A Lizard In My Luggage (13 page)

  'Lucky you!' I say sadistically.

  'Aren't I just?' he replies and sets off through the
entrada
to his car.

  I'm intrigued to learn more about Alan's tête-à-tête with Pep and the exact nature of our Mallorcan friend's complex business idea. If it's the opening of a specialist
puro
shop, heaven help me.

The shutters have crashed with such force against the windows that I can hear wood splintering on the glass. I sit upright in bed. The sky is dark and moody like a petulant Heathcliff and thunder rumbles ominously and loudly across the sky. Ollie wanders into the bedroom, his tiny frame caught in a Polaroid flash of lightning. He shivers in his pyjamas and climbs on to our bed.

  'What's happening? It's pitch black,' he says endearingly, with a gulp.

  Alan blinks and turns on the light. 'What's up?'

  There's a thud as a tree tears away from the earth.

  'JESUS!' The Scotsman is wide awake now and leaping out of bed. The lights flicker and then darkness. The electricity's gone. Alan curses and thrashes his way in the dark like a sightless Gloucester in
King Lear
.

  'Let's batten down the hatches.'

  I follow his lumbering form out on to the landing and down the stairs, Ollie gripping my nightshirt from behind. It's suddenly icy cold and the wind wails outside, incandescent with rage that it can't penetrate the glass panes. We reach the
entrada
and head for the kitchen and candles. Lightning snaps and frizzles overhead like popcorn in a pan as we feel our way to a drawer, reach inside and pull out some candles. Sightlessly, I fumble with a box of matches, startled by the brilliant light as one ignites. Once lit, we steady the candles in melted wax around the kitchen, the eerie light forming weird and monstrous shadows on the walls. Rain starts to hiss on the panes then grows louder and heavier as it gathers momentum. It's now torrential as we yank open windows around the house to pull in the outside shutters. Like fighting an invisible force, we grab at the wooden slats as the shutters dance in Bacchic frenzy in the wind, slimy with rain and stubborn as mules. An hour later the house is secure but the storm rages outside like an incensed ogre, thumping our walls, and spinning tiles off the roof. We hear them tinkle as they crash to the ground. Huddling upstairs in the dark and shuddering with the chill, we finally fall wearily back to sleep.

  The room is still and airless when we awaken. The closed shutters have sealed us in a tomb of darkness. I push open a window and a needle of bright light pierces the room. The wind is still strong and clouds scud across the sky with the speed of a racing pulse. We stumble around sleepily, try light switches and taps but nothing works. Blearily looking out into the field, I do a double take. It resembles a watery bog with orange trees floating strangely on its scum. Water has seeped into the cellar and our shutters, casualties of an all night battle, are battered and blasted, some with broken slats. The gardens are strewn with bruised lemons, broken trees and upturned pots, and building materials have blown away in the night, heaven knows where.

  As we survey the damage outside, a car makes its way up the waterlogged track, its wheels skidding dangerously towards the edge. We watch as it parks in the courtyard. Out jump Ramon and Catalina.

  'Everything OK?' she yells above the wind.

  We walk stiffly towards the car.

  'Could be worse,' says Alan breezily.

  Oh yes? How much, I wonder? We've got no phone, water or electricity and our
terrain
has rapidly transformed into a moat. Everything is just fine and dandy. Ramon explains that no one has electricity in our part of the valley given that it was knocked out in the night. He looks up at the straggling, makeshift telephone line dangling forlornly from a metal telegraph pole and whistles disconcertingly.

  'Your line's been hit by lightning. It's come loose from the wall.'

  'That'll put paid to the phone for some time then,' Alan says flatly.

  'Ah well,' Ramon rejoins brightly, 'at least you'll have some peace and quiet.'

  'And I won't have to go to school,' Ollie squeaks excitedly. 'I can watch DVDs all day long.'

  'Not without electricity,' quips Catalina. 'But I can give you Catalan homework instead.'

  Ollie puffs out his bottom lip. 'Don't you dare!'

  Catalina ruffles his hair. 'Well it all depends on how good you are...'

  She laughs and then chases him round the courtyard to his shrieks of delight.

