A Lizard In My Luggage (42 page)

  So, at six o'clock in the evening, Alan, Ollie and I, make our way to the outskirts of our local town where we confidently expect to find the church in which Cristian is to receive his First Holy Communion. Knowing how Mallorcans despise punctuality, we have set off rather late, never thinking that the service will actually start on time. Besides, Rafael has given us a scruffy hand drawn map which looks straightforward enough. We follow his instructions as best we can but are confused by the appearance of a steep hill looming up to our left, and a junction just beyond which doesn't appear to be indicated on the map. We cross over it and a see an old stone church rising up before us along the road.

  'I'm not sure about this,' I sigh, 'Rafael's map has a squiggle going to the left so maybe we should have gone up that hill?'

  'Look this has to be the one,' says Alan. 'It's called the Church of the Immaculate Conception and that's the name given on the invitation and the map.'

  We arrive to find the car park abandoned and the church devoid of life. A mantilla clad elderly senyora who is praying in the nearby graveyard, gets to her feet and comes to our aid.

  '
Mira!
Look! You want the Church of the Immaculate Conception,' she instructs, holding the invitation card to the sunlight. 'You've missed the turning. You must go back and take the one up the hill. It's in a small lane on the left at the top. You can't miss it.'

  'But this church has exactly the same name,' I say with exasperation.

  'Yes,' she says, shrugging her shoulders philosophically. On that note, I take my leave and trail after Alan to the car. We turn round and head back, take the hill turning and carry on up, as instructed. Although there is a strong wind, the sun continues to smoulder in the sky like an enormous red coal, and the lining of my dress begins to weld itself stickily to my skin. I shift around irritably in the passenger seat wishing I'd chosen to wear a kaftan instead. Rather ominously en route up the winding road, we count at least three more churches. It could be my imagination but as we pass one, I could almost swear it too has the name, Church of the Immaculate Conception.

  We reach the top of the hill, and, to our relief, see a road leading off to the left where an old stone church sits plum in the middle of a pretty cobbled courtyard. Better still it has the name, Church of the Immaculate Conception. As we drive slowly past its frontage, a group of young girls in white veils and fluttering white skirts frothed with lace, walk with deliberation across the courtyard towards the entrance, an old, arched wooden door. As the soft breeze catches at their veils and delicate white gowns, the petticoat layers billow up around them, so that for a second, they resemble celestial beings or exquisite swans in flight. We park the car on a cobbled, tree lined street across from the church and step into the cool, intimate interior, scanning the pews in the hope of glimpsing Rafael and his family but they are nowhere to be seen. There are small clusters of parents in modest but smart attire, talking loudly and in a relaxed manner to one another as if they were sitting in a local café, while their offspring giggle and run about the pews waiting for the priest to arrive. First Holy Communion is an occasion much prized by Mallorcan families. It offers them the opportunity to parade their children in their finery, to dress up themselves and enjoy family and neighbourly gossip over a celebratory dinner after the service.

  'This must be the wrong church,' I whisper crossly.

  'Well, this is where the old woman told us to go and it has the right name,' mutters Alan.

  'Can we go to a restaurant instead?' Ollie chips in.

  We get up and quietly take our leave. A few heads acknowledge our departure but no one looks remotely interested in us. We get back to the car and examine the invitation.

  'The problem is that these churches all seem to have the same name,' I say impatiently. 'We might as well be looking for Larry the Lamb in a sheep cloning lab.'

  We set off back down the quiet hill we have just driven up and suddenly see Rafael emerging from a small lane to our right with his mother, Cristian and what appears to be some elderly relatives. We stop the car at its junction and in great embarrassment call out to them from the window. Rafael runs over to the car, full of smiles as I get out to greet him.

  'We couldn't find the church,' I say pointedly. 'Have we missed the service?'

  He howls with laughter. 'You English! The church is here on this lane like I put on the map. The service is over now so let's go celebrate in the Puerto.
Vamos!
'

  I peer up the lane he has indicated and to my annoyance see that only a few yards on the right is an elegant stone building with a small steeple and spire. Rafael sees my disappointment.

  'Don't worry,' he says. 'Only family come to church. Is very boring so everyone else goes straight to restaurant.'

  Just in case we get lost again, we agree to stay where we are until he fetches his car so that we can go in convoy to the restaurant in the port. While we wait, I stroll down the lane to the church. To my astonishment the board at its entrance announces its Parish name as Santa Agnes, not the Immaculate Conception. When Rafael returns I challenge him about its name.

  'It's true,' he says nonchalantly, 'The church is called Santa Agnes but many years ago it was known as the Immaculate Conception. Some of us still call it that.'

  'Well no wonder we couldn't find it,' I say crisply. 'You put the wrong church name on the invitation and map. We've spent the last forty minutes at all the other Immaculate Conceptions around here.'

  'I don't believe it!' he says in mock surprise, reaching out and clasping my shoulder, 'and to think in the Bible it says there has only ever been one.'

The windows of my office are flung wide open and, at the side of my desk, an old metal fan whirs monotonously, unsettling papers and teasing my hair. A lizard scurries up the white wall in front of me as I tap away on the keys of my computer, then stops dead. I glance up at its vertical frame and marvel at how it remains upright. The powerful rays of the sun brush my shoulders and then, like burning wax, slide insidiously downwards to my arms and fingers so that I flinch with the pain. I get up and walk around the room. The lizard remains suspended, its glassy eyes frozen wide, its little squat legs and webbed feet pushed out at right angles. I wonder what it's waiting for, why it hasn't scampered to a safe darkened crevice in the wall. I pour myself a glass of tepid water, cool just moments ago, and stare out over the mountains. The high and distant peaks of the Tramuntana range rise sharply into the sky, their rocky tips emblazoned with sunshine. Down in the valley, our small town is suffused with light, and the curved terracotta roof tiles of the houses glint in the sun like the scales of a ruby basilisk.

