A CHORUS OF COCKERELS
Copyright Anna Nicholas, 2016
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, nor transmitted, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publishers.
Anna Nicholas has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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For the one and only 'EC1'
my irreplaceable sister, Cecilia
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This latest book has afforded me the luxury of setting off on a magical journey around the beautiful island of Mallorca, my home, visiting favourite haunts and discovering new ones. In truth, this voyage of the senses would not have been complete without the generosity, kindness, humour and good faith of the many extraordinary, talented, and engaging individuals I became acquainted with along the way.
I very much appreciate my enduring relationship with the Summersdale Publishers team and would like to give a special mention to Abbie Headon, commissioning editor, and my editor, Debbie Chapman, for their professionalism, encouragement and enthusiasm.
Once again I would like to give a verbal hug to Alan, my long suffering and supportive Scotsman, and Ollie, my son, for their unwavering faith in me and for their patience in coping with my relentless zeal for local culture and history. I would also like to extend a huge gracis to the Sller community for preserving the island's traditions and way of life in our special valley, and for its continuing friendship. Last but not least, I offer a virtual trug of golden lemons to my wonderful readers for having so kindly supported my work.
CONTENTS
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Most of the local vernacular used in this book is in the Mallorqu dialect. Although it 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, this local dialect was forbidden in Balearic schools and this has made it an oral language, reliant on Catalan when transcribed to print. Thankfully Diccionari Catal-Valenci-Balear compiled by historic Mallorcan writer, Antoni M. Alcover and collaborator, Francesc de Borja Moll, still exists today in online form and is an etymological jewel. Catalan is the main language used in the island's schools, closely followed by Castilian Spanish, while the Mallorqu dialect is spoken socially 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, where used, to print. However, I apologise unreservedly to any fervent linguists who may care to differ!
One
THE HILLS ARE ALIVE
T here it goes again. I rush over to the open first floor window and peer down into the tranquil pond below, my ears straining to hear the familiar sound above the buzzing of bees and chattering cicadas. My eyes search the water's hazy surface, clumps of tall reeds and craggy rocks, in the hope of alighting on a small and rotund amphibian form but it's not to be. A large bluebottle lands on my face. In some irritation I flick it away and keep up my vigil for a few more minutes. Nothing.
'Bother!'
I hear the heavy crunch of boots on gravel and suddenly a face looks up at me from the patio below. 'What's up?'
I give a tut. 'I could have sworn I heard Johnny's throaty cackle but I must have imagined it.'
Alan better known as the Scotsman sniffs the air. 'I haven't heard a croak from the old toad yet, nor the frogs. Still on their hols, maybe?'
'It's March. How long do amphibians need to vacation, anyway?'
He shrugs nonchalantly and, with a smile, triumphantly holds up his trug. It's full to the brim with plump oranges. 'Not a bad crop, eh?'
'Wonderful. Have you planted the beans yet?'
'Give me a chance. It's not even eight-thirty!'
A tiny puff of smoke escapes from behind my husband's back and momentarily smudges the air.
I sigh deeply. 'Unless you're secreting a baby dragon in your jacket, I'd swear that was cigar smoke.'
He puts down the trug of his prize oranges and expansively sweeps the air with his hand. 'No, it's just bonfire fug. You know what it's like at this time of year. Every pyromaniac in the valley comes out in the spring.'
As bonfires are banned during the long summer, many locals make the most of a good spring clean in advance of the season, sprucing up orchards, burning debris and getting their gardens ship shape.
'Hm. Show me your other hand. The one hidden behind your back.'
With a guilty chuckle he grasps the trug once more and beats a hasty retreat across the lawn of the front garden without revealing his smouldering prize. 'Must get on!'
The Scotsman and I rarely see eye to eye about his penchant for puros, the chubby Havana cigars that he squirrels away in his man cave, the abajo, in the lower orchard and field.
I walk away from the window and give a cursory glance at the piles of papers and books cluttering my desk before deciding that I really should change out of my running gear and shower before tackling any work. Since merging my PR business with Dynamite, a larger London-based communications company some years ago, I now devote much of my time to journalism and freelance consultancy work. As I slip out of my airy office, snuggled in a corner of the upstairs tier of our house, and pass through the cosy TV room, I hear the front gate's shrill buzzer. Surreptitiously I look through the slats of the room's closed shutters and see the telltale flash of Jorge the postman's yellow moto, his motorbike. I smile, remembering when some years ago I'd asked my elderly Mallorcan friend Neus why she always kept her wooden shutters closed even when the sun wasn't beating down. She had shaken her head despairingly. 'To spy without being seen, of course!'
I press the button on the entry phone and hear the electric gate opening lethargically. It rolls slowly on its rail, making a groaning sound that could almost be mistaken for a yawn. Even inanimate objects appear to suffer from a bit of maana fever on this island.
Jorge greets me with an impish grin. 'I like the outfit!'