  Rather more critical than a defunct telephone is the fact that we have no running water as it is driven by an electrical pump. With a modicum of cheer I contemplate not having to wash up in our half-finished kitchen for a while, and eating out at local joints until it's fixed. That's before it dawns on me that we can't wash or use the, er, facilities. 'We'll call Pere,' says Ramon reassuringly. 'Perhaps he can help.'

  Pere, our handsome plumber, is always good value, being infinitely patient and full of good humour even when dealing with the grimmest of watery tasks. However, with the best will in the world he won't be able to do much given that it's the electricity that drives the water pump. In time, we may need to consider buying an additional generator for emergencies like this. We enter the dusty kitchen and sit in aluminium beach chairs around the rickety old picnic table, discussing the storm. I dream of having a seigneurial, solid oak dining table big enough to seat at least eight guests and buttermilk wooden furniture around the hob area with gleaming granite work surfaces and, a fantasy too far, a dishwasher! This won't happen for a few more months as the floor tiling is yet to be done, the walls still need painting and we simply don't have the budget. For now we'll have to cope with the bare essentials. In Girl Guide mode, I pour half a bottle of mineral water into a saucepan and place it on the butane-gas hob. At least we can have a hearty cup of coffee. I place a plate of chocolate biscuits on the table and watch Catalina's eyes light up. Like me, she is an inveterate chocoholic.

  'You wouldn't believe it,' she says, mid-munch. 'The whole port is flooded so everyone there is completely marooned. All the shops are closed. Heavens know what they'll do for bread.'

  Fetching fresh bread daily from the local
forn,
the baker's, is an essential part of Mallorcan life. For a Mallorcan to survive a day without it doesn't bear thinking of. Catalina reaches for another biscuit.

  'Hey,' growls her husband. '
Poc a poc
with those.'

  She wafts the second biscuit tauntingly above his head. 'It's not fair,' she moans. 'Look at him, the skinny dog, not a tiny bit of fat and he eats chocolate all day long.'

  'Yes, but you're much more cuddly,' says Alan giving her arm a squeeze. 'Who'd want to have muscles like Ramon anyway?' he says, winking at her.

  'Me!' Ollie looks up adoringly at his hero.

  '
Molt bé!
' Ramon gives him a little punch on the arm. Then he looks thoughtful. 'I'd stay put if I were you. The river has burst its banks and is gushing along the main road to Palma. You won't be able to drive beyond your track.'

  Many of the roads are apparently impassable, strewn with trees, huge boulders and rocks.

  'They're saying the government might declare a state of emergency up here,' says Catalina glumly.

  This just gets better and better. Much as he enjoys his new school, Ollie is euphoric at the thought of using the inflatable dingy to set out on an Indiana Jones-style adventure down in the water-logged field rather than settling down to lessons. There really is no way we can drive to his school in this weather. Alan has a certain glimmer in his eye.

  'What a nuisance. I'll have to miss my Spanish lesson with Paula.'

  'You can always walk,' I say robustly.

  'Don't be ridiculous! It would be a nightmare walking in all this rain. No, I'll have to postpone it – sadly.' He manages to look dismayed. I hadn't realised he was such a thespian.

  'Well, the phone isn't working so you'd better use the mobile.'

  He sighs deeply and gets up. 'I'll go and call her now.'

  'When things calm down a bit, why not come up to the house for a shower and dinner?' says Catalina with largesse. 'We can always put you up for a few nights if things get desperate.'

  I say we'll wait to see what happens. Perhaps the electricity will return soon and the skies will clear. She and Ramon look dubiously at one another. I should know better. Things have a habit of taking forever to put right here.

  Before they leave, Ramon unloads a pile of sandbags which implies we really are under siege, and does a tour of the perimeter of the field and gardens. He discovers that a huge rock terrace has collapsed and our newly fitted drains are disgorging their contents all over the paths. He and Alan patch things up as best they can in the howling wind. Rain has started to fall again and Ramon and Catalina make a dash for the car. They are soaked to the skin. She kisses me on the cheek, bellowing above the din from the skies. 'When the rain stops, come up to the village. We can at least open some wine and laugh.'

