NINE - DEVILISH PURSUITS

Dwarfing the small plaça, the grand old parish church of Fornalutx waits patiently, as it has done countless times over the years, until the moment when it can announce kick off. Then, with a tremendous booming, its old clock begins to chime, and local children gather together with their parents in the plaça in preparation for the annual village procession. Falling into line, every child clutches a table-tennis bat on which a red bell pepper is attached with glue. Inside the belly of each one is an illuminated candle which flickers and radiates an amber glow in the gathering dusk. Despite the late hour, the air is hot and dry, for it is still August and the sun, like an irritable insomniac, hardly sleeps. To applause from those drinking at bars by the square, the procession slowly begins, winding its way from the church down the hill and along the cobbled streets of the village. As an adopted son of Fornalutx, Ollie has been invited, so together with Catalina and her twins we set off, holding our peppers aloft and attempting to join in with the singing as we march. 'San Bartoméu, estira te'l lleu, estira-te 'l tu…'

I give Catalina a nudge. 'Whatever does that mean?'

'It's an old song making fun of San Bartoméu, telling him, how do you say, to draw out his own bile?'

'Charming,' mutters the Scotsman.

Catalina flaps a fan in front of her perspiring face. 'So, you have the Swedish women arriving at Pep's flat tomorrow?'

'I'll be there bright and early to greet them. I've put a welcome pack with a bottle of cava in the fridge, so they should be happy.'

'Ramon thinks you're very lucky.'

'Depends what they all look like,' he replies.

We begin the steep ascent up through the narrow, cobbled streets towards Es Turo restaurant. Here, at one of the highest points in the valley, the Tramuntanas appear huge and menacing, their black and grizzled forms circling the village in a suffocating embrace. At Es Turo, tiny lights are strung around its terrace and mystified diners greet our arrival with puzzlement and delight. Xisca, the proprietor, whose own offspring are in the procession, comes out on the porch in a white overall and, like a Pied Piper, easily lures the children into the bar area with the promise of caramels. The children crowd inside, swooping on the huge tray of brightly coloured sweets and for some minutes the singing stops. Gradually, parents shoo them outside and we continue up the hill to Canantuna, the restaurant owned by Maria, Catalina's aunt. She steps briskly into the street, wiping her hands on her apron, and dishes out more goodies. Catalina's girls and Ollie pile their spoils up on their bats, arguing with one another about who has the largest stash. At the top of the hill we stop to catch our breath. Before us, the tiny village rises up in a rocky mound, its honey stone-terraced dwellings pale under the moon. Unseen in the darkness is the labyrinth of thin, meandering alley ways and twisting paths that run like veins through the heart of the village and up high into the hills. As we turn to make our descent, the delicious aroma of grilled peppers fills the air as the fluttering candles begin singeing their vegetable cages. My stomach rumbles and Catalina observes her watch by the light of her pepper.

'Our dinner's already in the oven. When we get home, you can catch up with Ramon about your chickens. I told him about the genet.'

George the genet, as I have christened him, has spent the last few nights stealthily circling our corral and once nearly managed to burrow under the netting. By sheer luck, Salvador, our cockerel, made such a din that Alan woke up and rushed down into the field in the nick of time.

'He looks so sweet,' I say to Catalina.

'You won't think so when he finishes off all your hens.'

The procession reaches the square and, bidding goodnight to the assembled throng, we head off to Catalina's house for roast chicken.

It is past midnight as we wearily turn up our track towards the house. Suddenly, in the glare of the car's headlights I see the frozen form of a large rat. It is standing upright, its eyes wide, its whiskers translucent in the glare. Alan sees it too late and careers towards it.

'Don't hurt it!' I hear myself yell.

There's a tiny thud, almost indiscernible as the car hits its mark. I round on him in fury.

'Why did you kill it?'

He is irritable. 'For heaven's sake! I couldn't brake in time.'

'But I can tell you don't really care and now it's gone.'

'Sorry, had you wanted me to invite it in for a nightcap?'

'It wasn't doing us any harm. Just think of its family.'

Alan gives a brittle laugh. 'Its family? What is wrong with you? It's vermin and that's that.'

I hold my tongue, unnerved to feel tears pricking my eyes. I feel like an accomplice to a murder. We turn into the courtyard. Splayed out on the back seat, breathing deeply, Ollie continues to slumber. His thin, tanned arms and legs are flung across the seat and on his face there's the trace of a wry smile.

'Let me get this straight,' says Ed dramatically.

I potter out into the garden with the cordless phone to my ear. He is wheezing into the receiver.

'You're thinking of opening a cattery?'

'You're being serious? I mean, this isn't one of your sadistic little jokes?'

I stifle a snort of impatience. 'I'm totally serious. Where does sadism come into it?'

