicholas

  'We've got bags of time to sort everything out.'

  The door opens a fraction and Ollie stumbles half asleep into the room.

  'I had a nightmare.'

  'Poor old chap,' says Alan dropping Inko to the floor and whisking him up for a hug instead.

  A devious thought hits me. 'I'll tell you something that'll cheer you up, Ollie. Your father's agreed that we can go to Sri Lanka next Easter.'

  His eyes widen and with gusto he gives Alan a chummy punch on the arm.

  'Really? You're the best!'

  Alan exhales deeply. 'Now why didn't I see that coming?'

  With a shake of the head he plods out of the room, one arm slung over Ollie's shoulder and with Inko, ever the faithful shadow, at his heels.

  I am at the counter of Can Matarino, my favourite butcher's in the town. Like many of the shopkeepers in Sóller, the three Graces standing before me bearing hatchets and bloody knives spend considerable time patiently trying to make head or tail of my embryonic Catalan. Ordering cuts of meat in Castilian Spanish can be tricky enough, but in Catalan, it's a meaty minefield. Chicken, pollo becomes pollastre, cutlet, chuleta, transforms into costella, and a drumstick, muslo, is the more challenging cuixa. If that isn't confusing enough, Mallorcans put their own special twist on Catalan words which do not appear in any dictionary so for example, lamb, be in Catalan, becomes xot in Mallorcan. The wonderful thing about Can Matarino is that it exists at all. In London our local butcher wearily packed up his stripy apron and hung up his meat cleaver, unable to cope with the soaring shop rent. In his place came a huge, shiny supermarket with cellophane wrapped meat and vegetables suffocating in tightly packaged polystyrene. By contrast, regulars at Can Matarino can handpick bones and off-cuts for making stock or even to feed their dogs, and choose the organic fresh lamb, pork or beef that they wish to be minced. Handmade sausages, chicken croquetes and stuffed pork rolls are house specialities and there isn't the flash of a clingwrap package in sight.

  Antonia, one of the feisty women, hands me a bag of meat.

  'The sooner you start those Catalan lessons the better,' she says with mock sobriety.

  'Then we'll teach you our own Mallorcan version,' adds Catalina, one of her accomplices, wiping her hands on her gore-smeared white apron.

  Across the street at the grocer's, Colmado Sa Lluna, Xavier is mopping his brow.

  'It's a scorcher today.'

  His girlfriend, Teresa, is now working with him in the shop and nervously studies him as he finely carves a hulk of Serrano ham on the slicing machine.

  'There's nothing to it. Come on, you try.'

  She takes my order and, with an anxious expression, begins slicing some chorizo. The meat disintegrates into minute slivers.

  'Non! Here, hold it like this.'

  She stands back and shakes her head. 'This is going to take forever.'

  He looks at me. 'What do you think of my new apprentice?'

  'She's a natural.'

  Teresa jerks her finger at her grinning boyfriend. 'Can you imagine having to take lessons from him?'

  'No, it's bad enough having him correct my Catalan all the time.'

  'Talking of which, why are we chatting in Castiliano?

  'Can't I have a break?'

  He hunches his shoulders. 'Just today. By the way, Ramon tells me you've bought some chickens. That'll keep Alan busy.'

  'He's out there every day with Ollie, fussing around the corral.'

  'Watch the genets and rats. They've carried off some of my hens.'

  I can cope with the concept of running into a spotted, furry genet in the corral, after all, these cat-like creatures with their bushy tails are rather beautiful, but I'm not sure about a rat. While eating supper al fresco the night before, we watched as a rat scuttled across the garden in front of us, its long grey tail slithering over the cobbles, and began scampering up the facade of the house, a feat I never imagined possible. When I quizzed Rafael on the matter, he shrugged dismissively, telling me that it was quite normal for a rat to climb a wall but that it would rarely enter a house even with the windows or doors opened. I remain unconvinced.

