Date: 2018-08-28 23:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Greece

FLOAT the GOAT

Book 6 in The Greek Meze Series

KATERINA NIKOLAS

FLOAT the GOAT

Copyright © 2018 Katerina Nikolas

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Many Thanks to Brenda for First Edits and to George for Edits.

Cover Design by Yuse Art Works

Interior Formatting by The Book Khaleesi

CONTENTS

Other Books in the Greek Meze Series

Chapter 1

Over the Edge

Chapter 2

A Clapped Out Contraption

Chapter 3

Secrets and Lies

Chapter 4

Shocking Pink Plastic Busts

Chapter 5

Positively Putrescent

Chapter 6

A Passion for Embroidery

Chapter 7

Done up Like a Dog’s Dinner

Chapter 8

Springing a Meringue Surprise

Chapter 9

A Flasher’s Mac

Chapter 10

Paella and Sangria

Chapter 11

A Pungently Presumptuous Guest

Chapter 12

Bald Yannis is Diagnosed with a Syndrome

Chapter 13

A Far-Fetched Fishy Fib

Chapter 14

Skinny Dipping in the Moonlight

Chapter 15

Trifled Affections

Chapter 16

Stumped by an Artichoke

Chapter 17

A Vacant Position

Chapter 18

Soula Plants a Seed

Chapter 19

Scissor Happy in the Salon

Chapter 20

Discovering a Duck in the Plumbing Aisle

Chapter 21

Goodly News for Soula

Chapter 22

Voula Receives a Generous Gift of Poo

Chapter 23

The Grand Opening of the Tourist Tat Annex

Chapter 24

A Disaster and a Delivery

Chapter 25

Happy with Granny

Chapter 26

The Grand Greek Tour

Chapter 27

Bald Yannis the Gigolo

Chapter 28

Impatient Patients

Chapter 29

Shaking off the Chaperone

Chapter 30

Doctor Konstantinoupoleos, I Presume

Chapter 31

Quentin Loses Deirdre

Chapter 32

Chicken Soup and Taverna Barriers

Chapter 33

Deirdre Drifts in the Dark

Chapter 34

Tall Thomas Goes Courting

Chapter 35

Drilling for a Dowry

Chapter 36

Holy Goats and Amorous Seals

Chapter 37

A Lucky Escape

Chapter 38

A Midget Blancmange

Chapter 39

Waiting at the Altar

Chapter 40

A Beautiful Bride

Chapter 41

Goat Afloat

Other Books in the Greek Meze Series

Book 1: Goat in the Meze

Book 2: Rampaging Roosters

Book 3: Olive Virgins

Book 4: Goatly Goings On

Book 5: Greek Capers

Chapter 1

Over the Edge

Quentin’s vision was obscured by droplets of stinging sweat dripping from his sun-reddened forehead into his eyes as he ineptly negotiated the hazardous hair-pin mountain bends in the unreliable old banger. Beside him Deirdre was busily slapping Greek yoghurt onto her sunburn, smearing it into the gritty salt encrusted deposit left on her skin from the afternoon’s swim.

The hapless American couple had enjoyed a summer drive, discovering an idyllic little cove for a refreshing afternoon dip. As it lacked a shower Deirdre had simply thrown a caftan over her sodden swimsuit when they departed, leaving her inflamed skin uncomfortably wet. Luckily, she’d remembered her Greek neighbours had recommended yoghurt as an alternative antidote to vinegar for sunburn and there was a tub conveniently in the car. Unfortunately it had ‘turned’ in the hot sun and it gave Deirdre a distinctively rancid smell of sour goat’s milk of which she was seemingly oblivious to.

Leaning over she smeared a dollop of yoghurt on Quentin’s nose, remarking, “This should stop you from peeling, dear.”

“I think we should start swimming in sun hats like the Greeks do,” he suggested, wiping the beads of sweat from his eyes and tentatively peeling a layer of red skin from beneath his comb-over. “It was a beautiful spot though; the sea was so calm and clear.”

“It was like a languorous warm bath,” Deirdre agreed, choosing to forget her close encounter with the water was entirely accidental. She’d been turning lobster red on a floating lilo until the violent wash from the vibrations of an obnoxious oik on a jet-ski had shaken her into the sea.

Taking time away from her yoghurt ministrations she admired the azure blue water glistening hazily in the distance through a host of olive trees and summer foliage.

“Quentin, stop,” Deirdre suddenly commanded shrilly just as the old banger rounded a sharp hair-pin bend.

The rubber tyres screeched on the hot asphalt as the car skidded dangerously before coming to an abrupt halt. Quentin’s face drained of colour, horrified he may have unwittingly managed to road-kill a goat.

“Have I hit something?” he asked shakily.

“No, but I absolutely must get a cutting of that herb over there,” Deirdre replied, rummaging around in her enormous handbag to produce a trowel. As she dashed from the car with the garden implement poised to uproot some random greenery Quentin shouted, “Deirdre, get a move on, this is not a safe place to park.”

His unease was amplified by a large truck hurtling towards the car with the driver blasting his horn in warning and making obscene gestures as he narrowly scraped by. Climbing back into the banger Deirdre offered the driver a cheery wave and tutted at Quentin’s impatience.

“This herb will be a lovely addition to the garden Quentin and it’s so economical to take cuttings,” she observed, sticking her nose into the bunch of leaves she was clutching and sighing appreciatively.

“That’s as may be Deirdre, but in future please confine your lust for cuttings to a straight stretch of road. It is far too dangerous to just stop anywhere that takes your fancy,” Quentin grumbled, thankful at least that the uprooted mountain shrubbery temporarily masked the revolting smell of rancid yoghurt.

“Now buckle up dear.”

Deirdre had just secured her seatbelt and Quentin was about to release the handbrake when a speeding pick-up truck rounded the corner, smashed into the back of the old banger and jolted the front wheels over the edge of the sheer mountain precipice. Deirdre’s scream scared the birds into flight as the old banger dangled precariously before settling into an unsteady wobble.

“A goodly day to yous K-Went-In and Did-Rees, fancy seeing yous ‘ere,” the booming voice of the handsome Adonis greeted the two jinxed Americans as they sat rigid with fright contemplating the steep drop in front of them, scared that even the slightest movement would send the old banger toppling over the edge. Adonis, completely oblivious to this, pushed his way through the shrubbery to extend a helping hand, making the old banger teeter terrifyingly.

“You blasted fool Adoni, you were driving much too fast. Now look at the fine mess you’ve got us into,” Quentin barked angrily.

“Yous was the fool K-Went-In, parkin’ up on a hair-pin bend,” Adonis replied huffily. “Just sit tight an’ Achilles an’ I will ‘ave yous out of ‘ere in a jiffy.”

The grinning face of Achilles the borrowed builder appeared over Adonis’ shoulder and he observed,

“It looks as though yous ‘ave overdone the sun Did-Rees, if yous dont’s take more care yous will end up looking like a wrinkled old handbag.”

Deirdre, offended at the suggestion she was getting wrinkly, made a hasty adjustment to ensure the sodden caftan covered her décolletage and shrieked in horror as her clumsy movement caused the car to rock. Stretching a shaking hand through the open window she grabbed the hip flask of ouzo proffered by Adonis and took a generous slug, wondering if this was an opportune moment to take up smoking to steady her nerves.

“Yous is lucky it is a windless day,” Adonis commented just as a breeze picked up, rattling the leaves on the olive trees and alarming Deirdre so much she ended up with a chin full of dribbled ouzo.

“Do something instead of standing there gassing Adoni,” Quentin implored. “I don’t think you understand what a dangerous predicament we are in. We could plummet to a certain death at any moment.”

“Quit yous griping K-Went-In, I ‘ave a sturdy rope in the pick-up,” Adonis assured him with a wink.

Deirdre clenched her eyes tightly shut to avoid the sight of the precipitous drop, practising deep breathing to lessen her hysteria. Emitting a panicked scream at the sudden sensation of a wet tongue drooling along her arm, she shouted “Adoni, this is not a suitable time to get frisky.”

Disgusted at the thought their Greek friend would try to take advantage of Deirdre at such an inopportune moment Quentin cried out “unhand my wife.” He felt extremely stupid when he turned his head to discover a random mountain goat slobbering over the yogurt on Deirdre’s arm while the two Greeks deftly attached a sturdy rope to the old banger’s rear bumper.

Eager to gorge on more yoghurt the goat pressed itself against the side of the car, sticking its head directly through the open window, sending Deirdre into a further panic as it attempted to nestle intrusively into her ample bosom.

“Don’t do anything to alarm it Deirdre, we may not survive any sudden movements,” Quentin advised as the car rocked from side to side. Exercising extreme caution he leant over Deirdre to wind up her window, effectively trapping the goat’s head in the frame.

“Let the ‘andbrake off K-Went-In and ‘old on tight,” Achilles the borrowed builder boomed. “Adonis is about to pull you away from the edge.”

With his heart in his mouth, Quentin looked at Deirdre and reluctantly released the hand brake. The old banger was abruptly yanked backwards to safety, taking the trapped goat with it.

“Thank you for saving our lives,” Quentin gushed with gratitude.

“Yous is welcome, think nothin’ of it,” Adonis replied, hopping out of the pick-up to examine the old banger. “Yous front underbit is bent all out of shape. I can tow yous to the next village an’ telephone my cousin Adonis the mechanic to come and get yous.”

“Can’t you drop us back in Astakos?” Quentin asked, winding down the window to allow the goat to escape.

“No can do K-Went-In. We ‘ave important business to attend to,” Adonis replied enigmatically. “I aven’t got time to be messing with the rope so I’ll ‘ave to tow yous backwards.”

Deirdre took one look at the fickle goat now chewing its way through the rope and leapt from the old banger in almost indecent haste, clutching her cuttings and throwing herself into the pick-up where she announced,

“I’ve had quite enough trauma for one day and have no intention of being dragged up a hill backwards by a flimsy rope.”

Quentin, stung to the quick by Deirdre’s desertion, took a seat at the wheel of the bent out of shape banger, shaking his head in annoyance when Achilles the borrowed builder deposited the goat in the passenger seat to stop its relentless gnawing.