He gives a heavy sigh. 'The whole idea is preposterous. Have you forgotten about my cat allergy?'

'I wasn't planning on inviting you to the opening.'

'Well, this is complete madness and this training course in Dorset sounds positively dreadful.'

Orlando and Minky watch me from under the olive tree. As usual they lie together in a heap, their paws and tails intermingled.

'What do you think, boys?'

Ed is confused. 'Hello? Who are you talking to?'

'Our new cats. They both say it's a fabulous idea, as long as they don't have to mix with the inmates.'

'You're exasperating. Trust me, next month the reality will set in when you go on this course.'

'Let's wait and see, Ed. Anyway, why are you coughing so much?'

'It's some terrible summer flu, possibly avian. I'm off work today. So how is the corral?'

'We have a wicked genet called George casing the joint, but other than that the hens seem perky. We're still waiting for them to lay an egg though.'

'This whole livestock obsession is absurd, especially with an avian epidemic gathering momentum.' He gives a distraught cough. 'And how is your leg?'

The leg issue is becoming rather concerning. Having reached a stage of near agony a month ago, I decided to pop by to see Joan Reynes, our local physiotherapist, who told me that to be fit enough to run in the New York marathon I would need to follow his advice to the letter. This meant a period of several weeks' rest, followed by a programme of sports massages and cold compresses.

'It's on the mend. Just another week or so and I can start training again.'

He is mumbling like a disgruntled wizard.

'Why do you have to put so much pressure on yourself? Besides, running is terribly bad for the heart.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

I try to manoeuvre the conversation. 'By the way, how's Charlene?'

'She's a breath of fresh air. I've agreed to visit her in November.'

'What about the plane journey?'

'Valium cures most ills.'

There's a tooting at the front gate. 'Ed, I have to go. Email me.'

I amble into the kitchen, dump the phone back on its cradle, and push the gate entry button. It's Alan. Moments later he plods into the kitchen.

'Sorry, I forgot the gate key. Well, those Swedish girls were hard work.'

'All of them were dark-haired and plump and told me the flat wasn't what they'd expected. Then, when I tried the tap, the accursed water wasn't working.'

'I've had to call Pere. He's over there now.'

Pere the plumber, one of the studs of the valley, should cheer the Swedes up.

'What on earth do you think Pep was playing at?' he grumbles.

'To be fair, it's not necessarily his fault. Maybe there's a problem in the whole block. Can't you call him?'

'He's in Switzerland. I'm not spending a fortune on my mobile.'

He dumps some fertiliser on the table. 'By the way, my worms have been a bit sluggish of late. I hope the heat's not getting to them.'

We wander outside and examine the wormery. Alan lifts the lid and pokes about with a stick under the vegetable peelings. There's a slight squirming in the debris, but to our dismay we see many inert bodies.

'It's worse than I thought,' says the Scotsman glumly.

'Can't you call the manufacturer?'

'I'll have to.' He holds a dead worm in his hand. 'Poor old chap.'

He fiddles around with the compost drawer at the bottom of the wormery.

'Maybe Miquel was right,' I say.

'Mixing Mallorcan and British worms.'

As soon as I say it, his face clouds over.

'Cheer up. Let's go and see Ollie. He's with his beloved hens.'

We walk down into the field, the sun burning our backs. I stop for a moment, distracted by the abundance of tomato and aubergine plants on Alan's vegetable patch. He fusses around the leaves and pulls up some weeds.

'This heat is a killer. I'm losing so many tomato vines. They need constant watering.'

He shakes his head sadly. 'You can't. The cistern's almost empty and the water channel has completely dried up.'

'Well, I suppose we'll just have to make do.'

Ollie is inside the corral, talking with Minny and Della, his favourite hens, while Salvador struts about with a disdainful expression, pecking at grain and occasionally nipping at the ankles of his harem. Sitting under the shade of a lemon tree, Daisy and Poppy, our youngest pullets, seem to be in deep, animated discussion.

'Did you open the front gate?' asks Ollie. 'Llamp's just been in the field. He was trying to get into the corral.'

Alan frowns. 'He must have sneaked in when I drove through. I'll have to tell Rafael to keep him in his run. What else can go wrong today?'

A streak of fur suddenly darts across the courtyard, a large bronzed object hanging limply from its mouth. It's Llamp heading for the closing gate with what looks like… He squeezes through just before it shuts.

'What on earth did he have in his mouth?' Ollie asks.

I think nostalgically of the fragrant roast chicken I took from the oven minutes earlier and left to cool on a plate by the kitchen table.

'There's no easy way to tell you this, boys. That little devil has just run off with our lunch.'

