'You'd better clear up those wounds. It's a hygiene risk.'
'Give me a break,' I mutter.
Truculently, I open the first aid drawer and with some cotton wool dab a liberal amount of Dettol on my cuts. She gives me a sarcastic little smile.
'Well, if you thought running a cattery was a piece of cake, you'd better think again.'
Tuesday afternoon, sick as a cat
Jessie and I have just returned from the vet with a pair of sick kittens. They only arrived late the night before but have become increasingly poorly, throwing up their food and showing signs of listlessness. Jessie was taking no chances so immediately put them in an isolated run in the field away from the other healthy felines and booked to see the vet during the afternoon. Like her shadow I accompanied her in the car and helped carry one of the cat baskets into the surgery.
'New assistant?' beamed the nurse.
'She's a trainee,' said Jessie.
'Oh, well you've picked one of the best catteries. Having fun?'
I had thrown her an indulgent smile, thinking back to the vomit I had been cleaning up for the best part of the morning.
'A thrill a minute,' I replied.
The good news, the vet informed us, was that both cats appeared to have minor stomach upsets but were otherwise in fine form and apparently needed only rest, a 24-hour fast followed by a bland diet. We drove them back to the cattery in some relief.
Dawn bustles into the office as Jessie and I take off our jackets and slump into chairs.
'The kettle's just boiled. Everything OK with the kittens?'
'Yes, love,' says Jessie. 'Nothing untoward. Still, better safe than sorry.'
Dawn ambles over to the kettle and makes a pot of tea. 'Oh, by the way, that strange woman from London's coming in half an hour.'
Jessie turns to me. 'Now, this lady hasn't been to us before. She's got a Scottish Fold.'
'A what?'
'They're lovely cats. They have special ears.'
'In what way?'
'They're squashed flat, as if they're folded.'
Dawn slaps a mug of tea and a digestive biscuit down on the small table in front of me. Jessie reaches over and taps my knee conspiratorially.
'Between you and me, the owner sounded a bit neurotic when she rang so it might be interesting for you to meet her.'
In heaven's name, why? I've got enough neurotic clients of my own to last me a lifetime.
'Yeah, you've only met nice clients so far. It's good to know how to handle the difficult ones,' says Dawn. 'Jessie's got an appointment with a supplier so you and I can handle this woman together.'
'It takes all sorts,' murmurs Jessie, taking a sip of tea.
I take a bite of my biscuit, wondering what this client and her special-eared cat are going to be like. Forty-five minutes later I find out. The office doorbell rings and Dawn gives me a warning wink. She puts on her best smile and swings open the door.
'Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Buckley. We were expecting you.'
A middle-aged female as thin as a twizzle stick with peroxide blonde hair and perma-tanned skin barges in, tottering on towering stilettos. Her eyes blaze.
'The traffic was horrendous and this place is simply impossible to find! The directions were dreadful.'
She accentuates the vowels and rolls her 'r's in a clumsy attempt to sound grand. I wonder whether she's an actress. She shakes her long mane and after what appears to be a pause for effect, says, 'The Duke of Marlborough's in the boot.'
Dawn's brow buckles slightly. 'Erm… sorry, who?'
'It will probably take three of us,' Mrs Buckley rattles on. 'He weighs a ton.'
I shoot Dawn a wary look. Either I'm about to become an accessory to a murder or the woman's a complete fantasist. Either way, police presence might prove reassuring.
'Don't just gawp at me, woman,' she snarls in my direction. 'Hurry up. I haven't got all day. I don't like to keep the Duke waiting.'
I leap up from the seat and fumble for my jacket. I can see the sky is already dredging up some new tears but there's no time to search out an umbrella.
Dawn gives a little cough. 'Excuse me, but if we could just sort out some basic admin here first.'
Mrs Buckley flicks a gloved hand in Dawn's direction. 'I really don't have time for this.'
She drops her black handbag on the desk and begins throwing out various items. 'Here, this is the cash for the Duke's three week stay and these are his vaccination details. Right, let's go. I have a plane to catch tonight.'
She opens the door and sweeps out in her chic camel jacket with Dawn and me following in her wake. Gusts of icy wind and spitting rain hit us as we head off through the field to the front drive. Dawn presses a hand in my back and I turn to see a furious expression on her face. We arrive at the sleek black Range Rover with its personalised number plate of BUCK O1 and watch as Miss Twizzle Stick uses her electronic key fob to release the boot's lock. Inside an enormous cream cat squats in a metal cage. I feel myself gasp. Dawn peers inside.
'I take it this is the Duke?'
'Who else did you think it was? The President of the United Bloody States?'
Dawn frowns. 'There's really no need for that tone, Mrs Buckley.'
I lean in and try to budge the cage.
'Get out of the way,' she hisses at me. 'I know how to slide this out. Here,' she pushes a massive holdall towards me. 'These are his toys and belongings.'
