Alan potters in from the garden.
'A happy Christmas to one and all! Who's for breakfast?'
'Do you have a clamp lamp?' asks Alex hopefully.
The Scotsman eyes him curiously. 'Down in the abajo I have an old one.'
'Excellent. Then all we need are some containers and a few DVDs.'
'Are you doing an experiment?' asks Ollie.
'Yes, he's going to blow up the house,' I rejoin.
Alex squeezes my arm. 'Have faith, auntie dear. Now Alan, let's get to work.'
A weak sun is shining in the sky and we all feel in good spirits as we huddle around a large tin bowl in the garden waiting for a miracle to happen.
'Well, it's starting to smoke,' says Alex.
'Are you sure it's safe?' I ask.
'Well, if it blows up at least we're outside,' says Alan. 'Running the flex out from the kitchen was a good idea.'
'I'm full of them,' says my nephew with a huge grin.
Cecilia and Ollie nudge each other and then creep off inside. 'Tell us when it's cooked,' my sister says. 'We're off to eat the chocolate tree decorations.'
Smoke soon begins billowing out of the sides of the lid covering the turkey.
'That's good, Alex,' says Alan. 'It must be cooking.'
We stand back.
'How long do we wait?' I'm not convinced this is going to work and I'm very concerned about my old Die Hard DVDs being used as turkey bait around the clamp lamp.
'We just leave it for about an hour or so, I think,' says Alex.
Cecilia potters out with some mince pies. 'Here, have one of these to keep you going.'
We all swoop on them.
'What time are your friends coming over?' she asks me.
'About two o'clock. Remember, no one eats early around here.'
'That's great. We've got bags of time to get the turkey cooked and…'
At which point there's a strange sizzling sound followed by a loud pop like a champagne cork going off and the clamp lamb bulb explodes. We all leap back and exchange looks.
'Perhaps we should move on to plan B?' beams Alex.
'And what is plan B?' I say with irony.
'Well, I've just had an idea,' he says.
Alex and I are picking at a plate of smoked salmon blinis and slurping champagne while Ollie sits drinking cola and eating olives.
'I feel a bit guilty about Alan and Cecilia doing all the relays up to Fornalutx while we're stuffing ourselves back here.'
He stretches his arms out in front of him. 'Look, I can't drive and you've got to be here to welcome Pep and Juana so we had no choice. Feeling guilty is a complete waste of energy.'
'I suppose you're right,' I say, thinking about the turkey which at this very moment is hopefully cooking in the oven of my sister's new home. Alex's plan B was actually rather clever. He remembered that a gas cylinder had been delivered to their new house for the oven – piped gas not having reached our mountains yet – and suggested that we ferry the bird and potatoes up to their village for cooking. The Scotsman and my intrepid sister offered to take it in turns to baste the turkey at intervals and check on the roast potatoes. The mobile phone rings. It's Alan reporting that Cecilia's on her way down the mountain and that he will stay put until the bird's cooked.
'That's good, Alex. The turkey's nearly done. We'll have to eat as soon as Alan returns or everything will go cold.'
'That's OK,' he yawns. 'Pep and Juana can have a drink and by the time Alan gets back it'll be time to eat.'
There's a loud tooting at the gate.
'That must be my mother.'
But it isn't. Catalina pulls up in the courtyard and comes bustling in to the kitchen with presents.
'Hey, where's my glass of cava?'
Alex flips open the fridge, ever grateful to have an excuse to open a bottle.
'So, your mother and Alan are cooking the turkey, and what about you, Alex?'
'I'm needed here to keep my aunt plied with cava.'
She pokes him in the ribs. 'You're a bad boy. Molt dolent.'
Many years ago, Catalina au-paired for my sister in Kent, and was the one who persuaded us to first visit the island on holiday. Little did she realise then that she'd be the catalyst for our complete change of lifestyle. She has a special fondness for Alex whom she looked after when he was a toddler.
'I love Christmas,' sighs Catalina. 'So much food and chocolate. I'm at my aunt's restaurant with all the family for lunch today and then dinner with Jack and Sarah at Es Turo this evening. What a crazy day!'
Alex gives a smirk and refills her glass.
'Don't get me drunk, Alex. I have to drive back up the hill.'
There's more hooting at the gate and within minutes Cecilia arrives in the kitchen.
'Thank God I don't have to drive up to Fornalutx again. That's my third trip.'
'Have a drink, mother,' says Alex cheerfully.
Having given Catalina a hug, she takes a glass and we all stroll out into the sunny garden.
'Look how beautiful it is today,' says Catalina.
'Maybe we'll be eating al fresco after all,' I add.
'Why not?' says Cecilia. 'Let's transfer all the dishes outside.'
'Christmas under a Mallorcan sun,' I sigh. 'Now whoever would have thought that possible?'
Pep is lying back in his chair at the table, puffing on a huge Havana, a gift from Alan. A paper hat is slung lopsidedly on his head.
'You know, that was one of the best turkeys I've ever tasted,' he says. 'An interesting temperature too.'
I give him a warning look. 'Watch it!'
