Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (5 page)

  1. Scruffy, and at times dishevelled, personal appearance

  2. Grubby, battered and dented jalopy, preferably lacking wing mirrors

  3. Spindly, quivering Mallorcan
ca rater
hunting dog in tow

  4. Faithful elderly retainer close at hand

  5. Undying loyalty to a couple of simple restaurants serving wholesome local fare

  6. Assiduous checking of bar and restaurant bills and leaving of small tips

  7. Expensive Havana
puros sm
oked by the men folk

  8. Enormous property and land portfolio

  9. A stake in several local businesses

  10. Purchase of expensive
fincas
for all the offspring

Senyor Bisbal fits the bill perfectly. Rising from his chair, he makes his way over to my table, his fretful hound following at a discreet distance. With sleeves rolled back to the elbow and shabby old trousers buckled with a worn and archaic leather belt, he gives a slight bow and asks me if everything is in order. I tell him it is. Then, in elegantly phrased Spanish, he informs me that he has paid for my coffee. I remonstrate, but he holds up his hand, declaring that it is his pleasure.
Que fer?
What do you do? Give in gracefully, that's what.

It's late evening. Alan and I sit reading on the patio, the last dregs of a ruby Rioja playing at the bottom of our glasses. A candle glows between us, attracting a small white halo of midges that hover tirelessly above the saffron flame. I lean forward and blow into their midst, marvelling at how the tiny white forms disperse like the seeds of a dandelion clock, spiralling upwards into velvety infinity. As night casts a charcoal mantle over the valley, the tawny Tramuntanas, like pyrites, retain a golden afterglow cast by the dying sun. The relentless rasping of the frogs permeates the night, louder than the shrill cry of the ghost-like screech owls overhead, and more rhythmic than the clicking cicadas rustling in the trees. A dog's howl punctures the still air, and is soon echoed by a chorus of invisible hounds across the ebony fields of the valley. Alan drains his glass and with exasperation looks about him.

  'I'll have to get out the didgeridoo.'

  'Not yet,' I say, closing my book and yawning. 'They'll be quiet soon.'

  He gets up, and with the candle, wanders over to one of the vine-clad pillars to study a plump gecko. Caught in the sudden glare it recoils with heart pumping, its tiny legs and arms splayed out against the stone like a captured fugitive in an American cop drama. I have an urge to shout out, 'Freeze!' A second later it vanishes without a trace into the night.

  Alan turns to me. 'Did you manage to get to the post office today?'

  I call softly to Ollie who shuffles out of the candle-lit kitchen with book in hand.

  'Have you by any chance seen a large bag of letters lying around?'

  He nods dreamily and disappears into the house only to re-emerge a few minutes later with the post. Alan tips the bag onto the table and begins sifting slowly through the various envelopes. He hands me a large parcel.

  'This one's for you. It's from New York.'

  Ollie scrutinises the package. 'I'll have those stamps when you've finished with them.'

  'OK, as long as you get ready for bed now.'

  He sighs heavily. 'Can I read for a bit?'

  'Ten minutes.'

  I watch him scamper up the unlit stairs to his room. Inko appears from the gloom of the garden and like an undercover spy follows him at a distance, furtively hugging the shadows of the stairwell, to his room.

  I begin ripping at the brown tape binding the parcel until the flaps are free and a sea of foam chips burst from the opening.

  'This must be from Greedy George. He's probably sent some new leather products sample for me to see before we meet in London.'

  Alan gives a small distracted grunt, scanning the other items until he alights on a neat rectangular package. He stands up to study the label in the light of the kitchen doorway before quickly shunting it to the back of the pile. A flicker of a smile plays on his lips as he whisks the bundle under his arm and heads for the kitchen.

  'I'll go and sort all this lot out and leave you to examine George's delights.'

  Alone under the vast shadow of the mountains I dip my hand in the box and draw out a large felt drawstring pouch. Pulling undone its strings, I shake out the contents and contemplate the strange assortment of objects that clatter onto the table. I select a bold, red leather collar studded with luminous white stones and what look like diamonds. Surely they can't be the real thing? It appears to be for a cat because it's certainly too small for a dog unless of some obscure pygmy breed. Beneath it, wrapped in rustling carmine-tinged silk is a miniature tartan waistcoat trimmed with tan leather. I unearth a more daring creation in soft black leather. It looks a bit like a tiny diving suit with a zippable front and arms and legs which are fastened along the seams with Velcro. Attached to it is a hood sporting two small cavities, I presume, for little ears. It slumps forward when I hold it aloft. On the soft leather back, all is revealed. Emblazoned in diamante letters are the words, CAT GIRL. George has created a miniature cat suit, but why is anybody's guess. Somewhat warily I unwrap the final item. Cocooned in dusky blue felt is a black leather cape of diminutive size. It has a velvet collar and on its back, spelt out in dazzling, turquoise gems are the words, 'BAT CAT!'

