'When they finish cementing the hole, we wait some weeks for it to dry and soon the men will tile it,' continues Catalina. 'Then we have big party to celebrate.'
Once the pool is finished, the builders will down tools and leave for the summer and will not be returning until, at some stage in the future, we have funds enough to embark on phase two of our building work which might see patios and paths being laid in the gardens, the courtyard tiled and a front gate fitted. Until that time, we will be grateful for what we have: heating, running water and a roof over our heads.
I leave Catalina ironing sheets in the kitchen and slip out to the pond by the courtyard. Peering into the dark water I spot the first of our baby frogs swimming in and out of the rocks. Somehow, observing the evolution of tadpole to fully formed frog in my own front yard has proven far more captivating than I ever recall it being so during my school biology days. I am concerned that our resident toad is not in evidence but comfort myself that he'll be back soon. There's the sound of heavy footsteps in the yard and Rafael appears in running shorts and a T-shirt. He strides over to me, a big smile on his face.
'Ah, there you are! I have invitation.'
I step forward to greet him and take the card he proffers.
'My son Cristian has First Communion. You must come.'
I am touched that he should include us at such a family event. 'We'd love to. When is it?'
'Saturday. First there is church and then dinner. You meet all my family.'
I promise that Alan and I will attend. 'Is the church easy to find?'
'Si, si, everyone knows it. It's two minutes from town. Ask anyone.'
I watch Rafael cheerfully jog up the track for his morning run while I walk back into the house. I have a pile of e-mails and work to do on my desk but am being seduced by a warm sun and a mountain view so mesmerising that I can hardly tear my eyes from it. It seems a criminal offence to be hunched up over my computer in the house when I could be gainfully employed sitting on a rock and contemplating life and the universe. Catalina beckons to me when I enter the kitchen but first, like the villain in a pantomime, she places a finger to her lips and steps out of the kitchen door, peering exaggeratedly this way and that in a thoroughly farcical manner.
'What on earth are you doing?' I ask.
'The Moro was just here. I just wanted to make sure he was back down in the field. We need to discuss his birthday party.'
Alan's forthcoming birthday is a subject of much discussion amongst our local friends. Although still a month away, the restaurant, Cas Marroig, has been booked, the wine list scrutinised by Pep, connoisseur of all things, and the invitations to twenty friends have been sent. Catalina and I have already held surreptitious meetings with Pau, the maître d', checking out the private room, inspecting the veranda, and mulling over appropriate menus. The young, and much revered, chef has joined us at these clandestine think tanks and has already solemnly declared that the birthday cake should be on a gardening theme. Meanwhile, Alan suspects nothing and is cheerfully anticipating a quiet dinner à deux on his birthday at Cas Marroig.
'We must choose the menu soon,' hisses Catalina as if Alan may burst into the kitchen at any given moment. 'You think lamb is good or not?' she persists.
I realise that my hesitancy about the main course is probably causing both Catalina and the maître d' sleepless nights so I decide that the situation must be resolved now.
'Let's go for the lamb and start with the roast artichokes and Serrano dish as planned.'
'And the fish course?'
'Local catch of the day. Whatever Pau recommends.'
'Good. Now we need to think about flowers and what to wear. I will need to go on a règim.'
'A diet? Don't be silly! No sane Mallorcan would diet.'
She shrugs. 'Well, maybe I have just one croissant in the morning for the next few weeks otherwise I cannot fit my dress.'
The door flies open and in steps Alan holding a trug brimming with beans. He catches the expression on my face and blurts out quickly, 'A few beans for your mother, Catalina.'
Offering beans to Catalina's mother is like carrying coals to Newcastle but Catalina has the good grace to hide her smirk and show gratitude. 'Well, my mother has all the family coming for dinner tomorrow night so she can make a very big bean soup. Would you like to join us?'
The thought of yet more beans, having lived on them for the last two weeks, fills me with dread.
'Quina llàstima!' What a shame, I exclaim. 'We have friends over tomorrow night.'
'No problema,' says Catalina playfully, 'I'll make sure we keep some soup back for you and I'll bring it over on Thursday morning.'
I narrow my eyes and give her a knowing look.
'Unless of course,' she says with a wink in my direction, 'we cannot help ourselves and eat it all up.'
What does one wear to a First Holy Communion? It's all very well if you're the subject of the occasion because all you have to do is turn up in white. For young Spanish girls, with a penchant for dressing up, the First Holy Communion service is a dream ticket allowing them to live out their fairy-tale fantasies with white polyester Barbie frocks and frothy, voluminous Cinderella style ball gowns drowning in frilly lace. They wear big floppy white bows in their hair or tiaras and veils, and clip along to the church in shiny little white shoes and oversized lacy white tights which they are forever hoisting up because they sag woefully around the ankles. By contrast, Spanish boys have a more sober time of it when it comes to attire, many wearing black suits with white shirts although the Saturday Night Fever white, all-in-one is always an option for the rugged individualist and sailor suits for the nautical types are proving popular. As a guest you are expected to turn up in smart, but casual, attire.