'What do you mean? I love cold turkey…' he giggles.
Cecilia shakes her head. 'Is he always this objectionable?'
'Always,' says Juana with a wry grin. 'Now you're coming to live here, you'll see how bad he is for yourself.'
'I think I've seen enough,' she jests, throwing her arms wide as if to embrace the hot sun above.
'Thank you for a wonderful lunch, all of you,' beams Juana.
'Hear, hear!' says Pep, unleashing a party popper over my head.
Alex grabs one from the table and fires it at Pep.
'Children!' laughs Juana. 'I swear my husband gets worse as he gets older.'
'This is just the beginning,' I say, giving Pep a kick under the table.
Alan arrives from the kitchen with flutes of chilled champagne and chocolate truffles.
'Yummy!' shriek Ollie and Angel in unison, interrupting a game of swing ball to come over and help themselves to chocolates.
'I don't think I can eat another thing,' I declare. 'Mind you on second thoughts…'
'What a perfect Christmas,' says Alan. 'Good food, friends and family and blissful weather.'
'To a perfect Christmas!' says Alex, raising his glass to us all.
'To a perfect Christmas!' we say in unison.
'To the best Christmas ever,' says Ollie and with a cheeky grin he takes a swig of my champagne and runs off into the field with his friend, Angel.
It's Boxing Day. Rachel is full of Yuletide cheer.
'I'm glad you managed to have your Christmas lunch in the end.'
'So am I. Yours sounded a lot less chaotic.'
She laughs. 'Yes, M&S did us proud. We didn't have to do very much at all.'
'Well, I hope you can switch off from work for a few days now.'
'You must be joking! I've already had Manuel on the phone. He's going to ring you later about the Cuba H Hotel opening and Greedy George called about the Crown jewels book launch.'
'They rang you at home?'
'I don't know why you're so surprised. You know those two never let us off the hook.'
'It is an international holiday!'
'As if they care!' she titters.
'So what is George after this time?'
'He wants an invitation to the Crown jewels launch.'
'What a cheek!'
'It gets worse. He thought he and Dannie could come togethe
r.'
'Did you explain it's by invitation only?'
'I did, but he sounded so keen. Let's talk about it later.'
Despite her robust exterior, Rachel can be a marshmallow when it comes to Greedy George. She often caves in to his boyish charms.
'Well, we've only got a month to go now. Is everyone at the Stationery Office happy?'
'Cock-a-hoop. Oh, there's just one thing. The editor of the Crown jewels book queried a small detail on the draft news release you sent him for the press conference.'
'What's that?'
'You gave it the headline, "BLAIR TO UNVEIL CROWN JEWELS".'
'So? His name is Mr Blair.'
'But he's a little concerned that some media might think he's the other Mr Blair and that we're talking about the real Crown jewels.'
'Exactly, Rachel. This way we'll be guaranteed to have a spectacular press turn out.'
It's early evening. Nancy is sitting in front of a tiny electric heater with Rosie at her feet. She was somewhat taken aback when we arrived with a bottle of champagne and a meals-on-wheels Christmas dinner for one, especially as it is Boxing Day. We were going to invite her to join us at our own bizarre Christmas feast but were pipped to the post by some mutual friends. Given our disastrous turkey relay-run luncheon, I'm glad she had safe harbour elsewhere.
Nancy gives me a big smile. 'I shall heat it up for my supper later. Rosie and I will have a feast.'
Ollie hands her a small packet together with a handmade Christmas card. He has lovingly painted Nancy's favourite animals – two sea otters on the front – wearing Santa hats.
'Well, I guess with all this drawing you're going to be putting me out of business soon.'
He puffs out his cheeks. 'In my dreams.'
She coughs and pulls her black shawl closely around her shoulders. With difficulty she fumbles with the tightly packed gift, finally unwrapping it and holding the marcasite cat up to the light.
'Why, Ollie this is divine! I mean, I'm going to feel like a queen walking down the street wearing this.'
She plants a big kiss on his cheek. He is flushed with pleasure.
'They're not real diamonds though.'
She dissolves into laughter. 'Didn't you know that marcasites are far more special than diamonds? They've got real character.'
He studies her face closely.
'Really?'
'Sure. Just like your card is so much more valuable than any trumped-up thing you could buy in a shop.'
He gives a satisfied sigh and potters off to draw a picture at her desk.
She smiles serenely for a few minutes, absorbed in thought, and then grasps my hand.
'I have some news.'
I take a sip of champagne. 'Great. Is it about the exhibition?'
Alan is eating a truffle and sitting back in an armchair, listening intently.
'No. Actually, it's about my move.'
'What move?' I say sharply.
She releases my hand and fiddles with one of her amber rings.
'Well, you know I've been finding things a little difficult of late, what with my health and money issues and this infernal cold. My daughter has suggested I move back over to the States to live near her.'
Alan sits up in his chair, his face expressionless. Ollie has stopped painting.
'You're going away? For how long?'
She gives him a gentle smile. 'I don't know, Ollie. Some time, maybe. You know, until I get back on my feet.'
