FIFTEEN - COLD TURKEY

Christmas is upon us and yet the air is warm and the cobalt sky streaked with long wispy clouds that curl round the Tramuntanas like ghostly white fingers. In the highest peaks of the mountains small tufts of snow hint at the cold weather to come, but for now the sun is the colour of ripe corn and the valley is giddy with the scent of lavender.

Alan puffs up from the field carrying a large pannier brimming with the first of the season's oranges. His shirt sleeves are rolled back and he is singing one of his crusty old Scottish ballads.

'What a glorious vision!' he says contentedly. I follow his gaze past the front garden and up to the tiered terraces which overflow with wild clematis and lavender. In a few days time it will be Christmas Day and I wonder whether this year, with such heavenly sunshine, we'll be carving the turkey out on the terrace. My eyes rest on the pond and with a tinge of sadness I acknowledge that my toad and his croaking companions will be gone until March. Absurdly, I worry that Johnny and I had not parted on the best of terms. There's a toot at the gate and Llorenç arrives with a delivery of wood. Alan strolls over to the gate and with a flourish guides him in. The van shudders to a halt. Llorenç gets out and straightens his back.

'All this wood cutting will be the death of me.'

'You need a good massage,' Alan says.

'Any offers?' He winks in my direction.

'Sorry, Llorenç, I'm off to town to pick up the turkey.'

He gives a hefty tut. 'Typical woman, eh?'

'And what about your Catalan lessons?' he yells.

'We've stopped for Christmas.'

'If you must know, Guillem's given me a stack of homework to do over Christmas.'

'A likely story!' he quips.

Since getting back from New York, I've had a fair bit of catching up to do on my Catalan. I've missed a lot of lessons, which was borne out by the rather modest result I achieved in our first surprise examen, a few weeks ago. I had sat looking at the verb tables as the clock ticked by, realising that I hadn't got a clue about the imperfect and conditional tenses of menjar, to eat, neither was I able to fill in the blanks on a picture of a living room which required Catalan vocabulary. Rather desperately I had made up words combining French and Castilian vocabulary, to disastrous effect. Still, Guillem was full of smiles when he gave me the result, telling me that I'd somehow managed to pass, which was a good start. I've decided that some serious swotting up is in order over the holidays but when I'll find the time in between Christmas shopping, cooking and entertaining, heaven knows! I look at my watch. I've a mountain of shopping to do and am still to pick up some extra little under-the-Christmas-tree, gifts for Ollie. I jump into the car and start the engine. Alan taps on my window.

'Don't forget to pick up Ollie from football practice at noon.'

I roll down the window. 'Yes, and don't forget to collect the Christmas tree. Ollie's desperate to hang the decorations.'

He gives me a self-satisfied grin. 'Actually, the nursery has kindly offered to deliver it this morning, so I don't have to pick it up.'

'Great, so you'll have the tree up and ready to decorate by the time I get back?'

He shakes his head. 'Never a moment's peace.'

Llorenç catches the drift. 'Don't worry about her. We'll have a relaxing coffee when we've unloaded the wood.'

'Good idea,' says the Scotsman brightly, waving me goodbye.

Driving along the track proves hazardous this morning. Wolfgang and Helge arrived late the night before and are now in the midst of transporting their luggage into their house. Helge comes over to the car for a chat and to catch up on news. No sooner have I set off again than Llamp comes charging towards the car with a frowning Rafael following in close pursuit. I roll down the window.

'What's the matter?'

'He's wild this dog, and now he kill one of my chickens!'

I draw to a halt outside his finca.

'He can't have killed a chicken. He's just a pup.'

He places his hands flat against the car door as if he's about to do a press up and juts his head towards me, eyes ablaze.

'I caught him with it hanging from his mouth. The bird fly into his run and he catch it.'

I fear this might herald the end of Llamp's days with Rafael and that the poor mutt will be packing his kennel and bones just as Franco the boxer did before him.

'Give him a second chance. It's Christmas.'

Rafael thumps my car. 'Crazy woman!'

I reach the end of the track expecting to see the bustling form of Margalida, but the house is silent and shuttered. Perhaps she's staying with relatives today.

The town is heaving with excited shoppers stocking up on Christmas fare, for eating in Mallorca is a serious business and each and every fiesta is embraced like an old friend and plied with as much wine and culinary delicacies as can be mustered. I stroll along in the sunshine, greeting various acquaintances on the way. In the main plaça children are playing with balls and weaving between the spiky trees on bikes. Rows of tiny lights have been strung across the trunks and branches of trees, waiting to be illuminated once darkness falls. At this time of the year the plaça looks magical at night, resembling a rather refined grotto with tiny twinkling white lights clustered in the dark trees surrounding the floodlit town hall. Throughout Christmas, standing tall on either side of the town hall, is a gegant, an enormous wood replica of a female and a male folk dancer in traditional and historic garb, while from the depths of the building Catalan carols are blasted out from huge speakers. It all adds to the festive atmosphere and it is impossible to walk by without humming one of the tunes. As I walk up Calle Sa Lluna, I spy Antonia sitting in her store like a spider in its web, smoking and contemplating a mountain of boxes around her. She calls out to me.

