Alan comes into the kitchen, washes soil from his hands and sighs. He has been planting faves all morning, the delicious baby broad beans that grow so effortlessly in our fertile valley.
'I've got the lettuces, artichokes and beans planted too, but the beetroot will have to wait till tomorrow.'
'Is your back stiff?'
'Just a touch.'
I put on the kettle. 'D'you want the good news or the bad news?'
He collapses onto a chair, casting a weary eye over my face.
'In whatever order.'
'The bad news is that Sabine Ricard just called. She's in town and intends popping round with Veronique.'
He hits his head on the table.
'The good news is that she can only stay a few minutes. Lunch party with her lump of a husband back in Santa Ponsa.'
'Thank God for that! What the hell does she want this time?'
'I don't know. She sounded hysterical though. She said it was too terrible to speak about on the phone.'
'She's probably broken a nail.'
'Don't be a meanie.'
He gets up and heads for the kitchen door. 'Sadly, I shall be otherwise engaged. I'm going to hide out in my abajo.'
'Coward.'
'Undeniably.'
'Ollie?' he bellows. 'Veronique alert!'
Fast feet scamper down the stairs. 'She's coming?'
'Any moment. Let's hide.'
'OK. I'll bring a packet of Top Trumps and some books.'
He races back up to his room, returning with a pile of booty.
'Thanks for the support, guys.'
'Don't mention it,' says Alan, as they jog across the patio. Ten minutes later there's frantic tooting at the front gate. I slope out to the porch, watching as Sabine draws up into the courtyard. Veronique jumps out to greet me. I'm puzzled to see that her hair has been pulled into a severe bun befitting an elderly matron, but that could be the influence of ballet.
'I can't stay long!' shrieks Sabine, crunching purposefully towards me across the gravel. 'We have had a nightmare!'
'Whatever's happened?'
She swings her handbag over her shoulder and, marching into the entrada, furtively looks around to check that we are alone.
'Piojos!' she whispers.
'Sorry?'
'Nits!'
She grabs Veronique's arm. Obediently the child flops her head forward like a ragdoll. 'Look. See anything?'
I shake my head. 'Not sure about the bun though.'
'Let me tell you,' she spits. 'that I spent five hours last night pulling nits from her hair. I nearly fainted.'
'Loads of kids get them. It's not a big deal.'
'You don't think? Never in my life have I seen these things. It's absolutely dégueulasse. In Paris, Veronique never had them. They don't exist in France.'
'That's silly, Sabine. Of course they do.'
'Non, pas du tout!'
Whenever Sabine is in high dudgeon, she breaks into her native French.
'Here, you must spray everything immediately. I bought you this.'
She pops a can out of her bag and begins waving it about in the entrada, and before I can stop her, the kitchen.
'Stop! I've got fresh bread on the table.'
She hovers by the fridge. 'Too late. What a stupid place to leave bread!'
Coughing on the noxious fumes, I snatch the offending can from her grip and rush out on to the front porch.
I read the label. 'This is Permetrine. It's horribly toxic.'
'Who cares? It zaps the little bastards.'
'Can I just point out that Ollie doesn't have any nits?'
She faces me belligerently. 'Maybe not now, but he will. That school must be crawling with them. I don't want him to give them to Veronique.'
'But any child could.'
'Exactly, so I will visit every parent in the class to warn them.'
'It's better just to inform the school on Monday and they'll put a note round. A good scalp rub with tea tree oil and alcohol for a week or so and Veronique will be fine.'
She seems disappointed. 'I thought you'd take this more seriously.'
'It's just a fact of life.'
'For me it is the straw that breaks the camel's back.'
'What do you mean?'
She gives a dramatic sniff. 'Michel and I are returning to France.'
We're sitting in the kitchen with Juan and Lucia, the couple who own the other half of our orchard.
'That's a lot of money,' says the Scotsman morosely. 'The amount's gone up since we last spoke.'
Juan gives a nonchalant shrug that seems to say take it or leave it.
Pep, like an astute poker player, flicks his ash away and raises a conciliatory hand.
'Maybe there's just been a little misunderstanding.'
Stefan, who has joined the meeting as joint negotiator with Pep, looks embarrassed and purses his lips together.
'It's a lot for us as it is,' growls Alan. 'This new figure would be impossible.'
Lucia seems anxious to compromise. 'When could you pay us?'
'In a few instalments over, say, a year,' says Pep nonchalantly. 'The bank would vouch for them. We could draw up a quick contract. Deposit now, the rest later.'
'How soon?' asks Juan.
'Tomorrow? We can sign it front of the notario for security,' Pep reassures.
