Pere, our handsome plumber, is always good value, being infinitely patient and full of good humour even when dealing with the grimmest of watery tasks. However, with the best will in the world he won't be able to do much given that it's the electricity that drives the water pump. In time, we may need to consider buying an additional generator for emergencies like this. We enter the dusty kitchen and sit in aluminium beach chairs around the rickety old picnic table, discussing the storm. I dream of having a seigneurial, solid oak dining table big enough to seat at least eight guests and buttermilk wooden furniture around the hob area with gleaming granite work surfaces and, a fantasy too far, a dishwasher! This won't happen for a few more months as the floor tiling is yet to be done, the walls still need painting and we simply don't have the budget. For now we'll have to cope with the bare essentials. In Girl Guide mode, I pour half a bottle of mineral water into a saucepan and place it on the butane-gas hob. At least we can have a hearty cup of coffee. I place a plate of chocolate biscuits on the table and watch Catalina's eyes light up. Like me, she is an inveterate chocoholic.
'You wouldn't believe it,' she says, mid-munch. 'The whole port is flooded so everyone there is completely marooned. All the shops are closed. Heavens know what they'll do for bread.'
Fetching fresh bread daily from the local forn, the baker's, is an essential part of Mallorcan life. For a Mallorcan to survive a day without it doesn't bear thinking of. Catalina reaches for another biscuit.
'Hey,' growls her husband. 'Poc a poc with those.'
She wafts the second biscuit tauntingly above his head. 'It's not fair,' she moans. 'Look at him, the skinny dog, not a tiny bit of fat and he eats chocolate all day long.'
'Yes, but you're much more cuddly,' says Alan giving her arm a squeeze. 'Who'd want to have muscles like Ramon anyway?' he says, winking at her.
'Me!' Ollie looks up adoringly at his hero.
'Molt bé!' Ramon gives him a little punch on the arm. Then he looks thoughtful. 'I'd stay put if I were you. The river has burst its banks and is gushing along the main road to Palma. You won't be able to drive beyond your track.'
Many of the roads are apparently impassable, strewn with trees, huge boulders and rocks.
'They're saying the government might declare a state of emergency up here,' says Catalina glumly.
This just gets better and better. Much as he enjoys his new school, Ollie is euphoric at the thought of using the inflatable dingy to set out on an Indiana Jones-style adventure down in the water-logged field rather than settling down to lessons. There really is no way we can drive to his school in this weather. Alan has a certain glimmer in his eye.
'What a nuisance. I'll have to miss my Spanish lesson with Paula.'
'You can always walk,' I say robustly.
'Don't be ridiculous! It would be a nightmare walking in all this rain. No, I'll have to postpone it – sadly.' He manages to look dismayed. I hadn't realised he was such a thespian.
'Well, the phone isn't working so you'd better use the mobile.'
He sighs deeply and gets up. 'I'll go and call her now.'
'When things calm down a bit, why not come up to the house for a shower and dinner?' says Catalina with largesse. 'We can always put you up for a few nights if things get desperate.'
I say we'll wait to see what happens. Perhaps the electricity will return soon and the skies will clear. She and Ramon look dubiously at one another. I should know better. Things have a habit of taking forever to put right here.
Before they leave, Ramon unloads a pile of sandbags which implies we really are under siege, and does a tour of the perimeter of the field and gardens. He discovers that a huge rock terrace has collapsed and our newly fitted drains are disgorging their contents all over the paths. He and Alan patch things up as best they can in the howling wind. Rain has started to fall again and Ramon and Catalina make a dash for the car. They are soaked to the skin. She kisses me on the cheek, bellowing above the din from the skies. 'When the rain stops, come up to the village. We can at least open some wine and laugh.'
When they've gone we do an inventory of our supplies. We have two small glass-covered oil lights with wicks and curved handles like props used for a period drama, three sturdy new paraffin lamps, unopened, and a big bundle of candles. It's a start.
