I'm on a ladder under one of the lemon trees with mobile glued to ear.
'Anyway, what are you doing up a damned lemon tree?' Rachel is tutting.
'Picking lemons?'
'Oh, very funny. Don't you ever relax?'
'Actually, Rachel, I do. The other night I went to a wonderful exhibition and bought myself a painting.'
'Hallelujah!' she squawks. 'Good to know you're living dangerously.'
'Hardly.'
'I expect Alan gave you grief over the price?'
'Thankfully, the artist is a friend so it didn't break the bank. I've hung it right above the bed. Even the Scotsman thinks it looks fantastic.'
'Good, you should get out more.'
'Well, when you stop piling on the work, Rachel, I might.'
'Touché!' she gives a laugh. 'Anyway, where were we?'
'Discussing the number of guests for the Crown jewels event.'
'Ah yes, well I think we'll have three hundred in total,' Rachel drawls.
'What? But the events people at the Tower said two hundred and fifty, max.'
'Too bad.'
'I'm not sure, Rachel. Don't forget the guests won't just be in the White Tower. They've also got to visit Waterloo Barracks to have a quick look at the Crown jewels collection during the evening. It could be a logistical nightmare with so many guests.'
She yawns. 'We can't cut the list down. Besides there'll be no-shows on the night, as always.'
'I suppose we can do drinks in the White Tower with Prince Charles, then take guests to the Jewel house in small groups.'
'Exactly.'
'What does Jim at the Stationery Office think?'
'He's fairly laid back.'
'I hope you're right, Rachel.'
'Listen, don't get so stressed out. I really appreciate all the work you're putting in just now but we've still got plenty of time on our hands.'
'Maybe, but don't forget I'm juggling a lot of other projects at the moment so I'd like to think this one's on course.'
'It is, don't worry. By the way, Greedy George is thrilled with your marketing plan for his dog and cat wear range. That was fairly inspired.'
'You know my penchant for pets.'
'Hmm… well, I certainly know about your absurd preoccupation with moggies.'
I draw the conversation back to the Tower. 'By the way, can we display the Crown jewels book up in the White Tower?
'I'll make sure that'll be fine with the Palace.'
'OK, but please check back with the Tower as well.'
She gives a guffaw. 'You're like a mother hen over this event.'
'I want it to work like clockwork.'
'It will. Never fear.'
I have agreed to meet Sabine Ricard for a coffee at Cafè Paris. On a Saturday she likes to visit Sóller market with Veronique and, although making few purchases, believes that she is fundamental to the thriving economy of my local town.
'Tell me,' she says, as we sit at a table waiting to be served. 'What would these people do without us?'
'I think they'd survive fairly well, Sabine.'
'Rubbish! We are the life blood of the island economy and should be treated with respect.'
I wonder sometimes why people like Sabine choose to live in Mallorca. They rarely have a good thing to say about the island or its people. Veronique is playing with a hideous Barbie doll and twisting her golden curls with her chubby little fingers. José catches my eye and saunters over. I've been waiting for this moment. He asks if I want my usual order, but I stop him mid track.
'Jo vull un cafè tot sol i un aigua sensa gas.'
He claps his hands. 'Fantàstic!'
Sabine narrows her eyes. 'What did you say?'
'I asked for an espresso and a mineral water in Catalan.'
'Why?' she sniffs in disgust.
'Because I've started having lessons and need to practise.'
She looks horrified.
'I'm getting a lot of homework too, on top of all my other work stuff.'
'I can't believe what I'm hearing!' She gives me a pained expression.
José disappears, rushing over to Senyor Bisbal's table to tell him and some of his other regulars about my debut. They smile and applaud. José returns to take the rest of our order.
'I'm proud of you,' he says. 'Poc a poc.'
'Maman, I hate Catalan. It sounds so ugly,' Veronique whines in French, scowling unpleasantly and twirling her hideous, emaciated doll across the table. José looks affronted, given that he speaks excellent French, but smiles stiffly and heads for the bar.
'But you live here now so you should try to speak the local language,' I say.
'Maman says I shouldn't,' she replies in perfect English.
Sabine eyes me frostily. 'I have no intention of speaking Catalan, nor shall my daughter.'
'That seems a little silly.'
José places our coffees in front of us and gives Veronique her cola. He returns to Senyor Bisbal's table for a chat.
'It is my decision. Besides, like you, we will always send her to an international school so there is no need.'
I decide to bait her. 'To be honest, we're thinking of sending Ollie to a local school next year.'
She thumps down her cup so hard that the teaspoon cries out, a small rattle of protest in the saucer.
'Are you insane?'
'Probably, but that has nothing to do with our decision.'
Senyor Bisbal stands like a vision before us, his tall, slightly hollowed frame blocking the few rays of sunlight that have found a path to our table. I attempt to rise, but he politely indicates that I should remain seated. He takes my hand in his.