'Tomorrow we finally move!'

HiBit's business is thriving and they are about to locate to larger premises. Albert and Antonia have found a well-lit store a hop, skip and jump from Cafè Paris. With a touch of nostalgia I remember back to my first months here in the valley when, without Internet access, I came to rely on this store as a home from home. Although I now have my computer connections functioning in the finca, I still need Albert's technical support and I continue to buy all my supplies here. It's always a good excuse to catch up on gossip with Antonia.

'It's all very exciting,' I say encouragingly as I enter the small store.

'You're kidding, right? I have the whole family for Christmas lunch, cooking and cleaning and now this move. Too much stress.'

I lean on one of the cardboard boxes.

'Once you've moved, it will all fall into place.'

'Ha! You got a good sense of humour, girl, I give you that.'

'Kitting out the other shop. No electricity, no water over there… we're going crazy!'

She wanders through the heaps of boxes, tutting to herself.

'Oh, before I forget, I've got your boy's Football League DVD. You better take it now or I'll never find it again.' She fumbles in a box as if it's a lucky dip and pulls out a disc.

'Ollie will be ecstatic! One more Christmas present for the pile. How much do I owe you?'

She waves me away. 'Pay me later… the till isn't working and I trust you by now!'

Out in the street, I bump into Nancy Golding, as always dressed in black and wearing her chic fedora hat.

'Have you hung my picture yet?' she asks.

'It's above our bed. It's so beautiful when it catches the light.'

She gives a coy smile. 'That makes me happy.'

'And what are you doing for Christmas?'

She fiddles with her meagre shopping bag. 'Oh, you know, hanging out at the flat, I guess. Some friends are planning to take me out for lunch on Christmas Day.'

My heart sinks a little. 'Can we come over?'

'Well, if it's not too much bother. Rosie and I would like that.'

Nancy's daughter lives in the States and work commitments prevent her visiting her mother at Christmas.

'How about Boxing Day?

She gives a little shrug. 'Suits me.'

I watch her potter off along Calle sa Lluna, no doubt en route to Art I Mans to order some picture frames or new paints. At Ca'n Matarino, the butcher's, a swell of people crowd into the small interior so I decide to pop into Colmado Sa Lluna before returning there to pick up the turkey. Xavier is busily slicing chorizo while Teresa is diligently packing customers' bags. Bustling out from the magatzem, the store at the back of the shop, Xavier's mother greets me, her arms cradling two huge legs of jamón Serrano. She dumps them down on the counter and wipes her hands on her apron. Although there's a queue, I don't have to wait too long and soon I am ordering everything from jamones and salchichones, spicy sausages, to kirsch, dàtils, dates, and rich Manchego cheese. Then there are the walnuts and chestnuts and special artisan biscuits and dulces from Barcelona.

'How are you going to carry all this?' enquires Xavier. 'Shall I drop it off at the house?'

He laughs. 'Do I have a choice?'

Back in Calle sa Lluna, I grab my chance and dash into Ca'n Matarino's to collect the turkey. With relief I see that it's a far more modest size than the one we had for our first Christmas here. Ramon had reared us one of his own turkeys, but it grew out of all proportion and we couldn't fit it in the oven. I'm hoping this Christmas will be less eventful. Cheekily, I nip back to Xavier's shop and ask whether he might carry my turkey back home along with the other purchases. He dumps the heavy bag behind the counter and with hands on hips shakes his head theatrically and addresses the queue of customers.

'I suppose she'll want me to cook it for her too?!'

General titters and guffaws follow me out onto the street. I pop into one of my favourite haunts, Calabruix, run by Margarita and Margalida. This is Sóller's version of a good old-fashioned British bookshop where nothing is too much trouble and any title, however obscure, can be ordered swiftly and without fuss. The owners will spend precious time discussing the merits of one Catalan dictionary over another and they have a wonderful Aladdin's cave at the back of the shop housing many more titles. I select a few children's paperback novels in Catalan and Castilian Spanish and dump them on the counter.

'These look a bit difficult for you,' jokes Margalida with a glint in her eye.

'Too right! They're presents for Ollie.'

'Poc a poc!' she replies with a grin.

Tolo, our friend and guardian at the local branch of Banca March, greets me as I walk back across the plaça and pulls one of his bank's Christmas calendars from his bag. This is an annual tradition, and so I take it with some ceremony and promise that Alan will hang it above his desk. I have two more stops to make and I'm fast running out of time. Bel greets me as I squeeze into her tiny shop, Cavall Verd, which rather curiously means The Green Horse. The interior is crammed full of boxes of gifts and toys. Wooden mobiles, Christmas decorations and streamers hang in profusion overhead and scented candles line the shelves by the door. I look at my watch.

'Bel, I'm in a hurry. Can you suggest some small toys to put under the tree for Ollie?'