  When they've gone we do an inventory of our supplies. We have two small glass-covered oil lights with wicks and curved handles like props used for a period drama, three sturdy new paraffin lamps, unopened, and a big bundle of candles. It's a start.

  There's a thumping at the front door. It is Rafael wrapped in a moleskin and dripping with water. We usher him into the
entrada
where he shakes his curly brown mop and flops on a chair by the cold hearth. He is still full of smiles. Doesn't anything get this man down?

  '
Amics!
Well, look at this! Now you see the real Mallorca! It rain now for many days, yes. You have candles, food? Everything OK?'

  Such astonishing selflessness from a neighbour is in danger of making me mawkish. I think of my London flat in a building where, by contrast, nobody connects. Like laboratory rats in isolated cages, we coexist blindly under the same roof in such close proximity that, but for an intervening wall, or separating floor, at night our heads might touch, or fingers interlace. Yet it is as if we live on different planes, not floors, with neighbourly civility strictly confined to snatched greetings in the communal hallway when by hazard any of us should collide there unexpectedly. It's not anybody's fault, just one of the afflictions of urban life.

  'We have
festa
, eh?' Rafael, the comic turn, is laughing manically. 'We get good wine and do what you say, rain dance?' He raises his arms, claps and wiggles his hips, shuffling around the
entrada
singing, with his backside upturned like a bumbling Baloo the bear. Ollie covers his hands over his mouth, shaking with laughter.

  'Eh
amic!
You laugh at me?' he says, pouncing on him and tickling him until he yells for mercy amid explosions of giggles. Rafael then pokes around the cellar, looks at the rain seeping in and blocks the doors with our sandbags. He shows us how to ignite the paraffin light safely and promises to bring us some of his well water.

  'Rafael, do you think the old lady at the end of the track will be OK?' I think of her alone in her bungalow and wonder if I should bring her some soup. Our German neighbours have already returned back home to Berlin, luckily avoiding the storms here.

  'You mean Margalida Sampol?
Segur
,' he says, nodding his head. 'Her daughter lives just on other side of the track.
No problema
.'

  I forget what a close-knit community it is up here. Happily, meals on wheels are surplus to requirement.

  'Come up for a drink later,' says Alan with gusto. 'At least we've got wine in the cellar and we can unfreeze some soup.'

  '
Molt bé, mi amic!
Tonight I bring bread and cake from house and we have party. I bring Cristian down to play with Ollie, yes? He no go to school today and I can't take him to his mother's house in this weather.'

  Cristian, at nine, lives a happy coexistence between his divorced parents' homes although I always suspect he leads a more laddish life over at his father's, putting homework on a backburner in place of football, walking the dog, riding on the back of Rafael's motorbike and dining out a lot.

  As he sets off up the track whistling heartily, I wonder momentarily what Greedy George would make of him and decide that they would be soulmates.

  'Good egg, that Rafael,' he'd say, 'Life and arsehole of the party.'

  Yes, a jolly good egg indeed.

  The house is forlorn when Rafael leaves and the day passes slowly while the rain just gets heavier. Cristian and Ollie tire after some hours sailing our dingy around the field and so decide to dry off and help Alan to get a roaring fire going in the hearth, which raises our spirits considerably. We eat some oatcakes and cheese for lunch and attempt washing up in boiled mineral water. In the past I wouldn't have questioned such waste but now it almost hurts. In London it never crossed my mind to conserve or recycle because I always deemed it another of those infuriatingly politically correct things to do, like not making jokes about Irishmen or buying
The Big Issue
but shamefully binning it as soon as the vendor had turned his back. When we arrived here and unpacked, a wooden crate was emptied and thrown by the packers on to the rubbish heap. Later that day one of the builders wrestled it into his van. When I asked Stefan about it, he said the man was going to make a kennel from it for his dog. I recall how I used to think nothing of hurling a pair of jeans into the nearest dustbin when they had a tear particularly because as a lousy needlewoman, I had no desire to attempt a home repair job. Now, I wouldn't dream of it but then again, I do have the best of both worlds, given that all our frayed, ripped and hole ridden garments are carted off by Catalina to her ninety-year-old grandmother who lovingly and industriously restores them to near perfection.