Issue 22 - July 2012 (PDF) - Chipping Norton Times

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THELASTFEWHOURSOFENZOTHEBOATMAN AShortStorybyNicholasJohn-Part1 The cat sat high on the window ledge and surveyed the morning as it came to Wied Zurrieq. The heat of the day rose early, the men preparing their boats before breakfast, working on the brightly-painted, wooden vessels, tinkering with motors and wielding paintbrushes, until the punishing glare of the Mediterranean sun forced them into the cafes for coffee and breadcakes. The cat licked its paws lazily, ignoring the gentle movement of the dirty curtains, as what breeze there was stirred in the morning air. The sounds of activity from the harbour grew steadily louder and Enzo struggled with sleep beneath a thin, cotton sheet, as the day kicked its way into his consciousness. The cat stretched and jumped from the window ledge, down onto the bed. "Go away, get out of here!" Enzo feebly kicked out, but the cat was skilled in avoiding his clumsy lunges. After all, it practised every morning. It yawned and emitted a half meow, half squawk, its call for breakfast. Enzo groaned, a low rumble that began deep in his chest and finally escaped through cracked lips. His head hurt and his mouth was drier than the Maltese summer; the effect of last night's wine. Opening his eyes, he cursed at the light angling into the room through the gap in the curtains. It was a conspiracy to bedevil him. The penetrating blue of the sky showed no fleck, nor promise, of white cloud. He flung an ineffectual arm at the cat, who easily avoided the flailing limb and resumed an impatient mewing. Enzo swore; the damn animal must have got in through the open window. Same as every morning. It was all a conspiracy he thought again, a plot: his two-room flat, on the third-floor of a tenement building in the Luba district of the town, situated high above the harbour, had no shutters to keep out the bright, harsh, morning sun or the unwelcome attentions of his persistent early visitor. How it made it to his tiny, third-floor flat was a mystery to Enzo, but make it, it did, in search of breakfast. If he stopped letting the cat feast on the remains of whatever was in the noisily whirring fridge, then it would soon find itself another source of nourishment. It was a scavenger this cat, all cats! But, in truth, he was glad of the company; it made waking alone in this cramped, uncomfortable hovel just about bearable. He pushed himself upright in bed and rubbed a leathery, cracked hand across his forehead. The wine. He should stop drinking quite so much wine. * * * * * The white-washed houses tumbled down towards the Plaza, the cobbled streets dropping through the terraces, twisting and turning till they met at the main square. The Plaza Maskala was the centre of Zurrieq, a large, concrete expanse, unattractive in design and unappealing in appearance. A few scattered palm trees afforded some shade from the sun and, on the steps of the 18 Church De Santa Rosa, the beggars were already vying for the best positions. The boatmen gathered this, and every morning, in the cafes and bars that lined the square, smoking and drinking thick, black coffee. Their colourful boats were tied up in rows alongside the long quay in the harbour, awaiting the morning trade - awaiting the first coaches as they arrived, winding down the steep main road into town, sunlight glinting on metal and glass. A steady stream, mainly from Valletta, drawing up in the town square, disgorging lines of camera-hugging tourists and visitors. The boatmen would quickly extinguish their cigarettes, stubbed onto stone - their sharply-coloured shirts suddenly busy alongside sharply-coloured boats, smiles of welcome on their lips. And the Mediterranean sun climbed ever higher. * * * * * Frankie and Jazz had, it's fair to say, overdone things the night before. It was no surprise that they'd missed joining the Intersun excursion to the Blue Grotto, when it'd left from outside the Hotel Splendide in the capital at eight-thirty sharp. Frankie didn't give a toss about caves and would rather have slept off her hangover, but Jazz was keen to see the Grotto, so they'd eventually arrived in Zurrieq with spirits dampened by what had been a hot and bumpy ride - not inside an air-conditioned coach with toilet facilities, but in a local bus that had first seen use on the island in the seventies. Even in the relative cool of the morning, it's red, plastic seats burned to the touch and had stuck to their naked legs. The bus pulled to a stop alongside a line of tourist coaches parked in the Plaza. A few white-shirted drivers stood in the shade of the palms, smoking and talking. Stray dogs ran loose in the square, and elderly ladies, dressed in black, ascended the steep steps up to the Church. It wasn't a scene to fill Frankie with enthusiasm. "Jesus! I could've still been in bed, Jazz! Let's forget the sodding caves and get a drink. What a dump, there isn't even a beach here -" Jazz laughed, pulled her friend by the arm and they clattered down the steps of the bus. * * * * * Enzo belched and drained his cup. He'd been late getting out of the house, slowed by his pounding head, and he'd missed the first coaches: they were already parked up in the square. Just one coffee, that was all, but it had cleared his mind, thankfully. He threw some coins onto the counter and followed a couple of boys out of the little bar. They were dropping crumbs from the sweet, fruited breadcakes they were biting into, and he felt