She catches the eye of a customer, a robustly built elderly senyora, and they have a brief word.

'I have just the thing! This lady says her grandson's favourite toys are a spinning top and a diabolo. They're all the rage now in schools.'

'Diabolo, as in diabolic? That sounds a bit dubious.'

Bel rustles around at the far end of the shop and hands me a small funnel shaped, wooden item with grooves which is attached to a long piece of string. I look mystified.

'What do you so with this?'

'It's a traditional spinning top,' she replies.

The elderly lady comes over and, taking it from my hand, bids me follow her into the busy street. Once outside, she winds the string around the base and then with great dexterity unrolls it quickly in the air and watches it tumble onto the pavement. It spins round and round at speed, attracting an immediate crowd of onlookers, mostly children.

'Wow! Fantàstic!' I exclaim.

She smiles modestly then shows me how to accomplish the task. The children laugh as I make several lousy attempts at it, until finally getting the wooden top to spin. She then bustles inside, returning with the second strange object, the diabolo. It appears to be a twin-headed top made of plastic. She carries two wooden sticks with a string attached between the two.

'You have to juggle the top on the string between the two sticks,' she explains. 'All these toys have been around since I was young. You know, diabolo means devil on two sticks.'

I watch as she spins the top deftly between the two sticks which she joggles from side to side. It amazes me that a woman of her age has the agility and patience to perform these tricks. The spectators applaud and, panting a little, the senyora takes a small bow and re-enters the shop. Bel is delighted with the sudden attention her little boutique is attracting. Before it's mobbed I pay for my spoils, thank the senyora and leave. Now, I just need to make a brief stop at Rullan, the toy shop, and I'm done.

It is nearly noon as I leave Rullan with gifts for Catalina's twin girls and head for the car. Just as I pass Cafè Paris , someone touches my arm. It is elderly Senyor Bisbal. He greets me cordially.

'I'm glad to see you today. Venga, I want to buy you a little Christmas gift.'

I remonstrate but it's no good. He leads me into one of the main patisserias, Forn de Campo, and buys an enormous, family-sized ensaïmada, the popular Mallorcan sweet pastry, filled with custard cream. It is ceremoniously packaged in a large carrying box which Senyor Bisbal hands over to me, before doffing his cap and disappearing into the street. I stagger out of the shop with all my wares and hear my mobile trilling. Oh no, now what? I manage to extricate the phone from my bag. It's Pep.

'Hey, where are you, lazy woman? I picked up Angel and Ollie from the football pitch. You left the poor boy stranded.'

I look at my watch. 'I'm afraid I'm running late.'

'Tranquil.la! What are friends for, eh? We're in Cafè Paris. Come and join us for a coffee.'

Never has an invitation to coffee sounded so good.

We arrive back at the finca laden with bags. Ollie nibbles nervously on his bottom lip. In his hands he twirls his sealed football report. An interesting phenomenon in Mallorca is that football reports are treated with almost as much respect as their school counterparts. These typed documents are lengthy and detailed, focusing on the student's psychological state, response under pressure, alertness to trainer instructions, team spirit, tactical ability and attitude. Finally, there is a handwritten paragraph from the trainer himself, noting any special attributes and commenting on the student's overall rating. Ollie takes it all very seriously and I hope one day he'll show the same gravitas when it comes to his school reports.

The Scotsman helps carry bags from the car.

'I thought you'd have more stuff.'

'Actually, Xavier's coming up with the rest.'

His shoulders sag with the weight of the load. 'I might have known.'

He glances at the huge cardboard box. 'Whatever's in there?'

'A giant ensaïmada, a Christmas gift from Senyor Bisbal.'

He shakes his head. 'Trust you!'

He strides into the house in conversation with Ollie and plonks the bags down on the kitchen table. Some minutes later I find Ollie and him absorbed in the football report.

'Excellent, Ollie. All 'A's and 'B's.'

I lean over the paper.

'An 'A' for psychological state? They've slipped up there.'

Ollie gives a loud grunt and splays his legs out in front of him at the table. 'I'd rather have got an A for striker skills.'

'You can't win them all.'

He raps his fingers against the table. 'By the way, when does Alex arrive?'

Alex is my nineteen-year-old nephew whom Ollie considers the epitome of cool. On Christmas Eve he and my sister, Cecilia, will be arriving to take possession of a house in Fornalutx village. Having completed the deal last month, they will be camping out at the sparsely furnished property for three weeks and spending Christmas itself over at our finca. When Alex returns to university, my sister will begin her new life in the valley, gradually renovating the house and commencing work as a language consultant in Palma.

'They'll be here the day after tomorrow.'

Ollie looks deflated. 'That's ages away.'

Alan folds up the report. 'How about helping me in the garden?'

He rolls his eyes. 'No thanks.'

'All right then, what about decorating the Christmas tree?'

Ollie's eyes light up. 'It's here? Where is it?'

Alan taps his nose. 'It's outside. Come and see. It's enormous.'

Ollie rushes out into the back patio, closely pursued by his father.