A silence descends on the table. I squirm with embarrassment. This couple are immensely likeable. We were enjoying an incredibly warm and cheerful conversation with them until negotiations, rather like milk curdling, took a turn for the worse. Money really does close as much as open doors. A sheep cries from some far off field and Orlando stretches his body out across the kitchen tiles, oblivious to the tension building at the table. Pep is huddled over his notebook, inscrutable as ever while Alan and I study the fruit bowl. Stefan spreads his hands before him and appears to be counting his fingers.
'We'll do it.'
Everyone looks up, startled. Lucia has spoken.
'It's my parcel of land. We agree your price.'
There's visible relief on the faces of all the men. Smiles all round. I give Lucia a squeeze of the arm.
'Thank you.'
She gives me a wink. 'It's time.'
Handshakes and hugs are exchanged and finally they all leave, save Pep. We return to the table and exchange looks.
'You were a star,' I say to Pep.
'But what suddenly made Lucia change her mind?' quizzes Alan.
'I think she felt sorry for us,' I hazard.
'Not really,' says Pep. 'We Mallorcans are good negotiators. We like to push a deal to the limit but with a little gentle persuasion we're happy to compromise in the end.'
'Poc a poc,' I say.
He has a mischievous grin on his face. 'Yes, as we Mallorcans say, poc a poc.'
Catalina is sitting in the garden with Ollie weaving Scoubidous while I sift through a cardboard box full of Barbie dolls and old toys. We have been gearing up for the big day when local children will descend on our field to sample our interpretation of a traditional English fete. We intend to serve scones and jam, cucumber sandwiches and cups of tea, and are planning on doing an egg and spoon, sack and three-legged races among others.
'What a fantastic day,' I say, staring up into the sky.
Catalina runs a hand through her short hair and squints at the sun. 'Hey, Ollie, she's only saying that because she got a good mark in her Catalan exam this morning.'
'Yes,' he jeers. 'If you hadn't got a good mark, you'd be in a grumpy mood.'
'Actually, I'll have you know that I'm in a good mood because I've finished all my work for Rachel and I've just pulled off a full page interview in The Times for Daniella Popescu-Miller.'
'This is the vampire lady?' quizzes Catalina.
'The same.'
Ollie pushes his chair away from the table and potters over to me holding a clump of brightly coloured strings. 'Catalina and I have made fifty Scoubidou key rings and you can
't even make one.'
'True, Scoubidous aren't my forte, but I am good at making muffins.'
'Yes,' says Catalina. 'At least she can cook.'
He shrugs and resumes his seat. 'Suppose so.'
Catalina gets up and stretches. 'Fancy a quick look at your new land?'
Now that we've acquired our small strip of terrain I like nothing better than pottering down into the field to admire it, despite its wild and woolly state. We stroll across the patio and descend the stone steps to the field. Catalina picks her way gingerly through the undergrowth and plucks a lemon from a tree. She sniffs the skin.
'These trees need pruning. You'll have a lot of work to do with this land.'
'In time.'
She rests her hand on the bark of a tree. 'How are you going to set up a cattery here with all your other work?'
'Well, I'll have to cut down on the office stuff. I'd prefer to keep up my journalism and just do some ad hoc projects for Rachel.'
'Would that be OK with her?'
I shrug. 'Probably not, but she'll get used to the idea. If it wasn't the cattery it would be something else. She knows I want to do other things.'
'I hope the cattery happens so we can work more together.'
'Segur!' I say, squeezing her arm. 'I couldn't do it without you.'
We suddenly hear a strange, deep hooting from inside the thicket and, exchanging mystified glances, venture forth. A few seconds later, on the only stretch of grass in the midst of bracken and wild bush, appears a male pheasant, it's magnificent, iridescent plumage glinting in the sun. We gasp.
'Precioso!' whispers Catalina.
Gorgeous it may be, but what's it doing here and where did it come from?
In answer to my furrowed brow, Catalina gives a little smile. 'There are wild pheasants all over the island but it's rare to see one so close up. It's a good omen for the cattery.'
'Do you think so?'
'Of course!' she says with conviction. 'Why else would it be here?'
Why else, indeed.
