Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Read Online Free PDF Page A

still. As I open the huge creaking shutters that mask the French doors and windows of the entrada, tart lemon light suffuses the room, causing me to wince under the glare.
    Â Â Slipping out onto the porch barefooted in my old white T-shirt, I survey the shadowy Tramuntanas. Suspended in a hazy, powder-blue sky, coppery mists of pine pollen await a soft and urgent breeze to lure them far away to a new and fertile valley. To the east and west, long plumes of smoke rise up into the still air, the last of the early morning bonfires permitted before the summer ban begins. A car starts up on the track and Rafael's booming voice can be heard echoing across the valley. A woman is engaging in cheerful, Spanish repartee with him. This is Isabella, Rafael's new girlfriend from Barcelona, who has been single-handedly responsible for the recent spruce appearance of his finca . The outside walls have been re-pointed, the window frames coated a rich olive-green hue, and a small garden created beyond the porch where once a dull concrete yard yawned onto the horta , the orchard. A fence is being erected around the corral to stop the flighty hens and skittish rabbits from escaping, and a dog kennel has been installed in the pen now housing canine newcomer, Llamp. In six months she has turned this bachelor pad into a home and I can only imagine her next task being to tame the wild ways of her boyfriend, an interesting challenge. Rafael's departure for work has reminded me to waken the boys. The school run beckons, a traffic snarled slog in to Palma, Mallorca's capital.
    Â Â Ollie is already up and sleepily throwing on his school uniform while Inko remains sprawled on his bed. Even in such blissful repose, one lazy eye monitors his every move so that when Ollie steps towards the door, she leaps to the floor, racing ahead of him to the kitchen.
    Â Â 'Greedy old Inko,' he says softly, picking up her food dish and carefully filling it with her favourite, foulsmelling, fishy breakfast. He potters around the cupboards, preparing his habitual breakfast of fat black olives, olive oil and salt on home-made bread and a glass of water. What else could one expect a boy named Oliver to eat? Half an hour later and Alan has set off to Ollie's international school. I run upstairs to my office and fire off some emails before Catalina arrives. The sun is now up, and below my window young frogs bask on lily pads and large rocks jutting from the pond's surface. Occasionally there's a small plop as one dives into the murky depths to cool off or nibble at some unfortunate insect. They're singing at the tops of their voices and I'm sorely tempted to join in, but whenever I've tried, they blank me. Entry to this machismo boy band is by invitation only. A car skids into the courtyard and brakes abruptly. I skip downstairs to find Catalina, my guardian angel of household chores, bustling into the house.
    Â Â 'What you doing, you lazy woman? In the office?'
    Â Â This is a normal Catalina refrain, always delivered with a radiant smile. Unlike many of her contemporaries in the valley, Catalina speaks fluent English, having spent some years as an au pair in both England and the States. She breezes into the kitchen and fills the kettle, noisily banging cupboard doors, and examining the gaping mouth and dark empty interior of the washing machine like a disappointed dentist.
    Â Â 'No washing?'
    Â Â 'Oh, it's in the laundry bin. I haven't had a minute.'
    Â Â She clicks her teeth and stomps up the stairs, reappearing with a mountain of crumpled clothes which she brutally sifts through. Shovelling all the whites into the machine, she slams its door shut, starts the programme and begins her assault on the ironing. I slap a cup of black tea in front of her and sit down to munch some toast. This is our twice weekly ritual.
    Â Â 'When you go back to London?'
    Â Â 'Soon, I'm afraid.'
    Â Â 'It won't go on forever.'
    Â Â I fleetingly