I start unloading the food into the fridge, a task I dread at this time of the year because it's nigh impossible to squeeze everything inside. A few minutes later they return.

Ollie is bubbling with excitement. 'It's awesome! I'm going to start sorting out the decorations.'

He patters off in the direction of the cellar where the decorations are stowed away in an old wooden chest.

I turn to Alan. 'I saw Nancy in town. I said we'd pop over to see her on Boxing Day.'

He looks up. 'Good idea. We can bring her Ollie's present then.'

Two days earlier, while Christmas shopping in Palma, Ollie had found a marcasite brooch of a cat which he deemed a fitting gift for his beloved Nancy.

'Talking of old friends, Margalida's chalet is shuttered up. D'you think all's well?'

He gets up and stretches. 'She's probably staying over at Silvia and Pedro's for Christmas. I wouldn't worry.'

Despite Alan's reassurances, I find it odd that Margalida would sleep at her daughter and son-in-law's home when she only lives across the track from them. Something doesn't add up.

There's a loud tooting at the gate. Xavier has arrived.

The wind is blowing wildly, petulantly throwing garden pots about the garden and rippling the cats' fur. Alan slams the kitchen door behind him, unzips his Barbour and peers out at the sky.

'The rain's starting again.'

It is Christmas Eve and the rain has been falling solidly for two days. Cecilia and Alex are arriving later tonight so Ollie and I have been busy placing presents under the Christmas tree, putting up decorations around the house and cooking. He's an enthusiastic sous-chef, and between us we have made the chocolate log and brandy butter and baked several batches of mince pies and sausage rolls. Tomorrow, Pep, Juana and Angel, will be spending Christmas Day with us all so I am trying to prepare as much as I can in advance. Their kitchen is being renovated so it's impossible for Juana to do any cooking at their house for another week.

A final batch of mince pies are in the oven and with the washing up finished Ollie and I sit at the table munching on some chocolate biscuits. I take a gulp from my mug of tea, contemplating what I need to prepare for dinner.

Ollie frowns. 'The oven's making a bit of a funny noise.'

'Well, we've been doing so much cooking. Poor thing probably needs a rest,' I reply.

He shrugs his shoulders and starts flicking happily through a comic.

'I think this is going to be the best Christmas ever!'

'I hope you're right, Ollie.'

I listen to the rain on the window pane, pleased that we're warm and cosy inside the kitchen. Alan suddenly looks up from a gardening book he's reading.

'Aren't you supposed to be seeing your chum at the port this afternoon?'

I give a groan. Indeed he's right. I have agreed to meet Julia, my Venezuelan friend from the Catalan class, for a festive coffee but I'm not relishing the drive in heavy rain.

'I might as well set off soon. With all this rain, the roads will be bad.'

'Good idea. When will you be home?'

'About five. By the way, can you keep an eye on the mince pies? Just turn them off in about ten minutes.'

We stand by the sink, looking out at the rain which is now falling in heavy white sheets on the patio.

'So much for Christmas lunch al fresco,' the Scotsman sighs. 'You can't even see the mountains.'

A cloak of silver grey mist has descended over the Tramuntanas and there's a chill in the air. I pull on my jacket and am on the point of opening the front door when there's a tremendous bang from the oven. Ollie and Alan both yelp in unison and rush over to the stove. Smoke billows from its sides and there's a strange crackling sound. I rush back into the kitchen.

'Please don't tell me it's blown up,' I cry.

'I told you it was making a funny noise,' says Ollie.

Alan carefully opens the door, fanning away a plume of grey smoke, and rescues the semi-cooked mince pies.

'God knows what's wrong with it.'

'Great timing,' I mutter.

'Maybe it's just a fuse,' he says doubtfully.

He potters off to the basement and returns with a long face. 'Hmm, it's not the fuse. Maybe it's an electrical fault.'

I watch as he plods off again, this time to get his toolbox. When he returns he removes the front panel encasing the temperature dials and examines the electrical circuit and wires behind.

'I think it's completely buggered. The wires seem to have melted. We'll have to get the engineer up.'

'You're joking? On Christmas Eve?'

He is silent for a second.

'Were you planning on using it tonight?'

'That's not the issue. I'm thinking about the turkey tomorrow,' I groan.

He gives a sigh. 'What about microwaving it?'

I cast him a scornful look. 'Of course we can't. It would never fit in there.'

'There's always Pep and Juana's house,' he says.

'Aha! That's true,' I say brightly.

'But their kitchen's all upside down,' says Ollie.

'Damn, I forgot.' Alan plods over to the espresso machine. 'Look, you go to the port and I'll have a ponder. I'll try getting hold of an engineer.'

Inko and the grey twins cautiously re-enter the kitchen. They had bolted under the piano when they heard the bang. Despondently, I pick up the car keys and an umbrella by the front door. How can the fates have conspired to wreck the oven the day before Christmas? Let's hope nothing else can go wrong. Alan suddenly calls after me.

'Before you go can you remind me how to work this blasted coffee machine?'

