A Lizard In My Luggage (14 page)

  The other thing I used to throw away without a thought were egg boxes. That is until one day here I happened upon a chapel in the mountains. It was hewn out of simple stone and the inner walls were white and uncluttered by religious memorabilia. A simple cross stood at the nave faced by ten wooden pews but the thing that fascinated me most was the far wall. Unlike the others, it was textured and seemed to ripple. I had to touch it. When I got closer, I realised to my amazement that it had been entirely fashioned out of hundreds of egg boxes which were painted metallic silver. A small sign nearby revealed that the children of the mountain community had created it under the direction of a local Mallorcan artist. Now I'm nauseatingly evangelical and recycle all my egg boxes. In fact,
Blue Peter
should embrace me as a new disciple, given that Ollie uses them for painting and models, although the majority go to a friend who rears her own hens and is always in desperate need of them. Any spares I take grovellingly to the market each week, hoping to ingratiate myself with the friendly but stern Theresa. It seldom cuts any ice with her but begrudgingly she takes them just the same.

  The thunder rolls overhead and a tongue of lightning illuminates a pine tree that writhes and thrashes about with the wild abandon of a tribal dancer. The sky has grown so dark that we check our watches for fear that we have somehow jumped to the middle of the night by some numinous artifice. Neighbours' dogs are barking loudly as the wind outside gathers speed. I suddenly think of Franco, the ebullient boxer owned by Rafael, shivering outside in his fenced run, pitifully alone and afraid. Mallorcans living in the rural areas like to keep pets but most have a brisk, unemotional view of them. Animals should live outside the home, not be indulged and should, where possible, serve a useful purpose. Despite my Francis of Assisi leanings, I am an inexpert animal handler, not having possessed a pet since my childhood and having been forbidden to keep animals in the London flat by the building's officious management committee. I hunt through the fridge and discover some old lamb chops and the remains of a hunk of gammon. Wrapping them in a plastic bag, I go down to the cellar, find an old tartan blanket once used for packing, and set off down the boggy track to Rafael's house. Foolishly I have left without informing Alan but imagine even on a murky night like this, little harm can come to me along a short track. I call out Franco's name in a hoarse whisper, not wanting to alert Rafael to my presence. How could I possibly explain to my neighbour why I feel the need to feed his dog in the midst of a storm? In the darkness, I hear the sound of doggy breath at the fence. Franco licks my fingers through the bars of wood and barks with excitement.

  'Shhhhh…' With the spare key to the dog's run, given to me some weeks ago by Rafael, I attempt with trembling, numb fingers to insert it in the lock. It's stuck. What is it with me and keys in this country? The rain and wind are unrelenting and I'm practically blown across Rafael's yard and into his chicken shed like an ungainly Mary Poppins. I can see the
Majorca Daily Bulletin
headline news:

Storms which have rocked the island for two days have tragically taken the life of an English woman found swept by gale force winds into the wall of a chicken shed in the early hours of this morning. Rafael Sastre, owner of the property, said he was devastated at the find. 'She was lying wrapped in a blanket gripping a bag of old meat. We don't know why. She was good neighbour. I very sad.' Family of the deceased are too distressed to comment at this stage.

Franco is howling. 'All right. For heaven's sake, shut up! I'm trying my best.' I listen anxiously in case Rafael might have decided to investigate what's going on outside but his front door remains tight-lipped. For once a spot of luck.

  With cold fingers I hook the blanket over one of the fence posts and rattle the key, which this time budges, and the gate swings open wildly in the wind. The dog rushes at me in the dark, his huge bulk sending me flying into the sea of cold, muddy water on the track. So much for doing a good deed. I get up with difficulty and grab at the gate, my feet sliding in the mud. Franco is pawing me roughly and licking my face. The rain lashes down and my scarf is swept away in a gust of wind. With chagrin I see it float off high above an orchard, heading for the local church roof. I squelch up the steps to Franco's run, my clothes clinging to my body, and try to fend him off while tipping the food in his bowl. Miraculously the blanket is still dry so I haul it into his basket and lift them both up on to a dry sheltered ledge and quickly slam the gate shut. Franco falls on the meat like a savage. Back at the house I attempt to wash with a litre of cold mineral water before throwing on some dry clothes and pouring myself a stiff drink.

  We sit in the kitchen reading books by candlelight and finally, in desperation, pull out an old Monopoly board to amuse Ollie. Cristian returned to his father's house some time back and we are expecting them at any moment for dinner. I haven't played a board game in years but needs must. However, by eight-thirty, we are all hungry and Alan and I are totally broke. I have been bankrupted and forced to sell my stations, and the Scotsman is stuck with a duff set of properties and has no money, so we decide, in a state of stalemate, to risk the car and head for Es Turo Restaurant where Catalina will hopefully be on shift.

  'What about Rafael and Cristian?' I ask.

  'Maybe they've forgotten,' Ollie pipes up.

  Alan rubs the glass pane of the front door and peers into the gloom. 'Well, we can always knock on his door and see if he wants to join us.'

  At that very moment, there's the sound of crunching gravel and a singing Rafael arrives, Cristian tripping along in his wake.

  'I bring wine, cake and bread but I can't find no women!'

  Like a one-man hurricane he whisks through the
entrada
and warms his hands by the fire, laughing raucously. Alan thumps him on the shoulder.

  'To hell with it, we've decided to go out. Come on, let's find some good women and wine up in the village.'

  'Why not?' yells Rafael. 'Come, let's go party!'

  Despite the near impenetrable roads, we finally arrive and cram into the warm interior of Es Turo. We exchange kisses with Xisca, the cheerful owner, and visit Catalina at the back in the kitchen. She gives a big grin.