  I collect my goods and amble up Calle Sa Lluna which is predictably awash with locals and summer holidaymakers. For Sa Mostra, the international folk dancing fiesta, has officially begun, turning Sóller's plaça into a veritable paradise for Come Dancing fans. Musical and dancing groups travel from as far away as Easter Island and Berundi to perform to appreciative audiences across Mallorca, using Sóller as their base. I pop into Art I Mans, the local art and picture framing shop, to buy Ollie some new pencils. The owners greet me like a longlost friend, keen to direct me to those which they know are Ollie's favourites. Clutching the small paper bag of purchases, I arrive in the busy plaça just as dancers from Asturias in brightly coloured folk costumes start cavorting around the bandstand. Crowds whistle and clap while local children get to their feet and mimic the dance moves on the pavements to rapturous applause. I am entranced by the grace and confidence with which these small boys and girls follow the movements of the dancers. Somewhat distractedly, with eyes straining to keep pace with the dancers, I pass by the bandstand and in the process collide with Tolo, our deputy bank manager. He kisses me on both cheeks and exclaims incredulously that he has just seen Alan in the gym. This sweat shop for the masochistic is run by Jaume, a popular and incredibly sporty Mallorcan whose cycling prowess has won him many trophies. When I first plucked up courage to duck through the heavy metal chains hanging in front of the entrance, I expected to alight upon a group of sultry macho hulks with names like Rocky, but I had a surprise. The majority of the patrons were quiet, middle-aged and dressed in unpretentious sportswear.

  'Alan's doing another TV advert and is becoming rather self-conscious about his expanding waist line.'

  'Ah, now I understand,' says Tolo wryly. 'He wants to look his best on TV.'

  'That, or it's a late middle-age crisis.'

  Tolo gives a smirk and heads off towards Banca March while I hurriedly make my way to the baker's. My film director chum, Victoria Duvall, and her husband, Robert, who also used to be in the entertainment business, are coming for lunch and I need to get busy in the kitchen. Like us, they enjoy long, relaxing lunches with good food and wine and plenty of banter. Today I shall make a special effort with my dessert because I know Robert has a penchant for home-made puddings. A return visit to their ancient finca, an idyllic eyrie high up on a hill on the outskirts of nearby Fornalutx village, is always a culinary treat and a particular favourite with Ollie because of Victoria's star turn, a talkative and entertaining parrot named Phoebe. Their forthcoming visit is particularly welcome because as seasoned sailors with a beautiful yacht in the Port of Sóller, we need to tap them for some sea-faring survival tips. Foolishly, Alan and I have been cajoled by our friends Pep and Juana into joining them for a week's sailing course in Palma the coming week. I vaguely recall agreeing to this absurd venture during a jolly dinner at their finca when far too many glasses of good Rioja had been consumed. Now, as the date draws nearer, both of us are scrabbling for excuses not to go but having paid our deposit feel we must bite the bullet. An entire week spent on the high seas sounds rather daunting so I hope Victoria and Robert will pass on some handy tips such as how to find our sea legs or when in peril, the nearest coast guard.

  EIGHT

  LEARNING THE ROPES

  Day One

  The dreaded day has arrived and here we are at the Palma school of sailing, otherwise known as L'Escola de Vela. With its breathtaking panoramic view of Palma Bay, the school is hugely popular with aspiring Popeyes and during the summer months attracts children of all ages whose eager parents enrol them on courses while they slope off to enjoy uninterrupted peace at home. We are not so lucky, having foolishly signed up for this sailing course along with Ollie and Angel, the son of Juana and Pep. The two boys are full of enthusiasm and impatiently kick a ball around the sailing club car park as we all begin unpacking
bags and belongings from the boot. When we last met, Juana and Pep suggested we take it in turns to make lunch each day so, having been allotted first duty, we arrive laden with a cooler box, food hamper, towels, swimwear and other life saving paraphernalia. At least we get to go home every evening so we don't need to bring pyjamas and toothbrushes.