'So now you can speak Catalan?'
'I can just about order a coffee, so don't get too excited.'
He laughs softly and smiles over at Sabine. Veronique talks to her mother in French.
'Ah, you are French. We Mallorcans have much in common with you.'
'Really?' she says, eyebrows haughtily raised.
'In Sóller we traded our oranges for years with France. I suppose that's why our languages are so similar.'
Sabine gives a little gasp as though he's squirted her with a water gun, but old Senyor Bisbal seems hardly to have noticed, bowing low and walking slowly to the door. For a brief second he glimpses back, a mischievous smile playing on his lips and then, with a little wink in my direction, he is gone.
FOURTEEN
RUNNING AROUND MANHATTAN
Sunday 5 a.m., midtown Manhattan
A leaden grey sky hangs over Manhattan as we walk the quiet streets en route to the New York Public Library, the pickup point for marathon runners. From there we will be shuttled by bus to the start line on Staten Island. It's cold and windy and I feel rather conspicuous exposing my bare knees to the world at such an ungodly hour. On either side of us, immense sleek tower blocks shoot up into the crowded sky, their charcoal glass shells reflecting an eerie glow from the gloomy street lights. A dog patters past, keeping flush with the dark walls, his eyes darting nervously about him as he heads determinedly in the direction of Times Square. Ollie and Alan stumble along beside me yawning and discussing where they might find a place open for breakfast once they've waved me off. As we approach the intersection of 42nd Street and 5 Avenue, a vast, inky black building like a great Egyptian temple rises up before us, flanked by an imposing flight of stone steps. Now, seemingly from every direction we are joined by runners grasping small plastic kit bags and water bottles. On the broad pavement in front of the library cheerful officials in bright NYC Marathon T-shirts beckon us forward and direct us to the coaches forming a line along the empty street.
'OK, honey,' yells a woman, 'Move along please.'
I step back to let others pass. Ollie is mesmerised by the sheer scale of everything around him and the number of runners trundling past.
'How's the leg?' Alan asks.
'I've got some pain killers if it gets really bad.'
'They say you shouldn'
t pop pills to mask the pain.'
'Who's they?'
'Medical experts.'
'Too bad.'
'Don't forget to warm up,' pipes up Ollie.
'Well, I've got about four hours until the start so I'll have plenty of time for warming up.'
'Just think, there'll be 40,000 of you at the start line.'
'Am I supposed to find that comforting?'
He laughs. 'At least you won't be suffering alone and there'll be millions of spectators.'
I feel dwarfed standing in the shadow of the library and rather homesick for the Sóller Valley. Pathetically, I'm dreading the moment when the boys take their leave. We walk aimlessly along to the coaches, distracted on our left by a large bronze statue of a woman. She's kneeling and her hands are placed close together on her knees. Alan studies the inscription.
'That's a good omen,' he says. 'It's a memorial to the American writer Gertrude Stein, frequent visitor to Deià and friend of Robert Graves in her day.'
That heartens me a little. I bid Ollie and Alan farewell and join one of the anonymous queues waiting to mount a bus. A few runners are travelling together but I feel rather downcast and alone. I am already fretting about my leg and the added pressure from Manuel Ramirez of finishing the race in less than four hours. I mount the bus and sit staring out of the window into the gloom. A moment later and a swarthy young man slumps down next to me. He is studying the route map, occasionally observing the runners filing past him with large, troubled eyes.
'Perdona,' he suddenly blusters. 'I am alone in New York. Do you speak any Spanish?'
12.35 p.m., Upper East Side
The last twenty-five miles have passed by in a mad blur of colours, smells, faces, wild cheering, majorette parades and music. I remember the mad rush at the start line, adrenalin thumping through my body as I surged ahead in an enormous bubble of humanity. Runners pushed and elbowed, laughed and whistled. Sidewalks became wild, undulating waves of moving bodies, and above our heads helicopters whirred and dipped. With an air of misplaced cockiness I soared through Brooklyn, slowed down in The Bronx and began limping in Harlem. I recall the five hellish bridges I crossed, my body part of a huge tangle of sweating limbs and reeking sportswear as we pounded along the narrow tracks in unbearable heat. In Harlem, the sudden loss of power as my right leg flared with pain infuriated me and soon I was grappling with pain killers that I had secreted in my pocket. I knocked them back with warm water from a plastic bottle and stubbornly blundered forward, furious with myself for acknowledging the pain.
Now we're on the last lap, the home run. The crowds are screaming and flying flags on either side of the broad street. Along the pavements well-wishers have set up small stalls offering free Pepsi, oranges and chocolate. God Bless America! An elderly American, who has shadowed me from the start line, hobbles up alongside me, perspiration running down his face.
