A Lizard In My Luggage (33 page)

The last of the snow has cleared from the upper reaches of the Tramuntana Mountains and down in the valley a froth of delicate white almond blossom engulfs the orchards, blanching trees and exuding a fragrance bewitching enough to lure a siren. At the slightest breeze, flurries of petals, like diaphanous butterflies, fall to the ground in uneven clusters, as light and fluffy as meringues and as soft as down. Treading air, high in the sky, a lukewarm sun breathes new life into plants and trees, penetrating the smallest green shoot and the faintest of buds.

  Leaning on a fork down in the field, Alan looks about him serenely while contemplating how best to work loose the soil that sits beneath his feet in a hard and impenetrable mass. It is the tree-planting season and he is eager to wrestle some saplings into the ground. Slumped against the steep stone wall which separates the field from the courtyard are an assortment of forlorn young fruit trees waiting like evacuees to be given new lodgings. Alan leaves his fork skewered in to the earth and as if inextricably linked, is soon at their side, propping them up and tenderly covering their exposed and skeletal frames with an old piece of hessian. Satisfied with his efforts, he marches up the gravel path towards the house, the soles of his green rubber boots squeaking and squirming in the tiny pebbles and fragments of stone. At the back door, Catalina is remonstrating with Inko about her lack of work ethic.

  'You're so lazy! I can't believe it!'

  Alan, a Labrador man at heart, gives the sprawling, rotund cat a sideways glance and shakes his head despairingly.

  'Just because she's soon to be a mother is no reason to over-indulge her, but of course', he lowers his voice, 'the senyora always knows best.'

  Catalina smiles and nods conspiratorially. I watch them from the upstairs window which has been flung open by Catalina in her obsession for fresh air, regardless of the temperature. I'm tempted to startle them with a 'Ha ha, caught you!' but instead tip toe from the pane, leaving them to bask in their mutual disapproval of my habitual spoiling of the cat.

  Fifteen minutes later I set off along the track for a run. The London Marathon is less than ten weeks away and my training has been a tad erratic after the Christmas festivities. Training aside, I have also assiduously been collecting sponsorship pledges from family, friends, clients and readers of my column in the
Majorca Daily
Bulletin
to the extent that just mentioning the word marathon in a phone call has a contact pleading that a cheque's already in the post before I can badger further. As I reach Franco's run, I hear loud music belting out from the doorway of Rafael's house and then his own tuneless voice trying to sing in tandem. Despite the noise, his radar is acute and he is at the front porch in a flash and clapping his hands loudly. I watch him from the fence of the dog's run where I have slipped one hand between the bars to fondle Franco's ears.

  'So here comes the champ, yes? Only few weeks now and then whoosh!'

  'Ten weeks, actually,' I say patiently.

  'Yes, but time flies. Now you must train hard or you will be in big trouble.' He screeches with laughter and slams a hand on my back.

  'I joke, my friend! Come on, you are good runner.'

  I often wonder what Rafael did for laughs before I moved in. I wave goodbye, set my stopwatch and sprint up the path. At the end of the track, I turn on to the narrow tarmac road whose surface is milky with frost like a coated tongue. Margalida Sampol is not in evidence so I assume she's wrapped up warmly indoors. Few people are about and I am aware of the sound of my laboured breathing, as I curl upwards towards the main road to the port. A van passes and toots its horn in time for me to see Catalina's brother, Stefan, give a wave from behind the glass. It is rare in our valley to go more than a few yards before meeting someone you know. In London, I would find this hugely intrusive and claustrophobic but here it seems reassuring. I turn left at the top of the hill and, with relief, run fast down a wide stretch of road. There isn't a car on the road and the air carries the heady fragrance of almond blossom. Zipping along, I feel as light as the breeze, an invincible runner in a one-woman race, victory within my grasp.

Inko is lying in her basket by the kitchen door as I squeeze lemon juice into the blender. I am making hummus, one of my weekly rituals. To think I used to spend a fortune buying small pots of the stuff from London supermarkets. I must have been mad or too stressed to care. Having popped in to see the vet earlier, I know that my corpulent cat is going to give birth at any time and I am as twitchy as an expectant father. Catalina has left for the day but has promised to pop down to the house to help out if I'm having an emergency of a feline kind. She knows I haven't got a clue when it comes to birthing matters with no idea what to expect, what to do and how to cope with the whole delivery experience. Worse still, Alan is collecting Ollie from school in Palma so my poor feline companion must put her entire faith in my hands. I finish preparing the hummus, take a spoonful, add a little more sesame oil and then put the bowl in the fridge. I get up and soothe the cat, pull her blanket around her haunches and stroke her head. Outside, the mountains are doused in golden sunlight so that they glitter and sparkle like iron pyrites and on the back patio, blackbirds pick their way through the tall grasses in search of worms and grubs. At the far end of the garden, a lean brown rat peeps out of a rock in the craggy wall then scurries off furtively towards the courtyard and out on to the track. It peers back momentarily, sniffing the air and then disappears from view. In a brief moment of self-analysis, I am intrigued by my impassive reaction to this most abhorrent of small mammals living in my own backyard. I shake myself out of my reverie and turn from the open kitchen door to observe Inko. She fidgets and suddenly emits a low anguished growl before hunching up into a ball. To my horror, something more at home on a butcher's blood soaked table plops out of her onto the newspaper covering the floor. I am frozen to the spot. Is it a kitten? No. Then what the hell is it? I inspect it closely. This thing is no cuddly cub. It's earthy red and glistens and to my untrained eye looks like a live organ. Has she expelled her liver? How could she? Trying not to lose my head I grapple with the phone and ring the vet. There's no reply. In desperation I call Alan on his mobile. He is standing in the school playground, his voice drowned by the ecstatic screams of children flooding out of classrooms.

