'Fine. I see you're busy.'
'The usual,' he says blithely, as he fiddles with a bundle of coloured wires. 'It pays the bills, though.'
Antonia makes a face. 'Only just.'
I bid them farewell and rush off to the car park. En route I collide with Tolo. 'Can you pop by the bank? I have a regal for you. It's a Banca March calendar and diary.'
I accompany him up through the merry plaça with its spiky, leafless trees full of tiny white lights. Spanish Christmas carols blast from speakers placed outside the town hall and enormous festive costumed figures, known as gegantes, stand on either side of the entrance.
Tolo dashes into the bank and I follow at a more leisurely pace behind him. The manager comes over to greet me and I nod at the small staff, all of whom I know on first name terms.
'Here,' says Tolo, passing me a parcel across his desk. 'They are good quality, you know.'
'I'm sure,' I nod and give him a kiss on both cheeks. 'Alan will be very grateful.'
Back in the square, I see Gaspar waving from behind the windows of Café Paris. He jumps up and opens the door.
'Running girl, come and have a coffee!'
'I must get back home,' I say weakly.
He beckons me inside and draws a chair back from the table.
'A quick coffee won't delay you. I had a busy paper round this morning. Ultima Hora had a supplement so my bag was double the weight.'
He orders me an espresso, and digs into a bag underneath the table.
'Here. I've got some leftover newspapers. Take a copy of each. Ultima Hora, Diario de Mallorca, Veu de Soller, Solleric, Majorca Daily Bulletin...'
'Gaspar, I can't carry all those!'
'Of course you can. It's not very Mallorcan to turn down a free gift.'
I finish my coffee, wave at José, the terminally cheerful and energetic owner behind the counter, and head off for the car. Gaspar is grinning from the window and waving. Now I mustn't get waylaid by anyone else or I'll never make it home.
Alan opens the front door when he hears the tyres on the gravel in the courtyard. He comes down the front steps of the porch, ready to help carry in the bags.
'No bags!' He looks confused. 'You've been gone hours and nothing to show for it except newspapers?'
I pat him on the arm. 'Don't worry. Xavier, my knight in shining armour, is bringing all the bags up later.'
Alan puts his arm round my shoulder. 'Using your charm again?'
'I've had a lovely time, having a coffee with Gaspar and catching up with everyone. It's so nice not to have to rush.'
'Good for you. Just think how manic you used to be in London.'
'Don't remind me! By the way, where's Ollie?'
'Where do you think? Playing football in the town. Pep and Angel picked him up after you'd left. They're doing some practice and then being treated to hot chocolate and cake with the coaches.'
'It's all right for some!'
We reach the entrada when there's tooting from the courtyard. Catalina and Ramon have arrived.
'It's like Piccadilly Circus here,' sighs Alan, striding off to welcome them.
'We've got your turkey,' bawls Catalina excitedly. 'He's in the back.'
For a ghastly moment I imagine our monster turkey is still alive and strutting about on the back seat.
'Is it dead?'
Catalina marches into the entrada and the kitchen with some cakes she's made. 'You think we bring him alive? You mad? Ramon killed and plucked him this morning.'
Thank heavens for that. A few moments later Alan and Ramon shuffle slowly into the house, carrying between them the most colossal turkey I have ever seen. They bend under the weight and Ramon is muttering in Mallorcan, no doubt a round of colourful expletives.
They place it on my new oak kitchen table with a thump. I wince. Silence. We look at each other in alarm. I feel like I'm an accomplice to a murder. Where do we dump the body?
'Well then. Shall we see if it will fit in the oven?' I say, a note of panic creeping into my voice.
Ramon chortles. 'You might get his head in.'
We all grapple with the corpse, remove the innards of the oven and attempt to shove it inside. We try it head first, then bottoms up, side on and lastly squash its girth inside by leaning heavily against the oven door but it won't go. After some minutes we all tumble on the floor with the bird on top of us and yelp hysterically. Catalina is laughing so much I fear she might choke.
'We kill another,' says Ramon.
'What?' Alan wails. 'Now?'
'No he is already dead but he is smaller. Ramon will get him from the car.'
No bird's safe on the streets with these two turkey slayers on the loose. This time a more modest bird makes its appearance. It's still huge but with a push and a shove, it fits into the oven.
'Gràcies a déu!' says Catalina. 'We'll bring the fat one to Maria's restaurant. My aunt has an enormous oven.
She's already cooking our own turkey, so now she can cook two.'
'What will you do with it all?' I'm already fretting.
'Maria can make lots of croquetes with the left over meat. No problema.'
Ramon and Catalina set off towards the car.
'I made you some cakes.'
'So I see. They smell wonderful. Thanks, Catalina.'
'Yes and thanks for our turkey,' says Alan, who together with Ramon, is struggling to carry turkey number one back to the car. 'I'm sure it's going to be fantastic.'
'Why not rear your own turkey chicks next year?' Ramon pipes up.
'Maybe, Ramon,' says Alan doubtfully. 'I'll sleep on it.'