  Pep and Juana are full of good cheer. They're old hands at sailing and, although they don't own a yacht of their own, will do anything to hijack one belonging to somebody else. Much as I enjoy a little gentle sailing, I have never learned the ropes, preferring others to do all the leaping about, hoisting of flapping sails and kamikaze climbing of masts while I look out wistfully to sea, basking in the motion of the frisky waves.

  Some years ago a British newspaper editor and I were invited to Indonesia to report on the construction of the world's tallest tower of bread, and who could refuse? It was enormous fun, until by misfortune we found ourselves in the midst of a maelstrom on the Java Sea in a private yacht provided by our wealthy host. As colossal waves reared like savage stallions around us, we slithered helplessly along the deck gasping for breath and drenched in spume. Praying we wouldn't be thrown into the mouth of a passing shark, we clung to fixed ropes and poles while our barefooted crew of two stood at the helm squawking hysterically in local dialect and crying every time they passed another fresh shipwreck. It was miserable hours later that our boat lurched into the port of Jakarta on a moaning wind, its engine having spluttered its last some time before. I remember crawling biliously from the deck and kissing the parched earth, vowing never to sail again while my companion downed a triple brandy at a nearby bar. I try to blank out the memory.

  Pep nudges me. 'Hey, wake up, dreamer! We'd better all head to the main building or we'll be late.'

  I scan my watch. It's nine o'clock and a sadistic sun is already glaring down at us. The boys skip ahead, their pace quickening when they see a large group of youths gathered on the marina. Angel begins waving at a tall boy in the throng and is delighted to see him return the gesture.

  'That's Lucio! Come on, Ollie, let's get going.'

  'Wait a minute, you two,' says Alan. 'We'd better introduce ourselves to the tutor.'

  Pep fans the air. 'Leave them. It's OK. Angel has done this course many times. He'll look after Ollie.'

  Much to my son's embarrassment I call after him, 'Wear a life jacket! Don't do anything silly.'

  He turns round. 'I'm not a baby. Honestly, mother!'

  And he's gone. I feel a panic rising. Why in heaven's name did we agree to do this? Alan is putting on his best Boy Scout smile to accompany his ancient olive green shorts. 'Ah, a bit of bracing brine in the air. Nothing like it!'

  Juana slowly catches up with us. I notice she is carrying a trendy little rucksack while I lumber on with a wicker basket over my shoulder and a cooler bag in my arms.

  We reach the doorway of the club, a dull white building set on three levels from which endless smiling youths emerge, their skin bronzed and lean, their faces animated. I notice that the club's frontage, with its rows of neat square windows facing the soft blue sea, is festooned with jolly nautical and international flags that flap in the breeze.

  'There seem to be very few adults about,' I say.

  'Well, apparently they don't get many takers for the advanced courses,' Juana replies.

  'Advanced? I hope that's a joke.'

  I'm beginning to wonder if I should make a bolt for it back to the car.

  'Don't worry,' says Pep. 'Advanced just means we all have a reasonable knowledge of sailing.'

  'But Alan and I don't have a clue! We should be in the absolute beginners' class,' I puff.

  'Don't be ridiculous!' he says. 'If you've sailed once, you never forget the ropes. It's like learning to ride a bike...'

  'Have you ever seen me on a bike?' I say.

  'It's not a pretty sight,' interjects Alan. 'She's the exception to the rule.'

  Pep waves his hands in the air impatiently and then takes out a cigar from his pocket.

  'Listen, you'll take to it like, how you say in English, ducks to water.'

  He lights up and lets out a plume of smoke while the two of us regard him suspiciously.

  Juana slaps me on the arm. 'Pep's right. This is going to feel more like a holiday than a sailing course.'

  At which moment an athletic man in blue shorts and a Ralph Lauren baseball cap approaches us and asks whether we are the two couples embarking on the advanced course. Pep nods enthusiastically and makes polite introductions. The man narrows his eyes and, looking each of us up and down, announces that he, Javier, will be our instructor.

