A Lizard In My Luggage (19 page)

  Margalida comes to a standstill outside the handsome stone
finca
with olive green gates and shutters whose occupants are still unknown to us.

  'This is my daughter and son-in-law's house,' she says. 'I have lunch here every day.'

  Lucky Margalida. If she were a pensioner in England, her family would probably have dispersed and she'd be in a care home or relying on meals on wheels. She bangs on the metal gate with her stick and calls out sharply, 'Sílvia! Sílvia!'

  A grand, statuesque woman appears, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She is high cheek boned and buxom and her hair, the colour of sand, has been carefully set and lacquered. We make our introductions and she appears bemused that I am on such friendly terms with her aged mother.

  She gives me a smile. 'My mother tells me you have become great friends. I'd love to know what language you two speak.'

  So would I. It's certainly not Spanish, more a mix of sign language, telepathy and rudimentary Mallorcan.

  'We have our own special language,' I reply.

  She chuckles. 'Well, thank you for keeping her company. My husband, Pedro, and I are very happy you have moved here. It's nice to have the old
finca
occupied again.'

  Once Margalida is in her daughter's care, I set off up the track. As I reach the
finca
I can hear Ollie screeching with delight. Something's up. I enter the house to find both he and Alan sharing secret smiles, and almost goading each other in to speech. They help carry my bags to the kitchen, suspicious in itself, and then Ollie blurts out.

  'We've got a cat!'

  I narrow my eyes. 'A cat?'

  Alan interjects. 'We were up buying olive oil at Can Det, when Bartomeu presented Ollie with a kitten. We could hardly refuse.'

  Catalina recently introduced us to Bartomeu whose family runs one of the last privately owned olive presses in Mallorca. There's a high-pitched mewling coming from a cardboard box and as I peep inside, a tiny face, oysterhued, and with massive blue eyes looks up at me beseechingly. It appears to be part Siamese and has a ridiculous stunted tail which curls round like that of a monkey.

  'What's wrong with its tail?' I ask.

  'Born like that, apparently,' yawns Alan.

  'I'm going to call it Inko,' says Ollie.

  'But it's cream coloured?'

  'Exactly,' he says gravely.

  'And what do we do with it? I mean, what do cats eat? It's a terrible commitment.'

  'Food?' proffers Alan helpfully.

  Thankfully this scene is not happening in our London residence where Lord Jim Jam has been known to prowl the premises with his air rifle in search of contraband pets. Indeed, the pigeon population of our local square already fears for its life, after he took a pot shot from an upper window and instantly felled one in a tree. Although I dislike hunting, at least out here our mountain
caçadors
, the local huntsmen, eat the birds they shoot.

  Alan languishes unconcernedly in the doorway tinkering with a screw and a broken hose nozzle.

  'Inko will keep the mice away,' says Ollie eyeing his father.

  They're in collusion.

  'Fine. Then you two are in charge of it.'

  They nudge each other and nod their heads but I know that the care of this new charge will inevitably be down to me.

It is a few years since I've driven. When my car was stolen outside the front door in London, involved in a collision and subsequently burned out, it seemed like a good idea to put my faith in public transport and invest in a pair of sensible walking shoes. However, where I live in Mallorca a car is a necessity, on the level of breathing, unless of course you have time on your hands and prefer to do it the hard way and choose to ride a
burro
, a donkey. Therefore, I decide that a few lessons on Mallorcan soil are called for and Catalina suggests a local driving instructor, Tomeu Borras. Together we visit his school, a modest set of offices in an old stone
finca
on the outskirts of the nearby port. Outside, the place is teeming with babbling students, all of whom barge through the front door en masse, excitedly clutching sheets of road symbols and Spanish highway code books. Catalina explains that Tomeu holds evening classes for them on the theory of driving. I bet that's fun. It seems that whole generations of families have trained with Tomeu and many aspiring youths in the area automatically gravitate to his school. Given the high number of prangs locally I reckon he's got a good deal to answer for.

  Catalina waits until the students have dispersed and pushes open the large mahogany front door that gives on to a spacious reception area, its white walls cluttered with large area street maps and posters depicting coloured road symbols. To the right there is a large stone fireplace built into the wall, on either side of which are several forlorn, grey plastic chairs. It has the stale air of a doctor's waiting room. A table piled high with antiquated Spanish reading material sits squat in the middle of the room and in the far corner an
al.lota
, a young girl with Bambi eyes, sits behind a wooden reception desk laboriously copying names, presumably of students, from a sheet of paper into a large blue register. To the side of her runs a corridor lined with doors. She looks up brightly when we walk in. Rattling away in Mallorcan, Catalina explains that I need a refresher course. The girl nods and looks at her watch nervously, explaining that the driving instructor has just commenced a theory lesson with students and will probably not want to be disturbed. I wonder why she can't just book me an appointment herself. Finally she plucks up the courage to knock on one of the doors. There's silence, the sound of muffled footsteps and then a large man suddenly emerges from the room.

  'What is it?' he asks irritably, striding into the reception, glaring all the while at Miss Bambi. He is tall and well built with a moustache the shape and size of a large arachnid, a forest of a beard and a shock of thick black hair. He views both of us with some disdain.

  'She speaks Spanish?' he enquires brusquely without looking up from the open diary he has whisked up in his hand.

  Catalina lies. 'Oh yes, she's fluent.'

  'Can she drive?' That's debatable.

  '
Déu Meu!
' says Catalina. 'She's driven all her life.'

  'Well then, she's in the wrong place,' he says with a thin smile.