I take the bag while she, assisted by Dawn, removes the Duke from his confinement. He looks up at his owner and lets out a pitiful whine. I can't blame him. We stagger back to the office with the Duke of Marlborough and his bag. Once inside, Dawn rests his cage on the carpet and invites Mrs Buckley to take a seat. Irritably, she shakes her head in dissent and stands with arms folded by the desk. The Duke squats forlornly within his den, eyes darting nervously about him while we remove our soggy jackets.
'Would you like to settle him in?' asks Dawn stiffly.
'That's what I pay you people for, isn't it?' the woman's eyes flash. She is tapping a restless foot against the floor.
I'm beginning to think Daniella Popescu-Miller is a walk in the park.
'What does he weigh?' demands Dawn.
Mrs Buckley pushes an irritable hand through her fair tresses. 'He's perfect.'
'I'm sorry,' Dawn replies firmly. 'He looks significantly overweight to me, which means we'll want to get him checked by our vet.'
'More like you want to extract more money out of me,' she sneers. 'You people are all the same.'
I've had enough. 'That's completely untrue. Perhaps you and the Duke should take your custom elsewhere.'
Mrs Buckley narrows her eyes. 'How dare you! I could have you fired.'
'Actually, she doesn't work here,' says Dawn quickly. 'She's just a visitor.'
The woman is unsettled. 'Why did you carry my bag in from the car then?'
Dawn answers for me. 'She was just being helpful.'
Mrs Buckley sits down on the small sofa, smoothing her tight black skirt over her thighs. I notice that the tips of her stilettos are caked in wet mud. Her shoulders seem to droop and she gives a loud sigh. 'I'm sorry. I've been a bit stressed out of late.'
Dawn nods encouragingly. 'I see. Well, we all have those days.'
She gives us a plaintive look. 'The Duke does like his food.'
'Don't we all,' I exclaim. 'But he looks about to pop.'
Her eyes widen in alarm. 'Poor Dukie. He's my life. If anything should happen to him…' There's a theatrical sniff.
'Let's start from the beginning, shall we, Mrs Buckley?' says Dawn firmly. 'We can check the Duke over and get him on a slimming regime but first I do need to sign him in properly. Now, where's that pen?'
Wednesday 6 p.m.
I'm sitting on the concrete floor in Zack's run. With some irritation he looks up at the sound of a new arrival entering the cattery and gives a low growl. I stroke his ears and he lies back against my stomach in a state of conten
tment. My hands are covered in scratches, my neck still stiff, but Zack and I have miraculously come to an understanding. I have worn him down with kindness, turned the other cheek, and shown him who is boss. During the last two days I have, with grim determination and against the odds, administered his eye drops, fed him his pills and groomed him, even earning a begrudging nod of approval from young Emily.
Jessie appears at the doorway of the office and smiles.
'Your cab's here.'
I give Zack a final caress of the ears and grip his silky head between my two hands. His large amber eyes bore into my own.
'Now listen old buddy, if you want to have friends, you must make an effort, OK?'
He averts his gaze and gives a yawn. Stretching his long, silver blue body, he curls his paws up to his face as if he's praying.
'I'm serious, Zack. You can't go around mutilating people like some Mad Max doppelganger. It's just not cricket. I know about the past, but you've got to let it go.'
Jessie shakes her head.
'You really are a head case. I thought you'd never make it, but you've proven yourself to be a regular Mowgli.'
I look at her fiery red hair and big robust frame and marvel that she's humoured me for the last week. I've had my own minor diva moments, that's for sure.
'I'm tempted to bring him back to Mallorca with me.'
As I bolt the run and head for the office, she places a broad hand on my shoulder.
'And what did I say about becoming attached to other people's cats?'
'That it's a no-go area.'
'Precisely. Anyway, he's one of my rising stars. His owner makes a mint out of him.'
'It's a crazy old world.'
She gives a husky laugh. 'Well, it's been a tough week, but you've made it.'
'I still haven't tried giving a cat an injection yet.'
'Well, you can practise with a syringe on all those juicy oranges in your field. Then get the nice local vet you told me about to show you how it's done.'
She hands me a certificate, proof that I have undergone my cattery management training. With a degree of satisfaction, I pop it into the side pocket of my case.
'And don't forget,' she says. 'If you want your builder to come and see how we constructed our own cattery, we'd be delighted to put him up.'
'Stefan doesn't speak much English so I'd have to come too and maybe even bring his sister along.'
'The more the merrier – then we can put you all to work on the rounds.'
Willie opens the outer door for me and Emily and Dawn lean forward and both give me a little hug. I step inside the cab and wave as we make a slow retreat down the gravelly drive. I wonder what will become of psychotic Zack, but can only hope that a Hollywood career really does beckon and that one day I'll see my furry friend's name up there in blazing lights.
