Read Online Under a Croatian Sun by Anthony Stancomb - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Stancomb
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the Renault’s owner lumbering out of his door; a terrifying hulk of a man, he looked as if someone had dug him up by the roots. As he came barrelling towards us shouting something unintelligible, I felt what an English piker must have felt like at the battle of Bannockburn.
He came to a halt. ‘Hah! You English people!’ he said in loud, guttural English and grinned at us, revealing a startling row of brown multi-directional teeth. ‘Always English like animal! Why Englishman so like animal? Croatian man, he like girl!’ He roared with laughter at his joke.
Being of an age at which animals are preferable to girls, the boys looked perplexed.
‘Why are they on your roof rack?’ the older one asked. ‘Are you going to sell them at the market?’
‘No, no! These are my bad sheep. These two they make much trouble. If I leave them when I go in town, they go jump wall and run in road – and all other sheep they follow – like sheep!’ He laughed loudly at his joke again.
‘Don’t they miss their friends when they’re on your roof?’ asked the younger one.
‘I give them sweet food when they go on roof, so they like.’ He cuffed one of them over the head and ruffled its ear. ‘This one my best friend. I call him “Hrabo” (Brave). He go fight dog and sometime he go fight man if he no like.’
One of the sheep was casually chewing at the ear of boy No. 1 and the man noticed. ‘But look! He like you. You come see my farm. You see all of sheep and you help give food and water. Yes? You bring Uncle too. He come drink my new wine.’ He winked at me.
Watching his Renault bounce away down the cobbled street with the two sheep, I realised I had just received our first island invitation. Had there been a sea change in local attitude? Maybe the predictions of Karmela and Zoran were wrong?
‘Maybe the locals aren’t so standoffish after all,’ I said to Ivana as she made us knock the sheep pellets off our shoes before we were allowed back inside.
But my optimism was short-lived. Hearing reports of a storm brewing up at the end of the week, and seeing that the floating jetty attached to our wall looked ready to jump ship at the first strong wind, I thought I’d ask the fishermen what to do about it. So the next time I went by Marko’s and saw four weathered salts sitting there in a range of assorted nautical head-gear that you’d never find at Harvey Nichols, I squared my shoulders, straightened my back and approached them. (It’s astonishing how much a ramrod posture can do to your confidence.) Seven eyes and an eye patch turned towards me as I hastily explained my problem, and one who had a face that looked as if it had been carved by a second-year sculpture student looked up to say, ‘There’s no difference how you tie it. Whatever you do, if the wind’s strong enough it’ll break it loose.’
The one beside him, a sunken block of a fellow, grunted in agreement. ‘You’ll learn soon enough.’
There are many times in my life that I’ve wanted to pull out a gun, point it at someone’s head and say,
Go on, punk, make my day!
Or, like the Scarlet Pimpernel, make some witheringly witty remark while flicking a speck of dust off my lapel. But, unable to think of anything suitable to say, I pretended I didn’t feel at all slighted and walked away trying to look as nonchalant as I could. But I don’t think it fooled them one bit, and I could feel their watery, mocking eyes on my retreating back as I went down the front.
I got home to find Ivana on the phone to the children (as usual checking they were OK for underwear), but, seeing my expression, she told them their father wasn’t looking quite himself and rang off. She then joined me on the sofa for a bit of fond arm stroking and head shaking while I held forth about our neighbours’ blatant unhelpfulness, plain rudeness and lack of common courtesy, and the unfairness of life in general.
‘But just think of all the other things we have now
He came to a halt. ‘Hah! You English people!’ he said in loud, guttural English and grinned at us, revealing a startling row of brown multi-directional teeth. ‘Always English like animal! Why Englishman so like animal? Croatian man, he like girl!’ He roared with laughter at his joke.
Being of an age at which animals are preferable to girls, the boys looked perplexed.
‘Why are they on your roof rack?’ the older one asked. ‘Are you going to sell them at the market?’
‘No, no! These are my bad sheep. These two they make much trouble. If I leave them when I go in town, they go jump wall and run in road – and all other sheep they follow – like sheep!’ He laughed loudly at his joke again.
‘Don’t they miss their friends when they’re on your roof?’ asked the younger one.
‘I give them sweet food when they go on roof, so they like.’ He cuffed one of them over the head and ruffled its ear. ‘This one my best friend. I call him “Hrabo” (Brave). He go fight dog and sometime he go fight man if he no like.’
One of the sheep was casually chewing at the ear of boy No. 1 and the man noticed. ‘But look! He like you. You come see my farm. You see all of sheep and you help give food and water. Yes? You bring Uncle too. He come drink my new wine.’ He winked at me.
Watching his Renault bounce away down the cobbled street with the two sheep, I realised I had just received our first island invitation. Had there been a sea change in local attitude? Maybe the predictions of Karmela and Zoran were wrong?
‘Maybe the locals aren’t so standoffish after all,’ I said to Ivana as she made us knock the sheep pellets off our shoes before we were allowed back inside.
But my optimism was short-lived. Hearing reports of a storm brewing up at the end of the week, and seeing that the floating jetty attached to our wall looked ready to jump ship at the first strong wind, I thought I’d ask the fishermen what to do about it. So the next time I went by Marko’s and saw four weathered salts sitting there in a range of assorted nautical head-gear that you’d never find at Harvey Nichols, I squared my shoulders, straightened my back and approached them. (It’s astonishing how much a ramrod posture can do to your confidence.) Seven eyes and an eye patch turned towards me as I hastily explained my problem, and one who had a face that looked as if it had been carved by a second-year sculpture student looked up to say, ‘There’s no difference how you tie it. Whatever you do, if the wind’s strong enough it’ll break it loose.’
The one beside him, a sunken block of a fellow, grunted in agreement. ‘You’ll learn soon enough.’
There are many times in my life that I’ve wanted to pull out a gun, point it at someone’s head and say,
Go on, punk, make my day!
Or, like the Scarlet Pimpernel, make some witheringly witty remark while flicking a speck of dust off my lapel. But, unable to think of anything suitable to say, I pretended I didn’t feel at all slighted and walked away trying to look as nonchalant as I could. But I don’t think it fooled them one bit, and I could feel their watery, mocking eyes on my retreating back as I went down the front.
I got home to find Ivana on the phone to the children (as usual checking they were OK for underwear), but, seeing my expression, she told them their father wasn’t looking quite himself and rang off. She then joined me on the sofa for a bit of fond arm stroking and head shaking while I held forth about our neighbours’ blatant unhelpfulness, plain rudeness and lack of common courtesy, and the unfairness of life in general.
‘But just think of all the other things we have now
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