I'm not sure how to take this, but nod sagely.
'And what about this Siamese?'
'That's Tabitha. She was the German Ambassador's cat, but we're going back some years. She moved to Bavaria.'
Catalina gets up and comes over to us, bending to see the photos.
'How do you remember all their names?'
'I just do. It's like being a headmistress, I suppose. Been doing this for fifteen years now.'
Catalina takes a swig of tea from her mug. 'Do you think my brother will be OK with Willie? He can't speak much English.'
'"Yes" and "no" will be more than enough,' she says without humour.
The door springs open and a beaming Stefan enters with Willie. They're both wearing cagoules and wellies.
'Shut that door before we all freeze to death!' Jessie shouts at her husband.
He bangs the door behind him and claps his hands together.
'Stefan understands everything. He's a clever lad. I've gone through all the architectural plans and we've had a good tour round the site. Builders speak the same language, see? Don't need words.'
Catalina smirks at me. 'How did it go?' she asks Stefan in Mallorcan.
'Bé. Molt bé.'
'My brother says all is good.'
'Told you so. Now, all you have to do is take some photos of the place to show your mayor and later we can go for supper at the local pub.'
'Great!' exclaims Catalina. 'I love English pubs.'
'Not so fast,' chides Jessie. 'I need to explain about all the different cat food and diets there are. If Catalina's going to help at your cattery, she needs to learn all about that.'
Willie raises his eyes. 'Well, when you're ready, let us know. We'll be in the kitchen having a pint.'
Stefan gives me the thumbs up and follows his new best friend out into the rain.
'Typical men,' mutters Jessie. 'Now, where shall we begin?'
EIGHTEEN
FAREWELL TO A FRIEND
Snow has settled on the highest peaks of the Tramuntanas and, like warm white icing, dribbles down the mountainous slopes in huge dollops. Trickling insidiously into verdant pine glades, it soon transforms to ice, glazing rocks and stones with a transparent film that makes them slippery and treacherous underfoot. Down in the valley the air is clear, but the cold is palpable. In the orchards animals huddle together, their communal white breath rising like steam from a New York air vent while rats and mice burrow deep within stone walls, home to the garriga field snake and a burgeoning insect population. Tonight the sky is punctured with tiny stars that glimmer in the dark night. In the courtyard a layer of white ice has formed on the car and the windscreen resembles a mini ice rink. The Scotsman, dressed as a gangster in black trilby, old raincoat and a dark suit, fumbles with the ignition key. Ollie is dressed as a Death Eater from the Harry Potter books and has difficulty locating the back door of the car.
'Might be an idea to take your mask off first,' I proffer.
He finally stumbles upon the icy handle.
'If I take it off someone might recognise me.'
'We're not likely to see anyone about at this hour until we reach Fornalutx.'
He doesn't budge. I settle into the front seat, stowing my riding crop and helmet under my feet.
As the gate clanks open, our wall lights, created from old roof tiles, automatically spring to life, illuminating the front garden and courtyard. Normally, lizards cling to the tiles, but tonight there isn't a scaly limb in sight. We crunch along the stony track, the headlights illuminating Llamp's lonely, vacated run and Rafael's home which is cloaked in darkness. At Silvia and Pedro's finca, lights blaze above the olive green gates. I wonder if Margalida is dining with them tonight because when we reach her chalet the shutters are closed.
'Hang on Alan, I need to drop off some cakes for Margalida.'
'Go on, Florence Nightingale of the valley,' he says. 'Make it snappy.'
I jog up the steps to Margalida's door and leave the sandwich bag of chocolate cakes on the mat. Even if it should rain, the porch will protect them from getting wet. I bob back into the car.
'It's so cold out there. I hope they'll have heating on in the garage.'
'I'm sure they will. Anyway, a few drinks will warm us up.'
We set off along the quiet mountain roads, winding up towards this most traditional of Mallorcan villages for the annual carnival party. Last year I had given the mayor a jolt, dressing up as a geisha, so this time I've opted for a rather modest gymkhana outfit, having borrowed items from various local friends. As we arrive in the village, light fills the street and music thumps from the old underground garage where village festivities are often held. Various witches and ghouls are striding along the road from the little plaça and as we park the car four characters robed in black approach the vehicle.
'Who are they?' quizzes Ollie.
'Haven't a clue, but they seem to know us.'
'They're wearing traditional burkas. Now who'd be able to get their hands on such gear?' says the Scotsman.
'A Moslem?' says Ollie
'A seasoned traveller?' I suggest.
'Indeed, then it must be…'
He springs from the car. 'I know who you are! Veils up!'
They explode with laughter as they uncover their heads. Jack and Sarah, our Australian friends, give us a quick flash of their faces as Catalina and Ramon wrestle to lift up their hoods.
'It's not easy to wear these, you know,' Catalina complains. 'I would need to practise for a long time.'
'I picked them up when I was travelling in the Yemen,' says Jack. 'Thought they'd be just the ticket for tonight.'
