Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof by Anna Nicholas Page B

us in our tracks.
    Â Â 'Blasted phones!' he mutters, dropping his hoe and extracting the vibrating fiend from the pocket of his gardening shorts.
    Â Â  'Who?' I hear him cry irritably. He potters off towards the house.
    Â Â I stroll over to the garden pond and peer into its murky depths. Tiny, gymnastic frogs dive from the stony wide-lipped fountain into the water, intimidated by my sudden appearance. There's an urgent croak and Johnny, my wisecracking American toad, appears from nowhere and watches. I give him a smile, but he continues with his impassive stare. Since moving here, Johnny and I have had many a profound chat. A cynic might say I'm mildly delusional and that Johnny is just a figment of my imagination, but to me he's very real. He helps me mull over things and gives me a wonderful excuse to slip out of my office and sprawl at the pond's edge taking in the music of the trickling water with the sunshine on my face. When I worked full-time in London, I always had colleagues to chat with but now when Ollie's at school and the Scotsman is out for the day, I have to make do with Johnny or the cats for conversation. I cock my head towards the house and turn to leave. There's a small cough.
    Â Â 'Not so fast!'
    Â Â He's squatting on a lily pad, his low slung girth resting on its cool surface.
    Â Â 'Did I hear you right? You're getting more cats?'
    Â Â I take a deep breath. 'Look, Johnny, I know Inko's been a pain at times, but she's not been near the pond for weeks.'
    Â Â 'Pah!' he shakes his head. 'That cat is a nightmare and so is the fat tabby next door. It's bad enough being stalked daily by a psychotic heron without this extra stress.'
    Â Â He's right about the heron. For some months now our amphibians have been plagued by this arrogant and fearless creature that carries off unsuspecting fish and tiny frogs in the early hours of the morning. We have tried to keep vigil, without much success.
    Â Â 'Don't worry about the kittens. I'll keep any eye on them.'
    Â Â He sniffs and gives me a sullen expression. 'When you came here you didn't give a rat's ass about cats. Now you're all over them. And what's with the worm hotel?'
    Â Â 'It creates great compost.'
    Â Â 'Next thing', he groans, 'you'll be opening a cat motel.'
    Â Â I step back, startled. Can he read my thoughts?
    Â Â 'On my mother's lily pad, you are! ' he splutters, eyeing me keenly. 'Jeez! You've finally lost the plot. Wake me up when you're back on medication.'
    Â Â He plunges into the scum. I sigh heavily and walk back into the house. Alan is standing in the kitchen doorway with hands on hips.
    Â Â 'You won't believe who just rang.'
    Â Â 'Surprise me?'
    Â Â 'That nice girl we met from Channel Four. She said she's recommended me for a TV advert.'
    Â Â 'Well, I never.'
    Â Â 'I'll have to audition with a local production company called Focus Films.'
    Â Â 'What kind of advert?'
    Â Â 'It's for a bank. Apparently, I have to play golf.'
    Â Â 'Who knows,' I say. 'This could be the start of a new career.'

    The sky, a bale of oyster silk, cups an exquisite pearl of a moon in its soft folds and envelopes the highest peaks of the Tramuntanas. Entwined in a wicker basket, our new arrivals, Minky and Orlando, sleep softly, their tiny grey paws twitching as they dream of darting mice and lizards and ponds abundant with baby frogs and fish. The kitchen door is open and a sudden gust of warm, aromatic air tickles the dog-eared corners of a pile of paper on the old oak dining table and flutters the velvety petals of a solitary white lily in a vase by the window. I glance at my watch. It's midnight. Catalina and her irrepressible aunt, Maria, should be here by now. Where are they?
    Â Â There's the sound of hollow metal clanging as the front gate creaks opens and a battered, old white van slowly drives into the courtyard. Grabbing my torch and plastic carrier bag, I close the