“The least you can do is buckle up,” Quentin snapped at the goat, securing its safety belt. The strange coupling provided much merriment to a coach load of tourists stuck behind the clapped out old banger as it was towed backwards at a pitifully slow pace up the mountain.

Resigned to being the butt of the tourists’ amusement Quentin lightened the moment by lifting the goat’s paw to manipulate a goatly wave.

Chapter 2

A Clapped Out Contraption

“I can’t believe Adonis has dumped us up here in Ankinari,” Deirdre moaned, looking around the tiny deserted village and waving goodbye to their mountain rescuers. After their awful ordeal she just wanted to go home and shower, but they were stuck in a village named for an artichoke under the scorching sun waiting for Adonis the mechanic to show up and tow their car back to civilisation.

“Deirdre, show some gratitude, Adonis saved our lives,” Quentin advised huffily, still smarting from the humiliation of being a laughing stock in front of a coach load of tourists.

“Now, how about a nice drink in the shade whilst we wait for Adonis the mechanic to show up?” Quentin suggested.

“You know there isn’t a kafenion up here,” Deirdre grouched, surveying the eerily empty village. The few houses all had their wooden shutters closed against the afternoon sun and the sound of barking reminded her that the village was home to a guard dog so fierce it had chewed through its chain.

“But that old chap Pedros we met on our last visit here is sure to offer us a warm welcome, especially as we seem to have acquired a goat on our travels,” Quentin suggested, reminding Deirdre of the house they had gatecrashed, mistaking it for a taverna on their previous visit.

“I’m in no mood for another encounter with that randy old goat-herder or his surly peasant daughter strapped into a neck-brace,” Deirdre said in a whining voice.

Their sniping was interrupted by the arrival of old Pedros declaring, “That’s a fine looking specimen.”

“We didn’t intend to kidnap the goat, it just came along for the ride,” Quentin jokingly explained.

“I wasn’t talking about the goat,” Pedros quipped, winking lewdly at Deirdre.

“Ah, this is Adonis the mechanic now,” Quentin said with relief when his mobile phone trilled. “Oh no, he can’t get up here for hours,” he added after a quick conversation with the mechanic.

“Leave the car ‘ere for the mechanic an’ I’ll drop yous back in Rapanaki,” the old goat-herder offered, remembering the American pair lived next door to Fotini who he’d not seen for many years. He smiled at the memory of the fine-looking woman Fotini had been in her youth, so full of spirit, though it still hurt him to the quick that she had rejected his advances.

“That does sound like the ideal solution,” Quentin agreed eagerly as the old goat-herder stomped off to arrange transport.

“Just as long as I don’t have to sit next to him,” Deirdre hissed at Quentin. “The randy old fellow has wandering hands, not to mention he stinks of goats.”

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll protect you from Pedros’ groping,” Quentin assured his wife. “I can’t wait to see Fotini’s face when we drive up with him. I suspect there’s a bit of history between them.

“It may be interesting. Fotini certainly has an aversion to men, look how she’s always labelling you a pervert.”

“It could be amusing if he turns out to be an old suitor of hers,” Quentin laughed. “Though he won’t get very far even if he still has designs on the old crone. Don’t forget Fotini still thinks her husband is away in Athens on business, even though he’s been in his grave for a decade.”

The pair gawped in disbelief as the old goat-herder reappeared, wheeling a decrepit old motorcycle held together with rust and stray reams of straw.

“Surely he can’t intend to take us home on that disgusting clapped out contraption,” Deirdre scoffed.

“It looks like it’s a choice of that or sitting around here for hours on end waiting for Adonis,” Quentin reasoned, secretly thrilled at the prospect of hurtling down the mountain on a motorbike. Deirdre had never allowed him so much as a moped, insisting they were death traps.

“Don’t look so nervous Did-Rees, I managed to find an old ‘elmet to make yous feel safer,” Pedros piped up, handing her an ancient crash helmet that had last been used as a handy spot for his cat to give birth in.

Speechless, Deirdre picked the detritus from the helmet before securing the most unflattering chin strap.

“Now ‘op up behind me and don’t yous be shy about putting yous arms tight around me,” Pedros instructed, revving the engine. “Now whose lap will the goat be sitting on?”

Chapter 3

Secrets and Lies

“Sofia. This is the last time I will call yous. Get out of bed,” Thea yelled, wading through the untidy heap of discarded clothes surrounding Sofia’s bed to shake the leaden lump burrowed beneath a mountain of covers despite the muggy heat. Thea was heartily weary of the repetitive morning routine spoiling her previously peaceful mornings ever since the stroppy teenager had moved in.

“I’m up Nona, there’s no need to scream like a fishwife,” Sofia grumbled, blearily rubbing her eyes and grabbing her mobile phone. Glancing at the time she screeched “Why didn’t you wake me, Nona? Evangelia will be furious if I’m late for work again.”

“I’ve been in six times in the last hour Sofia, really yous is so exasperating.”

Catching sight of Sofia’s newly dyed turquoise hair Thea exclaimed, “Good grief, tell me yous didn’t experiment with that colour on the cat?”

“Nona, you just don’t appreciate fashion. It’s all the rage for pets to be matching accessories. I’m going to be late, can you just stop nagging and make me some breakfast while I get dressed.”

Muttering under her breath Thea retreated to the kitchen to prepare a bowl of Greek yoghurt with honey and walnuts, knowing full well her goddaughter would turn her nose up at the healthy food, having a marked preference for junk food snacks.

“Nona, where are all my tops? The drawer is empty,” Sofia bellowed down the stairs.

“Probably on the floor where you left them,” Thea replied feeling a tad guilty the child had no clean clothes, before reminding herself she had told Sofia a thousand times she would only wash clothes left in the laundry hamper.

Sofia flounced into the kitchen, looking very matronly in one of Thea’s Home Shopping channel blouses. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a slob Nona,” she apologised, belatedly realising if she didn’t get her act together she would be forced to grapple with the complexities of the new-fangled washing machine. “I’ll take this along to the salon,” she added, grabbing the bowl of yoghurt and running towards the door.

“Steady on,” Toothless Tasos cautioned, narrowly avoiding an anointment of yoghurt all down his new shirt.

“Yous is back early from fishing,” Thea said to her fiancé, eyeing his new shirt suspiciously.

“I got a call from Pancratius sayin’ he is comin’ round to free me of this cursed ankle monitor,” Tasos explained. Toothless Tasos had borne the indignity of wearing the ankle monitor for three long months, ever since the vile prosecutor had insisted on having him arrested for confessing to his bigamous marriage to Stavroula. He had only been spared a prison sentence because the convicts at Paraliakos prison had been rioting on the night he was meant to be locked up. Fortunately Toothless Tasos’ riotous lifestyle of early nights interspersed with the odd visit to the taverna had not been impeded by the ankle monitor, as it didn’t actually work. Nevertheless it had chafed his flesh most uncomfortably and been a constant reminder of the folly of lawlessness.

Pursing her lips sulkily, Thea failed to respond, wondering if she could persuade Pancratius the village policeman to arrange a new ankle monitor that actually worked, on her fiancé’s leg. She considered Toothless Tasos had been acting most strangely of late, sporting a new haircut that was almost flattering. His grey streaks had disappeared overnight and his notoriously tightly sealed wallet must have been prised open to pay for his new line of modish shirts which were a marked change from his usual drip dry polyester ones. It was glaringly obvious to Thea that another woman must have caught Toothless Tasos’ eye as she couldn’t conjure up any other explanation as to why he’d suddenly decided to invest in improving his appearance.

Thea’s nose was decidedly put out of joint at the very notion the man who had pursued her so pathetically could now be unfaithful. He had been giddy with excitement at the prospect of marrying her when his divorce from Stavroula was finalised and his probationary period expired, but lately he had hastily changed the subject whenever she mentioned their wedding.

“Po po, he’ll not make a fool out of me with ‘is secrets and lies,” Thea muttered, determined to follow Toothless Tasos next time he left the house and snoop on his every move.

Chapter 4

Shocking Pink Plastic Busts

“They look like a coven of witches,” Stavroula snidely observed to Slick Socrates, gesticulating to an outside table where mail order Masha, Soula and Tassia were gathered, drinking Nescafe frappes and desperately fanning themselves to create an artificial breeze. The three women regularly met up for coffee after their antenatal classes in Paraliakos and were much relieved to hear a new doctor was opening for business in Astakos, having rented Thea’s harbour-side house as his surgery. It would spare them the long journey for their check-ups.

“They are just taking the weight off. It can’t be easy carting around those enormous pregnant bumps in this heat wave,” Socrates countered. Decidedly overheated in his lawyerly bow tie and braces he felt sympathy for the three pregnant ladies.

“Trust Masha to flaunt her belly like a shameless strumpet in that skin-tight mini dress, it’s most unseemly,” Stavroula grumbled, seemingly unaware her own flabby stomach was considerably bigger than the pregnant ones she was gossiping about.

“Here comes your old fool of a father at last,” Socrates said, pointing to Vasilis ambling slowly along on Onos, the still pregnant donkey.

“He’s very unreliable these days, always disappearing on the hunt for exotic delicacies to feed the floozy’s pampered cravings she blames on the silicone chip. All ‘is fussing over Masha leaves the washing-up piled up in my kitchen.”

“It’s only natural for him to be doting on his wife after what happened,” Slick Socrates pointed out, referring to the moment that old fool Vasilis, not long out of his coma and having only just recovered his memory after a bout of traumatic amnesia, had mistakenly been informed by a bungling policeman that his glamorous young wife had been bundled into a car boot and kidnapped. The shock had almost killed him. He’d then discovered that his darling donkey had ended up as an exploited attraction giving pleasure rides to overweight tourists on Paraliakos beach before Masha had rescued her from the donkey sanctuary. Now he fussed constantly over Masha and refused to be parted from the donkey, tethering her up at the taverna whilst he washed up.

“I ‘ave picked up yous pickled lingonberries from the post office,” Vasilis said to Masha, plonking down a parcel of jars just delivered from Russia.

“My brusnika,” Masha exclaimed delightedly, prising a lid off and immediately tucking greedily into the tart red fruit.