  'This is an emergency!' I shout.

  'What?' he yells above the din.

  'The cat's dropped a thing that looks like a liver. What shall I do?'

  'A liver? Don't be silly, it must be the placenta.'

  'Is that normal?' I bark.

  'How should I know? Ring the vet.'

  'He's not there,' I say tetchily, trying to conceal the bubble of emotion welling up in me.

  'Look, calm down. I'll take her to the vet as soon as I get back. Keep her warm and make yourself a cup of tea.'

  I decide to ring Rachel in London, the voice of calm. With meticulous care I describe the strange object lying on the newspaper.

  'Urgh!' she cries. 'That doesn't sound too good. I think she's dropped the placenta.'

  'You were brought up in the country, Rachel. What do I do now?'

  'Pray?'

  'Oh very helpful!'

  She gives a snort. 'Sorry, I'm just trying to keep your spirits up. You must get her to a vet.'

  I groan. 'Impossible until Alan's home. I've got no car and the vet's not answering his mobile.'

  She sighs. 'There's nothing for it but a cup of tea, soothing music and patience. Keep me posted.'

  I put the phone down and sit on the floor next to the cat, uncertain as to what to do next. Inko's half opened eyes are trained on me as she nestles closer, her head now resting weakly on my right leg. I prop myself up against the side of the fridge, maddened by the cheerful chirruping of a small bird, the sound wafting in through the open window. While life carries on with cold clarity beyond the pane, I remain marooned on my own island of impotence and despondency, bewildered by the vagaries of merciless nature that can transform an anticipated event of great joy into one of total despair. I realise that my successful handling of office and client crises over the years has been nothing more than a pyrrhic victory, leaving me unequipped to deal with the raw and brutal business of real life.

  Someone is calling from the front porch. I'm in no mood for social visits and wearily get up from the floor to find old Margalida hobbling into the
entrada
which leads to the kitchen. In our town, no one locks their front doors so it's open house all day long.

  'There you are,' she says. 'My daughter picked me a huge amount of flowers so I thought I'd bring some up to you.'

  I am incredibly moved to think that Margalida, with her terrible eyesight, has risked walking alone all the way up the rocky track to our
finca
. I give her a hug.

  'What's wrong with your cat?' she asks, holding my arm as we walk into the kitchen. I try not to show that both the cat and I are having 'kittens'.

  'Oh she's about to give birth but something's just come out of her…'

  Margalida bends down and peers at the item on the newspaper.

  'That's her placenta. I'm sorry but I don't think her kittens will live. She's too young a cat to give birth.'

  'How do you know?' I'm horrified.

  She shrugs and sits on a chair, mopping her brow as I bring her a glass of water. 'I've had many cats in my time and the young ones rarely give birth successfully. We have to accept God's will and the law of nature.'

  I'm now even more dispirited. 'But she'll be OK?'

  She pats my hand. '
Segur
. I'm sure she'll live to have more kittens.'

  With her hand clasping her stick, she rises and tells me she must return to the house. I accompany her back down the track in sombre mood. She turns round when she reaches her front door. 'Remember, tomorrow is another day.'

  Forty exasperating minutes later, I hear a car tear up the drive. Thank God. Alan leaps out, shoos Ollie into the house, and gently gathers up the cat in its wicker basket and heads for the vet. Ollie sits with me in the kitchen, his little face pinched with concern for his beloved cat. My eyes ache as I try to hold back tears. What's wrong with me? It's a cat. Just a cat. An hour later the phone rings like a death knell. It's Alan. His voice is heavy.

  'I'm sorry. Inko's lost her twins. They were just too big for her. The vet said there was nothing we could have done. He's operating on her now and is hopeful she's going to make it. I'll wait here.'

  'What colour were they?' I force myself to ask. I notice my voice has taken on huskiness.

  He pauses and sighs deeply. 'One black, one white'.

  Numbed I put the phone down and hug Ollie. All the months of cheerful expectation and excitement preparing for the imminent arrival, have come to nought. Animals have become such an essential part of our lives now that I don't know how we ever existed without them in London. I walk stiffly down the stairs, Ollie trailing sorrowfully behind me, and on the bottom step sit down and weep. Ollie puts his head in my lap and there we remain, silently, our hands intertwined until Alan and a bandaged and disorientated Inko return home.

  Inko has spent three nights lying in her basket in my darkened office making plaintive little murmurs and refusing to eat or drink. Her stomach is a swollen mass of stitches encrusted with dried blood, and her right leg is swaddled in bandages from the anaesthetic injections. Since the operation, I have tiptoed around her, stroking her ears and uttering what I hope have been soothing words. Alan tuts disapprovingly at me but when I'm out of the room kneels down and rubs her ears affectionately. But today she sits up stiffly in her basket, yawns and begins licking her paws. In a state of joy I crawl under my desk to where her basket is and touch her head. She gives me a withering look and turns her back. I pull gently at the bandages on her leg and like a grand dame humouring an impertinent maid, she lies back and allows me to attend to her. When I have removed them, she gives me a warning blink, sups on some water from her bowl and then crosses her paws and sleeps.