So, at six o'clock in the evening, Alan, Ollie and I, make our way to the outskirts of our local town where we confidently expect to find the church in which Cristian is to receive his First Holy Communion. Knowing how Mallorcans despise punctuality, we have set off rather late, never thinking that the service will actually start on time. Besides, Rafael has given us a scruffy hand drawn map which looks straightforward enough. We follow his instructions as best we can but are confused by the appearance of a steep hill looming up to our left, and a junction just beyond which doesn't appear to be indicated on the map. We cross over it and a see an old stone church rising up before us along the road.
'I'm not sure about this,' I sigh, 'Rafael's map has a squiggle going to the left so maybe we should have gone up that hill?'
'Look this has to be the one,' says Alan. 'It's called the Church of the Immaculate Conception and that's the name given on the invitation and the map.'
We arrive to find the car park abandoned and the church devoid of life. A mantilla clad elderly senyora who is praying in the nearby graveyard, gets to her feet and comes to our aid.
'Mira! Look! You want the Church of the Immaculate Conception,' she instructs, holding the invitation card to the sunlight. 'You've missed the turning. You must go back and take the one up the hill. It's in a small lane on the left at the top. You can't miss it.'
'But this church has exactly the same name,' I say with exasperation.
'Yes,' she says, shrugging her shoulders philosophically. On that note, I take my leave and trail after Alan to the car. We turn round and head back, take the hill turning and carry on up, as instructed. Although there is a strong wind, the sun continues to smoulder in the sky like an enormous red coal, and the lining of my dress begins to weld itself stickily to my skin. I shift around irritably in the passenger seat wishing I'd chosen to wear a kaftan instead. Rather ominously en route up the winding road, we count at least three more churches. It could be my imagination but as we pass one, I could almost swear it too has the name, Church of the Immaculate Conception.
We reach the top of the hill, and, to our relief, see a road leading off to the left where an old stone church sits plum in the middle of a pretty cobbled courtyard. Better still it has the na
me, Church of the Immaculate Conception. As we drive slowly past its frontage, a group of young girls in white veils and fluttering white skirts frothed with lace, walk with deliberation across the courtyard towards the entrance, an old, arched wooden door. As the soft breeze catches at their veils and delicate white gowns, the petticoat layers billow up around them, so that for a second, they resemble celestial beings or exquisite swans in flight. We park the car on a cobbled, tree lined street across from the church and step into the cool, intimate interior, scanning the pews in the hope of glimpsing Rafael and his family but they are nowhere to be seen. There are small clusters of parents in modest but smart attire, talking loudly and in a relaxed manner to one another as if they were sitting in a local café, while their offspring giggle and run about the pews waiting for the priest to arrive. First Holy Communion is an occasion much prized by Mallorcan families. It offers them the opportunity to parade their children in their finery, to dress up themselves and enjoy family and neighbourly gossip over a celebratory dinner after the service.
'This must be the wrong church,' I whisper crossly.
'Well, this is where the old woman told us to go and it has the right name,' mutters Alan.
'Can we go to a restaurant instead?' Ollie chips in.
We get up and quietly take our leave. A few heads acknowledge our departure but no one looks remotely interested in us. We get back to the car and examine the invitation.
'The problem is that these churches all seem to have the same name,' I say impatiently. 'We might as well be looking for Larry the Lamb in a sheep cloning lab.'
We set off back down the quiet hill we have just driven up and suddenly see Rafael emerging from a small lane to our right with his mother, Cristian and what appears to be some elderly relatives. We stop the car at its junction and in great embarrassment call out to them from the window. Rafael runs over to the car, full of smiles as I get out to greet him.
'We couldn't find the church,' I say pointedly. 'Have we missed the service?'
He howls with laughter. 'You English! The church is here on this lane like I put on the map. The service is over now so let's go celebrate in the Puerto. Vamos!'
I peer up the lane he has indicated and to my annoyance see that only a few yards on the right is an elegant stone building with a small steeple and spire. Rafael sees my disappointment.
'Don't worry,' he says. 'Only family come to church. Is very boring so everyone else goes straight to restaurant.'
Just in case we get lost again, we agree to stay where we are until he fetches his car so that we can go in convoy to the restaurant in the port. While we wait, I stroll down the lane to the church. To my astonishment the board at its entrance announces its Parish name as Santa Agnes, not the Immaculate Conception. When Rafael returns I challenge him about its name.
'It's true,' he says nonchalantly, 'The church is called Santa Agnes but many years ago it was known as the Immaculate Conception. Some of us still call it that.'
'Well no wonder we couldn't find it,' I say crisply. 'You put the wrong church name on the invitation and map. We've spent the last forty minutes at all the other Immaculate Conceptions around here.'