“It’s very bad form to eat yous own food in ‘ere,” complained a frowning Stavroula. Handing Soula a cheese sandwich she watched with disgusted horror as Soula produced a rough-hewn block of olive oil soap, deftly slicing slivers of soap and stuffing them between the bread and cheese.

“There’s no need to look at me like that, I ‘aven’t taken to eating bodily detergents. The sandwich is for Yannis,” Soula snapped. “My ‘usband is still ‘aving some very strange cravings with ‘is phantom pregnancy.”

“Whoever would ‘ave guessed soap could be so fattening,” Stavroula crowed, glancing across the harbour where a positively rotund Bald Yannis was posing for a tourist photograph with his dressed-up pet goat Agapimeni.

“It’s ‘is hormones,” Soula sighed, acknowledging her husband’s phantom pregnant belly had grown bigger than hers even though she was the one expecting twins.

“Po po, what is that girl thinking?” Stavroula mocked, watching young Sofia walk by, dragging Thea’s reluctant cat by a leash. The teenager had dyed the long suffering cat turquoise to match her latest hair colour.

“Sofia says taking cats out for ‘walkies’ is all the rage in Athens,” Tassia explained. “She likes to hashtag photos of it to Instagram.”

“Well the cat doesn’t look too thrilled,” Stavroula said sarcastically.

“She won’t walk it far, she’s just hoping Iraklis will stick ‘is ‘ead out of the supermarket and notice her,” Masha said, smug she didn’t need to resort to such obvious tactics to turn heads.

“It’s understandable,” Tassia sighed. “My mother-in-law is forever interfering in their budding romance and the poor children haven’t managed even a single date without her tagging along as a chaperone.”

Mrs Kolokotronis was indeed inordinately protective of her young charge Iraklis who she considered more of an honorary grandson than a lodger. Whilst approving of Sofia as a suitable girlfriend, she was determined to ensure young Iraklis was not trapped into a shotgun wedding due to an unplanned bundle of joy.

Sofia was duly rewarded by Iraklis sticking his head out of the supermarket doorway, looking rather alarmed by his girlfriend’s turquoise tresses. Iraklis was rather conservative by nature and wished Sofia wouldn’t keep surprising him with alarming new hair colours.

“I never thought Iraklis would grow out of ‘is acne so quickly,” mail order Masha observed.

“He’s turning into an ‘andsome lad now he’s rid of his suppurating pimples,” Tassia agreed. “Fotini wants to turn ‘im into the poster boy for her ‘er ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ which she swears is a miracle zapper of acne. Course he’s too shy to pose.”

“They is looking very cosy, I wonder what they is up to,” Stavroula remarked as Sofia, having waved goodbye to Iraklis, stopped to urgently whisper with Toothless Tasos before heading into the beauty salon.

“Well I cant’s sit ‘ere all day, Yanni will be wanting an ‘and in the ‘ardware shop,” Soula sighed, hoisting herself to her feet.

“Don’t forget to come over tomorrow for the grand opening of my tourist tat annex,” Stavroula reminded her.

The much delayed annex was finally finished and stocked to the brim with all manner of tasteless tat carefully chosen to appeal to any less than discerning tourists. The shelves were bursting with mass produced bargain priced Flokati rugs imported from China which Stavroula had no qualms about passing off as genuine hand-woven by nuns, from wool obtained by bottle-fed sheep hand-reared on the verdant plains of Epidaurus. Being an ardent collector of tat Stavroula was easily enticed to stock hideously kitsch pieces. She had a line of shocking pink plastic busts of Aristotle that transformed into plant pots when the top of his learned head was removed to be stuffed with soil, and blasphemous snow globes with an orthodox priest in traditional dress jumping on his stovepipe hat.

Stavroula had blatantly encroached into both the hardware shop and supermarket territory by stocking the popular line of patriotic lobster adorned shower curtains. She was clueless that her endless boasting about her new superior business venture had alienated most of the villagers.

Tassia shot Stavroula a filthy look as she left. The annex was in direct competition to the tourist delights they flogged in the supermarket, though she had to confess even Fat Christos drew the line at the most flagrantly tacky tat selected by Stavroula. Tassia hoped the supermarket could cope with the extra competition, unaware Fat Christos was conspiring with Bald Yannis to indulge in a spot of tourist tat annex sabotage.

Chapter 5

Positively Putrescent

“Where’s that gormless malaka Quentin when we could do with ‘is muscle?” Fotini complained, struggling alongside Nitsa to dislodge a barrel of past its best vinegar out of the taxi to roll into the kitchen.

“I told yous we should just leave it in the taxi till Pedros answers ‘is phone or till Mel gets ‘ome,” Nitsa puffed, wilting from the exertion.

“But they might not be ‘ere for hours and we needs this ‘ere vinegar to be getting on with the next batch of cure,” Fotini reasoned.

Production of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ had been ramped up to keep pace with unprecedented popular demand. Its miraculous properties as a curative for rampant acne, fungal foot infections and plagues of warts had been much lauded, leading to high demand for this hot new must-have product. Achilles the borrowed builder had been retained with the proceeds of Nitsa’s compensatory windfall to create a supposedly sterile kitchen extension now equipped with fancy gadgets and a giant stainless steel vat to blend the ingredients of the curative until it could be siphoned off into small glass bottles to be sold at exorbitant prices.

It had taken all of Slick Socrates’ lawyerly skills to win Nitsa compensation over the kidnapping ordeal she had endured at the hands of the dastardly Dastan. After being bundled into his car boot she’d waited for an opportune moment to break free from the clutches of the oily Kazakh. The moment duly came when Dastan pulled the car over on a deserted dark road with the intention of ravishing his supposed bride-prize, the magnificent mail order Masha, only to be foiled by the quick-witted kidnapped imposter Nitsa lunging at him with a car jack and reversing the car over his prostrate body for good measure.

Nitsa had called Tall Thomas on the Kazakh’s purloined mobile phone to tell him she had escaped from the hands of the oily kidnapper and was on her way home. Thomas persuaded his aunty to stop in at the nearest police station and report her abduction as it was imperative the Kazakh be apprehended for his purportedly Mafia misdeeds. The police had taken one look at the ludicrous old hag sporting long blonde hair extensions, clad in a gold beaded evening dress with a deep cut cowl back exposing the elasticated waist of her bloomers, and dismissed her as a delusional nutter. Her preposterous tale of being kidnapped by a man with lewd designs on her body only served to elicit hysterical laughter from the bumbling representatives of law and order.

Nitsa had fluttered her single remaining false eyelash incessantly in a desperate ploy to persuade the police to telephone Tall Thomas, insisting her nephew, an upstanding Greek citizen with a mobile refrigerated fish van, would verify her unbelievable story. Tall Thomas confirmed his aunty had indeed been kidnapped in a case of mistaken identity and that Interpol now had an All Points Bulletin out on the Kazakh. After conferring with the Paraliakos police the newly chastened local constabulary insisted Nitsa accompany them to the wanted Kazakh’s last known whereabouts. By the time they finally pulled up at the dark secluded spot where Nitsa had escaped Dastan the only remaining evidence he had ever been there was an oily outline of a body on the tarmac and a pair of discarded sunglasses.

The police refused to let Nitsa drive away in the Kazakh’s car, impounding it for evidence. The local police chief was dragged from his bed to interrogate Nitsa, to whom he took an instant loathing. When a search of the car revealed a number of gold bars hidden behind the door panels, the police chief had no qualms about locking Nitsa into a cell because she annoyed him intensely, rather than because he suspected her of any nefarious activities. It was this hasty and unwarranted decision that led to the police chief’s humiliating demotion and Nitsa’s lottery win of police compensation, funded by auctioning off the Kazakh’s gold bars.

“Put some welly into it Fotini,” Nitsa instructed, still grappling with the oversized barrel of out of date vinegar. “If we cant’s get it indoors it is liable to explode in this hot sunshine.”

“Thank goodness you’re back,” Hattie called out, joining the two old crones at the taxi. “I think something is amiss with the formula as the current vat of curative has a distinctly nasty smell.”

“This ‘ere vinegar will sort that out, it covers most malodorous odours,” Fotini suggested, adding, “if we can ever get it inside.”

No matter how much the three old women pushed and pulled the barrel they could not free it from the taxi door. Finally admitting defeat they retreated from the sunshine into the kitchen where Fotini phoned Prosperous Pedros, demanding he come round at once.

“What is it now mother?” Prosperous Pedros asked wearily, none too pleased to have his afternoon siesta disturbed by her shrill tone.

“Get round ‘ere at once, we ‘ave a vinegar emergency,” Fotini shouted.

“Cant’s that lazy malaka Mel deal with it?” Pedros queried impatiently.

“He’s off somewhere on important curative business,” Fotini replied. “We is in danger of bein’ blown up if yous dont’s get ‘ere at once.”

Grumbling under his breath Prosperous Pedros threw a fish-stained tee-shirt over his head and climbed into the pick-up. Driving along the harbour he noticed Mel’s van was parked near the beauty salon and cursed his mother’s house guest for spending his siesta hours canoodling with Evangelia instead of being conveniently at Fotini’s beck and call.

“It is positively putrescent in ‘ere,” Prosperous Pedros declared on entering his mother’s kitchen. “It stinks of something rotten.”

“That’s why yous ‘ave to shift the barrel of vinegar what is wedged in the taxi. We need to pour it into the curative vat to kill off this ‘orrible pong, vinegar will mask the most vilest of smells,” Nitsa gulped, trying not to breathe in.

“What on earth have you got in the vat?” Pedros asked.

“Just our usual curative ingredients of capers and other bits and bobs,” Hattie replied. “Maybe this exceptionally hot weather has caused it to spoil.”

“That rank stench is more than capers and oil,” Prosperous Pedros insisted venturing closer to the stainless steel tub. Pulling his fish-stained tee-shirt up as a nose mask he grabbed hold of the ladle to stir the vat’s contents in an exploratory fashion. “There’s something solid in ‘ere,” he declared as the ladle hit a blockage. “Mother, run out to the pick-up and grab my grappling hook.”