'Still in pain?'
I squint at him in the burning sunlight, in such acute agony now that I'm not sure I can spit out a word without blubbing.
'Agony,' I blurt out.
He nods and pats me on the back as we jog along. 'Control the pain, girl. We're about a mile off. Look ahead, there's Central Park.'
'I think I'll have to rest a minute.'
He shakes his head. 'NO! If you stop now, you'll seize up. I should know. I've done ten of these darned marathons.'
Somehow, as we curled into Upper East Side, the pain had numbed to a dull nagging sensation, but now, with just a mile to go, it has become intolerable. I look at my watch and see that I have been running for three hours and forty-nine minutes. The face of Manuel Ramirez floats before me. You will run in under four hours, a second over and you fail me.
My elderly companion cocks his head towards me. 'You OK?'
'No. My leg is on fire.'
He pulls the baseball cap from his head and wipes his brow. 'We've gotta keep on trucking. Let's finish together. I'm Barney by the way.'
I feel my eyes moisten. This man has become my last hope. I nod and tell him my name.
'Sorry to be a wimp.'
'Recognising your own frailties is a sign of strength,' he says determinedly.
I find myself giggling. 'Kind of you, but I'm actually just a wimp.'
'Come on! There's the finish line. We're gonna make it.'
He grasps my fingers and pulls me forward. His frail, mottled hand is, like mine, slimy with sweat. I want to laugh and cry in helpless relief when I see in the far distance balloons and banners with the words, 'FINISH'. We are now in Central Park and the massive swell of spectators on either side of us are yelling 'RUN! RUN!' Tears are coursing down my face and there, bobbing up behind bunting and scores of spectators on the right side of the course, is Ollie with Alan at his side. They are screaming and punching the air and giving me the thumbs up. So very un-British. In a split second I can see Ollie's puzzlement that I am running with an old man, hand in hand. I begin laughing uncontrollably. Maybe it's the effect of the pain killers. Barney lets go of my hand and throws his arms up in joy as we practically throw ourselves over the finish line. He surveys his watch.
'Nice going, partner. Three hours and fifty-nine minutes.'
I give him a hug. Medals are thrust at us and soon I find myself wrapped in a metal foil sheet and caught in a tight embrace with Alan and Ollie. Barney is carried off on a wave of jubilant runners and the park is seething with foil-clad heroes and doting friends and relatives.
'You looked as if you were really suffering,' says Alan quietly.
'I can't begin to describe the pain.'
Ollie presses my hand. 'But you did it!'
'Did Ed make it?' I ask.
'He came, saw the crowds and bowed out gracefully,' says the Scotsman wryly. He leads me across the grass and towards one of the park's entrances.
'Right, do you want the good news or the bad news?'
'Go on,' I say, limping between them.
'The good news is that you've won Manuel's bet and there's some cold bubbly in the hotel fridge. The bad news is that we've got to walk all the way back there.'
I shrug my shoulders. 'A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do.'
Leaning heavily on Alan's arm, with Ollie dancing at my side, we head off along the street, the lure of iced champagne, a hot bath and a massage quickening my pace with every step.
Sunday 11 p.m., somewhere in the Manhattan grid
'Are we lost?'
'Of course not! It's just that we've walked further from the subway than I thought.'
Following a recuperative bath and massage at the hotel, I venture out with Alan and Ollie to try a restaurant recommended by a London journalist friend. We manage to find our way around the subway and even locate the restaurant and have dinner, but now it is late and cold and a taxi seems like the best option to whisk us back to the hotel.
'I think we're only about fifteen minutes away from the subway.'
I give Alan a warning look as he squints at a street map.
'Ah, maybe not a good idea. Probably your legs are feeling it a bit.'
Ollie tuts. 'Let's just get a cab.'
We lurk by one of the main intersections until a yellow cab finally rolls up.
'Hello, I wonder if you could take us to –' Alan's words are cut short.
'Get in.'
The door slams and we're off, skidding round corners and eating up 7 Avenue as if it's a hot dog. I catch the eye of the driver in the darkness and am startled to see that it's a warrior of a woman. A metal grill separates us, for which I'm grateful.
'Erm, we're going midtown to the Millennium Broadway Hotel.'
'Where? Never heard of it,' she barks at me.
'Do you know Times Square?' I say helplessly.
'She says do I know Times Square!'
I observe the silhouette of her shoulders heaving, her mahogany paws manipulating the steering wheel. She gives a hoot of laughter. Alan shifts around his seat ignoring us both while Ollie drops off to sl
eep.
'You guys from outta town?'
'London, England,' I say.
'That figures.'
She gives a coarse cackle. We're coming up to some lights.
'Do you often drive late at night?'
Her black eyes glower at me in the driver's mirror.
Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Page 22