  'Ah, you smelled my meatballs down in the valley, eh?'

  We sit down with a warming bottle of red wine, bread,
aioli
, the local garlic mayonnaise, and olives, and soon a steaming plateful of delicious meatballs arrive, drenched in Catalina's home-made tomato sauce. We are lucky to have found a table since the place is heaving and several groups of woebegone locals who've turned up in search of a plateful of hot food and cheer have had to be turned away. Rafael scans the room, and seeing a group of friends, excuses himself and rushes over for a gossip. Xisca makes her way to our table.

  'Listen,' she says, 'Catalina has told me about your problems. You can come over to our house. We have gas heaters and hot water.'

  Once more, the kindness of relative strangers leaves me speechless. We thank her but explain that we must learn to brave the elements. There may be times when we have no choice but to go it alone. Replete and happy, with Rafael's jokes ringing in our ears, we return home to our dark and icy house, still naively believing the worst must surely be over.

There's a loud tooting, so loud that it permeates my dreams and has me stumbling out of bed, disorientated yet alert. I'm still fairly exhausted. It was only yesterday, after three further days of blinding rain and storms, that we finally had our electricity and water reconnected. Alan is still cocooned beneath the duvet, oblivious to the noise. Opening the window I look down into the front courtyard and see Lorenç, the wood man, beaming up at me.

  'Open the door, you lazy woman! It's eight o'clock!'

  I yawn and give him a half-hearted wave and nod of the head. It suddenly dawns on me that it's Saturday. What on earth is he doing delivering wood today? Catalina told me he was coming on Monday. I plod downstairs, open the heavy wooden doors and wince as cold light streams in. Lorenç, full of good cheer in his warm logging jacket and gloves, leaps forward to kiss me on both cheeks.

  'I thought you were coming next week?'

  He shrugs. 'But I come today.'

  There's no point in pushing the point. Spontaneity is the name of the game around here and quite frankly you'd have to be crazy to turn away wood, even at the weekend, given that it's your main source of warmth during the chilly Mallorcan winter. Lorenç begins piling wood from the back of his grubby and battered white truck on to our front porch. I shiver with the cold.

  'Get a jumper on, woman, or you'll freeze and get the sleeping senyor to come and give me a hand.'

  Alan is already halfway down the staircase as I stomp back up. He rubs his hands together. 'Ah, wood. What a wonderful sight!'

  'Your back won't be saying that tonight.'

  He grimaces. 'Well, the promise of a relaxing massage later…'

  'In your dreams!' I give him a prod in the direction of the front door and watch as Lorenç comes over to greet him. Upstairs, I quickly change into my running gear and give my face a quick splash. Given that I've been forced to rise early, I might as well get my run over with before the day gets going. Ollie is still in a deep slumber when I pop my head round the door of his room. I'm impressed that he can sleep through the din of crashing and splintering wood as Alan and Lorenç hurl logs, one on top of the other, in a giant heap on the front porch. I watch them from the doorway.

  'You still got no water and light?' quizzes Lorenç.

  'It came on last night,' says Alan. 'Four days of living like moles and the phone won't be fixed for a week.'

  'You saved on some bills though?'

  'No way! It cost us a fortune. We had to eat out all the time.'

  Lorenç stands erect and gives a philosophical shrug. 'You want to live in rural Mallorca. Now you see what it's like.'

  Alan swings a log at the pile. 'Yep, no surprises any more.'

  I slip out on to the steps and do my warm up exercises in the courtyard, much to Lorenç's glee.

  'Ah look, the professional at work,' he taunts. 'You going to win the London Marathon,
si?
'

  'Well, I'm expecting her to do it in under two hours,' Alan says with a wink.

  'You reckon it'll take me that long?' I scoff, joining in the banter.

  Lorenç laughs. 'Well it would take me about a month.'

  'And me about a year,' rejoins Alan, 'but I'd never be mad enough to do it.'

  I bid them farewell and jog off up the track, nearly colliding with Margalida Sampol outside her house. She squints at me and begins muttering in Mallorcan.

  'Look at you! Uncovered arms on a day like this! You'll get the
grip
.' Mallorcans are always predicting colds.

  'I'm fine, Margalida. Once I start running, I get really hot.'

  'You'll be running a fever more like,' she tuts.

  I try to smother a guffaw.

  'Young people never listen to good advice. You should be wearing a coat at this hour.'

  I thank her as sincerely as possible for her pearls of wisdom and excuse myself before I really do come down with a
grip,
standing around in the cold. I don't even want to try contemplating what it might be like running in a heavy winter coat.

  As I set off along the main road for the port, a car honks from behind. I slow down and turn round to see Pep, Alan's new accomplice, leaning out of the window,
puro
in hand. He stops the car abruptly, seemingly oblivious to the truck tooting behind him which is forced to overtake. He pushes his wavy grey hair back behind his ears and leans his head out of the car window.

  'Hey you want a
churro?
It will give you energy.'

  He delves into a bag on the passenger seat and produces some
churros
, the sugary doughnuts savoured throughout Spain. I smell their rich aroma.

  'Are they still warm?'

  '
Segur
, of course, I have just come from the town. They're fresh from the bread shop.' A tanned arm juts out from the car door, at the end of which he is dangling a fat, sugar and oil drenched
churro
.

  I'm almost tempted to accept which just goes to show how dedicated a runner I really am. 'Pep, my mother told me never to take sweets from strange men in cars.'

  'Good advice, but I'm not so strange really and even your mother would have succumbed to a
churro
.'

  I give an exasperated sigh. 'Put them away! I'm trying to get in training for heaven's sake.'