  'But it's been some years.'

  Tomeu grunts and scribbles in his appointment book. 'Five lessons, then. Starting from Monday. Don't be late.'

  He drops the pen on to the desk and steams back to his class. Bambi throws me a nervous smile and writes out an appointment card. This is going to be a barrel of laughs.

  And now it's the morning of the first lesson and I sidle up to the green Renault parked by the town square as pre-arranged. It is ten in the morning and the place is bustling with life. I see Tomeu at the wheel, his face serious and stern, and tap gently on his window. Impatiently he gesticulates that I should get in, indicating that it is best for me to take the passenger seat until we get on to a quiet road in the environs of the port. Good idea. Ten minutes later after a rather stilted, monosyllabic conversation, he drives to the edge of the port and parks in a small side street.

  'OK,' he sighs, 'Get in the driving seat and I'll give you instructions.'

  He rattles off a string of commands. I nod obediently although only understanding a fraction of what he's saying. Why hadn't I mugged up on Spanish driving jargon before the lesson? And what on earth was I thinking of hiring a male instructor in a macho place like Mallorca? More quickly than I had hoped for he has me turning on to the busy main road and heading towards the harbour area. The sea glistens temptingly on my left and to my right there are an assortment of souvenir shops and restaurants offering cheap menus
del dias
. At least I'm in motion. Surely he'll give me credit for that much? Apparently not.

  'You're wobbling. Keep the car straight!' he bellows as I veer towards the middle of the road. The light from the sea catches my eye and beckons invitingly. It's a far cry from my days learning to drive in the cut and thrust of London with the sound of traffic pounding around me and buses and taxis bearing down on the car, their menacing frames looming large in the car mirror. I'm jolted back from my thoughts by a vehicle in front which stops abruptly and turns right without indicating. I hit the brake sharply and Tomeu's head lolls forward. He narrows his eyes and gives a deep threatening growl. 'Take the next right!'

  I indicate and tear round the corner. The car screeches and I struggle to straighten it as it lists towards the pavement. Tomeu hits the dual control brake.

  'Remind me when you last drove?' His grin is sardonic.

  I decide that silence is the greater part of valour.

  'OK now take the next left.'

  On cue, a dog strolls out in the road and I am momentarily distracted, completely missing the turning. He tuts irritably and erupts with, '
Per l'amor de déu!
Use your indicator. I said turn LEFT!
Loca!
Now where are you going?'

  He really is calling me mad. When I was 17, my London driving instructor used to sit mutely beside me, as cool and unemotional as a gecko. He would certainly never have mustered up enough energy or passion to hurl abuse at me. Here, in Mallorca, however, everything is done with passion and that includes lambasting an inept English woman for her appalling road sense. I sniff defiantly and look in the mirror at the traffic building up behind me. Tomeu instructs me to take the following left turn; a small street lined with acacias which curves round and leads directly into the harbour area. I stop at the junction. He rubs his eyes and yawns.

  'Go left, but remember this is a busy road.'

  The road to the port is always packed with cars and local sporting machos who attempt elaborate manoeuvres in the middle of the main road and snarl up the traffic. There are a series of anguished and discordant blasts from horns when this occurs and then everyone starts theatrically yelling and flapping their arms out of the windows as everything comes to a grinding halt. A few minutes will pass and then this outstanding free entertainment is over as cars begin circulating again and tourists, riveted to the pavement by the spectacle, are broken from their spell. On this occasion I cause the hold-up because when I attempt to turn, I somehow stall.

  '
Fre de mà! El fre!
' Tomeu is shrieking. Ah, the handbrake. Not a bad idea given that the car is sliding backwards. On both sides of the road hysterical drivers are tooting. A cyclist enters the fray and decides to cross in front of me, so I remain rigid. The road's log jammed. Tomeu is so incensed that he clutches wildly at the dashboard as if he might break it free and smash it over my head. Luckily he can't. He sniffs loudly, turns his head away and leans out of his window, mumbling darkly like a disgruntled sorcerer, in local dialect. The car suddenly roars and bucks as I turn the ignition and swerve round to the left narrowly missing two tourists with a death wish. We carry on in awkward silence. Small fishing boats bob up and down on a choppy sea on one side, and far off beyond the lighthouse I can see bulky vessels waiting to enter the port. Tomeu stonily tells me to continue until we reach a roundabout.

  '
Gas! Gas!
' he bawls.

  Heavens, this is like giving birth.

  'Why are you stopping? Can you see a car?'

  Well yes actually, I can. In England we stop when a car's got lane priority. I don't feel inclined to hurtle at top speed in front of a fast moving vehicle two feet from me. He holds his head in his hands. Some minutes later, as we tootle along the main road that leads back to his offices, we get to a give way sign. I stop.

  '
El gas! El gas!
' Tomeu is practically hitting the dashboard with his head in frustration as I stubbornly wait until I am sure the road in front of me is devoid of traffic. We reach a crossroads with traffic lights.

  '
El gas ! El gas!
' he hollers again.

  I glare at him like an intransigent mule, frustrated that I don't have enough of the lingo to make some clever quip. The red light turns to green and I release the handbrake and cross over the road wearily.

  'I'll see you tomorrow,' Tomeu says dryly as I park the car shakily outside his driving school. I groan inwardly at the thought. Can I survive another such session? More to the point, can he? Still, this lesson has served a useful purpose, enlightening me as to the guiding principles of Mallorcan driving, as follows:

1. Forget who has priority at roundabouts, screech out and get ahead. DON'T indicate and DON'T let other road users second-guess you.