TWENTY
A HAPPY FETE
Catalina is singing as she turns into the drive. We are visiting our local Aladdin's Cave, the Cooperativa, which sits on a narrow country road en route to the picturesque villages of Biniaraix and Fornalutx. It is here that local farmers bring their harvests; olives, fruit and vegetables for sale. In the autumn it is tempting to dawdle outside the netted fences watching the olive production in progress, but in spring the mud-caked and battered machines lie dormant in the large concrete forecourt and attention is given over to the selection of oranges and lemons instead. Catalina screeches to a halt in the parking bay and leaps out of the car, leaving the door wide open. I scramble after her.
'Here comes trouble,' yells one of the farmers. 'What are you after today?'
'Sacas!' she yells.
He spits on the ground. What type of sacks, he wants to know. They're for una cursa de sacs, she replies. A sack race? The old man slaps his leg and titters.
'Venga!'
He beckons us into the deep interior of the building. Like a small air hangar, it is airy with a lofty roof but that's where the comparison ends. For piled high on its pitted concrete floors by the entrance are box upon box of animal feed, nuts, seeds, onions and shallots, tomatoes, potatoes and peppers. Inside, lining the walls above and running in rows the length of the building, are broad wooden shelves bulging with wine bottles and containers and buckets full of olives, herbs and flour. To one side, the entire floor seems to be covered in crates bursting with lemons and oranges. I stop to study them.
'We receive thousands of these,' he proffers.
'What do you do with them all?'
The man's eyebrows lift a fraction. 'Pues, some go to local stores and restaurants, but many just go rotten. There isn't enough local demand.'
He's right. All of us living in the golden valley have lemons and oranges coming out of our ears. You can't give them away.
'What a waste,' I sigh.
He's momentarily distracted by a vision at the door. 'Maria!'
Catalina's aunt strides towards us. 'What's going on here?'
'These locas are doing sack races.'
Catalina and I greet her aunt who throws us a quizzical expression.
'Sack races?'
'We're going to hold a fiesta to raise money for an orphanage in Sri Lanka. We'll have all sort of races and stalls for kids.'
'At your house?' she says with surprise.
'It's what we call an English fete, Maria. We'll hold it in the field.'
'You're brave. Heavens know what the kids will do to Alan's plants and trees down there. And what about the weather?'
I point to the sky. 'I've had a word with you know who, and he says it will be a perfect day.'
She raises her eyes and slaps me on the arm. 'Good luck with it. I'm buying a few things and then must get back to Canantuna. We've got a booking for an anniversary party today. Thirty at one table!'
She scampers off while our patient farmer rustles in a deep box and draws out some empty hessian sacks. He thumps them against a wall and white powder rises like autumn mist into the air.
'They're flour sacks, but I've some almond ones too. How many d'you want?'
'Ten?' suggests Catalina.
He wanders off to some high shelves and after rummaging about, returns with a heap of old sacks.
'Here, have them.'
'How much can I give you?'
He walks out into the drive with us and shouts to a young man pulling crates of fruit from a van. 'How much for these? At least five hundred euros, I'd say.'
The other man laughs. 'At least.'
'Molt gracies,' I say.
'De res,' he replies. In other words, think nothing of it.
He packs them into the boot of Catalina's car, and with a smile presents us with some goodwill plums. 'Good luck with the fiesta. If you want some boxes of fruit on the day, just let us know.'
'A fete? Isn't that a rather British concept for Spain?'
'That's the fun of it, Ed. We're going to do races and have stalls and serve cucumber sandwiches and traditional cakes.'
'You're bonkers. Will anyone be helping you?'
'Lots of people. Pep and Juana, Catalina and some parents from Ollie's school and the football club.'
He takes a bite of something.
'Sorry, just munching an apple. I'm on a diet.'
'Yet another?'
'Well, Charlene thinks I'm slightly overweight.'
'Only slightly?'
'Oh, shut up!'
'So what's the verdict on the BBC?'
There's a pause.
'I have happy tidings. I'm not being made redundant.'
'Hallelujah!'
'They have asked me to move to a new department over in White City.'
'Is that so bad?'
'It'll be a long commute.'
'Oh.'
'Mind you, there is one compensation.'
'What's that?
'They have a fantastic staff canteen.'