I feel hollow at the thought of Nancy leaving the Sóller Valley. Her incredibly vibrant abstract art hangs in our home, a daily reminder of how lucky we are to have her as a friend.
'How do you feel about that?'
She gives a little shrug and touches my hand.
'I don't know. It's kinda sad to be going, but California has great weather and I'll be near my daughter. It sort of makes sense.'
Alan exhales deeply. 'When are you thinking of leaving?'
'The spring, I guess. I'll need a few months to get packed up.'
'It's going to be quite a wrench for you and for all of us.'
She gives me a flash of her pearly teeth. 'Come on, why the long face? Ever heard of email?'
We arrive at the mouth of the track and to my relief I see a light on in Margalida's chalet. We are all feeling rather sombre at the thought of Nancy's departure but, given her difficult circumstances, know it makes sense. For some time now I have wondered how much longer she would be able to cope all alone with the winter weather and her increasingly bad health. I ask Alan to stop the car so that I can check up on Margalida.
'Well, don't be long. Remember we're cooking for the troops tonight.'
Cecilia and Alex are back at the finca and tonight Catalina and her family will be joining us for supper. Thankfully, an engineer drove up from Palma earlier in the day to fix our oven, telling us that the wiring had been wrongly connected and we were lucky not to have been burned to cinders. I relish passing that news on to our local electrician, but he'll no doubt throw his hands melodramatically in the air shouting 'Joder!', a favoured Spanish expletive, and tell me the man is a buffoon and it is all the fault of the manufacturer. At least it's fixed. I watch as Alan passes me up the track, the car tail lights fading in the dusk. I knock softly on the door and wait for the sound of Margalida's stick clumping along the corridor. Eventually the lock turns and a sliver of bright light squirms through the partially open door. She is squinting up at me.
'Ah! I thought it might be you. I haven't been too good.'
I enter the house, closing the door behind me. Using my arm for support, Margalida leads me into her kitchen.
'What's up?'
She gestures for me to sit at the table. Once settled, she blows her nose and with trembling hands sips at a glass of water.
'It happened so quickly. One minute I was picking oranges, the next I was lying on my back under the tree.'
'How much herbes had you been drinking?'
She gives a little smile and tuts.
'So there I was alone in Silvia's orchard and I couldn't move. Just like a centpeus.'
I deduce that this must mean centipede. A new word for the old memory bank.
'Were you there for some time?'
She flutters her hands in the air. 'Thankfully not very long. My son-in-law found me and helped me into the house, but my hip was badly bruised. I've been staying over at Silvia's ever since.'
I shake my head. 'Thank heavens you didn't break any bones.'
'God is merciful,' she mutters, fingering the cross on her neck. 'I'm glad to be back home.'
'Yes, but don't overdo it. Do you need anything?'
'Just good health and considerate neighbours.'
I get up and give her hand a little squeeze. 'I'll pop over tomorrow with some mince pies.'
'What are they?'
'They're little fruit pastries we have at Christmas time.'
'Pues, if you're not too busy.'
As I walk back up the track in the thick, velvety darkness, I gloomily reflect on Nancy's news and the growing frailty of Margalida. In London I seldom had cause to ponder the passing of time and aside from my ninety-yearold aunt tucked away in a nursing home in Kent, rarely came into contact with elderly people. Now these two feisty women, whose sagacity and unconditional friendship I have come to rely on in so short a time, are encountering the fickle and unyielding pressures of old age. I am passing Rafael's open front door and at the sound of my tread he shoots out of the house in merry mood with Llamp in tow.
'Hey, why so sad?'
I force a smile. 'Oh, I was just reflecting on old age.'
He gives a hoot of laughter. 'You don't look so old! Besides, it's Christmas. Cheer up and have a glass! Old age is just an attitude of mind.'
I look at his manically cheerful face. In this valley it's impossible to stay glum for very long.
SIXTEEN
A BLESSING IN DISGUISE
There's a cacophony of noise in the plaça. The big-
hearted Saint Francis of Assisi, lover of all things whiskery and furry, and Noah, that noble architect of the great ark, would be proud. For today, 17 January, is Beneides de Sant Antoni, the day when animals everywhere are invited to be blessed in the presence of the local priest and an appreciative audience of townsfolk. Sant Antoni, who was born around AD 250, may not have enjoyed the same status over the centuries as good old Saint Francis, but a patron saint of animals he became nevertheless. In fact, his signs are a bell and a piglet. Now, in medieval times it was popularly believed that the bell warded off the devil, hence its popularity as a saintly symbol, but the piglet is a different matter. It seems that Sant Antoni adopted a starving piglet which he overfed to such a degree that it began waddling and soon became so utterly obese that it couldn't get up at all. Forever after Antoni was regarded as the patron saint of beasts, though animal lovers today might have taken him to task for not putting his beloved pig on a strict regime when it began to totter on its trotters. Aside from the annual animal blessings held in his name, Sant Antoni also presides over a series of public bonfires and spectacular displays of dancing devils presented during the same week across the island.
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