THIRTEEN
CATALAN FOR BEGINNERS
Sóller's plaça is dark save for the yellow haze cast from the dim street lamps and the soft glow emanating from Cafè Paris and other bars nestling around the square. Huddled together by the stone wall of the bandstand a group of teenagers chat and idly kick at a discarded coke can while thin and mangy cats lie curled up at the side of the town hall, their eyes ever watchful as I stride past. It is nearly eight o'clock and I am on my way to my first free Catalan lesson. Thanks to the goodwill of Sóller town council, foreign residents are offered complimentary lessons in the local dialect. The lean, cobbled streets are deserted as I hurry along. I don't want to be late for the class and I am yet to find its location within the town's music school. Before long the silhouette of the school rises before me, a rather fanciful filigree stone edifice on three floors with a Gaudiesque spire and row upon row of small windows. Beyond spiky black railings and a paved yard a set of stone steps lead down to a glass-fronted, arched door. The wood is scuffed and a dreary light beckons from within. Pushing it ajar I find myself in a sparsely decorated hallway from which there are flights of concrete stairs running upwards and downwards. Beyond are thin white corridors peeling off to both right and left. There are no signs or notices so I stand gormlessly at the intersection trying to decide which to take when a cheerful, booming voice greets me.
'You've finally arrived! What kept you?'
The face is round and full of fun, the dark hair razor spiked. Behind thick lenses a pair of chocolate brown eyes sparkle, studying me with some bemusement. It is Guillem, owner of Can Gata restaurant in Calle sa Lluna, who also doubles up as the local Catalan teacher.
'I've had one of those days.' I give him a grimace. 'Don't tell me I'm the last to arrive?'
He chortles merrily. 'Si, you are the last, so now you can make a dramatic entrance.'
'I was planning on slithering in, actually.'
'Come on. Let's get cracking!'
I follow him down the corridor and through a labyrinth of classrooms until we reach a small cell in which desks are tightly packed practically one on top of the other. I view the sea of faces, about twenty in all, and with some relief spot Judy, an Australian friend from my Pilates class, who is waving from the back of the room. I squeeze into one of the only available seats near the front of the class next to a smiling woman of about my age. While Guillem busies himself at the blackboard she tells me in Spanish that her name is Jutta and that she is from Germany and can only speak faltering Catalan. I tell her mine is almost non-existent. We giggle in complicity. Guillem now claps his hands together and begins passing round individual folders and books. He tells us that we should each introduce ourselves in Catalan and patiently acts as a guide telling us that 'Jo sóc' in Catalan or 'Jo som' in Catalan Mallorcan dialect both mean 'I am' and conjugate from the verb to be, ésser. Now, to complicate matters one can't just say, 'I am Frank' or 'I am Jenny' but must add 'en' or 'na' in front, hence 'Sóc en Frank' or 'Sóc na Jenny'. In the case of a name starting with a vowel such as Anne, it becomes 'Sóc n'Anne'.
'Qui ets?' he says loudly. Who are you?
'Sóc en Helmut,' bleats his first German victim, a tall blonde man with a deep voice.
'Sóc en Marc,' says the man in the first row sitting next to him.
He continues questioning each of us in turn, explaining grammatical points as he goes. We move on to where we live and come from. We're a motley crew of Bosnians, Germans, Australians, British, Spanish, Argentineans, French and Belgians, not to mention the talkative Venezuelan contingent.
Guillem turns to me. 'Ets anglesa?' Are you English?
'Som d'anglaterra,' I reply, sheep like.
Jutta gives me the thumbs up. A meek woman sitting directly in front of me makes a complete bish of things and has to start again. My heart misses a beat for her. I look at the clock. Another hour to go. Guillem spends a considerable time trying to help us get to grips with Catalan vowls. This is no meant feat given that they sound completely different from their British equivalent.
'Ahhhhhhh,' he intones loudly, 'ehhhhhhhhh… oooooohhh… urghhhhhhhhhhh.'
There's an enormous temptation to yell back impertinently 'Bahhhhhhhh…' but I'm trying to keep my ewe preoccupation under control, so keep shtum. We are given screeds of vocabulary sheets which would give hope to any aspiring British yob with linguistic ambitions. Next to some of the Catalan words and their English translation, I decide to add my own unofficial puerile list of British Yob Equivalents. Here's my hot list:
English translation Catalan British Yob Equivalent
to throw git git
night nit nit
woman dona donner (kebab)
to sting punxar punch her
puncture punxada punch harder
fire foc fuck
seal foca fucker
floor pis piss
cough tosa tosser
radish rave rave
let’s fight lluitem you-hit-’im
to place poseur poser
bang bum bum
naval dockyard arsenal Arsenal
beaks becs Becks
The Venezuelan
party at the back of the room are breaking out into giggles as they attempt to pronounce Catalan greetings on the first page of the text book we've all been given. Guillem claps loudly and says in Spanish.
'OK, now we will learn how to greet each other.'
A young woman in front of me doesn't seem to understand. 'En Français?' she pleads.
I dredge up some rusty French. 'Regard le livre. Maintenant apprendrons salutations.'
She turns to face me. 'Ah, d'accord! Merci. Je suis Florence.'
I wonder how Guillem is going to cope with us. It's not as if he's just dealing with a bunch of Brits or Germans. This class is a United Nations all on its own and not everyone can speak Castilian Spanish, let alone Catalan.
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