There's a thumping at the front door. It is Rafael wrapped in a moleskin and dripping with water. We usher him into the entrada where he shakes his curly brown mop and flops on a chair by the cold hearth. He is still full of smiles. Doesn't anything get this man down?
'Amics! Well, look at this! Now you see the real Mallorca! It rain now for many days, yes. You have candles, food? Everything OK?'
Such astonishing selflessness from a neighbour is in danger of making me mawkish. I think of my London flat in a building where, by contrast, nobody connects. Like laboratory rats in isolated cages, we coexist blindly under the same roof in such close proximity that, but for an intervening wall, or separating floor, at night our heads might touch, or fingers interlace. Yet it is as if we live on different planes, not floors, with neighbourly civility strictly confined to snatched greetings in the communal hallway when by hazard any of us should collide there unexpectedly. It's not anybody's fault, just one of the afflictions of urban life.
'We have festa, eh?' Rafael, the comic turn, is laughing manically. 'We get good wine and do what you say, rain dance?' He raises his arms, claps and wiggles his hips, shuffling around the entrada singing, with his backside upturned like a bumbling Baloo the bear. Ollie covers his hands over his mouth, shaking with laughter.
'Eh amic! You laugh at me?' he says, pouncing on him and tickling him until he yells for mercy amid explosions of giggles. Rafael then pokes around the cellar, looks at the rain seeping in and blocks the doors with our sandbags. He shows us how to ignite the paraffin light safely and promises to bring us some of his well water.
'Rafael, do you think the old lady at the end of the track will be OK?' I think of her alone in her bungalow and wonder if I should bring her some soup. Our German neighbours have already returned back home to Berlin, luckily avoiding the storms here.
'You mean Margalida Sampol? Segur,' he says, nodding his head. 'Her daughter lives just on other side of the track. No problema.'
I forget what a close-knit community it is up here. Happily, meals on wheels are surplus to requirement.
'Come up for a drink later,' says Alan with gusto. 'At least we've got wine in the cellar and we can unfreeze some soup.'
'Molt bé, mi amic! Tonight I bring bread and cake from house and we have party. I bring Cristian down to play with Ollie, yes? He no go to school today and I can't take him to his mother's house in this weather.'
Cristian, at nine, lives a happy coexistence between his divorced parents' homes although I always suspect he leads a more laddish life over at his father's, putting homework on a backburner in place of football, walking the dog, riding on the back of Rafael's motorbike and dining out a lot.
As he sets off up the track whistling heartily, I wonder momentarily what Greedy George would make of him and decide that they would be soulmates.
'Good egg, that Rafael,' he'd say, 'Life and arsehole of the party.'
Yes, a jolly good egg indeed.
The house is forlorn when Rafael leaves and the day passes slowly while the rain just gets heavier. Cristian and Ollie tire after some hours sailing our dingy around the field and so decide to dry off and help Alan to get a roaring fire going in the hearth, which raises our spirits considerably. We eat some oatcakes and cheese for lunch and attempt washing up in boiled mineral water. In the past I wouldn't have questioned such waste but now it almost hurts. In London it never crossed my mind to conserve or recycle because I always deemed it another of those infuriatingly politically correct things to do, like not making jokes about Irishmen or buying The Big Issue but shamefully binning it as soon as the vendor had turned his back. When we arrived here and unpacked, a wooden crate was emptied an
d thrown by the packers on to the rubbish heap. Later that day one of the builders wrestled it into his van. When I asked Stefan about it, he said the man was going to make a kennel from it for his dog. I recall how I used to think nothing of hurling a pair of jeans into the nearest dustbin when they had a tear particularly because as a lousy needlewoman, I had no desire to attempt a home repair job. Now, I wouldn't dream of it but then again, I do have the best of both worlds, given that all our frayed, ripped and hole ridden garments are carted off by Catalina to her ninety-year-old grandmother who lovingly and industriously restores them to near perfection.