'I don't believe it!' he says in mock surprise, reaching out and clasping my shoulder, 'and to think in the Bible it says there has only ever been one.'
SEVENTEEN
RESTORATION
The windows of my office are flung wide open and, at the side of my desk, an old metal fan whirs monotonously, unsettling papers and teasing my hair. A lizard scurries up the white wall in front of me as I tap away on the keys of my computer, then stops dead. I glance up at its vertical frame and marvel at how it remains upright. The powerful rays of the sun brush my shoulders and then, like burning wax, slide insidiously downwards to my arms and fingers so that I flinch with the pain. I get up and walk around the room. The lizard remains suspended, its glassy eyes frozen wide, its little squat legs and webbed feet pushed out at right angles. I wonder what it's waiting for, why it hasn't scampered to a safe darkened crevice in the wall. I pour myself a glass of tepid water, cool just moments ago, and stare out over the mountains. The high and distant peaks of the Tramuntana range rise sharply into the sky, their rocky tips emblazoned with sunshine. Down in the valley, our small town is suffused with light, and the curved terracotta roof tiles of the houses glint in the sun like the scales of a ruby basilisk.
I flinch when the telephone rings and drawing back from the window, pick up the receiver. It's Ed.
'I'm at the airport but I don't think I can get on the plane,' he says breathily.
'Calm down, Ed. You'll be fine.' My worst fears have come true. 'It's only a two hour flight. Have a drink and try to relax.'
'I've got palpitations. I just don't think I can do this.'
Now what do I do? I study my watch. He's got another hour before the plane takes off from Gatwick. 'Where's Julia? I thought she was going to the airport with you?'
'She did, but she had to go. She's on duty at the hospital.'
'Why not call her for advice. After all she is a nurse?'
He flinches. 'She'll be cross with me.'
'Good. Call her.'
There's the sound of a hollow voice speaking over a tannoy.
'They're calling my flight!' he yelps.
'Call her now. Ed, and make your way to the plane.'
'OK. I hope I'll see you soon.'
The line goes dead. Whether Ed will ever appear remains to be seen.
I'm still reeling in shock as I pull out from the arrivals car park at Palma airport. Ed is sitting next to me in the car, suitcase safely stowed away in the boot. I never thought this day would come.
'It's all thanks to Julia,' he enthuses. 'When I called her she gave me hell and told me to get straight on the plane.'
'I'm glad you listen to someone.'
'Anyway, there was a nice air hostess who looked after me the whole flight. She even gave me a paper bag to breathe into.'
I can just picture the scene. The traffic is heavy so I'm relieved when we hit the fast Cintura road and are heading for the hills.
'It's jolly hot,' says Ed, pulling at his threadbare shirt collar. 'I might need a nap when we arrive.'
'Don't be such a geriatric. This is mild compared to the heat in August.'
As we leave the busy roads and skim past orchards of oranges and olives, the golden mountains shimmering in the sun, Ed sits spellbound. 'Wow, this is so beautiful! I still had this image of Mallorca being full of pubs and British yobs.'
'That's the trouble with stereotyping,' I sniff.
'I can see why you don't miss London. Anyway, what's happening with George?'
Ed and I have spent many a clandestine phone call discussing the matter in the last few months.
'I've really got to talk to him. I've been using delaying tactics.'
Ed gives a diplomatic cough. 'So, why are you still wavering?'
'He's offering a serious financial package.'
'But is money the issue or is it really something else?' he says pointedly.
I turn off the main road and into our town centre, nearly home now. Perspiration is clinging to my skin, as I run my hand over my face. He's right. This isn't about money at all, but about being lured by flattery and misplaced ambition towards a spiritual blind alley which could prove my nemesis. Money is always just a red herring. Even I know that.
I turn up our rocky track. Ed looks down at the steep orchards to his right with a pained expression. 'Just remember,' he manages to say as he claws at the sides of his seat. 'Always follow your instincts, old thing.'
Inko has arched her back and is dabbing at the coiled greeny-brown intruder in our entrada with a curious paw. Ed stands some feet away watching in abject terror.
'It's only a garriga, Ed,' says Catalina calmly. 'A field snake. The marble is nice and warm for him. I take him up to the forest and let him out.'
I can't say I'm good with snakes either but I do as I'm instructed
by Catalina. In the summer snakes often slither through the French doors into the hallway. 'Get me a broom, newspaper and a waste paper basket.'
I return dutifully with her homespun snake removal kit. 'OK. Now I push him in bin.'
Quickly she shovels the snake into the bin with the broom, and then claps the newspaper on top. 'Good! Now I take him up the road in my car.'
Ed is a quivering heap. 'You're not seriously going to drive with a live snake sitting next to you?'
She regards him with wry humour. 'Of course, unless he asks to drive.'
A Lizard In My Luggage Page 30