  I flinch when the telephone rings and drawing back from the window, pick up the receiver. It's Ed.

  'I'm at the airport but I don't think I can get on the plane,' he says breathily.

  'Calm down, Ed. You'll be fine.' My worst fears have come true. 'It's only a two hour flight. Have a drink and try to relax.'

  'I've got palpitations. I just don't think I can do this.'

  Now what do I do? I study my watch. He's got another hour before the plane takes off from Gatwick. 'Where's Julia? I thought she was going to the airport with you?'

  'She did, but she had to go. She's on duty at the hospital.'

  'Why not call her for advice. After all she is a nurse?'

  He flinches. 'She'll be cross with me.'

  'Good. Call her.'

  There's the sound of a hollow voice speaking over a tannoy.

  'They're calling my flight!' he yelps.

  'Call her now. Ed, and make your way to the plane.'

  'OK. I hope I'll see you soon.'

  The line goes dead. Whether Ed will ever appear remains to be seen.

  I'm still reeling in shock as I pull out from the arrivals car park at Palma airport. Ed is sitting next to me in the car, suitcase safely stowed away in the boot. I never thought this day would come.

  'It's all thanks to Julia,' he enthuses. 'When I called her she gave me hell and told me to get straight on the plane.'

  'I'm glad you listen to someone.'

  'Anyway, there was a nice air hostess who looked after me the whole flight. She even gave me a paper bag to breathe into.'

  I can just picture the scene. The traffic is heavy so I'm relieved when we hit the fast Cintura road and are heading for the hills.

  'It's jolly hot,' says Ed, pulling at his threadbare shirt collar. 'I might need a nap when we arrive.'

  'Don't be such a geriatric. This is mild compared to the heat in August.'

  As we leave the busy roads and skim past orchards of oranges and olives, the golden mountains shimmering in the sun, Ed sits spellbound. 'Wow, this is so beautiful! I still had this image of Mallorca being full of pubs and British yobs.'

  'That's the trouble with stereotyping,' I sniff.

  'I can see why you don't miss London. Anyway, what's happening with George?'

  Ed and I have spent many a clandestine phone call discussing the matter in the last few months.

  'I've really got to talk to him. I've been using delaying tactics.'

  Ed gives a diplomatic cough. 'So, why are you still wavering?'

  'He's offering a serious financial package.'

  'But is money the issue or is it really something else?' he says pointedly.

  I turn off the main road and into our town centre, nearly home now. Perspiration is clinging to my skin, as I run my hand over my face. He's right. This isn't about money at all, but about being lured by flattery and misplaced ambition towards a spiritual blind alley which could prove my nemesis. Money is always just a red herring. Even I know that.

  I turn up our rocky track. Ed looks down at the steep orchards to his right with a pained expression. 'Just remember,' he manages to say as he claws at the sides of his seat. 'Always follow your instincts, old thing.'

  Inko has arched her back and is dabbing at the coiled greeny-brown intruder in our
entrada
with a curious paw. Ed stands some feet away watching in abject terror.

  'It's only a
garriga
, Ed,' says Catalina calmly. 'A field snake. The marble is nice and warm for him. I take him up to the forest and let him out.'

  I can't say I'm good with snakes either but I do as I'm instructed by Catalina. In the summer snakes often slither through the French doors into the hallway. 'Get me a broom, newspaper and a waste paper basket.'

  I return dutifully with her homespun snake removal kit. 'OK. Now I push him in bin.'

  Quickly she shovels the snake into the bin with the broom, and then claps the newspaper on top. 'Good! Now I take him up the road in my car.'

  Ed is a quivering heap. 'You're not seriously going to drive with a live snake sitting next to you?'

  She regards him with wry humour. 'Of course, unless he asks to drive.'

  With the snake in its basket, she sets off. 'I'll drop it off in the forest on the way up to the village.'

  Ed stands on the porch shaking his head. 'She's utterly bonkers!'

  'It helps if you live here.'

  'You didn't tell me you were surrounded by dangerous creatures.'

  Alan saunters into the courtyard. 'A bit of rural life for you, Ed.'

  'Great,' he replies faintly, mopping his brow. 'Can we go into town for that coffee now?'

  Teresa is full of smiles as I bustle about her stall. She's fascinated by Ed.

  'He's very white,' she remarks critically. 'And he could lose some weight.'

  'Thanks, Teresa. I'll tell him.'

  Ed listens uncomprehendingly. 'What did she say?'

  'Oh, just how nice you seem.'

  He gives Teresa an appreciative nod.

  She tuts. 'And why is he wearing a jumper? No wonder he's sweating.' She gesticulates to him to remove the offending item and he finally twigs. 'Ah, yes, I am a bit hot but in London the weather can suddenly turn.' He pulls off his jumper and places it over his arm.

  'That's much better,' she says.

  I hand her over some notes and then bend down to pick up my baskets. She grabs one and thrusts it towards Ed but he has already picked up his MEK. Teresa frowns. 'What's he carrying in that big bag.'

  He guesses what she's saying. 'Tell her it's for any medical emergencies.'

  I translate and watch as she roars with laughter. She's obviously decided that he's a hopeless case. We leave the market and head for Café Paris where Pep is joining us for a coffee. He is puffing at a
puro
and reading the local paper.