The other thing I used to throw away without a thought were egg boxes. That is until one day here I happened upon a chapel in the mountains. It was hewn out of simple stone and the inner walls were white and uncluttered by religious memorabilia. A simple cross stood at the nave faced by ten wooden pews but the thing that fascinated me most was the far wall. Unlike the others, it was textured and seemed to ripple. I had to touch it. When I got closer, I realised to my amazement that it had been entirely fashioned out of hundreds of egg boxes which were painted metallic silver. A small sign nearby revealed that the children of the mountain community had created it under the direction of a local Mallorcan artist. Now I'm nauseatingly evangelical and recycle all my egg boxes. In fact, Blue Peter should embrace me as a new disciple, given that Ollie uses them for painting and models, although the majority go to a friend who rears her own hens and is always in desperate need of them. Any spares I take grovellingly to the market each week, hoping to ingratiate myself with the friendly but stern Theresa. It seldom cuts any ice with her but begrudgingly she takes them just the same.
The thunder rolls overhead and a tongue of lightning illuminates a pine tree that writhes and thrashes about with the wild abandon of a tribal dancer. The sky has grown so dark that we check our watches for fear that we have somehow jumped to the middle of the night by some numinous artifice. Neighbours' dogs are barking loudly as the wind outside gathers speed. I suddenly think of Franco, the ebullient boxer owned by Rafael, shivering outside in his fenced run, pitifully alone and afraid. Mallorcans living in the rural areas like to keep pets but most have a brisk, unemotional view of them. Animals should live outside the home, not be indulged and should, where possible, serve a useful purpose. Despite my Francis of Assisi leanings, I am an inexpert animal handler, not having possessed a pet since my childhood and having been forbidden to keep animals in the London flat by the building's officious management committee. I hunt through the fridge and discover some old lamb chops and the remains of a hunk of gammon. Wrapping them in a plastic bag, I go down to the cellar, find an old tartan blanket once used for packing, and set off down the boggy track to Rafael's house. Foolishly I have left without informing Alan but imagine even on a murky night like this, little harm can come to me along a short track. I call out Franco's name in a hoarse whisper, not wanting to alert Rafael to my presence. How could I possibly explain to my neighbour why I feel the need to feed his dog in the midst of a storm? In the darkness, I hear the sound of doggy breath at the fence. Franco licks my fingers through the bars of wood and barks with excitement.
'Shhhhh…' With the spare key to the dog's run, given to me some weeks ago by Rafael, I attempt with trembling, numb fingers to insert it in the lock. It's stuck. What is it with me and keys in this country? The rain and wind are unrelenting and I'm practically blown across Rafael's yard and into his chicken shed like an ungainly Mary Poppins. I can see the Majorca Daily Bulletin headline news:
Storms claim life of English Woman
Storms which have rocked the island for two days have tragically taken the life of an English woman found swept by gale force winds into the wall of a chicken shed in the early hours of this morning. Rafael Sastre, owner of the property, said he was devastated at the find. 'She was lying wrapped in a blanket gripping a bag of old meat. We don't know why. She was good neighbour. I very sad.' Family of the deceased are too distressed to comment at this stage.
Franco is howling. 'All right. For heaven's sake, shut up! I'm trying my best.' I listen anxiously in case Rafael might have decided to investigate what's going on outside but his front door remains tight-lipped. For once a spot of luck.
With cold fingers I hook the blanket over one of the fence posts and rattle the key, which this time budges, and the gate swings open wildly in the wind. The dog rushes at me in the dark, his huge bulk sending me flying into the sea of cold, muddy water on the track. So much for doing a good deed. I get up with difficulty and grab at the gate, my feet sliding in the mud. Franco is pawing me roughly and licking my face. The rain lashes down and my scarf is swept away in a gust of wind. With chagrin I see it float off high above an orchard, heading for the local church roof. I squelch up the steps to Franco's run, my clothes clinging to my body, and try to fend him off while tipping the food in his bowl. Miraculously the blanket is still dry so I haul it into his basket and lift them both up on to a dry sheltered ledge and quickly slam the gate shut. Franco falls on the meat like a savage. Back at the house I attempt to wash with a litre of cold mineral water before throwing on some dry clothes and pouring myself a stiff drink.