A sky the colour of corn flowers, dotted with white puffs of cloud and a perfect yolk of a sun, unrolls like a canvass above us. The air is warm and down in our field children scream and race about. Small children jump and slide on an enormous bouncy castle, which is practically buffeting the corral. Salvador peeks round the corner of the chicken shed now and then like a veteran detective, shaking his feathers and observing the scene before him with mounting suspicion. Like a sports master, the Scotsman, lines up the umpteenth sack race of the day and blows his whistle. Children of all sizes and nationalities jump along the grass, lurching and falling while parents and visitors call out and cheer. Ollie, proud to have won an egg and spoon race, now sits at a stall with his friend Angel, doing a roaring trade selling plastic Scoubidou key rings and trinkets to his classmates and football chums. Having spent weeks weaving Scoubidous he's delighted to see his hard work has finally paid off. On the cake stall, Nina, the thirteen-year-old daughter of a friend from Deià, has proven to be a remarkable saleswoman having sold nearly everything.
'How much is that chocolate cake?' asks one of the budding Ronaldos from Ollie's football club.
'A euro,' she replies.
He hands over a two euro coin.
'I don't have much change. How about buying two?' says Nina sweetly.
And off he happily skips with cakes in both hands. Pep isn't faring so well on the Barbie doll stall.
'These bloody things. Look at them! Any decent woman would shoot herself to have a pair of tits like these.'
He twirls a Barbie doll in the air by its flaxen hair and flings it back on the table.
I tweak his nose. 'You're supposed to be encouraging the girls to buy them. Stop abusing the stock.'
'Can't I man the women's lingerie stall instead?'
'Well, you could if we had one.'
'OK, what about books?' he persists.
I look over and see that Juana and Vicky, a parent from Ollie's school, are shifting a good amount of secondhand stock.
'Right, you go to books and get Juana to run Barbie world.'
He gives me a little wink and, dragging on a puro, goes over to his wife and points in my direction. She pulls a face and bustles over.
'I hate these Barbie dolls too. How come you have so many?'
'Veronique gave us hundreds and a whole load of these strange looking creatures called Bratz.'
'Urgh!' she drops one back down in front of her. 'They're pretty hideous.' Then with a huge smile she begins hollering, 'Come and buy beautiful nearly new Barbies and Bratz – special discounts now.'
Within minutes little girls are clustering around her.
'You see, Pep, she's a natural,' I say, poking him in the ribs as I pass by.
He pulls out his tongue and tosses some coins into his tin. Catalina walks slowly down the steps with a tray of tea cups.
'We've practically finished washing up in the kitchen. Have you any more chocolate muffins?'
&n
bsp; 'I made at least fifty. They can't all be gone.'
'Oh yes they have! We've only a few cakes left and then I think we roll things up.'
I nod and skip up the steps. Two little German girls are sitting by the front door brandishing enormous carrier bags of toys and books.
'Have a good time?'
'The best. You'll do this every year?'
'Let's wait and see.'
Alan is calling through a loudhailer in the field.
'This is your last chance to buy. Hurry before the stands close.'
A surge of children descend on the stalls which run in a horseshoe around the field and orchard. Under a tree at a discreet distance from the hubbub Sarah, our Australian friend, is calling herself Gypsy Lee and wearing a colourful scarf and enormous gold hoop earrings. She swivels a crystal ball in her hands in an attempt to attract customers. She calls me over.
'You won't believe it, but I'm a natural psychic.'
'Really?'
'Yes, I just told some stuck up French woman that she'd be off to live in Paris soon and she said, 'Voilà! It's true.'
'French, you say?'
'Yeah. Anyway, she told me that some time ago she'd found a crushed egg in her handbag and wondered what it could mean. She's obviously a bit of a nut so I humoured her and said it meant that she shouldn't keep all her eggs in one basket.' She roars with laughter. 'She gasped and said I was a visionary. What do you think of that?'
'Beginners luck? I'll make a prediction too… was her name by any chance Sabine?'
She gives a yawn. 'I don't think she said.'
Pep plods over to me. 'Come, I want to introduce you to my brother-in-law.'
A tall be-suited man, his gelled dark hair glinting in the sun, politely extends a hand. 'I am Antoni. You speak Spanish?'
'I keep trying.'
He laughs. 'I hear that you may want to move your son to a Spanish school?'
My eyes drift to Pep. He nods encouragingly.
'We're thinking about it quite seriously, but it would have to be good academically and nearer to Sóller. The daily drive to Palma is a real slog.'
'I know. I've done it myself.'
'The fact is,' says Pep, 'that Antoni is going to be teaching at a new trilingual school in September. We're thinking of sending Angel there. It could be perfect for Ollie. Only a fifteen-minute drive.'
'Sounds very interesting. What's it called?'
He smiles. 'It has a very Mallorcan name, Llaüt, which means fishing boat.'
'Believe it or not, I've learned that word in my Catalan class,' I reply.
'You're doing Catalan classes? That's great!'
'Yes, but she can only order a coffee,' says Pep with a chuckle.
