Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (3 page)

  He upends the overturned chair, replaces its cushion and looks thoughtful. 'You know, it must be one of Rafael's. How they're getting over the meshed wire or the gate beats me.'

  We plod out to the back patio and garden. There's not a whisper or a baa-ing of a sheep.

  'It went down into the orchard. Let's go and check.'

  Our orchard of about forty lemon and orange trees sits cheek by jowl with a wild piece of terrain of the same proportions owned by a Mallorcan family. According to Rafael, the wife inherited this parcel of land from her parents a decade or so before and left it to its own devices. Over the years it has developed a biosphere of its own. It's a lost world of fauna and flora which Ollie and his friends relish exploring. They plunge into its dark recesses, pouncing upon harmless
garrigues,
the local field snakes, and rats rummaging about the swell of twisted brambles and long grass. A small stream trickles at its far end flanked by squat, spiky palm trees and dense, impenetrable scrub. It's likely that at one time it was sold off by a previous occupier of our
finca,
so that the pasture we now own is its forsaken twin. We would buy this strip of potential paradise and return it to its former glory, but so far, the asking price is too steep.

  Alan braves the darkness within, believing that our unwelcome visitor is lurking deep in the undergrowth. He soon emerges with shirt covered in burs and hair askew.

  'No sign of the creature!'

  With stick in hand, he strides boldly among the lemon trees at the bottom of the orchard while Ollie and I, joined by a curious Inko, watch from the terrace above. There's not a trace of ewe number two. I'm beginning to think I imagined the whole episode, but then Ollie suddenly grips my arm.

  'Look! It's over there.'

  I spot a woolly head only a few feet from the Scotsman. We begin yelling and pointing. He follows our gaze, but fails to see the culprit as she lies low behind a thick clump of long grass. As in the best pantomimes, we both jump up and down as the sheep sidles out and creeps behind another tree.

  'Where is it now?' bellows Alan, centre stage.

  'It's behind you!' we cry in tandem.

  The sheep bobs its head out a fraction and then takes cover. Alan spins round a second too late. Eventually, the panto villain is exposed, and the chase is on. Darting around the orchard in hot pursuit, the Scotsman tries in vain to head her off but she outwits him and makes an inelegant loop back around the trees. Ollie and I prance about like amateur matadors with flimsy sticks, trying to block her path back to the
finca
. Exhausted, Alan finally manages to steer her up into the front courtyard and to the exit, whereupon she hurtles down the track towards Rafael's house. We rush over to the wooden gate and pull it shut. None of us wants any further sheep encounters tonight.

  We return to the house and clear up the mess. Lovingly Alan takes the young sapling he's just purchased down to the orchard ready for planting in the morning. After fussing around the vegetable plot, he walks heavily up the stone stairs and potters about the patio and garden examining his plants and puffing on an enormous
puro
, one of his putrid cigars. Some time later he appears in the kitchen, pulls two glasses from a cupboard and uncorks a bottle of red wine.

  'I don't know about you, but I need a drink.'

  'You bet,' I reply. 'Now, what might you like for supper?'

  'Lamb chops?' he proffers, with a waggish smile.

I'm off on one of my runs and passing Rafael's house when I hear a strangled cry from his kitchen.

  
'Hijo de puta!
You want to bite me, eh?'

  I turn to see my neighbour stride out onto the porch sucking his thumb. Trailing behind him is a cream Labrador pup, wagging its tail and yapping playfully at Rafael's side.

  'What a beauty. Is he yours?'

  Rafael's previous canine companion, Franco, a rather ebullient boxer, was sent packing when he began chasing chickens and then took to killing and eating them. The local animal sanctuary found him a new owner in Germany with whom I imagine he's having a great time eating
wurst
and learning the word for 'Catch!' in German. I miss Franco.

  '
Si
, I buy new dog, but already he bite me. I must train him.'

  'He's only a baby.'

  He shakes his head. 'You English are always so bad with animals. You spoil them too much.'

  Animal welfare is not a subject close to most Mallorcans' hearts. I've learned that it's best to side step the issue in order to maintain good neighbourly relations.

  'So you start training for New York marathon. You take me next time?'

  Rafael is a talented runner, having breezed through three full marathons and surpassing my best time by at least an hour in each one.

  'Not a bad idea. You can carry my respirator.'

  Once again I'm on the self-inflicted agony trail. Having completed the London marathon twice for charity, I have masochistically agreed to undertake a third for a small Sri Lankan orphanage of tsunami victims. It was Greedy George's idea that I should run in the New York marathon and seemingly overnight he managed to secure me a much prized place. Given his loathing for charitable causes, I'm not sure how or why he did it. What I do know is that I've got at least seven months to train, so things could be worse. Rafael comes over and punches me on the arm.

  'I see from my bathroom window Senyor Alan knocking at my door last night, but I was in the shower. He want something?'

  Ah. I feel a sheep moment coming on.

  'He was going to ask about your sheep. We've had two running around our land in the last week.'

  Rafael juts out his chin and rubs it vigorously with his right hand.

  'Sheep? But I get rid of my sheep. Now I just have lambs.'

  'Oh dear. I'm afraid we sent one ewe down the track yesterday thinking it was yours. Heaven knows what happened to the first one.'