The three women watched with bated breath as Prosperous Pedros lowered his grappling hook into the rank smelling brew. “I’ve got ‘old of something,” he yelled, yanking the hook free to reveal the parrot slick with oil and decorated with caper berries and oregano.

“How on earth did the parrot get in there?” Hattie cried innocently, having been left in charge of the mixture.

“Never mind ‘ow it got in, is it still breathing?” Fotini screeched, demanding Pedros give it the kiss of life.

“’Ere, stand by while I unblock its airway,” Pedros commanded masterfully, pumping his fingers up on down on the bloated bird’s chest. “I think we could be too late to save it, goodness knows what amount of muck it has swallowed.”

“Save it,” Nitsa screamed. “The stuff it has swallowed is meant to be a goodly curative, not a killer potion. If the parrot croaks it wont’s be good for our business reputation.”

“’Ow can yous be so callous about my beloved parrot?” Fotini wailed, just as the parrot vomited up a stream of caper strewn olive oil and launched into a hacking cough. Sweeping the bird up in her apron she carried it outside, desperately hoping the fresh air would help to restore the parrot to its usual foul-mouthed self.

“Oh no, this whole vat full of curative is contaminated,” Hattie lamented.

“Don’t be so soft ‘Attie,” Nitsa chided. “What ‘arm can a bit of decomposing parrot do to the cure? Most folks just rub the stuff in an’ will be none the wiser once we drown out the foul stench with vinegar and a bit of extra spit. Let’s get bottling quickly.”

“And how do we explain this away?” Hattie demanded, scooping an oily feather out of the cure.

“Use yous imagination,” Nitsa shouted, dashing out to the now vinegar free taxi, suddenly aware she was late for her secret assignation with Bald Yannis.

“Malaka, I cant’s turn up looking like this,” Nitsa said to herself, practically sprinting back indoors to raid her wardrobe and indulge in a quick makeover.

Chapter 6

A Passion for Embroidery

Evangelia gazed longingly at Melecretes, desperately wishing he would get up close and personal with her. He was much too engrossed in embroidering a fancy cushion to notice how fervently she craved his attention. Her fantasy of a steamy afternoon encounter was fast fizzling out as Melecretes expended all his passion on her sewing machine.

It was three months since Evangelia had packed away her many framed photographs of her serial killers on death row pen-pals, convinced a budding romance was about to blossom with the manly moustached Melecretes. Mel had been so sympathetic when she’d revealed she was lonely, but whilst he was attentive in public they had never so much as canoodled in private even though he spent so much time in her apartment.

Throwing caution to the wind Evangelia tossed her hair seductively, crying out to the back of his head, “Melecretes take me.”

“I do wish yous would just call me Mel,” Melecretes replied, oblivious to her meaning. “Where do yous want me to take yous? I ‘ave to get this cushion finished.”

Deftly changing the subject before she could reply he asked, “Now do yous think this is the right shade of violet thread for this bear’s breech I am embroidering? It’s important to get the colour just so for the national flower of Greece.”

“What did I say?” he muttered as Evangelia flounced out with a pout, slamming the door behind her.

Evangelia felt rather foolish when she realised she had just stormed out of her own apartment. She was beginning to suspect she’d read too much into her relationship with Melecretes. She had presumed his reluctance to return to Idaho was because he was developing feelings for her but she had to admit she was way down on his list of priorities. He was in his element living at Fotini’s house where the three old crones pampered his every whim. He had an important role as head of distribution in Fotini’s new business venture and since discovering his true passion was for embroidery rather than cooking pita gyros he had been consumed by his needlework. Inspired by Fotini starting a new business in her eighties Mel had shared with Evangelia his aspiration to start a business selling Greek themed decorative cushions, swearing her to secrecy.

“Whatever’s the matter Evangelia?” mail order Masha asked, spotting her hairdresser slumped tearfully against the salon door. “Come, let’s go and sit down at the kafenion and yous can tell me all about it.”

“It’s Mel,” Evangelia confided, batting a persistent wasp away. “I thought he was genuinely interested in me but the only thing he comes round to take advantage of is my sewing machine. It’s all my fault, ever since I told him about Marvin the Mincer’s obsession with stuffing embroidered pillows Mel has become addicted to embroidering cushions.”

“Well yous only need to worry if he wants to stuff ‘em with hair from the salon. Still, it is an odd pastime for a manly moustached Greek, perhaps Mel isn’t so manly after all,” Masha snidely insinuated, raising her carefully plucked eyebrows suggestively.

“His embroidery is for a business venture he’s planning,” Evangelia blurted out, indiscreetly disclosing Melecretes’ confidential cushion empire intentions. “I just don’t know how to win his affection Masha. It’s so long since a man who isn’t locked up was interested in me that I may have misread the signals.”

“A man shows yous ‘ow he feels by showering yous with compliments and lavishing yous with jewels. ‘As Mel done that?” Masha asked.

“Well he noticed when I bleached my moustache and he did bring me a present yesterday.”

“Was it solid gold or a shabby imitation,” the gold-digging Russian questioned.

“Actually it was a free bottle of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All.’ He hoped it might ease the rash I got from bleaching my moustache. Oh, what am I doing wrong Masha?”

“Well yous is never going to turn ‘eads in those flat lace-up shoes, yous ‘ave to make more of an effort Evangelia. A woman should always wear ‘eels. No man can resist a well turned ankle.”

“But I’m on my feet all day and stilettos play havoc with my bunions.”

“Po po, yous ‘ave to expect some discomfort in the name of glamour. Yous looks too prim and proper in that frumpy plain blouse buttoned up to yous chin and that drab knee-length skirt,” Masha advised. Ripping Evangelia’s blouse open to reveal her cleavage Masha said, “this will ‘ave to do for now till we can sort yous out a new wardrobe.”

“Oh Masha, you’re so clever, I’ve let myself get too staid and frumpy. A new wardrobe could be just the thing to distract Mel from his embroidery and make him sit up and notice me. I’m so happy I confided in you, I’d got so set in my ways the next step would have been settling for a hideous old lady dress from the hardware shop.”

“Perish the thought,” Masha shuddered. “We’ll go shopping tomorrow before I do the weather. Yous can leave Sofia to ‘andle the salon.”

Chapter 7

Done up Like a Dog’s Dinner

“Where are yous off to all done up like a dog’s dinner? ‘Ave yous got a date with Fotis?” Fotini asked, eyeing up her friend’s ridiculously gaudy appearance. Nitsa’s stick thin legs were revealed in all their hairy glory, poking out from a pair of garish neon-orange Hawaiian shorts embellished with clashing pink hibiscus flowers. She had paired the offending shorts with a red sequin boob tube over a thermal vest and stuffed her heat-swollen feet into a pair of parrot-chewed black plimsolls. The only salvageable hair on Nitsa’s head, following the removal of the long blonde hair extensions, was her natural grey, cropped in an unbecoming short back and side’s style.

“I ‘ave a secret assignation with Bald Yannis. He ‘as finally come to ‘is senses and realised he needs a real hot-blooded woman,” Nitsa revealed, liberally applying bronze blusher in a desperate attempt to disguise a scabby mosquito bite on her chin.

“Why are you wearing Quentin’s shorts?” Hattie asked entering the bedroom, instantly recognizing her son’s unique style of summer clothing. “Did you steal them from his washing line?”

“Po po, I’m not the elusive underwear thief, I just borrowed ‘em,” Nitsa retorted defensively. “It’s too hot to wear a normal dress an’ these looked nice an’ bright.”

“She ‘as a hot date with the hardware shop man,” Fotini twitched in a botched parody of a wink.

“Are you sure you have the right end of the stick Nitsa?” Hattie asked incredulously. Nitsa’s bizarre infatuation with the charmless Bald Yannis was a running joke. “Perhaps Bald Yannis needs a bottle of our ‘Cure’ to encourage hair growth.”

“He phoned me an’ said he wants me to meet ‘im at the back door of the ‘ardware shop and to tell no one about it; it’s all hush hush top secret. He ‘as to be planning to seduce me,” Nitsa swooned with anticipation. “Help me find my other false eyelash, he wont’s be able to resist a bit of fluttering.”

“’Appen he wants to get yous alone for nefarious purposes,” Fotini speculated. “I dont’s trust the malaka. Best if I come along and keep my eyes peeled, I couldn’t endure it if yous was kidnapped again.”

“Po po, I wouldn’t complain if ‘andsome Bald Yannis stuffed me in his boot and tried to ravish me,” Nitsa giggled girlishly.

“Eureka, I think this is your other eyelash,” Hattie shouted. Having mislaid her spectacles she was peering intently at a hairy black caterpillar that looked convincingly lash like. “Now, where did we put the superglue? Hold still Nitsa while I attach it.”

“I still think it’s best if I come along,” Fotini insisted. “I can keep watch an’ make sure no one disturbs yous an’ distract that plain lame wife of ‘is if she puts in an appearance.”

“But can yous bear to leave the sickly parrot?” Nitsa asked.

“I’ll bring it along, it seems much improved,” Fotini said, pulling the parrot out of the top of her hideous old lady dress where she’d been sheltering it against the warmth of her non-existent bosom. The parrot left an oily smear across the front of Fotini’s hideous old lady dress.

“So that’s what that strange shape was, I thought yous ‘ad stolen one of the mail order trollop’s padded bras,” Nitsa laughed. “The parrot still looks a bit too peaky for an outing in the taxi.”

“The bird will be ‘andily placed for the new doctor’s surgery if it ‘as a relapse,” Fotini argued, determined to play Nitsa’s sidekick, convinced Bald Yannis could not possibly have romantic intentions.

“This false eyelash feels a bit knobbly Hattie,” Nitsa remarked.

“I may have been a tad overgenerous with the rather lumpy superglue,” Hattie confessed. “It was difficult to see what I was doing without my glasses.”

“Well it looks as though yous stuck a dead caterpillar on ‘er lid,” Fotini scoffed; clueless her observation was spot on.

“Now for the finishing touch, Bald Yannis wont’s be able to resist me when he gets a whiff of my scent,” Nitsa preened, lavishly spraying herself with the contents of the nearest atomiser.