  Holding the cape in my hands, I breathe in the rich pungent smell of new leather. Its texture is silky and smooth, unlike the hide of our resident toad, Johnny. I remember once daring myself to touch his gnarled skin and being amazed that it was as tough and dry as parchment. Inko pads across the patio and rubs her soft cream fur against my leg. I lift her onto my lap and with sly moves manage to fasten the cape around her neck. With a look of alarm, she leaps to the floor and swirls around, the cape billowing up behind her like a tempestuous sea. I pounce on her and undo the Velcro clasp, setting her free. With a filthy look in my direction she stalks off up the stairs, presumably to find solace in the company of my less treacherous son.

  I delve into the box of white chips hoping to find some written clue that might help unravel the mystery of the bizarre items within. Triumphantly, as though plucking a prize from a lucky dip, I pull out a slim piece of paper. A jumble of spidery letters, written in ox-blood red ink runs across the page. The message is sparse:

A warning bell sounds in my head. It wasn't that long ago that Greedy George dreamt up a range of leather lizard air fresheners which took London by storm, earning him the double accolade of design genius and eccentric oddball.

  The dogs begin partying. Barks of all kinds fill the bowl of the valley, echoing around the hills and startling the feral cats that perch like sphinxes on the high terraces under the silvery moon. Alan strides from the kitchen into the shadowy garden with his brightly painted didgeridoo, a random purchase from Ibiza, and begins blowing deeply. It emits a low pulsating drone and before long, each and every bark melts into silence. The air is still and warm and for a while the valley holds its breath, a brief truce of peace.

It's Monday, the day of the
Moros i Cristiàs
battle re-enactment and a perfect excuse for us all to get as pickled as herrings. On this day alone, every adult in the valley is encouraged to storm the streets clutching swords, sabres and blunderbusses while masquerading as swarthy, turban-clad Moors or Christian peasants in breeches and sack cloth shirts. The emphasis is on community spirit and if dressing up, imbibing to excess and playing out mock battles is your game, so much the better.

  Today, when Rafael's demented cockerel blasts us at five o'clock, I roll onto my stomach, pillow clasped to my head, fantasising about roast chicken. Unable to sleep, I shower, dress and slip downstairs to the kitchen. Inko is already scratching at the back door, her furry pot belly flattening against one of the glass panes. Greedy Inko indeed. I grab a trug and set off to pick lemons in the orchard, my morning ritual. The luxury of having a ready supply of lemons on our land has meant that we use them for all sorts of dishes and drinks throughout the day, a great excuse for picking them fresh off the trees every morning. The air is heavy with the rich, sweet fragrance of honeysuckle, and drops of dew spill from the petals of roses. With a pair of secateurs I set about clipping a lemon free of its branch, inhaling the delicious citrus aroma of its skin before tossing it into the trug. Yawning and rubbing my eyes, I yank branches and remove dead leaves as I move from tree to tree. At times I am showered by a flurry of ants and stop to shake them off my arms and hands. The amber sun rises higher behind the mountains and soon, soft light filters through the leaves. With a groaning trug, I stroll back to the house and find Ollie sitting crossed-legged on a kitchen chair, barely clothed and eating hummus with his fingers from a bowl.

  'It's very early.'

  He nods. 'I know, but I need to organise my costume for the battle.'

  'It's not until tonight.'

  He shrugs, making patterns in the purée with his fingers. 'Yes, but I won't have time after school and football.'

  I put the kettle on and draw up a chair beside him.

  He gives me a small frown. 'You look tired.'

  'Well, I'm feeling pretty washed out after the weekend's madness.'

  Ollie says nothing, but shakes his head disapprovingly.

  The weekend's festivities have already left me bleary-eyed. On Saturday I strolled into the
plaça
with Catalina and her twin daughters, Sofia and Carolina, to watch the investiture of the Valentes Dones, at which two young girls are elected to represent the brave women of Sóller who, four centuries ago, helped fight off the invading Moors. Ollie balked at the idea of a girl-powered event so slipped off with Pep's son, Angel, for a game of football. We snapped up an unoccupied table outside Cafè Paris and spent the rest of the afternoon drinking iced coffees in the sunshine and watching the annual procession of
La Mare de Déu de la Victoria,
pass by. This slow, undulating line of local families and children wearing traditional costume snakes its way from Calle sa Lluna, the main shopping street, to the church in the square, and is always a jolly affair. Later, Alan and I spent a raucous evening with Mallorcan friends, and on Sunday the tempo got hotter as we slipped into Palma for a wild, celebratory dinner with newly weds until the early hours.

  'What time does the battle start tonight in the
plaça
?'

  'About eight o'clock.'

  He gives a big sigh. 'If I didn't have to go to school I could see the Moors arriving in the port.'

  Preceding the evening event, a series of explosive sea battles take place in the local port between the Moors and the Christians. I intend to go for a quick run to the port this afternoon to witness the spectacle.

  Ollie puts his empty bowl by the sink and stretches.

  'I fed Inko,' he says. 'She was starving.'

'She was born starving.'

  With difficulty he gathers up the rotund feline, a ball of beige and cream fur, and drapes her over his shoulder.

  'We'll be in my room if you need us.'

  And with that, he disappears up the stairs.