The walls of Margalida's sitting room are covered in paintings, all the work of her grandson who is a well established artist in Palma. It's obvious which are his early works given their youthful and flamboyant style and flourishes of bright paint. The later œuvres are sleek and thoughtfully conceived and far more contemporary. She places a glass of fresh orange juice in front of me on the lace topped coffee table and sighs.
'We all buy so much at Christmas but I think back to the Civil War when we had nothing. You wouldn't believe what it was like.'
It takes me some time to decipher her Mallorcan words. Like a fool, at first I think she's talking about a war in Seville.
'Where were you?' I ask.
'When? In the late thirties? I was parted from my husband. He was fighting in the war. It was terrible and so cold here. I ended up in Menorca. The people were starving and reduced to eating rats.'
As a foreigner it's easy to forget the severity of Spain's civil war and the subsequent Franco Regime until the dictator's death in 1975. Memories run long and the hardships suffered in the Balearic Islands, as a consequence of the war and Franco's reign, are still mulled over by those old enough to remember.
'Under Franco, we were banned from speaking Mallorcan,' she tells me. 'We had to learn Castilian Spanish in school and if you were caught speaking the local dialect, there were tough penalties.'
'Well, they wouldn't have had a problem with me,' I jest, trying to lighten the mood. 'I can only manage Bon dia!'
She pats my hand. 'At least you're trying.'
I finish my juice and wait while Margalida gets out her photo album. She likes to talk me through all the family ancestors, weddings and events, paying particular attention to her deceased husband.
'God only gave us one child,' she says.
'Well, Sílvia's a credit to you, and you've wonderful grandchildren.'
'True, true,' she concedes.
When we've trawled through the album I get up to go and give her my Christmas gift of a vase and chocolates.
'But I haven't anything for you?' she gasps.
'I don't want anything.'
'Let me get you some oranges from the kitchen.'
I give her a hug. 'Margalida, I have a field full of oranges and lemons.'
She hesitates for a second then grabs my arm and leads me into the kitchen whereupon she fills me a bag of fruit.
>
'Here,' she says defiantly. 'Your oranges are very poor. Take these. They're really sweet.'
Defeated and laughing, I thank her and head up the track.
I'm in sight of my house when Rafael appears in front of me, biting at an apple. 'Hey, what you got from Margalida? Oranges! So now you rob a poor old lady?'
I narrow my eyes at him as he giggles inanely. 'I see you give my dog a Christmas present.'
I feel a bit sheepish. It's true. The night before, Ollie and I entered Franco's cage with a fleecy blanket, a present for Christmas.
'You don't mind?'
He shrugs. 'Why? You silly enough to spend money on my dog. Is OK with me.'
Phew. I invite him up for an early copa de cava and he promises to pop by later with Cristian. We have a busy evening ahead, preparing the fireplace for Santa Claus with Ollie, and then driving up to Catalina and Ramon's for their Christmas Eve celebration, hot chocolate and sweet pastries at midnight.
We enter the stone built terraced house in the centre of the village and squeeze into the cosy salon which is teeming with people, Catalina's mother, father, grandmother, three brothers, their wives and several aunts and uncles. Then there's all of Ramon's family. The doorbell rings constantly as neighbours and friends pop by full of cheer and talking ten to the dozen in Mallorcan. Without fanfare, family and friends each bring a contribution to the feast: cakes, cheese, Serrano ham, nuts, cava and wine. There is no petty haggling over who has paid for what, or contributed the most because Christmas here is one big melting pot of goodwill and we, the foreigners, at this most traditional of Mallorcan calorific feasts, are treated as part of the family.
Catalina and Ramon enter the room with trays loaded with mugs of hot, thick xocolata a la tassa and plates groaning with ensaïmadas, the delicate spiral shaped buns beloved by Mallorcans, robiols, jam pastries, and coques dolces, a cherry biscuit delight. Ollie tucks into his ensaïmada, his face covered in icing sugar, and allows Catalina's elderly relatives to kiss and pinch his face with murmurs of, 'Que guapo!', which in Spanish means, How handsome! The front door opens yet again and Sarah and Jack, two Australian friends of Catalina's, who live locally, join the throng.
Ollie pulls at my sleeve. 'Don't forget Father Christmas. We must get home to bed before he comes down the chimney.'
'Leave Santa an ensaïmada and a carrot for Rudolph,' says Catalina, putting a spare pastry and a carrot in a bag and handing it to him. He nods gravely.
There's a hush as the village church strikes twelve and then with cries of joy and laughter, everyone hugs and embraces their nearest neighbour. Never have I felt such a sense of belonging, of oneness with a community. I feel an excitement for Christmas I haven't felt since I was a small child. There's the sound of a pistol being fired in the village square: the Mallorcan festivities have officially begun.