The three old crones were immediately asphyxiated by the pungent smell of super strength fly killer and the parrot keeled over.

“So much for ‘parrot safe bug spray’,” Hattie said reading the canister’s label, having discovered her glasses had been suspended from a string around her neck all the time.

“It just needs some air,” Fotini insisted, frantically fanning the parrot with her pinny.

“If yous is coming along ‘urry up,” Nitsa urged, rushing out to the old Mercedes taxi. “I dont’s want to be keeping a red-bloodied man waiting. The excitement might be too much for ‘im.”

Chapter 8

Springing a Meringue Surprise

“I’m just off to the kafenion, my little bougatsa,” Toothless Tasos told Thea, sloping hurriedly out of the door.

“Po po, the kafenion at this late ‘our.  Does the eejit suppose he thinks I’ll fall for that red herring when I know how much he’s been wanting to find out who stole the canary in this compelling episode of ‘Seven Deadly Mothers-in-Law’?” Thea asked the turquoise cat.

Leaving her favourite soap opera playing in the background Thea discreetly followed Tasos from the house. The suspicion that her fiancé was up to no good was confirmed when he walked past the kafenion without breaking his stride.

Toothless Tasos stomped into the church, relieved it was free of worshippers as his mission was top secret. He hoped the Pappas had the paper confirming his ecclesiastical divorce from Stavroula at the ready. He was in no mood to endure one of the Pappas’ god bothering sermons.

“’Ave yous got the orthodox divorce paper done yet?” Toothless Tasos demanded of the priest.

“I should have it soon. You clearly don’t appreciate the complexity of obtaining this vital paper in such a tight time frame,” the Pappas stalled.

“Yous ‘ave ‘ad three months,” an exasperated Tasos pointed out.

“Even ecclesiastical wheels are slow to turn amid the stagnant pond of Greek bureaucracy, without the help of a little oil to grease the process,” the Pappas fired back with calculated precision.

“Cut to the chase, ‘ow much does yous want?” Tasos snarled, curling his lip in disdain at the Pappas’ obvious attempt to extort an exorbitant brown envelope out of him.

Opening his Bible the Pappas pointed to a figure pencilled in the margin of Corinthians, causing Toothless Tasos to whistle so shrilly he only narrowly avoided swallowing his upper row of dentures.

“Po po, that’s a bit pricey. Dont’s forget I ‘ad to sort out a civil divorce paper and rummage through all Thea’s drawers to find copies of all ‘er dead ‘usbands death certificates too.”

“You can’t put a price on true wedded bliss blessed by a churchly union,” the Pappas smirked. “Of course you can always carry on living in sin or settle for an ungodly paperwork ceremony at the Dimarcheio.”

“Yous will ‘ave yous money tomorrow. Just make sure yous ‘ave the paper and don’t go blabbing. I want to surprise Thea with this wedding,” Tasos shouted, knocking over a display of lighted candles in his haste to leave.

“Such a tight-wad,” the Pappas muttered, stamping on the hem of his long black clerical dress to put out the fire.

“Perhaps I misjudged ‘im,” Thea said to herself watching her fiancé leave the church. “Maybe he’s got religion rather than another woman.”

Thea’s hackles rose as she observed Tasos furtively looking around before cagily entering Tassia’s house. “Surely he can’t be carrying on with Tassia, a happily married pregnant woman,” she muttered, dismissing her suspicion as the product of a vivid imagination. Catching sight of Tassia’s husband Fat Christos behind the cheese counter in the supermarket Thea was once again consumed by the green-eyed monster. “Well she’s meeting my man behind ‘er husband’s back an’ there was all that talk about baby Andromeda’s father being Slick Socrates. They say there’s no smoke without fire. ‘Appen Tassia is an ‘usband stealing trollop.”

“Did yous manage to find a wedding dress for my goddess?” Toothless Tasos asked Tassia who he’d roped into finding a white bridal gown for the secret wedding he was planning.

“Oh yes, I brought it back from Paraliakos this morning, all big and puffy just like yous wanted. I wont’s show it to yous, it’s bad luck for the groom to see the dress before the big day,” Tassia said.

Tassia wasn’t at all sure the frothy meringue confection would be to Thea’s elegant taste but Tasos had been quite adamant that nothing less than a fabulously frilly ball gown, at a knockdown price, would do for his beloved. She was reluctant to voice her doubts that Thea might be less than thrilled to have her own wedding sprung upon her without any opportunity to choose her own dress.

“Look at me, look at me,” Andromeda demanded, throwing herself at Toothless Tasos. The vocal toddler tripped over the hemline of the flouncy flamingo pink flower girl dress she had refused to take off since leaving the bridal shop.

“Oh dear, I’m afraid Andy has given the game away, her dress is an exact miniature replica of the wedding gown I chose for Thea,” Tassia revealed. “Except Thea’s dress isn’t that sickly pink.”

“It’s very weddingy,” Tasos said, beginning to worry. He couldn’t imagine Thea ever choosing a dress like that and he wondered why he had been so set on springing a massive white meringue on her.

“What’s that on yous ‘ead child?” he asked, hoping the bilious green furry bonnet resembling a well-worn bathmat wouldn’t be replicated as part of Thea’s bridal outfit.

“It’s an ‘at made out of cuddly sip-lly,” Andy lisped, pirouetting pretentiously. Tasos signed with relief, realising the ugly child had concocted a hat from her much bedraggled cuddly syphilis educational soft toy. The stuffed microbe was by now a walking advert for the danger of germs, so grungy it was almost alive with unhygienic microorganisms. Andromeda had refused all requests to relinquish it to the washing machine since Fat Christos had bought it for her in the Museum of Clean on their recent visit to Idaho, throwing a tantrum every time Tassia suggested introducing it to soap.

Tasos presumed Tassia would have sorted Thea out with a veil and wondered if it would be prudent to suggest a matching one for the child to conceal her hairy sideburns and recent acquisition of a stubbly chin. He could imagine the Pappas charging a fumigation fee if the child’s cuddly hat made an appearance in church.

“Does yous really think Thea will like the dress?” he asked Tassia.

“I’m sure she’ll love it,” Tassia lied, knowing the bridal shop had a strict ‘no returns’ policy on its bargain basement priced sale stock.

“Well I’d be much obliged if yous could ‘ide the dress ‘ere until the morning of the wedding an’ if yous could tell little Andromeda she ‘as to keep it secret.”

“Who’s in the know?” Tassia asked.

“Well the Pappas of course as we’ll be getting wed in church. Yous and Fat Christos, an’ Sofia ‘as been secretly helpin’ me to get suitably styled. She took me in hand sayin’ she wouldn’t ‘ave me showing her Nona up at the altar.”

“I did notice yous hair had undergone a revamp.”

“Aye, that was Sofia’s doing, she says I’m a natural model.”

Tassia suppressed a sigh, being in on the secret that Sofia’s ambition was to style corpses in her uncle’s funeral parlour. The teenager was not above manipulatively flattering anyone who would agree to let her loose with her trainee scissors.

“Taso, sit down an’ I’ll pour you an ouzo,” Tassia invited, wondering how best to broach the delicate subject. “Are yous sure yous is doin’ the right thing throwing Thea a surprise wedding? Yous is depriving ‘er of all the excitement.”

“It was the most romantic gesture I could think of to sweep Thea off ‘er feet,” Tasos replied. “The only problem is I want all ‘er friends to be in the church, but if I invite ‘em it will let the cat out of the bag before the big day an’ then Thea is bound to ‘ear word on the gossip vine.”

“You must get the Pappas to announce it through the church tannoy just before the service,” Tassia suggested.

“Aye, that’s a good idea,” Toothless Tasos agreed, wondering how much extra the grasping priest would demand for this additional service.

“And what about the wedding breakfast? You cant’s leave it to the last minute, catering takes advance planning.”

“I was thinkin’ of asking Stavroula to whip up a spread of mezedes.”

“But if yous let Stavroula in on yous plans they wont’s be a secret no more. The woman is an insufferable gossip,” Tassia pointed out. “’Ow about I let my mother-in-law in on yous plans an’ between us we can rustle up a meze feast.

“Well nothin’ too fancy, I ‘ave to do it on the cheap. Can Mrs Kolokotronis be trusted to keep ‘er trap shut?”

“I’ll tell ‘er it’s important to yous. I can’t do it without ‘er elp, I’m no domestic goddess, Taso. Yous just get Thea over ‘ere on Friday morning to get into ‘er dress an’ then invite everyone back ‘ere after the church service an’ we’ll ‘ave food in the garden.”

“It’s so kind of yous to go to so much trouble to ‘elp,” Tasos said with gratitude, knocking back a second ouzo and wondering how to distract Thea whilst he dug up his secret stash of cash hidden under the courgette patch, to pay the Pappas.

Toothless Tasos’ concern about distracting Thea proved irrelevant. By the time he left Tassia’s house Thea had worked herself into such a jealous frenzy she had taken herself off to Stavroula’s kitchen to have a good moan about the cheating antics of her tight-wad fiancé.

Chapter 9

A Flasher’s Mac

“Good grief woman, I told yous to be discreet for this meeting,” Bald Yannis hissed, stepping out of the back door into the shadowy narrow alley behind the hardware shop. Catching sight of Nitsa’s Hawaiian shorts he hastily put his sunglasses on to avoid being dazzled.

“I’m all yours Yanni. Dont’s worry if yous cant’s contain yourself, I ‘ave that effect on men,” Nitsa pouted, batting her one false eyelash and one hairy black caterpillar in the deluded assumption she looked enticingly sexy.

“Why ‘ave yous got a dead caterpillar stuck to yous eye?” Bald Yannis asked, lowering his sunglasses for closer inspection and breathing in an unhealthy amount of the chemically concocted super strength fly killer he’d palmed off on Fotini as a supposedly parrot safe bug spray. “Oh never mind, the important thing is I ‘ave a proposition to put to yous.”

“Ooh Yanni, yous can propose anything indecent, I still ‘ave very flexible joints.”

“I think yous ‘ave got the wrong idea, yous witless old hag,” Bald Yannis recoiled in horror.

“Ooh, I just loves it when yous sweet talks me,” Nitsa simpered.