(Contnued from previous page) hungry. How many Euros had he got left? Not enough for him to eat, not yet. And he was late again. He'd failed to find a clean shirt anywhere in the flat and the old, blue one he'd worn for the past two days was heady with the sour odour of sweat, stains discolouring the armpits. He slicked his hair back, then checked the pockets of his shabby, black trousers for his cigarettes and lighter. Tonight, he'd get home earlier, get some proper sleep, so that maybe tomorrow….. He brightened: maybe today would be a good day after all, maybe some more English ladies would come, tottering on their high-heels, with their short, white skirts and short, white legs. He walked quickly along the quay to where the "Marianne" was tied-up. * * * * * Being of Irish extraction, Frankie's natural pigment firmly refused to brown in the way she wanted. Some uncomfortable-looking red patches were the dismal result of five days of summer sun - not what she was hoping for when compared to Jazz's olive skin and natural tan. She shaded her eyes from the sun. Over in the little quayside office, Jazz was talking to the Intersun rep, but it was clear they had missed the boat out to the Grotto. The tourist ferry "Katarina" was well on her way by now: the round-trip took about an hour and a half, before lunch in Zurrieq, followed by the short coach journey along the coast to the temples at Mnajdra. And they'd paid in advance! What a bloody waste of time it had been so far….. She sighed. Jazz would still want to go – and they had spent half the morning getting here anyway. She looked around: there'd be other boat trips and they had plenty of Euros between them. In the harbour and along the quay, boats moved on the swell, the larger ones with decks shielded by loose, blue awnings. Every fishing boat, every luzzu, was painted with the ever-watchful, unblinking Egyptian Eye of Osiris, painted high on its prow, to ward away evil spirits. * * * * * Most of the smaller boats had pulled away from the quay, on their first run of the day, the sound of outboard motors filling the air, the blue haze of the twostroke diesel rising in clouds as passengers hunched in the gunnels, clutching sunhats to heads, cameras to eyes, and the boatmen expertly manoeuvred their vessels out toward open water. The "Katarina" was almost out of sight beyond the headland, her rails lined with people. Enzo spat noisily into the water and flicked a boot at the peeling paint on the side of his boat - her best days were long behind her, but the early morning repair work was not for him. No, there would always be an elderly German couple or some tall, Scandinavian girls happy to take his boat, no matter how late. No visitors ever came to Zurrieq except to take the boat excursion to the Blue Grotto, and take it they would, even if only in the "Marianne." He scratched his backside, lit another cigarette and waited for whatever, whoever, the morning might bring. To be contnued…….Nicholas John LOCAL ALEX HINTON Gas Services 01451 844884 & Plumbing Don’t let a scratch on your car put a dent in your pocket Quality, mobile repairs at a fraction of traditional body shop costs • Bumper scuffs • small accidental damage • Paintwork scratches • Alloy wheels • Repairs fully guaranteed Call ChipsAway - Nick Sumners on 07890 451 557 or 0800 028 7878 for a free estimate 07583 <strong>22</strong>1305 Landlord Safety Certificates from £50 | Gas Boiler Service from £60 | Boiler Replacements HintonHicksPlumbing@gmail.com Quoted prices do not include the cost of replacement parts if required 534067 19
Page 1 and 2: CHIPPING NORTON TIMES Issue 22 July
Page 3 and 4: CHIPPING NORTON TIMES From the Edit
Page 5 and 6: 'Hampton Hackett is a truly discern
Page 7 and 8: Stow Garden Plants (and tea room) S
Page 9 and 10: A Place In The Heart : by Richard V
Page 11 and 12: COTSWOLD BOOKSTORE 20 High Street,
Page 13 and 14: Qualified gardener • Specialist P
Page 15 and 16: the purely nutritve to the positvel
Page 17: Managing our Heritage The Trustees
Page 21 and 22: GUITING FESTIVAL JULY 27 -AUGUST 4T
Page 23 and 24: Rural Cinema - July The Playhouse,
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Page 36 and 37: 36 Saturday 1 st September 2012
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Page 48 and 49: 52 MORETON RANGERS FOOTBALL CLUB A
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