The sun is shining in a fierce blue sky, and the mountains are clear of cloud. The patio doors are wide open and I sit outside with Pep and Juana, contemplating the view. Across the field, our local farmer is feeding his sleek black horse and at the bottom of the garden Inko sits in the hollow of our old olive tree, licking her paws. Ollie and Angel are happily kicking a new football around the lawn, one of Ollie's gifts from Father Christmas. Replete and mellow after staggering through a traditional British Christmas lunch, Juana and Pep continue to discuss the wonders of the Christmas pudding (courtesy of Fortnum & Mason) and the brandy butter (my own devilishly laced version). They have enjoyed the whole dining experience so much that they intend to include various dishes in their own traditional meal the following year to which we are invited. Juana is particularly taken with Christmas crackers and instructs me to bring her back a box from London.
'You won't forget?' she asks.
'Well, I've got a whole year to remember.'
'I liked the smoked salmon,' she muses, 'but we always have pasta soup for the primer plat, the first dish. I think we will keep this tradition for next year.'
'Juana, I don't know how you can even contemplate preparation of another Christmas lunch after what we've just eaten.'
Pep laughs and shakes his head. 'She is always thinking of food.'
Juana kicks him lightly under the table. Alan arrives from the kitchen bearing four glasses of brandy.
'Good for the digestion,' he says cheerfully.
I try to visualise how various friends are spending Christmas Day in London but don't believe that anything can better our own blissfully simple and tranquil affair.
'I have something special for you,' says Pep to Alan, producing two missile-like puros from his pocket. 'These are especially for Christmas.'
Juana and I share a wince. Alan cannot mask his delight.
'How many of those do you smoke a day?' I quiz.
'I don't know,' Pep drawls. 'It's of no consequence.'
He sits back and admires the Tramuntanas, smoke coiling round his fingers.
'Quina vida! What a wonderful life.'
The plaça is crowded with happy imbibers and the garishly decorated makeshift stage is besieged with local children while members of the oompah band take five minutes out to enjoy beers in the local bar. Standing in heavy knits and gloves under an enormous bony olive tree, its branches entwined with tiny fairy lights, we chat with a group of friends from the village while Catalina bustles about distributing little bunches of grapes to all and sundry.
'Remember, you eat a grape for every strike of the clock, yes?'
Ollie looks down anxiously at the big green grapes she has given him. 'But I don't like them.'
'Well, tonight you must try,' says Catalina, ruffling his hair. She walks off into the throng, self-appointed grape distributor, and is greeted rapturously by scores of locals and neighbours. Ramon drains a can of beer and chats with Alan and Catalina's parents, Paco and Marta. I spy Juana and Pep in the crowd and wave. Moments later they fight their way over to us holding a bottle of champagne and several glasses.
'Here, let me pour you some drinks,' shouts Pep above the human din. He calls to Ollie. 'Can you see Angel? He's over by the stage.'
Ollie rushes off in the direction of his friend. We toast each other and get ready for the eating of the grapes.
The musicians now return to the stage, shooing the children down the steps and into the brightly lit square. Then, over the microphone, and with great gravitas, they commence their countdown to midnight in Mallorcan. The hands of the church clock creak forward and the chimes boom out above the village. All of us fall on our grapes, manically trying to guzzle them on each strike. There is hysterical laughter and confusion as grapes get squashed underfoot, old men choke on the pips and children, dribbling juice as they cram them in their mouths, cheat by secreting the odd grape or two in their coat pockets. At the last strike the music starts and everyone ambles around the square kissing neighbours and friends, topping up their glasses with cava and shouting 'Molts d'anys' which roughly translated from the Mallorcan, means long life. We espy some local craftsmen who worked on our house mingling in the square with their families. When they see us they come over to shake hands and we exchange kisses with their wives. Felipe, who runs the football ground, comes over to talk with us and is joined by Lorenç who is complaining about his back given how many log drops he's performed in the last few weeks.
'I need a good massage,' he groans.
'Well don't look at me,' retorts his wife.
'Nor me,' I add, laughing.
'So much for Christmas goodwill,' he laments, giving me a hearty push. I faintly hear Judas ringing from my handbag and trot off to a quieter corner and take the call. It's Ed.
'Happy New Year!'
I can tell by his voice that he's on good form
'Ed, I was just going to ring you. We're up in the square. It's a bit rowdy.'
'Sounds like you're in the middle of a brawl!'
'How's your New Year going?'
'Really well,' he blurts out. 'I'm with a whole load of friends from the BBC. I'v
e just nipped out of the pub to give you a quick ring.'
'You're a star...'
'By the way,' he says coyly. 'I've just met a rather nice nurse.'
'Really? And?' I sniff out a potential romance.
'I'll tell you about it soon. Got to go.'
Hm. That'll make an interesting call.
I see our painter, Luis, pushing through the crowds towards me, his eyes as ever brimming with kindness and warmth. Tonight he is radiant and as we clink glasses he blurts out proudly that his wife is expecting a child. Happy news but more so given his story, for his young first wife died of leukaemia a few years back, leaving him with two small girls to raise alone. Martina, his second wife, a local teacher, stepped into the breach, lavishing the children with affection and gently helping him to rebuild his life. I give him a bear hug, and avoid his eyes since mine are pricked with tears. As the music blares and laughing couples dance around us, I pull at the corner of my eye, pretending to search out a rogue eyelash but he isn't fooled.
A Lizard In My Luggage Page 22