A Lizard In My Luggage (37 page)

  'It's quite complicated,' says Alan.

  'Not really. It follows the same pattern every year. Ah, here comes good old Jesus with his cross.'

  Juana puffs out her cheeks and eyes her husband warily. 'If you're going to start being sarcastic…'

  He ignores her and narrows his eyes. 'Hey, you know who it is this year? Poor Pedro. I bet he'd rather be having a drink.'

  Juana tuts and turns to me. 'That's complete rubbish. He's a lovely man, our electrician in fact. He's so committed and devout.'

  I watch this muscle-bound would-be Jesus carrying the hefty piece of timber representing the cross and wonder how he's going to manage the four mile circuit. He's only just started off on the procession but he's already huffing and puffing behind the women in black. A small man in a dark suit, one of the leaders of the
confradias
, is holding a sizeable painted porcelain effigy of the Madonna aloft. His aspect is serious as he marches to the music. I hope he doesn't trip.

  Does this happen everywhere on the island?' I ask.

  'Yes, in most towns and villages. How about another beer, Alan? You two want another
rosado?
'

  The chilled rosé is rather good here and another glass wouldn't go amiss. Juana nods her head and chews thoughtfully on some nuts. 'I always like this event. It evokes so many memories from my childhood.'

  'Juana came from a good Catholic family. Mine wasn't quite so religious. But despite that...' he trails off, momentarily distracted. 'Look, here come the boys.'

  Ollie and Angel rush up to the table panting.

  Angel touches his father's arm. 'They're going up the hill now. By the way, dad, Pedro whispered to me that once he's shot of the cross, he'll be around later for a beer.'

  Juana's eyes flash. 'How can he even be thinking of such a thing when he's playing Jesus?'

  'The priest volunteered him to do it. He didn't want to play Jesus at all!'

  Pep taps his
puro
on the side of the ashtray and nudges a laughing Alan. 'As Juana says, Pedro is a very holy and committed man.'

Alan appears at the kitchen door with a trug brimming with
faves,
broad beans in Mallorcan.

  'How's that for a nice crop?' he beams.

  'Wonderful, but we'll never get through them all. Can I pop some in to Margalida?'

  'Please do. I hope she'll be impressed with my efforts. I told her I was planting a crop.'

  Catalina wipes her hands on her apron and comes over to inspect the trug. 'Hm, not bad for an Englishman.'

  He gives her a frown. 'Scotsman, if you please!'

  'You know, it might be nice if you gave some to Paula,' goads Catalina.

  'Don't even think about it! I haven't forgiven either of you for your behaviour the other day. The wretched woman is nagging me to have extra lessons because of you two.'

  'She obviously thinks you have potential,' continues Catalina.

  'Money you mean!' he puffs.

  'Oh, how cynical of you.' I pat him on the sleeve. 'I think you're her star pupil.'

  The phone rings. Catalina slams the iron down and answers.

  'Hello, can I help you?' She listens and then giggles. 'No, she isn't sun bathing. Not yet anyway. I get her now. One moment.'

  She hands me the phone. I hear Greedy George's naughty chuckle on the line.

  'Hi guv! Did I catch you with your feet up on the terrace?'

  'Oh very funny.'

  'I had a meeting with Rachel the other day and she said you wouldn't be back this month. You OK?'

  I wonder if he's beginning to rumble me. The truth is that I'm enjoying life here and each trip back to London is becoming harder and harder.

  'I'm fine, Just had a lot on with builders. I'm back in a couple of weeks.'

  He drops his voice. 'Thing is, I've held talks with this American furniture company and they seem really keen to finance a Havana Leather in New York. I need to talk it through with you soon.'

  I hope my voice doesn't have a hollow tone. 'That's great. Fantastic! Can you send me through anything to look at?'

  He hesitates. 'No, it's at a sensitive stage. I'd rather wait till you're over. We can talk about the marketing aspect.'

  'Sure. Let's do that.'

  He prattles on about a new lap dancing club he's discovered and then rings off.

  'What was that all about?' asks Alan.

  'Oh, just the usual. George wants to catch up with me soon,' I lie.

  I'm feeling uneasy about Havana Leather's possible expansion plans because I'm not sure I want to be sucked into a major project in the States and yet the financial rewards would be tempting. I've come to a crossroads sooner than I had thought and am seriously toying with the idea of changing direction, possibly starting a new venture in Mallorca. But what? I haven't discussed any of this with Alan yet. It's all a question of timing and first, I need to have a few concrete ideas.

  'Dreamy woman!' exclaims Catalina. 'What are you thinking about?'

  'The complexities of life.'

  'Ah,' she says. 'What you need is
pastis de xocolata an
d tea.' And together we sit and demolish half a cake and put the world to rights while an exasperated Alan regards us in disgust and strides off into the garden to continue his planting.