'At least we can wear thermals underneath,' adds Sarah. 'And what the hell are you supposed to be? A flasher?'
Alan gives her an indignant look. 'Just watch.'
He pulls a violin case from the back shelf of the car, sticks a puro in his mouth and dons an old pair of shades.
'What do you think?'
'Whose violin did you steal?' mocks Jack.
'I borrowed it from Cristina's daughter, you know, at the Aimia Hotel. She's a budding violinist.'
'Well, don't for Christ's sake lose it,' he shouts, accentuating his Aussie twang.
All around us costumed characters are appearing out of the shadows. A team of Real Madrid look-alikes jog by and I notice that Stefan, Pere the plumber, and Llorenç are among them. They blow on their whistles and wave as they pass, disappearing into the bright garage interior.
'Come on you lot, let's get going.' Jack stumbles ahead of us with unseeing eyes followed by his three robed accomplices. Ollie follows blindly in his black cloak and mask behind them. I watch as their arms flail wildly about as they edge their way cautiously towards the steep slope leading to the mouth of the garage.
'It's worse than three blind mice,' sniggers the Scotsman. 'Go easy.'
His words miss their mark. A moment later, a blur of airborne black gowns rushes at speed down the slope amid banshee-like shrieks, until at last halted by the embrace of Juan, the village batle, who stands welcoming the arriving guests. He steadies himself, a small grin imprinted on his lips.
'Sometimes I wonder who's crazier, our resident Brits or resident Australians.'
'What about Mallorcans?' says Alan, pulling at the side of Catalina's mask.
Juan spreads his hands in agreement. 'You're right, Alan, she really does have to be the craziest of all!'
We arrive back at the house in the early hours. Ollie is asleep in the back of the car and Alan is singing some unrecognisable Scottish ballad.
'Well, that was some night!' he declares as he turns off the ignition.
'The costumes were fantastic this year but the garage was freezing,' I say as I exit the car with my riding crop and helmet.
He opens the passenger door and lifts Ollie onto his shoulder.
'If you'd danced you would have kept warm,' he replies.
I open the front door and turn on the lights. Ollie wakes up an
d sleepily makes his way to his room. 'Who won the competition in the end?' he asks from the doorway.
'Chicken Licken,' I say.
'Oh good,' he mutters and disappears into his room.
'Feel like a nightcap?' The Scotsman asks, bounding into the kitchen.
'Why not? It'll warm us up.'
We sit hugging glasses of herbes.
'So, who was the vampire with the golden cape?' I ask.
'That was Tolo from Banca March. I thought you knew.'
'It was not! Tolo wouldn't go as a vampire!'
'It was so, and the man dressed as Elvis Presley was Xavier from Colmado Sa Lluna.'
I thump my glass down. 'Elvis Presley? That wasn't Elvis Presley! Xavier was supposed to be Tom Jones. Honestly!'
Alan shakes his head. 'Well, if he wasn't Elvis Presley, why did he sing "All Shook Up"?'
I have to think about that. 'Probably because he was cold.'
The Scotsman rolls his head back and laughs. 'Don't be daft. Anyway, I suppose it doesn't really matter. It was great fun.'
'Another carnival and another year over. I can't believe it!'
He drains his glass. 'Imagine what we'll be saying in ten years time.'
'More to the point, will we have exhausted our costume supply by then?'
'Probably, but then we'll just have to go as ourselves. They'll never guess who we are!'
And with that we turn off the lights and head up the stairs for bed, Alan hugging a violin and a trilby and me a riding crop and a pink rosette.
I am on my way back from Palma, having dropped Ollie off at his school. With relief, I have left the overcrowded Cintura highway behind and am coursing along the less congested rural roads that peel off to Valdemossa, one-time retreat of Chopin and his companion, George Sands, and Deià, home of the poet, Robert Graves. The almond trees are bushy with blossom, their delicate pink flowers exuding a fragrance so pure that it is tempting to stop the car and run wildly through the orchards gathering up the fallen petals to drink in the intoxicating perfume. But I don't. Not today. Instead, I wind down the windows, stick on some music and revel in the freedom of an open road flanked on both sides by orchard after orchard of unremitting beauty. It is only beyond the Sóller tunnel that I catch up with local traffic; two hay carts, a concrete mixer and an elderly man wavering precariously on a stuttering moto immediately in front of me. At every roundabout, at every slip road, I will him to turn off, but no, my elderly outrider stubbornly pop-pops along, one minute ahead, the next at my side. I consider parking the car and jogging home given that we're now proceeding at such a funereal pace that the car can hardly cope in first gear. I reach my turning and with relief see him crawling like a disabled centpeus in the direction of the port.
At the mouth of the track I expect to see Margalida, but she is not in her garden and the house remains shuttered and still. Something's up. At the side of her chalet a lorry engine purrs as its driver connects the tank to a large pump drawing up water from a nearby well. The agua portable lorries are frequent visitors to our track especially in the summer months when these mountain dwellings, without their own water supply, rely heavily on such deliveries. The drivers know Margalida and always take time to chat with her and discuss local gossip. I call up to the driver.