“Get a grip. I needs yous ‘elp to sabotage the grand opening of Stavroula’s new tourist tat annex tomorrow. The insufferable woman could put a big dent in my business by undercutting the price of my lobster adorned shower curtains,” Bald Yannis explained.

“Ooh, I could be persuaded to ‘elp yous,” Nitsa enthused. “There’s no love lost between me an’ Stavroula since the miserable cow sided with the public ‘ealth inspector against Fotini and Melecretes. If she’d put in a good word for them they might not have been landed with that enormous fine. She ‘ad no gratitude for them running ‘er taverna whilst she was up at the ‘ospital.”

“Would that be the fine they got for poisoning customers with manky fish meze plucked from the beauty salon’s wart infected pedicure tank?” Bald Yannis asked sarcastically.

“That would be the very same poisonous dish what put Dastan the Kazakh out of action before he could finalise his blackmail plans with the corrupt mayor,” Nitsa astutely pointed out. “Dont’s write me off as a fool just ‘cos yous knows I ‘ave indecent designs on yous body.”

Bald Yannis, admitting the truth of Nitsa’s words, wondered if he had underestimated the ridiculous old bag. It was only because the conniving Kazakh had been confined to the bathroom following his close encounter with Fotini’s tainted fish meze that his plans to open a polluting gold mine in the village had been successfully scuppered.

“So is yous in or not? Yous ‘ave agreed Stavroula deserves takin’ down a peg or two,” he wheedled.

“What’s in it for me?” Nitsa demanded, trying but failing to look menacing.

“If yous can sabotage ‘er tourist tat annex opening yous will get some free curative ingredients from the supermarket an’ a choice selection of hideous old lady dresses from my ‘ardware shop.”

“I’d rather yous paid me another way,” Nitsa said in her most suggestive manner, nudging closer to Bald Yannis.

“Well yous can always see if Fat Christos wants to play along with yous desperate and perverted desires, but the only thing yous will get from me is some hideous free frocks,” Bald Yannis pronounced emphatically.

“So Fat Christos is in on it too,” Nitsa mused.

“Yes, he is worried about the competition to his own line of tourist tat,” Bald Yannis confirmed. The two shop owners had agreed to put their differences aside in their efforts to thwart Stavroula’s new venture.

“I’ll do it, but on top of the dresses I want yous word yous will support me in my campaign for mayor.”

“Yous is standing for mayor?” Bald Yannis spluttered in mirth.

“What’s so funny? Is yous a malaka chauvinist pig what thinks a woman isn’t up to the job? If I’m clever enough for a bit of sabotage just think what I could achieve with my feet under the table of high office.”

Talk of Nitsa’s feet drew Yannis’ eyes to her parrot chewed plimsolls as he contemplated her words. He’d been planning to cast his electoral vote in favour of Moronic Mitsos but he could see the advantage of having this pliable and gullible old woman at his disposal.

“It’s a deal. Yous will ‘ave my vote if yous dont’s make a mess of the tourist tat annex sabotage,” Bald Yannis promised.

“Po po, I can guarantee Stavroula’s grand opening will be an epic disaster of chaos an’ mess,” Nitsa laughed.

The ratchety sound of hacking coughing echoed suddenly in the alleyway, causing the two oddly matched conspirators to pause their scheming. When silence returned they resumed their plotting, oblivious that the Pappas was lurking behind the bins eavesdropping on them, with a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth.

“’Ow will yous create chaos?” Bald Yannis asked.

“Best yous dont’s know about anything clandestine,” Nitsa said, affecting a feeble Mata Hari impersonation.

“Well yous cant’s go undercover looking like that, yous stand out more than a goat in a camel show. ‘Ang on a minute, I ‘ave an old raincoat in the shop,” Bald Yannis said, momentarily disappearing and returning with a belted beige mackintosh recovered from the dusty depths of his lost property box.

“There’s more to yous than meets the eye Yanni. Whoever would ‘ave guessed you’d ‘ave a flasher’s mac handy?” Nitsa said, grabbing the grubby raincoat. “No one will recognise me in this,” she chuckled, disappearing inside its enveloping bulk.

Their furtive plans were interrupted by an out-of-breath Fotini attempting to run down the alleyway.

“Nitsa come quick,” she gasped. “The parrot ‘as ‘ad a relapse. We ‘ave to get it to the new doctor.”

Chapter 10

Paella and Sangria

“If yous is just ‘ere for a chat yous may as well give me an ‘and with washing these pots and pans,” Stavroula told Thea. “That useless fool of a father of mine ‘as taken off early to rub expensive lotions into the mail order floozy’s swollen ankles. I cant’s imagine why she insists on tottering round on those tarty heels in ‘er condition, it’s not seemly.”

“I can’t picture Masha in flats,” Thea opined. “I can understand ‘er still wanting to look glamorous though. Don’t forget she has ‘er public personae as a famous weather girl to maintain.”

“Po po, she’s an overrated strumpet,” Stavroula groused, never missing an opportunity to bad-mouth her young step-mother. “Why are yous lookin’ so glum Thea, yous ‘ave a face like a slapped trout?”

“It’s Tasos. He’s been sneaking around. I suspicion he’s up to no good,” Thea sighed.

“I can’t see why yous bother with ‘im Thea, he always was a useless ‘usband to me. He ‘ad no get up an’ go about ‘im.”

“He got up and went all the way to Australia to get away from yous,” Thea snarled back defensively. “An’ yous didn’t do a better job of keeping ‘old of the cheating Kostas.”

Stavroula had to keep her jaws clamped as tight as a vice to swallow the retort on her lips. It wouldn’t do for her to reveal that Kostas’ cheating ways were nothing more than a convenient fabrication put out in a calculated move to deflect any suspicion she had done away with her second husband.

“But third time lucky eh Thea, Socrates is a devoted fiancé and we are planning the most bigly wedding,” Stavroula boasted. Noticing the dejected look on her friend’s face she asked, “’Ow are yous wedding plans going with Tasos?”

“They aren’t, he changes the subject whenever I mention it,” Thea admitted. “That’s what I was trying to tell yous, he’s been acting most oddly. I just caught ‘im sneaking into Tassia’s ‘ouse while ‘er ‘usband was at the supermarket. I’m not sure I trust ‘em together. Dont’s forget there was all that gossip about ‘er carrying on with your Socrates.”

“All lies, don’t forget it was impossible for ‘im to ‘ave got ‘er pregnant as he’d ‘ad the snip,” Stavroula bristled; annoyed at her stirring up old rumours. Still in a bad mood she stomped out to take the order from a couple of tourists, leaving Thea to mull over Tasos’ possible betrayal.

“Can yous believe them English eejits?” Stavroula scowled on her return to the kitchen. “Demanding food what isn’t on the menu.”

“What does they want?” Thea asked with disinterest, her mind still occupied with Toothless Tasos’ strange carryings on.

“Paella an’ sangria; whatever that is.”

“Paella is a Spanish dish with, I think, rice and snails, an’ sangria is a fruity Spanish wine,” Thea explained, showing off her more worldly sophistication.

“Po po, I’m done with cookin’ any of that foreign muck,” Stavroula sneered, recalling the humiliation she had suffered when attempting to cook an English Christmas dinner on the televised cookery show audition. “Why cant’s people just be ‘appy with goodly Greek pastitsio. Still I ‘ave some snail and tomato stew that’s not quite due for the bin, I’ll serve it up with some rice an’ tell ‘em it’s paella. Thea, throw a few bits of nectarine in that jug and pour some Retsina over it. That should satisfy their odd demands for fruity wine.”

Stavroula busied herself with the snail stew she intended to pass off as paella while she shared some news with Thea. “Uncle Lukas is coming back to his ‘ouse in the village.”

“Po po, not Lecherous Lukas, the pervy sex pest,” Thea gasped in surprise, forgetting all about her possibly cheating fiancé. “It must be years since he’s been back. I’m surprised he’s got the nerve to show ‘is face ‘ere again.”

“That’s no way to talk about my rich uncle and besides that’s all in the past,” Stavroula declared, hoping to brush her uncle’s previous indiscretions under the carpet.

“Yous ‘ave changed yous tune, I never ‘eard yous say a good word about ‘im,” Thea said.

“Well he is family. It’s time to let bygones be bygones,” Stavroula snapped.

“But he isn’t technically yous family if yous think about it,” Thea argued. “Now yous know that old fool Vasilis is yous natural father it means yous isn’t really related to Lecherous Lukas.”

Thea’s logic took the wind out of the grasping Stavroula who always had one eye on money grubbing ways to increase her wealth. Her ‘uncle’ Lukas was worth a small fortune which she hoped to inherit, having failed miserably in her attempts to get Vasilis to make her his sole beneficiary. She had recently taken to telephoning Lukas at his home in Athens, encouraging him to return to Astakos where he owned the finest house in the village, scheming to at the very least extract a fat dowry out of him for her wedding to Slick Socrates.

Stavroula realised Thea was correct and Lukas was no longer technically her uncle. Lukas was the step-brother of Gregoris, the man who’d been married to her mother Melina and had raised Stavroula, thinking she was his daughter. Gregoris had remained unaware that Stavroula was the result of a passionate encounter between Melina and Vasilis in an overgrown olive grove. Melina only revealed Stavroula’s true paternity in her death bed confession to the Pappas who took advantage of the secret to try to blackmail that old fool Vasilis.

“It would break Lukas’ ‘eart to learn I’m not ‘is real flesh an’ blood,” Stavroula hastily improvised. “Please dont’s let on to Lukas, Thea.”

“Well it’s none of my business, I’m sure. The last thing I want to do is ‘ave any dealings with the letch,” Thea huffed. “But if yous don’t want ‘im to find out the truth yous will ‘ave to get that old fool Vasilis to keep ‘is mouth shut.”

“Leave ‘im to me,” Stavroula said, scooping up two plates of not quite rancid snail stew to carry out to the starving tourists.

“Paella,” she informed the tourists, plonking the dishes down with a warning scowl that brooked no complaints.

“Gracias,” the couple carefully enunciated, determined to show off their best phrase book Spanish, convinced they had flown out to a little known unspoilt area of Spain.