In a pizzeria in the local port, Catalina and I sit wedged between two ample bosomed, laughing
avis
, grandmothers, who in this group of Mallorcan women ranging from 25 to 80 odd years of age, are probably the most senior. It is the village school's annual mothers' night out and I have been invited because Ollie attended its playgroup during the Christmas holidays. I feel privileged since I am the only foreigner at the event and the ladies are keen to include me as one of the
chicas
, the girls. As a courtesy they switch from Mallorcan to Castilian Spanish when they attempt to share jokes with me and I am relieved that Catalina is at my side to steer me through the subtle nuances of the language. The waiters approach the table nervously, panicked by this scene of Bacchic revelry which has transformed demure village housewives into Beryl Cook blueprints. Drawing deeply on cigarettes and sipping at strong red wine, these women follow the tremulous movements of the young male waiters with eyes dancing with mock lust and amusement.

  'He's got a good pair!' yells one.

  'Ah, but can he use them?' shrieks another.

  Much raucous laughter follows and then someone recounts a tale about her husband which has the entire table wobbling with mirth. I sit mesmerised by these women. They are fearless, gutsy and know their own minds. They are out to have a good night without husbands, children, chores or outstanding commitments and nothing is going to dampen their evening, not even the sharp chill that penetrates the restaurant.

  'Order some more wine!' someone calls, when one of the
avis
complains about the draughts. Shrieks of laughter ensue when a doe-eyed youth in a white apron arrives at the table and can't work the bottle opener.

  'Give it to me, little boy!' says a kindly hour-glass shaped senyora, a fag dangling from her crimson lip. Then with a stealthy thespian wink in our direction, she rasps at him, 'I'll name my price later.'

  More hoots of laughter. He leaps back and allows her to work loose the cork. As it pops into life, everyone applauds. I watch with some sympathy as the young harassed man scampers back to the kitchens, one hand mopping at his forehead with a linen napkin.

  At one o'clock in the morning, everyone pulls back their chairs, the bill has been split evenly between the ladies and it is time for the cackling Cinderellas to wend their way home. Tipsily we hug each other good night and spill out into the semi-lit street. The sky is embedded with tiny stars that quiver and blaze above us like miniature lighthouses and in the hazy moonlight, the restless sea glistens rich and viscous like black molasses, smothering the rocks with a briny glaze. Catalina and I stroll along the sea front, our shawls wrapped tightly around us, in search of a taxi. The cold sea spray stings our lips and the wind nags at our hair and clothes so that we are forced to huddle by a shop front until a sharp-eyed taxi driver dives towards us, with the car's front lights flashing. Once ensconced in the warm interior of the vehicle, we sweep the hair from our faces, rub our eyes and with fits of giggles recall anecdotes and jokes shared at dinner. We agree that it was indeed a great night out.

  'You're lucky to have such good friends,' I say. 'They really are such a fun bunch.'

  'Yes', says Catalina proudly, 'The best.'

We are sitting three abreast in the plane, Ollie closest to the window, Alan in the aisle seat and me sweating it out like piggy in the middle. However, this trip has so far been less fractious than some I've experienced, thanks to the presence of Ollie. Should a couple ever be in any doubt about whether to have a child, they should contemplate what future budget airline trips might be like without one. On a budget airline, as any shrewd parent knows, having a child in tow automatically entitles you to embark the plane ahead of fellow passengers. This means that you can arrive at the airport at a leisurely pace, and carry ticket number 210 or more and still get on the plane before the smart alec with ticket number one. This, of course, is hugely satisfying for us parents who are nervous fliers and is also a cunning way of punishing those childfree individuals who, all their lives, have probably enjoyed blissfully peaceful evenings undisturbed by peevish small creatures that go bump and burp in the night.

  Before boarding the plane, I decide, for Ollie's sake, not to make a fuss. I have dutifully downed a double vodka and tonic at Palma airport and have selected a Bill Bryson book to turn my habitual terror into laughter. As we make ourselves comfortable in our seats, I feel someone touch my arm.

  'Excuse me? Do you write for the
Majorca Daily Bulletin
?'

  I'm a little nonplussed. An attractive woman in head-to-toe linen scrutinises me closely. 'I thought it was you! I read your column every week but I didn't agree with you last Saturday…'

  'Oh dear, that's a pity,' I murmur, feeling under siege.

  'Oh don't worry. I won't stop reading the column.'

  'Excellent, thanks.' How gormless I sound as butterflies swoop and dive around my solar plexus. I really must conquer this flying phobia once and for all. She smiles and passes my seat whereupon I find myself facing none other than Victoria Duvall. 'Still haven't been up for supper yet,' she snaps as she dips her head towards me.

  'But you haven't invited us…'

  She frowns then roars with laughter. 'Ah, that must be the reason then! Ha ha!'