DONKEYS ON MY DOORSTEP
Copyright Anna Nicholas 2010
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For the irrepressible cockney queen, Dooda Joyce
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This latest tome has taken me on a fascinating historical and literary journey in Mallorca and I am indebted once again to friends and locals who have pointed me in the right direction along the way. In no particular order I would like to thank my friends M. J. Ripoll for his fascinating insights into the Spanish Civil War, Ignacio Recalde for his excellent book, LosSubmarinos de Sller, and for loaning me so many historical tomes, William and Elena Graves for sharing their pearls about writer Robert Graves and Mallorcan history and culture, and Sari Andreu (aka Catalina) for her joie de vivre. I am hugely grateful for the kind support of Pere and Margarita Serra, Ignacio Vasallo of Turespaa, Roger Katz of Hatchards, Jason Moore, editor of the Majorca Daily Bulletin, Lluc Garcia, editor of the Sller newspaper and Biel Aguareles, editor of the Veude Sller. Once again I would like to give a special mention to Jennifer Barclay, the commissioning editor of Summersdale Publishers, for her continuing support, and to the company's editorial and publicity teams.
My inestimable thanks go to Alan and Ollie for their unwavering patience and enthusiasm, and to my sister, Cecilia, and nephew, Alexander. Finally, I would like to thank the Sller community for its warm friendship and my readers for having so loyally supported my work.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
As a freelance journalist, Anna Nicholas has contributed to titles such as The Telegraph, Financial Times, The Independent, Tatler, the Daily Express and the Evening Standard. She contributes a thrice-weekly Majorcan Pearls blog to Telegraph Expat, a monthly column to Spain magazine and a weekly column to the Majorca Daily Bulletin. She is a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society and has been an international adjudicator for The Guinness Book of Records. Together with explorer Colonel John Blashford-Snell she has also organised an expedition to carry a grand piano to the remote Wai Wai tribe in South America, which was the subject of a BBC TV documentary. Her author website is at www.anna-nicholas.com.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Most of the local vernacular used in this book is in the Mallorcan dialect. Although Mallorcan is derived from Catalan and is believed to have been spoken for more than five or six centuries, it varies greatly when written. During the Franco era, Mallorcan was forbidden in Balearic schools and this has made it an oral language, reliant on Catalan when transcribed to print because no dictionary in Mallorcan exists. Today, Catalan is the main language used in Mallorcan schools with the Mallorcan dialect being spoken in the street and in the home. The vocabulary and spelling often varies greatly from village to village in Mallorca. I have taken advice from local language experts and so hope to have accurately transcribed the Mallorcan language to print. However, I apologise unreservedly to any fervent linguists who may care to differ!
Some of the names of those appearing in the book have been changed to protect their privacy but most are authentic in fact local Mallorcans positively encouraged me to use their real names and that of their businesses. One error of judgement was in giving my friend Sari Andreu the fictional name Catalina, rather than calling her by her real name. She has never quite forgiven me. Well, almost.
ONE
POETIC JUSTICE
At the far end of the orchard a white bird, possibly a dove, appears to be caught in the higher branches of a lemon tree. It's seven in the morning and I am standing at the bedroom window of our finca in Mallorca in yawning mode but the sight of those limp wings fluttering helplessly from behind a clump of leaves has me wide awake. I'm puzzled. How on earth has a bird got stuck in one of our trees? It's surely not the sort of thing birds generally do. If that were Orlando up there, our terminally dim though lovable grey cat, I wouldn't turn a hair. Despite my having to rescue him several times from the clutches of a predatory shrub, he continued to try his feline paws at more ambitious and vertically challenging leafy projects. It was on the spikes of the enormous cactus by the front lawn that he finally came a cropper. Now the only thing he tends to navigate is the duvet on our bed. My husband, Alan, commonly nicknamed 'the Scotsman', is running water from a tap in the bathroom and is none too happy to be summoned mid shave. He joins me at the window, a halfrobed Santa with a frothy white beard and a razor poised in the air.
'What's up?'
'I think a bird's stuck in a tree.'
He pulls open the window, allowing cool autumnal air to waft into the room. I give a little shiver. Summer is certainly over even though September has not quite past. He surveys the dewy orchard beyond with some impatience until his gaze rests on the tree with the bird. He leans out of the window to take a closer look.
'You're right, although I think I can see several wings fluttering. Maybe it's a group orgy of doves?'
I tut. 'At this time of the morning?'
'It has been known. Why don't you get the binoculars?'
With some impatience I don a pair of old flip-flops and head for the stairs. There's only one way to find out what's going on up in that tree. As I leap over the assault course of cats on the staircase, Minky, brother Orlando and the queen of the house, Inko, I find a loud chorus of felines on the patio beyond the back door. These are the local feral cats that have recently formed a Wailing Wall day and night outside the kitchen. Word seems to have got out in the local cat community that we're a bunch of mugs, willing to feed any feline within a ten-mile radius. Rather like a fugitive under fire one has to prepare oneself for the onslaught when exiting the house, zigzagging through their midst and clapping loudly until out of the danger zone. I've christened them all and, much to the Scotsman's fury, I've been known to slip them the odd morsel. There's Scraggy the tabby, albino Baby Boris, his black brother, Demonic Damian, a stripy bruiser named Tiger the Terrible, and Tortoiseshell, a flirty female with Cleopatra eyes and smoky pelt. Now as I make my way hurriedly across the back terrace, clearing the cats from my path as I go, they start up a terrible din which has the Scotsman huffing and puffing from the open upstairs window.