Chapter 11

A Pungently Presumptuous Guest

Hattie was painstakingly plucking parrot feathers out of the curative when the strangled spluttering of a clapped out two-stroke caught her attention. Peering through the kitchen window her mouth dropped open in amazement at the ridiculous sight of Quentin and Deirdre crammed compactly onto the ancient motorcycle held together with more rust than paintwork. Even after the engine petered to a halt Deirdre’s arms remained tightly locked around the waist of a grubby old gent balancing a goat on his lap. Quentin, bringing up the rear of this queer quartet, was clinging onto a helmeted Deirdre with one arm. His other arm was raised above his head to avoid stabbing his wife in the back with the spiky bunch of artichokes he was holding, a generous gift from the goat-herder.

Rushing from the house Hattie risked possible impalement on the prickly pear plants by taking the perilous short cut over the garden wall; such was her haste to satisfy her curiosity.

“My my, I ‘ardly recognised yous Fotini,” Pedros the goat herd called out, winking lewdly at Hattie who he blindly mistook for the object of his once youthful ardour. “Yous ‘ave put some meat on yous bones since I last saw yous.”

“Pedro, this is my mother Hattie,” Quentin corrected, shakily climbing down from the motorcycle. “Mother, this is Pedros who kindly brought us down from his village of Ankinari when we ran into car difficulties. He’s an old friend of Fotini.”

“Beggin’ yous pardon Kyria for mistaking yous for Fotini,” Pedros said, prising himself free of Deirdre’s grasp and springing from the motorcycle with a surprisingly sprightly step to plant a slobbering kiss on Hattie’s hand. “Now I’m up close I can sees yous ‘ave beautiful blue eyes, not mucky brown ones like Fotini. ’Appen yous dont’s ‘ave a goat phobia either.”

Wiping her wet hand on her dress Hattie had no time to wonder if the old goat-herder would scrub up into something resembling presentable. Rushing forward she was just in time to prevent a shell shocked Deirdre from wobbling sideways off the motorbike. “Give me a hand Quentin,” she shouted, “Deirdre doesn’t seem herself.”

“She’s had too much sun followed by a traumatic over the precipice moment. I think whizzing down the mountain on this precarious motorcycle may have been too much for her delicate sensibilities,” Quentin explained.

Deirdre was incapable of mouthing anything other than gibberish as Hattie and Quentin led her into the house, closely followed by Pedros the goat-herder who immediately zoned in on a bottle of five-star Metaxa and poured an enormous medicinal glass for poor Deirdre and another one for himself.

“He’s a bit pungent,” Hattie hissed to Quentin, unwittingly providing the perfect moniker to plant before Pedros’ name to prevent him from being confused with Fotini’s son Prosperous Pedros.

“So you live in the village named for an artichoke? I presume that explains Quentin’s fresh vegetable haul,” Hattie said in an effort to make polite conversation.

“Their ‘earts ‘ave aphrodisiacal properties,” Pungent Pedros pronounced, eyeing up Hattie’s stout bosom with a libidinous look that set her pulse racing.

“I’ve always fancied having a go at bottling artichoke hearts in extra virgin. I shall don my protective rubber gloves and tackle them tomorrow,” Quentin beamed, happy to have an excuse to use up some of their superlative hand-picked oil.

“Pedros is quite keen to meet up with Fotini again,” Quentin told his mother.

“She’s not at home I’m afraid, she went off with Nitsa in the taxi, they could be gone hours,” Hattie revealed, happily noting Pungent Pedros didn’t appear to be too devastated by this news, being otherwise occupied by leering lasciviously at her.

Having knocked back enough brandy to put a dent in her stupor Deirdre noticed the goat had climbed onto the sofa, settling down to chew its way through her favourite decorative throw cushion. “What on earth is that goat doing indoors?” she queried, perplexed as to why the whiffy creature had been ferried along on their travels.

“It’s always best to keep new goats close at first, gives ‘em a chance to get familiar like with their new owners,” Pungent Pedros explained.

“We can’t possibly keep it,” Deirdre spluttered. “Look at the chaos that ensued last time we tried to keep a goat next door to the goat-hating Fotini.”

“Did-Rees, yous ‘ave the wrong end of the stick. I want’s the goat to get used to me. I ‘ave to say it was a grand present yous gifted me, it will make an ‘andsome addition to my herd. I’ll be taking it ‘ome with me when I’ve ‘ad another brandy an’ perhaps a bite to eat if yous is up to a bit of cookin’; I’m ‘ungry enough to eat an ‘orse.”

Deirdre sprang from her chair, dragging Quentin along to the kitchen, hissing, “What are we to do, he seems to be under the impression we gifted that goat to him rather than realising it was just some random creature that hitched a lift from the mountain?”

“I think the best thing to do is keep schtum Deirdre. We didn’t mean to kidnap the goat; it was Achilles the borrowed builder who threw it into the car. Pungent Pedros may be offended if we tell him it wasn’t our intention to gift it to him, after all he was very kind bringing us home and pressing those artichokes on us,” Quentin said.

“At least if he takes it home with him it will get the ghastly creature out of our living room and put a stop to its chewing through our soft furnishings,” Deirdre concurred. “Now do try and get rid of him whilst I pop upstairs and have a shower, my sunburn is killing me.”

“But he appears to have invited himself for dinner,” Quentin pointed out, watching Deirdre’s sun reddened face turn puce with annoyance at the prospect of catering to their pungently presumptuous guest. “You get spruced up quickly and I’ll invite Pedros to join us at the taverna for dinner. Can you stand one more turn on his motorcycle? It will save us the walk,” Quentin suggested hastily.

“You are quite insane Quentin if you think anything will induce me to get back onto that mechanical death trap. You go along with him to ‘Mono Ellinka Trofima’ and I will stroll along shortly with your mother.”

“Yes dear,” Quentin agreed meekly, realising he would have to forgo his shower to do her bidding and affronted his wife hadn’t noticed his many bleeding flesh wounds from his perilous journey with the artichokes.

“And don’t forget to take the goat with you,” Deirdre reminded him.

Pungent Pedros, readily accepting Quentin’s offer of a slap up meal at the taverna, was disappointed to discover neither Deirdre nor Hattie would be getting up close and personal with him on the motorcycle but happy to hear he’d have the pleasure of their company for dinner. Settling the goat on his lap he wordlessly handed Quentin the ancient crash helmet.

“I’ll just pop home and change,” Hattie called up to Deirdre, before skipping back over the garden wall with a positive spring in her step. Old Pedros the goat herder may be a bit pungent but he had lavished more male attention on her than any man since her fake fiancé Randolph with his cruel catfish scam, even complimenting her on the blueness of her eyes. Hattie’s head was full of possible wardrobe choices for the evening as she tried to decide between a floral shirtwaist dress and a light cashmere twinset in powder blue.

Entering her bedroom to make the choice she was confronted with the grotesque sight of Melecretes prancing in front of the mirror, wearing her very best twinset paired with her most precious pearls. Below the twinset, black stockings edged up towards the hemline of Mel’s boxer shorts, with his feet painstakingly stuffed into a pair of too small high heels.

Chapter 12

Bald Yannis is Diagnosed with a Syndrome

Doctor Konstantinos, the new medic who had rented Thea’s harbour-side house for his Practice, was not best pleased to have his late siesta snooze disturbed by two old hags hammering on his door, demanding he treat a sickly parrot.

“Do I look like a veterinarian? I don’t do parrots,” he said with lofty condescension.

“I dont’s care if yous eat meat or not,” Fotini snapped. “The parrot ‘as ‘ad a relapse an’ could croak at any moment.”

Pushing the white-coated pompous middle-aged medic to one side Nitsa barged straight in, saying, “We ‘ave cash, there’s not a lot of that around these days. Yous can expect ‘alf the villagers will be demanding credit or attempting to pay yous by bartering, so be grateful we ‘ave the readies.”

“Cash you say. Bring the bird in then, but don’t be expecting a miracle,” Doctor Konstantinos agreed, conscious he would need to make regular payments to Thea to cover his rent and alarmed at the prospect of pauperous patients pressing to pay him with peppers, potatoes and pomegranates from their gardens, in lieu of cash.

“Now what appears to be the problem?” the doctor asked, looking down at the practically comatose parrot sprawled out on his examination table, leaving an oily outline on the white protective paper.

“It swallowed a whole lot of curative after nearly drownin’ in a vat of it,” Fotini replied.

“I am a great sceptic when it comes to alternative medicines,” the doctor said snootily. “How long has the parrot been seeing this unorthodox quack?”

“What is yous on about Doctor, the parrot was perfectly ‘ealthy till it nearly drowned? It ‘asn’t been ‘aving any alternative medicines.”

Shaking his head in confusion the doctor argued they had just told him the parrot had swallowed a curative which he could only presume was not prescribed by a qualified parrot doctor but by some dubious holistic chancer.

“No, the parrot must have fell in the curative when Hattie ‘ad ‘er back turned. Pedros ‘ad to get it out with ‘is grappling hook an’ by then it had swallowed a lot of gunk,” Nitsa explained slowly, wondering if the doctor was a reject from some obscure medical school with brown envelope diplomas as he seemed to have a hard time understanding the patently obvious.

“What is in this curative it swallowed?” the doctor asked, wondering if the two old women were being deliberately dense.

“Po po, yous can’t expect us to give yous the recipe, it is top secret,” Fotini sniffed. “Every Thomas, Adonis and Harris would be attempting to emulate it if word got out.

“If you want me to help the blasted parrot I need to know what it swallowed,” Doctor Konstantinos insisted.

“Well I will ‘ave to get Slick Socrates to sue yous if yous reveal our trade secrets,” Nitsa warned him, before begrudgingly listing olive oil, capers, vinegar, garlic and oregano as the vital ingredients. “The doctor dont’s need to know about the spit,” she whispered to Fotini. “Everyone knows that is ‘armless.”

“Well each of those ingredients by itself is most healthy, but if the bird was submerged in them they could have clogged up its airway. Please step into the waiting room whilst I make a small surgical incision to aid its breathing,” the doctor said, wielding a large scalpel.