The Faro bar sits up high on a hill above the busy shops and restaurants of the port, and offers breathtaking views of the wild sea below. A narrow track runs beyond its entrance to a path with a steep cliff face on one side and the lashing sea on the other. Inside, cheery amber flames leap from the hearth and the wooden tables are festooned with holly and berries. Behind the bar, Marga, the waitress, wipes glasses and stares out at the rain. Julia is sitting in front of the fire and warming her hands. She drains her cup of coffee.

'You poor thing. As I said, if I didn't have twelve Venezuelans arriving for Christmas lunch, you could have come to me.'

I shake my head. 'Don't worry, we'll work something out. One of life's little challenges.'

She brightens up. 'If the rain stops, you could maybe spit roast the turkey in your field.'

Some time ago, Alan reliably informed me that in his youth he was a Queen's Scout, an honour apparently bestowed on boys able to perform the most difficult of scout tasks, so I now have visions of the Scotsman erecting a precarious pyre, losing control of the flames and reducing the turkey to ashes whilst setting the entire field on fire. We get up to leave and I glimpse the bill.

'I'll go and settle up at the bar.'

As I take my change, the front door springs open and three rain-sodden creatures hurtle inside. The woman's glasses are misted up and her jumper is heavy with water. A teenage girl looks out miserably from under a thin hood while the man shakes an umbrella and stands against the door.

'You speak German?' she asks forlornly.

Marga shakes her head in the negative.

Marga looks at me hopefully.

'Can I help?' I ask.

The woman seems exhausted and her face is pale and drawn. 'We desperately need somewhere to stay. We only arrived yesterday late evening at a rented flat, but in the night the roof collapsed with the rain and now we are out on the street.'

I thought I was the only one with problems today. Julia doesn't understand what the woman says so I translate. She puts a hand over her mouth and makes the sign of the cross.

'Can't the owner of the flat help you?'

She runs a distraught hand through her unruly grey hair. 'No. We called her and she just told us to leave. She gave us the money back and left us stranded with our belongings.'

I feel indignant on the German lady's behalf. 'I'll see what I can do.'

I bid Julia farewell and call Victoria Duvall, knowing that she has many contacts renting property in the area. By luck she answers immediately and promises to come right back to me. It's five-thirty and the weather is getting more bleak by the second. To keep spirits up, I tell them all about my cooker blowing up. The woman tuts sympathetically and then with a big smile taps my hand and says, 'I have a great German recipe for poached turkey.'

She is yelling above the wind. 'You boil it tonight with onions and have it cold with boiled potatoes tomorrow. It's delicious.'

I try to look enthusiastic. 'Thanks, I'll think about that.'

The mobile phone trills.

'You're in luck!' says Victoria. 'I've found them a finca in Fornalutx. Tell them to come over now.'

'She can help us?' the man asks hopefully.

The Germans are ecstatic. 'We had wanted a nice Christmas by the sea but perhaps with this rain, mountain views are best, ya?'

They break into hysterical giggles, reminding me yet again that German and British humour genes are at times quite at odds. In their situation I'd be blubbing into a double vodka and contemplating a brisk walk off the edge of one of the nearby cliffs.

I scribble down Victoria's details as the woman enthusiastically hands me a card from her handbag.

'Here, take this and if you want my recipe, just call me.'

I wave them goodbye and study the card in the rain. She is a professor from Heidelberg University. I can only hope her lectures are a tad more inspiring than her cookery tips. Whatever happens, one thing's for sure: we shall not be eating poached turkey tomorrow. Imbued with the spirit of Christmas I feel certain that, in the immortal words of Charles Dickens' eternally optimistic Mr Micawber, something will turn up.

It is Christmas morning and I have risen early to dress the turkey. Heaven knows why when I still don't know how I'm going to cook the wretched thing. Ollie was awake at some ungodly hour, desperate to investigate the fireplace downstairs for evidence of Father Christmas's visit. With delight he discovered a pillowcase in the grate stuffed with booty and at its side a half-eaten carrot and some mince pie crumbs presumably left by a litter lout reindeer. He now sits cross-legged on the rug in the entrada enthusiastically tearing at wrapping paper and whooping with joy at every item uncovered. A large tree, smothered in white fairy lights and decorations, sits in a far corner by the French windows underneath which Orlando and Minky play with a string of small gold stars. I hear someone plodding down the staircase and my nephew, Alex, appears in the entrada, hair dishevelled and yawning.

'Alex!' screeches Ollie, launching himself on his cousin. 'Come and look at my presents.'

'Wow. You're one lucky piglet.' He grabs Ollie under his arm and then spins him round.

'Let go, Alex!' He gurgles with mirth. They fall on top of each other in a heap.

'Fancy a coffee?' I yell above the din.

Alex untangles himself and stands up to give me a hug, taking the mug at the same time. 'Wonderful! Now you know why you're my favourite aunt.'

'You've only got one.'

'That's very true,' he says contemplatively. 'Now, in the night I had an inspirational idea about our turkey problem.'