'Have you seen Margalida?'
He shrugs. 'I don't know where she is. Maybe at Silvia's?'
I walk up the steps to her front door and pick up the chocolate cakes. Inside the transparent bag small droplets of water have formed and minute flies, like black dots, cling to the plastic lining. I'm puzzled that they've been able to penetrate a sealed bag. With a sigh I take them with me, ready for the bin. I clamber back into the car and slowly level with Silvia's house. The cleaning lady is sweeping leaves in the front yard and comes over to greet me.
'The elderly senyora isn't well.'
'What's happened?'
'She had another fall but this time it shook her very badly. Silvia and the doctor think she should rest for a few days here.'
I nod in agreement. It's not the best news, but I'm relieved to know she's being well cared for.
I arrive back to find Alan reading the Majorca Daily Bulletin and nursing a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. Roaring flames crackle and hiss from the fireplace in the entrada.
'I'm glad you're back. Nancy just called and asked if I could pop round to pick up some stuff for Ollie. She's been clearing out some junk before the move.'
I put on the kettle and look out at the sky. 'I can't believe that she's going next month.'
He drains his cup. 'That's life, I'm afraid. Nothing stays the same forever.'
'A cheery thought.'
He puts an arm round my shoulders. 'Look, much as we'll miss Nancy, I think the change will do her good and she needs all year round warmth with her arthritis.'
'I suppose so.'
'OK, well I'll be off. I've got to pop by Pep and Juana's on the way back. He's got me some discounted chicken feed apparently.'
'It's one excitement after the other up here, isn't it?'
He laughs. 'Sure is.'
'You know Margalida's had another fall?'
'Don't tell me!'
'She's over at Silvia's recuperating. Lucky she didn't break anything.'
I pull the cakes from my handbag and dump them on the table.
'These won't be much use to her now.'
He gives me a sympathetic smile. 'Ah well, you can make her some more when she's back home.'
He strides off towards the car. I listen as the engine comes to life and he sets off up the drive. Leaning against a work surface with a cup of tea in hand, I contemplate some of the tasks I must get done today. First, I've got to fix a time with Catalina and Stefan to meet the mayor with the proposed cattery design, then call the owners of the overgrown orchard to discuss a sale. I've a pile of work to do for Rachel but it's not too urgent, which is fortunate because I've still a lot to organise for the fete next month. Various friends have offered to man stalls and make cakes and we've been deluged with old books and toys to sell on the day. I should feel positive that things are coming together, but I have a weird sense of foreboding. Absent-mindedly, I pick up the cakes and hurl them in the bin.
The stones make a grinding sound as I jog along the dark track past Rafael's house, and down towards Silvia's shadowy gate. There's not a sound in the valley and the screech owls are yet to appear for their habitual evening prowl about the skies. My body is shaking with cold despite warm running kit so I quicken my speed. Clinging to the ancient rock walls withered ivy tendrils and sharp twigs occasionally spring out like the gnarled fingers of a witch's hand, scraping my face and arms and caressing my hair. I shudder with the chill, cheerfully imagining my return run from the port, heading back home for a bowl of home-made vegetable soup by a dancing fire. I glimpse back at the finca which in the distance emits warm, amber light. Ollie will be in his room dawdling over his homework, and Alan pottering about the corral with a torch, trying to fix a broken fence. Margalida's chalet looms before me, its white facade stark in the blackness like an exposed and luminous bone. I arrive onto the lane and, panting, pause to set my sports watch. It is then that I hear it. A cry. I swivel round, the hairs on my neck stiffening. Someone is sobbing my name. The voice is weary, filled with anguish and despair. Frightened and trembling, I turn to see a man's silhouette back along the track. Like the light from a firefly, his cigarette burns a vivid orange tracing a slow pattern in the air as it is wafted this way and that in the impenetrable gloom.
'Who are you?' I shout, retracing my footsteps.
'It's Felipe.'
'Felipe?'
I am disorientated, not having seen Margalida's grandson for some months. As a busy architect and artist in Palma he rarely has time to pop up to the house when he's visiting his family. With increasing dread I draw nearer, not wanting to hear the words I know in my heart he will say.
'She's dead.' And then as if for reaffirmation, 'She's
died.'
He attempts to stifle a tremendous sob. 'Just like that. Slipped away.'
I see his eyes dancing in the treacley night, wet with tears and shock. In her ninetieth year she may have been, but Margalida seemed eternal, the matriarch of the track, a hopelessly endearing and loveable friend and grandmother. I throw my arms around him in silence. In this grim moment all Spanish and Catalan words are lost. My mind is blank. I hear myself mumbling incoherently about the funeral. It will be tomorrow at eight. In Spain death is a stickler for punctuality. Bodies are whipped from the houses before they're practically cold and squirreled away to morgues for a quick stay before being buried or cremated. The hurriedness of it all seems strange and callous, but in hot countries it was born of necessity. The tradition still stands.
Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Page 30