  He fixes me with a long stare. 'But where are they now?'

'Don't ask me. Perhaps they're with your lambs?'

'No. My lambs go. They stay in my friend's field for a month while I clear the orchard. Were they branded?'

  That's a good point. Did either of us actually examine this latest ewe's hide to see if it had any identifying marks? Of course not.

  'We didn't look.'

  '
Per favor
! Now we don't know who they belong to. Mind you, no one around here has sheep.'

  Aside from Rafael, I can't think of a near neighbour with sheep either.

  He gives me a slow grin. 'You sure you saw sheep?
Segur?'

  'Oh, very funny. Look, I'm feeling a bit guilty about the one we sent off. Poor thing might be lost.'

  'More likely some lucky
tio
will have both of them on his grill by now.'

  I can't bear the thought of some passer-by or opportunistic neighbour snaffling them for his barbecue. Rafael throws his head back and laughs, whisks the Labrador up into his arms and returns to the kitchen. I stick my head round the door.

  'Hey, what's the dog's name?'

  'Llamp.'

  'Yamp?'

  'Is Mallorcan word for lightning. You pronounce it
yamp
but you spell it l-l-a-m-p.'

  And why not? It's always good local sport to fox the hapless foreigner with the vagaries of the Catalan language and if the double
ll
, pronounced y in Catalan, seems tricky, the x presents an even greater challenge. Take for example the word
xarxa
, meaning net, which curiously should be pronounced charka.

  I leave him with his excitable puppy and jog down the path. The days of putting off lessons in Mallorcan are coming to an end. Catalina, my close Mallorcan friend, has persuaded me to enroll on a free language course, courtesy of our town council, after the summer. In the meantime I shall continue to muddle along as best I can.

  Out on the main road, I head off running up a steep track which eventually takes me onto the pine-clad slopes of the Tramuntana mountains. It's cool and musty and the soft powdery soil is gentle underfoot. At this time of the year, I keep an eye out for processionary caterpillars, the toxic little beasties that form huge candy floss nests at the top of the pine trees. When hatched, they march robotically in fast phalanxes down the tree trunks in search of new territory to destroy. Just to brush past one of these hairy fiends can cause skin irritations so grave that the victim can be incapacitated for weeks. Given that I'm already nursing a recurring leg injury I decide to avoid further handicaps and skirt round the trees.

  An hour later as I puff my way back onto the winding lane leading to our track, the rain begins. It's April, so what should I expect? The first few drops are quite refreshing until the sky, like a gigantic, upturned bath, unleashes torrents of water and the drains cough and choke, spewing up thick chocolatey water. Painfully, I sprint through the cold spume bubbling up from the gutters and spilling onto the road, and reach the house just before I'm soaked to the core. Ollie is reading in the kitchen and munching on roasted sunflower seeds. With infinite patience, like a dexterous monkey, he cracks open each one with his teeth, chews the kernel within before systematically discarding the shell in a bowl.

  'You're wet.'

  'Well observed.' I begin removing my soggy trainers, noting with irritation the old and familiar nagging pain in my right thigh. I ignore it.

  He observes me for a second. 'Do you know where you'd find the Bay of Pigs?'

  'Pigland?'

  He rolls his eyes. 'South-west Cuba.'

  Cracking open another shell, he flicks over a page of his book and studies the content. 'I'll give you an easy one. Where do you find Siamese fighting fish?'

  'Siam.'

  'That's just being silly. Thailand.'

  'OK, who wrote
The Clouds
?'

  He furrows his brow. 'I've no idea.'

  'Aristophanes,' I say triumphantly. Studying Ancient Greek literature had to benefit me some day.

  He yawns and stretches his thin, wiry arms. 'Bang goes my football practice tomorrow.'

  'It might clear up,' I say uncertainly.

  He studies the rain mocking him on the other side of the window pane and with undisguised impatience slumps off to his bedroom while I wearily climb the staircase en route for my shower. As anticipated, Margalida's ominous prediction has come true.

The Scotsman, clad in a tatty and faded green Barbour jacket, tweed cap and wellies, blusters into the kitchen holding a bucket. It's the second day of torrential rain and the gullies are overflowing as well as the
marjades,
our garden terraces. Water is creeping into the cellar and seeping stealthily into Alan's
abajo,
his cherished den in the field in which his
puro
smoking can go unobserved. From the day we bought our age-old ruin, we were warned by locals that life in
el camp,
the countryside, could have its drawbacks. In the last three years since refurbishing the house and living permanently in our mountain valley, we have experienced some horrendous storms and flooding which have at times left us without electricity, water and heating for several days. We have learned the hard way, equipping the
finca
with sandbags, paraffin lamps, candles and the odd bottle of brandy for when it all becomes too much.

  'It can't go on much longer,' moans Alan. 'I've used up all the sandbags so if it rises any more we'll be in trouble.'

  'At least we've got electricity.'

  'Can we have supper at Es Turo?' Ollie asks.

  Now that's a warming thought. When the weather's dreary there's nothing more cheering than dinner up at our mountain village restaurant. I can picture a carafe of robust red wine and plates piled high with vegetable
croquetes
and
be rostit
, roast lamb.