'Am I going to like it?'

'Hmm. I'm not sure but it's worth a punt. I was on the YouTube website at about three this morning…'

'It's all right, that's what teenagers do, and I found a brilliant way of cooking a turkey on a clamp lamp.'

I digest this information slowly while Ollie happily carries on unwrapping gifts and playing with his toys. Alex potters into the kitchen and sits down at the table, his long legs splayed out in front of him. I notice he's wearing a black Armani T-shirt and black pyjama bottoms. He's apparently stylish even in bed.

'Do you have a clamp lamp lying around?'

I give him a frown. 'I don't even know what it is.'

'Ah well, it's simple enough. As long as you've got any kind of light source we can cook the bird.'

He gives me an old-fashioned look. 'Well, you cook the turkey above a bowl which contains a clamp lamp and some DVDs. The reflected light creates heat which cooks the meat. All very simple.'

'Have you done this before?'

He tuts. 'Of course not. Law students don't cook.'

My sister wafts into the kitchen, Ollie attached to one arm. 'You just live on kebabs in Manchester, don't you?'

'Your son is proposing that we cook the turkey over a clamp lamp, which I doubt we even have in the house. I'll have to ask Alan.'

Cecilia relinquishes Ollie's hold on her and fills the kettle with water. 'I'll play in a minute, sweetheart. I desperately need tea.'

'It was that third bottle of wine we had last night.'

'Don't remind me,' she groans, slumping at the table.

Alan potters in from the garden.

'A happy Christmas to one and all! Who's for breakfast?'

'Do you have a clamp lamp?' asks Alex hopefully.

The Scotsman eyes him curiously. 'Down in the abajo I have an old one.'

'Excellent. Then all we need are some containers and a few DVDs.'

'Are you doing an experiment?' asks Ollie.

'Yes, he's going to blow up the house,' I rejoin.

Alex squeezes my arm. 'Have faith, auntie dear. Now Alan, let's get to work.'

A weak sun is shining in the sky and we all feel in good spirits as we huddle around a large tin bowl in the garden waiting for a miracle to happen.

'Well, it's starting to smoke,' says Alex.

'Are you sure it's safe?' I ask.

'Well, if it blows up at least we're outside,' says Alan. 'Running the flex out from the kitchen was a good idea.'

'I'm full of them,' says my nephew with a huge grin.

Cecilia and Ollie nudge each other and then creep off inside. 'Tell us when it's cooked,' my sister says. 'We're off to eat the chocolate tree decorations.'

Smoke soon begins billowing out of the sides of the lid covering the turkey.

'That's good, Alex,' says Alan. 'It must be cooking.'

'How long do we wait?' I'm not convinced this is going to work and I'm very concerned about my old Die Hard DVDs being used as turkey bait around the clamp lamp.

'We just leave it for about an hour or so, I think,' says Alex.

Cecilia potters out with some mince pies. 'Here, have one of these to keep you going.'

We all swoop on them.

'What time are your friends coming over?' she asks me.

'About two o'clock. Remember, no one eats early around here.'

'That's great. We've got bags of time to get the turkey cooked and…'

At which point there's a strange sizzling sound followed by a loud pop like a champagne cork going off and the clamp lamb bulb explodes. We all leap back and exchange looks.

'Perhaps we should move on to plan B?' beams Alex.

'And what is plan B?' I say with irony.

'Well, I've just had an idea,' he says.

Alex and I are picking at a plate of smoked salmon blinis and slurping champagne while Ollie sits drinking cola and eating olives.

'I feel a bit guilty about Alan and Cecilia doing all the relays up to Fornalutx while we're stuffing ourselves back here.'

He stretches his arms out in front of him. 'Look, I can't drive and you've got to be here to welcome Pep and Juana so we had no choice. Feeling guilty is a complete waste of energy.'

'I suppose you're right,' I say, thinking about the turkey which at this very moment is hopefully cooking in the oven of my sister's new home. Alex's plan B was actually rather clever. He remembered that a gas cylinder had been delivered to their new house for the oven – piped gas not having reached our mountains yet – and suggested that we ferry the bird and potatoes up to their village for cooking. The Scotsman and my intrepid sister offered to take it in turns to baste the turkey at intervals and check on the roast potatoes. The mobile phone rings. It's Alan reporting that Cecilia's on her way down the mountain and that he will stay put until the bird's cooked.

'That's good, Alex. The turkey's nearly done. We'll have to eat as soon as Alan returns or everything will go cold.'

'That's OK,' he yawns. 'Pep and Juana can have a drink and by the time Alan gets back it'll be time to eat.'

There's a loud tooting at the gate.

'That must be my mother.'

But it isn't. Catalina pulls up in the courtyard and comes bustling in to the kitchen with presents.

'Hey, where's my glass of cava?'

Alex flips open the fridge, ever grateful to have an excuse to open a bottle.

'So, your mother and Alan are cooking the turkey, and what about you, Alex?'