I give him a grimace. 'Ignore him. So, can we speak sometime?'
'Absolutely. Pep can set it up.'
He shakes my hand and heads off towards the bookstall.
'What do you think?'
'Worth a punt.'
Alan, aloft a wooden plinth, booms from the loudhailer. 'And the raffle winner is…'
There is applause as a small boy with a shock of black hair makes his way over to the plinth to receive an enormous Easter egg.
'And now,' Alan continues, 'If my wife could please join me.'
I squeeze through the merry throng to his side. 'How are we doing?'
'Fantastic! We've raised just about one thousand quid.'
'Yippee!'
I take the loudhailer from him and ask for silence. There's a hush.
'We want to thank you all for your brilliant efforts. Together we've raised about one thousand pounds for the orphanage. Enough to keep it going for at least a year.'
A huge cheer goes up.
'As you know, we'll be off next week to Sri Lanka to hand over the funds raised from today and the New York marathon. In total, we'll be donating more than three thousand euros – enough to make a real difference.'
As children and their parents whoop and clap, I see my neighbour, Rafael, waving from the courtyard. He makes his way down into the field, a Dalmatian at his side.
'This is Alberto!' he cries, giving me a hug and nearly knocking me off my feet. 'He's my new dog.'
I narrow my eyes at him. 'But will this one stay?'
'Sure, he no like chickens.'
'How can you be sure?'
He gives a knowing smile. 'Because, mon amic, he's vegetarian.'
Stefan is sitting at the kitchen table sipping at a cup of coffee.
'That coffee's good,' he says.
'Yes, the coffee's OK but the blinking machine's a pain to work,' Alan retorts.
Catalina taps his arm. 'It's very simple to use, you just get impatient with it like you do with your computer.'
Alan shrugs his shoulders. 'It's true. I'm not of the new technological age.'
'But you're a good gardener,' says Stefan brightly.
'So', says Catalina as she munches on a biscuit. 'What do you both think?'
What do we both think? The last month has been a roller coaster of activity. I have been frantic doing work for Rachel and arranging a photo shoot in Mallorca for Greedy George which will take place on my return from Sri Lanka, and in the meantime I've taken on some new writing assignments. Meanwhile, the Scotsman's been flat out with looking after Pep's flat bookings and doing another advert and we're both recovering from organising the fete. So I'm not worried by this latest news from Stefan that we need to submit more detailed architectural drawings to the mayor before the council can reach a final decision. The delay will give Alan and me a small breathing space.
'I suppose we just submit the new plans and sit tight until we hear back from the mayor.'
She turns to face me. 'As long as you're happy with that,'
'I think there'll be no problem with planning permission,' says Stefan. 'But things take time here.'
'Poc a poc,' says Alan dryly.
'Exactly,' says Catalina.
Having to wait for the town council to make a decision about the cattery will please Rachel. Much as she has come round to the idea of my eventually bowing out of the business, for now she still wants me around to handle key projects with her. For a time I'm happy with that and it will help pay the bills until other plans fall into place.
'When is your client George coming over?' Catalina suddenly asks.
'Next month.'
'Fantastic! You know I love it when he calls. He's so funny.'
'He can certainly reduce me to tears.'
'I'm dying to meet him,' she enthuses. 'Your clients are so interesting.'
'Deranged, more like it,' mumbles the Scotsman.
'Oh come on, you wouldn't want to give them all up. Your work's so exciting,' she says.
'Exciting?' I snort. 'Hardly. Mind you, it does have its amusing moments, I admit.'
'Anyway,' says Catalina. 'I'll help you when the cattery opens, so you don't need to give up consulting. Why not do both?'
Why not indeed? The point is, though, that it'll soon be time for a change, which I'm looking forward to. Still, there's no rush and for the moment I'm happy with my lot.
'So,' says Stefan, bringing us back to the discussion in hand. 'Can we just check theses final architectural drawings before I submit them?'
He spreads the plans across the table. On cue, there's a scratching at the kitchen door and Minky and Orlando's two heads bob into view through the glass pane.
'Ah, the rest of the planning committee,' says the Scotsman cheerfully, opening the door. 'Now we can officially begin.'
The house is shuttered and the cats have been shooed out of the house into brilliant sunshine. In the entrada our cases are lined up by the door.
'I hope Catalina will remember to feed the cats,' frets Ollie.
'Of course she will. Now, have we got everything?'
Alan is in the kitchen checking through passports and flight tickets.
'I think so. Let's head for the airport.'
Ollie picks up his rucksack packe
d tightly with small toys and tennis balls to give the children of the orphanage and walks out to the car. I take one of the cases and am just heading for the door when the telephone rings.
Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Page 33