We sit in the kitchen reading books by candlelight and finally, in desperation, pull out an old Monopoly board to amuse Ollie. Cristian returned to his father's house some time back and we are expecting them at any moment for dinner. I haven't played a board game in years but needs must. However, by eight-thirty, we are all hungry and Alan and I are totally broke. I have been bankrupted and forced to sell my stations, and the Scotsman is stuck with a duff set of properties and has no money, so we decide, in a state of stalemate, to risk the car and head for Es Turo Restaurant where Catalina will hopefully be on shift.
'What about Rafael and Cristian?' I ask.
'Maybe they've forgotten,' Ollie pipes up.
Alan rubs the glass pane of the front door and peers into the gloom. 'Well, we can always knock on his door and see if he wants to join us.'
At that very moment, there's the sound of crunching gravel and a singing Rafael arrives, Cristian tripping along in his wake.
'I bring wine, cake and bread but I can't find no women!'
Like a one-man hurricane he whisks through the entrada and warms his hands by the fire, laughing raucously. Alan thumps him on the shoulder.
'To hell with it, we've decided to go out. Come on, let's find some good women and wine up in the village.'
'Why not?' yells Rafael. 'Come, let's go party!'
Despite the near impenetrable roads, we finally arrive and cram into the warm interior of Es Turo. We exchange kisses with Xisca, the cheerful owner, and visit Catalina at the back in the kitchen. She gives a big grin.
'Ah, you smelled my meatballs down in the valley, eh?'
We sit down with a warming bottle of red wine, bread, aioli, the local garlic mayonnaise, and olives, and soon a steaming plateful of delicious meatballs arrive, drenched in Catalina's home-made tomato sauce. We are lucky to have found a table since the place is heaving and several groups of woebegone locals who've turned up in search of a plateful of hot food and cheer have had to be turned away. Rafael scans the room, and seeing a group of friends, excuses himself and rushes over for a gossip. Xisca makes her way to our table.
'Listen,' she says, 'Catalina has told me about your problems. You can come over to our house. We have gas heaters and hot water.'
Once more, the kindness of relative strangers leaves me speechless. We thank her but explain that we must learn to brave the elements. There may be times when we have no choice but to go it alone. Replete and happy, with Rafael's jokes ringing in our ears, we return home to our dark and icy house, still naively believing the worst must surely be over.
There's a loud tooting, so loud that it permeates my dreams and has me stumbling out of bed, disorientated yet alert. I'm still fairly exhausted. It was only yesterday, after three further days of blinding rain and storms, that we finally had our electri
city and water reconnected. Alan is still cocooned beneath the duvet, oblivious to the noise. Opening the window I look down into the front courtyard and see Lorenç, the wood man, beaming up at me.
'Open the door, you lazy woman! It's eight o'clock!'
I yawn and give him a half-hearted wave and nod of the head. It suddenly dawns on me that it's Saturday. What on earth is he doing delivering wood today? Catalina told me he was coming on Monday. I plod downstairs, open the heavy wooden doors and wince as cold light streams in. Lorenç, full of good cheer in his warm logging jacket and gloves, leaps forward to kiss me on both cheeks.
'I thought you were coming next week?'
He shrugs. 'But I come today.'
There's no point in pushing the point. Spontaneity is the name of the game around here and quite frankly you'd have to be crazy to turn away wood, even at the weekend, given that it's your main source of warmth during the chilly Mallorcan winter. Lorenç begins piling wood from the back of his grubby and battered white truck on to our front porch. I shiver with the cold.
A Lizard In My Luggage Page 10