'I'm needed here to keep my aunt plied with cava.'

She pokes him in the ribs. 'You're a bad boy. Molt dolent.'

Many years ago, Catalina au-paired for my sister in Kent, and was the one who persuaded us to first visit the island on holiday. Little did she realise then that she'd be the catalyst for our complete change of lifestyle. She has a special fondness for Alex whom she looked after when he was a toddler.

'I love Christmas,' sighs Catalina. 'So much food and chocolate. I'm at my aunt's restaurant with all the family for lunch today and then dinner with Jack and Sarah at Es Turo this evening. What a crazy day!'

Alex gives a smirk and refills her glass.

'Don't get me drunk, Alex. I have to drive back up the hill.'

There's more hooting at the gate and within minutes Cecilia arrives in the kitchen.

'Thank God I don't have to drive up to Fornalutx again. That's my third trip.'

'Have a drink, mother,' says Alex cheerfully.

Having given Catalina a hug, she takes a glass and we all stroll out into the sunny garden.

'Look how beautiful it is today,' says Catalina.

'Maybe we'll be eating al fresco after all,' I add.

'Why not?' says Cecilia. 'Let's transfer all the dishes outside.'

'Christmas under a Mallorcan sun,' I sigh. 'Now whoever would have thought that possible?'

Pep is lying back in his chair at the table, puffing on a huge Havana, a gift from Alan. A paper hat is slung lopsidedly on his head.

'You know, that was one of the best turkeys I've ever tasted,' he says. 'An interesting temperature too.'

I give him a warning look. 'Watch it!'

'What do you mean? I love cold turkey…' he giggles.

Cecilia shakes her head. 'Is he always this objectionable?'

'Always,' says Juana with a wry grin. 'Now you're coming to live here, you'll see how bad he is for yourself.'

'I think I've seen enough,' she jests, throwing her arms wide as if to embrace the hot sun above.

'Thank you for a wonderful lunch, all of you,' beams Juana.

'Hear, hear!' says Pep, unleashing a party popper over my head.

Alex grabs one from the table and fires it at Pep.

'Children!' laughs Juana. 'I swear my husband gets worse as he gets older.'

'This is just the beginning,' I say, giving Pep a kick under the table.

Alan arrives from the kitchen with flutes of chilled champagne and chocolate truffles.

'Yummy!' shriek Ollie and Angel in unison, interrupting a game of swing ball to come over and help themselves to chocolates.

'I don't think I can eat another thing,' I declare. 'Mind you on second thoughts…'

'What a perfect Christmas,' says Alan. 'Good food, friends and family and blissful weather.'

'To a perfect Christmas!' says Alex, raising his glass to us all.

'To a perfect Christmas!' we say in unison.

'To the best Christmas ever,' says Ollie and with a cheeky grin he takes a swig of my champagne and runs off into the field with his friend, Angel.

It's Boxing Day. Rachel is full of Yuletide cheer.

'I'm glad you managed to have your Christmas lunch in the end.'

'So am I. Yours sounded a lot less chaotic.'

She laughs. 'Yes, M&S did us proud. We didn't have to do very much at all.'

'Well, I hope you can switch off from work for a few days now.'

'You must be joking! I've already had Manuel on the phone. He's going to ring you later about the Cuba H Hotel opening and Greedy George called about the Crown jewels book launch.'

'They rang you at home?'

'I don't know why you're so surprised. You know those two never let us off the hook.'

'It is an international holiday!'

'As if they care!' she titters.

'So what is George after this time?'

'He wants an invitation to the Crown jewels launch.'

'It gets worse. He thought he and Dannie could come together.'

'Did you explain it's by invitation only?'

'I did, but he sounded so keen. Let's talk about it later.'

Despite her robust exterior, Rachel can be a marshmallow when it comes to Greedy George. She often caves in to his boyish charms.

'Well, we've only got a month to go now. Is everyone at the Stationery Office happy?'

'Cock-a-hoop. Oh, there's just one thing. The editor of the Crown jewels book queried a small detail on the draft news release you sent him for the press conference.'

'You gave it the headline, "BLAIR TO UNVEIL CROWN JEWELS".'

'So? His name is Mr Blair.'

'But he's a little concerned that some media might think he's the other Mr Blair and that we're talking about the real Crown jewels.'

'Exactly, Rachel. This way we'll be guaranteed to have a spectacular press turn out.'

It's early evening. Nancy is sitting in front of a tiny electric heater with Rosie at her feet. She was somewhat taken aback when we arrived with a bottle of champagne and a meals-on-wheels Christmas dinner for one, especially as it is Boxing Day. We were going to invite her to join us at our own bizarre Christmas feast but were pipped to the post by some mutual friends. Given our disastrous turkey relay-run luncheon, I'm glad she had safe harbour elsewhere.

Nancy gives me a big smile. 'I shall heat it up for my supper later. Rosie and I will have a feast.'

Ollie hands her a small packet together with a handmade Christmas card. He has lovingly painted Nancy's favourite animals – two sea otters on the front – wearing Santa hats.