It's early morning and only the cats are stirring in the garden, stretching their long limbs in preparation for an assault on their food bowls. I close the bedroom windows since a chill is in the air, and tiptoe down the stairs to the entrada. The front door is gaping, testimony to our sloppy stance on home security. The Scotsman must have rolled up to bed long after me with little thought to the prowlers of the night waiting longingly for his moment of absent-mindedness. Before I even cross the entrada, two cats, unknown to me, hurtle up from the basement and skedaddle out onto the porch. The track is quiet and Rafael's house is shuttered. From his orchard comes the piercing sound of a baby lamb. I look inside the empty dog run, wishing that Llamp was curled up in the unoccupied kennel with his tartan blanket and chewed-up rubber toys. When I reach Margalida's chalet I walk into the garden and sit on the stone bench under her jacaranda tree. The leaves droop like tawny bats from the branches, for Margalida's beloved jacaranda blossoms are not yet in bloom. The house is asleep, its shutters clammed shut like heavy eyelids, and its door, a sealed mouth, no longer welcomes visitors. From nowhere I hear a cry and Margalida's tabby cat appears at my elbow. It sits like a Sphinx next to me, surveying the grass, the budding roses and jasmine clustering in the porch. It looks well fed so I imagine Silvia is caring for it. A gentle breeze ruffles the trees, and suddenly a shower of jacaranda leaves come twirling down, touching my face and hands and settling in my lap.
'Never fear, Margalida,' I whisper, 'I haven't forgotten you.'
There's the gnawing sound of a moto on the track and Jorge, the postman, appears. He turns off the engine and gives me a blindingly radiant smile.
'Catching up with Margalida?'
'Yes, sharing a few jokes.'
He sits down on the bench beside me.
'It's hard to believe she's gone but I keep telling myself that she had a wonderful long life.'
He smiles encouragingly. 'Si, and slipped away so peacefully with all her family around her. She wouldn't want us to be sad. Life must go on.'
I give him a nod.
'Margalida told me how pleased she was that you'd moved to that finca. Growing vegetables, learning Catalan, being part of things here.'
'We can but try, Jorge.'
'You do OK,' he grins.
'I'm glad you're back in the valley. Where have you been these last weeks?'
'Oh, Argentina. To put some matters to rest.'
I notice that, with a touch of pathos, he fleetingly glances at the tiny 'R' on his right wrist. Curiosity gets the better of me.
'Does the letter "R" remind you of someone special?'
He flushes pink. 'Si, she was my fiancée but not any more. I returned to Argentina but we split so now I will stay here in Mallorca and maybe find a nice Mallorcan girl.'
Lucky her, whoever she is.
'I will have to lose this,' he says, touching the little initial on his wrist. 'Unless I find a girlfriend called Rosa.'
I give him a shove. 'How cynical!'
'No, just practical,' he laughs. 'But now I must be off.'
'Where to?'
'To deliver the mail, of course!'
With a shake of his mane and a flash of his dazzling teeth, he mounts his bike and speeds off in a shaft of golden sunlight. No doubt when word gets round the valley a stream of local girls whose names begin with the magic letter 'R' will be lining up like would-be Cinderellas in the vain hope of claiming their Argentinean prince.
Salvador is strutting about the corral in furious indignation. Throwing our chickens some seed, I inadvertently shower some on his head. Such humiliation is hard to bear when you're leader of the pack. I apologise profusely but he points his beak in the air and stomps off, his harem following at a genteel and diplomatic pace behind. I could swear Minny and Della stifle a guffaw as they go. Alan beckons me over to the wilderness we have just purchased. I close the corral door behind me and follow him into the undergrowth.
'It's like an undiscovered Eden,' he says in wonderment. 'I've just unearthed a huge palm and several fruit trees.'
'Maybe we can start a jam-making business instead?' I proffer.
He gives a brittle laugh.
'Buying this land was the best thing we ever did. It means no one can build on top of us and we have a treasure trove of an orchard.'
'The small downside is that we have to find the funds to pay for it,' I reply.
'Admittedly, it's a hefty sum, but we'll manage it over time and if the cattery comes off...'
In the last few days we have learned from Stefan that a new planning law affecting orchards has been introduced which could put paid to dreams of building a cattery on our newly acquired land. The mayor is doing his best to find a solution, but with local bureaucracy that could take some time. However, we're used to the slow pace of things around here. With a little patience, everything comes together in time. Poc a poc…
'Senyor Bisbal's old troll of a chum has given me some specs for local land, but it's expensive and quite far away.'
Alan shakes his head. 'No, I don't think that's viable. Let's stick to our guns and if it doesn't happen we'll have to look at other options.'
'Such as?'
'I'm not sure, but something will turn up. It always does. Anyway, this will please you.' He unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket. 'Came in this morning so I printed it off for you.'
It is an email from Nancy Golding. She's arrived safely in LA, and has apparently found a beautiful sunny studio and flat near her daughter's home. Better still, she's coming back to visit in May.
'You see, things always work out in the end. You've just got to have a little faith.'
And with that, one side of the corral collapses, flat as a pancake, to the ground allowing Salvador and his chums to make a speedy break for freedom.
Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Page 32