I awaken from a nightmare bathed in sweat and sit bolt upright in bed. The frogs are croaking hysterically from the pond, and the cicadas are hissing in the trees, but there's a rather more unsettling sound coming from the field. I leap from the bed and peer out of the window. The garden is bathed in muddy darkness, the milky pool water reflecting weird and sinister shadows under the light of the moon. I hold my breath and listen. Silence. Then I hear it again, a loud fearful clucking and fanning of feathers. I rush from the room barefooted down the staircase and out of the back door, grabbing a torch on the way. My heart is beating fast as I descend the cool stone steps to the orchard and head for the corral. The ground is strewn with clumps of brittle, sharp weeds and I wince with pain as tiny, sharp stones cut into my bare feet. Our pullets are frantically careering about in the yard, clucking and screeching in panic. Something has made them flee the hen house. Terrified, I shine my torch in the midst of the flapping throng and enter the corral. An insistent rustling in the long grass by the wooden hut catches my attention and I stumble towards it with trembling hand and torch outstretched. In my haste I trip over a plastic feeding bowl and nearly keel over, dropping the torch to the ground. It shines out eerily from a patch of long yellowing grass, so with trembling hand I pick it up and head for the hut, directing the beam of light on to the grass. I give a start. A lean, grey twitching face looks defiantly up at me, and then with a slither of its long tail, plunges into the darkness. Lying in a pool of blood is the lifeless form of a pullet. I sink to my knees, the torch at my side and lift her up. By the markings I can see that it is Daisy. The feathers are still warm, the eyes open, but the soft throat has been savagely torn apart. I stroke her beak, and wipe away tears as her friend Poppy tentatively bobs forward, seemingly confused at the spectacle before her. Around me, curious hens ruffle their wings and twitter.

Lights suddenly illuminate the dark walls, and Alan's familiar form comes jogging down into the field.

'What's happened?' he pants as he enters the corral.

Seeing the dead bird in my arms, he crouches down beside me and puts an arm around my shoulder.

'Did you see what killed her?'

He shakes his head and sighs. 'Come on. Let's have a cup of tea. There's nothing we can do for her now.'

Having secured the hens, we shut the wooden gate behind us and make our way to the kitchen. Alan looks down at my bare feet.

'You went in there without shoes on?'

He squeezes my arm. 'Well, all I can say is thank goodness the rat didn't get you too.'

Sabine Ricard sits at the oak table sipping her coffee and staring critically around the kitchen and entrada. Her long russet hair is pushed behind her ears and a pair of red rectangular Prada glasses rest on her nose.

'I cannot believe that you still haven't finished this house,' she exclaims in rich Gallic tones.

Alan and I exchange glances.

'I mean, you still have hardly any furniture. Where do you sit at night?'

She turns to me. 'No, don't joke. I mean when Michel and I bought our villa in Santa Ponsa, we made it perfect within a year.'

'Yes, but our finca wasn't even habitable,' says Alan heatedly.

'Look, I know Sóller is nice, but it's too rural. You really should live in a more civilised zone like us.'

'All depends how you interpret civilised,' I reply.

'At least we don't have killer rats by our pool,' she huffs. 'You could have been savaged. My grandmother in Brittany said that cornered rats can go for the throat.'

'Well, it didn't this time,' I sigh, thinking gloomily of the lifeless Daisy.

'Well, each to their own, I suppose. I'd rather live in a gated estate where we have proper security.'

'I don't think a few security guards would worry the Mallorcan rat population.' Alan scoffs.

'I can assure you that our estate is rat free,' Sabine bristles.

Alan stifles a snort.

She gets up and stretches her back. 'The views are nice here, but you haven't even started the outhouses. When will they be finished?'

'When we win the loteria,' I say.

She's not listening. 'What you need is a good architect and interior designer. I can recommend somebody. He's French of course.'

'Actually, what we need are funds,' says Alan.

I wonder why we put up with such abuse from Sabine, but the truth is that she's a lonely woman whose philandering husband, Michel, spends most of the week in Paris supposedly on business while she cares for their precocious daughter, Veronique, back home. This ballet-loving child is one of Ollie's class mates and his sworn enemy. Sadly, none of the children seem to like Veronique and parents run a mile when they see Sabine coming. I suppose that's why she persists in phoning us and popping by, even though we live miles away from her sanitised patch of the island. Given that she doesn't work or appear to have friends, I imagine she's bored witless and finds us a source of bucolic entertainment. If we were more courageous, we'd have dropped her like a hot stone long ago, but I pity her and so absurdly we keep up the charade.

'So, can I have your chocolate monster muffin recipe? Veronique is desperate for it.' Sabine views me intently.

I give a guffaw. 'Don't be silly!'

'No really, Veronique told me that Ollie sold all his cakes at the school charity sale while her strawberry cheesecake was left untouched.'

'That's because most kids prefer chocolate.'

She eagerly gets out a pen and minuscule notepad from her handbag.