'Well, I guess with all this drawing you're going to be putting me out of business soon.'

He puffs out his cheeks. 'In my dreams.'

She coughs and pulls her black shawl closely around her shoulders. With difficulty she fumbles with the tightly packed gift, finally unwrapping it and holding the marcasite cat up to the light.

'Why, Ollie this is divine! I mean, I'm going to feel like a queen walking down the street wearing this.'

She plants a big kiss on his cheek. He is flushed with pleasure.

'They're not real diamonds though.'

She dissolves into laughter. 'Didn't you know that marcasites are far more special than diamonds? They've got real character.'

He studies her face closely.

'Sure. Just like your card is so much more valuable than any trumped-up thing you could buy in a shop.'

He gives a satisfied sigh and potters off to draw a picture at her desk.

She smiles serenely for a few minutes, absorbed in thought, and then grasps my hand.

I take a sip of champagne. 'Great. Is it about the exhibition?'

Alan is eating a truffle and sitting back in an armchair, listening intently.

'No. Actually, it's about my move.'

'What move?' I say sharply.

She releases my hand and fiddles with one of her amber rings.

'Well, you know I've been finding things a little difficult of late, what with my health and money issues and this infernal cold. My daughter has suggested I move back over to the States to live near her.'

Alan sits up in his chair, his face expressionless. Ollie has stopped painting.

'You're going away? For how long?'

She gives him a gentle smile. 'I don't know, Ollie. Some time, maybe. You know, until I get back on my feet.'

I feel hollow at the thought of Nancy leaving the Sóller Valley. Her incredibly vibrant abstract art hangs in our home, a daily reminder of how lucky we are to have her as a friend.

'How do you feel about that?'

She gives a little shrug and touches my hand.

'I don't know. It's kinda sad to be going, but California has great weather and I'll be near my daughter. It sort of makes sense.'

Alan exhales deeply. 'When are you thinking of leaving?'

'The spring, I guess. I'll need a few months to get packed up.'

'It's going to be quite a wrench for you and for all of us.'

She gives me a flash of her pearly teeth. 'Come on, why the long face? Ever heard of email?'

We arrive at the mouth of the track and to my relief I see a light on in Margalida's chalet. We are all feeling rather sombre at the thought of Nancy's departure but, given her difficult circumstances, know it makes sense. For some time now I have wondered how much longer she would be able to cope all alone with the winter weather and her increasingly bad health. I ask Alan to stop the car so that I can check up on Margalida.

'Well, don't be long. Remember we're cooking for the troops tonight.'

Cecilia and Alex are back at the finca and tonight Catalina and her family will be joining us for supper. Thankfully, an engineer drove up from Palma earlier in the day to fix our oven, telling us that the wiring had been wrongly connected and we were lucky not to have been burned to cinders. I relish passing that news on to our local electrician, but he'll no doubt throw his hands melodramatically in the air shouting 'Joder!', a favoured Spanish expletive, and tell me the man is a buffoon and it is all the fault of the manufacturer. At least it's fixed. I watch as Alan passes me up the track, the car tail lights fading in the dusk. I knock softly on the door and wait for the sound of Margalida's stick clumping along the corridor. Eventually the lock turns and a sliver of bright light squirms through the partially open door. She is squinting up at me.

'Ah! I thought it might be you. I haven't been too good.'

I enter the house, closing the door behind me. Using my arm for support, Margalida leads me into her kitchen.

She gestures for me to sit at the table. Once settled, she blows her nose and with trembling hands sips at a glass of water.

'It happened so quickly. One minute I was picking oranges, the next I was lying on my back under the tree.'

'How much herbes had you been drinking?'

She gives a little smile and tuts.

'So there I was alone in Silvia's orchard and I couldn't move. Just like a centpeus.'

I deduce that this must mean centipede. A new word for the old memory bank.

'Were you there for some time?'

She flutters her hands in the air. 'Thankfully not very long. My son-in-law found me and helped me into the house, but my hip was badly bruised. I've been staying over at Silvia's ever since.'

I shake my head. 'Thank heavens you didn't break any bones.'

'God is merciful,' she mutters, fingering the cross on her neck. 'I'm glad to be back home.'

'Yes, but don't overdo it. Do you need anything?'

'Just good health and considerate neighbours.'

I get up and give her hand a little squeeze. 'I'll pop over tomorrow with some mince pies.'

'They're little fruit pastries we have at Christmas time.'

'Pues, if you're not too busy.'

As I walk back up the track in the thick, velvety darkness, I gloomily reflect on Nancy's news and the growing frailty of Margalida. In London I seldom had cause to ponder the passing of time and aside from my ninety-yearold aunt tucked away in a nursing home in Kent, rarely came into contact with elderly people. Now these two feisty women, whose sagacity and unconditional friendship I have come to rely on in so short a time, are encountering the fickle and unyielding pressures of old age. I am passing Rafael's open front door and at the sound of my tread he shoots out of the house in merry mood with Llamp in tow.