  'Only one other has enrolled for this week's course,' he says abruptly, studying a typed sheet of paper. 'She is flying in from Madrid and was instructed, like all of you, to meet me here.'

  'Pues, it's only ten past nine. We can wait a little while.'

  Javier shakes his head irritably. 'No. I believe in punctuality.'

  Without further ado he strides onto the marina and we follow hurriedly in his wake.

  'You have a basic knowledge already, right?' he barks, leaping onto a small yacht, his nimble fingers fiddling with some ropes.

  'Si, si,' says Pep casually. 'Our friends might need a little help, and of course they are English so… '

  He stops in his tracks. 'I don't speak English so what do you prefer, Catalan or Castilian Spanish?'

  'Castilian,' I almost yelp. It's bad enough having to endure five days at sea with a self-satisfied crew for company without having to endure instructions in Catalan as well. Besides, Alan doesn't comprehend a word, so it would be a miserable voyage for him. We embark rapidly, and are about to set off when there's a cry in the distance and a pouting creature with tanned legs that seem to unwind endlessly from her chin, pants up to the boat. She throws back her head, golden curls spilling onto her back.

  'Am I late?' she gasps in Spanish. 'I am Gloria. I just flew in from Madrid this morning.'

  'Come on board.' Pep smacks his lips together unable to prize his eyes from her hour glass frame and chocolate brown eyes. He offers her a hand and she leaps up onto the deck. Javier gives her a curt nod.

  'Put your belongings below deck please.'

  Gloria swings her shapely legs down the wooden steps, all smiles.

  'Vale, let's get going. Can you untie the fenders?'

  Javier indicates the plastic protectors hanging from the side of the boat. I look gormlessly at Pep.

  'Per favor, you must have untied fenders before?'

  'What?'

  'Let me do it,' he huffs.

  'Can I help?' asks Alan cheerfully.

  The noise of the small engine drowns him out and suddenly we are jet propelled out of the mooring and Javier is steering our vessel into the open sea. Juana is settled at the bow of the boat looking sublime as she dangles a leg over the side.

  'It's so beautiful,' she murmurs. 'Like a painting.'

  Alan and I totter up the side deck, sharing concerned glances.

  'Sit on a bench,' Javier calls above the wind. 'I will come and explain everything in a minute.'

  We thump down onto the wooden seat, bathed in sweat.

  'I'm boiling.'

  Alan gives me a sympathetic smile. 'Hopefully there'll be a nice breeze once we get out to sea.'

  I look over at Gloria, the nubile goddess and, to my irritation, see that she is adeptly untying the fender knots with Pep. She flashes me a perfect set of gleaming teeth and then throws off her T-shirt and shorts to reveal a pair of enormous, bronzed, bouncing orbs in a tiny bra top and a miniscule bikini bottom. Pep chokes frantically on his puro and has to sink down onto the deck with the shock. Grumpily, I get up and position myself at the bow near Juana.

  'There's some Madrileña rock chick on the boat with us.'

  'Oh? I thought it was just us.' She looks vaguely around her and shrugs.

  'It will give Alan and Pep something to ogle. Why worry?'

  The sea is choppy, but
the motion is vaguely relaxing and soon I settle into it, ignoring the coquetterie going on at the other end of the boat. We head southwards across the waves, Pep now steering, until we finally arrive at a small bay which Javier tells us is Cala Vinyes.

  'As it's the first day, we can relax a little,' he says indulgently, anchoring the boat some way off from the shore. 'Fancy a swim?'

  We fidget a little and it is only when he affixes a small metal ladder to the stern of the boat, that we take him at his word.

  'I don't need that!' scoffs Gloria, gliding off the side of the boat like a mermaid.

  I clamber down the ladder followed by Juana and gasp at the coolness of the waves. Alan and Pep follow, their eyes trained on the voluptuous Gloria who appears to be doing cartwheels in the water.