'Sabine, I'm afraid my recipe is just a hotchpotch. I make it up as I go along.'

She pouts at me. 'You don't want to share it?'

'I simply can't trust that it'll work.'

'No problem,' she says in a wounded voice hurling the pen and pad back into her bag. 'Veronique will be upset of course, but that's life. It is full of disappointments.'

I refuse to be drawn by her amateur dramatics and begin clearing away the coffee cups. She stands in the kitchen doorway and stares across at the mountain range facing her.

'I would hate to live here,' she says with passion. 'Every day would feel like waking up to loneliness. All you can hear are animals and birds. It would feel as though I was the last person left in the world.'

'Is that so bad?' asks Alan.

'Yes, it's a horrible thought.'

She scoops up her car keys from the table and scans her watch.

'I'm afraid I must leave you. I have to collect Veronique from ballet. It was nice to pop by.'

She clops out to the courtyard in her elegant mules and jumps into the silver Mercedes. We wave her off at the gate. Her visits always leave me feeling drained.

'I think hell really will freeze over before we ever make it to Sabine in sanitised Surrey-on-Sea,' says Alan.

Ollie appears in the courtyard. 'You finally got rid of her.'

'Don't be mean. She's a sad woman.'

He pulls a face at me. 'Anyway, something great has happened.'

'What?' we say in unison.

'The hens have finally laid some eggs.'

I am overcome with joy. 'But they had such a terrible shock.'

'At last, a ray of light,' the Scotsman sighs.

'And something else.' He cups his mouth and looks down, giggling naughtily.

'What?' I say tremulously.

'I found Sabine's handbag on the front seat and hid an egg inside it. She'll get a shock all right.'

'Oh, Ollie. How could you?' I gasp.

'That was very naughty indeed,' scolds Alan in rather contrived tones. 'I'm shocked that you'd do such a terrible thing.'

Ollie feigns contrition as his father strides back into the house, his shoulders heaving up and down with laughter.

It's a hot and sticky evening in August. The plaça is teeming with demons and masked ghouls in black capes while up on a wide stage in front of the town hall a home-grown rock group bashes out a wild rhythm amidst rising pink and green smoke. This is the Nit de Foc, otherwise known as the Night of Fire, when hundreds of locals voluntarily hop and jump around the square as devils shower them with burning sparks and throw fire crackers at their feet. At midnight there is a spectacular firework display and everyone goes home nursing scorched legs and toes. Handily, the local firemen, known as bombers, turn up and hose down anyone who gets too singed during the proceedings. For the less valiant, the occasion offers a wonderful opportunity to meet up with friends and enjoy a sadistic sideshow completely free of charge. A large group of us are sitting outside Cafè Paris , drinking wine and discussing everything from politics to catteries. Llorenç the woodman, comes over to Alan and commiserates over his worms.

'Maybe you just need to put the wormery in a shady spot with lots of ventilation.'

'Well, a nursery in Santa Maria has offered me a stock of local worms so I'm going to start again,' Alan replies.

'To be honest, I think the English worms couldn't cope with the sun,' says Paco. 'Get some good macho Mallorcans and it'll be fine.'

Albert from HiBit gives a wry smile. 'How about some laid-back American worms? If they're from California, the heat won't get to them.'

Paco laughs aloud and nudges him. 'Miami worms might be even better because they'll probably speak some Español.'

Albert throws Alan a sympathetic look. 'Well, I think Paco's right. Get yourself some trusty Mallorcan worms.'

'I'll do that,' nods the Scotsman stoically.

Paco strains his head to see what's going on in the plaça, finally standing up to get a better look. 'What's wrong with my daughter? She does this crazy thing every year.'

Aside from bull running up in Fornalutx annually, Catalina also likes to hop around the firecrackers at the Nit de Foc.

'She's just a daredevil,' I laugh, straining to see her in the dark crowd.

'Well, it's her life,' he shrugs. 'Anyway, what have you done about your hens?'

'Alan's secured the run. We think the gate might not have been closed properly.'

'These things happen. The important thing is to learn from it,' he taps his cigarette on the ashtray. His wife leans across and touches my hand.

'Catalina's told us about your cattery idea, but where would you put it?'

This is a moot point. If we could afford to buy the land next to our orchard it really would make an ideal spot.

'Ideally, I'd put it in the orchard.'

'Are you sure? Think of the corral, and what about planning permission?'

She's right. There are a lot of issues to think about aside from Alan's bad humour and the cost. After all, is a cattery what I really want or am I just clinging to a possible escape route from London PR drudgery? To complicate matters I'm having fun planning the Crown jewels event and am not even finding the demands of Dannie too onerous. Maybe the heat's getting to me, but coordinating PR for George's absurd dog fashion show in the Big Apple has been, as the New Yorkers would say, a real blast.