“We’d prefer to stay and ‘old it down, we ain’t squeamish,” Fotini said flatly.

“Speak for yourself Fotini,” Nitsa said, turning her back as the doctor set to the parrot with his scalpel. She turned round just in time to witness the doctor inserting a plastic straw into the parrot’s cut throat and sucking out a soggy clump of oily capers before deftly sewing the parrot back together.

“I ‘ope the parrot ‘asn’t lost its memory like what that old fool Vasilis did when he came out of his coma,” Fotini worried. “It would be a great loss if it forgot ‘ow to call K-Went-In a pervert.”

“’Ere don’t be wasting those capers, it took ‘ours for Hattie to pick ‘em,” Nitsa cried, grabbing the caper clogged plastic straw and sticking it in the pocket of Bald Yannis’ oversized belted mac as Doctor Konstantinos made a mental note to omit capers from his future diet. Fotini whooped with delight when the parrot stirred on the examining table and croaked “K-Went-In is a pervert.”

“It’s a miracle. It still ‘as all it faculties,” Fotini gushed, completely forgetting herself and planting a smacker of a kiss on the doctor’s head. She had the grace to be mortified when the pompous doctor declared “I don’t expect to be sexually harassed by my patients.”

“I dont’s know what came over me, I’ll ‘ave yous know I ‘ave a lifelong aversion to kissing men.”

“An’ strictly speaking Fotini isn’t yous patient. Yous should be ‘appy it was ‘er and not the parrot what kissed yous, its beak can do a lot of damage,” Nitsa said. “Now would yous prefer to be paid in curative or lemons, we ‘ave some lovely late bloomers on our trees.”

Turning puce the doctor shouted, “Hand over the cash and get out of here.”

“Po po, extorting exorbitant doctor’s fees from little old ladies with meagre pensions,” Nitsa ranted, reluctantly counting out the cash as they left.

“Aren’t you forgetting something,” Doctor Konstantinos called after them from the doorway. “Take your blasted parrot with you.”

The doctor had only just slammed the door shut behind them when he was disturbed by yet more frantic knocks. Prepared to tell the next prospective patient to go away as it was still siesta time he changed his mind when confronted by a big bald brute wielding a chainsaw on his doorstep. Even with his chainsaw Bald Yannis appeared a lesser menace than the two hideous old hags he’d just seen off so the doctor reluctantly admitted him for a consultation.

“What appears to be the problem?” Doctor Konstantinos asked.

“I seem to be ‘aving quite a few pregnancy related issues,” Bald Yannis confessed. “It’s more than just the weight gain, I mean that is to be expected. I’m worried I might ‘ave anaemia and high blood pressure. I’ve been ‘aving the strangest cravings an’ I daren’t take my shirt off in this ‘eat as I appear to ‘ave grown a pair of man boobs that will make me a laughin’ stock.”

“May I suggest a good quality support bra,” Doctor Konstantinos openly mocked. “You do realise it is physically impossible for you to be pregnant for goodness sake. Get a grip man.”

The doctor worried he may have overstepped the mark when his patient started revving the chainsaw menacingly.

“Well of course I ain’t actually pregnant yous eejit, I am ‘aving a phantom pregnancy on account of my wife is expecting twins. But my symptoms is real. Look at ‘ow bloated my stomach is an’ dont’s tell me it’s normal to be craving soap.”

“I suspect you have what is known as ‘Couvade Syndrome,’ the doctor diagnosed. “Your body has been taken over by the hatching urge, in sympathy with your wife. Needless to say it is all in your head. For the obvious symptoms I recommend a low-fat high-fibre diet and the aforesaid support bra. You will find the symptoms ease if you have less time to dwell on them. Apply yourself to something useful such as constructing a cot to deal with your nesting instinct. You could also stock up on your winter wood supply.”

“Does chopping wood ‘elp with this ‘ere hatching syndrome?” Bald Yannis asked.

“I shouldn’t think so, but you may as well put that chainsaw to good use.”

Whilst not appreciative of the new medic’s condescending manner Bald Yannis was at least relieved to hear his condition had a diagnosable name, especially as a ‘syndrome’ appealed to his masculine pride far more than a ‘phantom’ condition. He pondered if any of the stolen bras he had purloined in his days as the elusive underwear thief would be supportive enough to stop him visibly sagging and if he could get away with wearing one without Soula noticing.

“An’ what about my craving for eatin’ soap, Yiatro?” Bald Yannis remembered.

“Well I’d knock that on the head if I were you in case you start foaming at the mouth,” the doctor advised, desperately trying to keep a straight face. He was only two patients in to this new clinic and already doubting the wisdom of his decision to open his medical practice in this backwater village populated with obvious morons.

“As yous ‘ave mentioned wood supplies ‘ow would it be if I paid yous in logs,” Bald Yannis asked, wondering if Soula could still manage to chainsaw effectively with her pregnant belly.

“You can pay me in cash,” Doctor Konstantinos said firmly.

“Now dont’s be hasty, we is practically neighbours. I ‘ave the ‘ardware shop and could pays yous with a hideous old lady dress, or perhaps a patriotic lobster adorned shower curtain would be a great screen for yous patients to get undressed behind.”

“Cash,” the doctor reiterated, watching the grumbling Bald Yannis rifle through his pockets in search of a few notes before leaving.

Doctor Konstantinos sighed deeply, realising he would be forced to plaster his waiting room and surgery with posters saying ‘Cash Only: No Credit or Bartering.’

Rummaging through his desk drawer he swore loudly when he discovered his bottle of medicinal whisky was empty. Muttering under his breath he set off for the supermarket with high hopes the owner would be willing to hand over a few bottles of medicinal spirit in a credit swap for free medical consultations.

Chapter 13

A Far-Fetched Fishy Fib

Toothless Tasos and Thea had been fighting like cat and dog ever since Thea returned home from Stavroula’s kitchen. Thea refused to reveal where she had been and Tasos blatantly lied, telling his fiancé he had been playing tavli in the kafenion. He was at a complete loss why his beloved goddess was in such a strop and refusing to cook dinner, oblivious to her snooping on him and clueless his cloak and dagger plans to arrange a surprise wedding had triggered the crazy notion in Thea that he was cheating with Tassia.

In an attempt to restore equanimity to their home Toothless Tasos sidled up to Thea, saying “my love dove, I is sorry I stopped so long at the kafenion an’ missed watching the soap opera with yous.”

“Dont’s try to sweet talk me with falsehoods tripping as smoothly as syrup off yous tongue Taso. I know yous is up to no good; don’t think I didn’t see yous sneaking into the church,” Thea said icily, biting her lip to stop herself from an outright accusation of infidelity until she had gathered more proof.

“I did pop into the church,” Tasos reluctantly admitted. Desperately trying to think up a convincing lie he pathetically blurted “the Pappas wanted to buy a fish off me for ‘is dinner.”

Staring at her fiancé with disdain Thea scoffed “a likely tale indeed. The Pappas wouldn’t ‘ave a clue which end of a fish to gut or ‘ow to even cook it to make it edible.”

“So that must be why he asked me to gut it for ‘im. I ‘ave no idea ‘ow inept the Pappas is in the kitchen,” Toothless Tasos replied, unaware he was digging himself into an ever deeper hole with his far-fetched fishy fib.

“An’ was it the Pappas plying yous with ouzo? I might ‘ave known that fraud of a bible basher was back on the booze,” Thea scoffed, wrinkling her nose at the intoxicant smell seeping from Tasos and casually maligning the sober reputation of the Pappas who hadn’t touched a drop since his blood transfusion.

Before Thea had a chance to grill him further their argument was interrupted by the arrival of Sofia, so self-absorbed she failed to notice the thick tension hovering heavily between them.

“What’s for dinner Nona? You have no idea how exhausting it was blow drying mail order Masha’s long hair extensions in this heat.”

“It’s too hot for me to cook, Sofia. Dont’s forget Tasos ‘ere is too tight to put air conditioning in the kitchen. ‘Ow about yous and I go to the taverna for a treat?”

“An’ what about me Thea? What about my dinner?” Tasos asked, cut to the quick to be excluded.

“Seeing as ‘ow yous ‘ave taken to guttin’ fish apparently, as well as catchin’ ‘em, yous can cook one up in that stifling overheated kitchen,” Thea growled at Tasos before turning to Sofia and sweetly saying “Just give me a minute to change my frock an’ we’ll be off.”

Tasos slumped dejectedly into the deckchair, hanging his head despondently. The silence that descended with Thea’s departure was only broken by the ceaseless chirping of thousands of cicadas signalling their mating cries outside the shuttered windows.

“It’s not like Nona to be in such a temper,” Sofia observed.

“She caught me out in a lie Sofia. I told ‘er I was in the kafenion when really I ‘ad to see the Pappas about the wedding. It breaks my ‘eart to ever ‘ave to lie to ‘er, but if I tell ‘er the truth it will spoil the surprise wedding. This is a tricky dilemma of my own creatin’.”

“Try not to worry Taso, I will put in a good word for you this evening. Nona will be over the moon on Friday when you surprise her with the wedding, it’s such a romantic gesture,” Sofia reassured him. She had grown quite fond of Toothless Tasos recently, forming a familial bond when he had allowed her to practice her clumsy cutting technique on his hair.

“I ‘opes yous is right Sofia, I couldn’t bear to lose Thea.”

“Did you get the rings sorted yet?” Sofia asked, remembering she must dye the cat before Friday so it would match her bridesmaid dress, in addition to training it up so it could play the important role of the ring bearer. She hoped Tassia had chosen a stylish and edgy bridesmaid dress for her as she’d requested. She’d been adamant she didn’t want anything frothy. Her visit to the taverna with Thea meant she wouldn’t be able to pop over to Tassia’s house to take a look, sparing her the horror of discovering the bridesmaid’s dress was an exact replica of the fussy flamingo meringue Andromeda had demanded.

“The rings is in ‘and,” Tasos confirmed. “Is yous not seein’ Iraklis tonight?”

“No, he has a late shift at the supermarket. We both work such long hours we barely get any time together,” Sofia replied. In truth the young couple had shared a few glorious hours in the sea together during the afternoons since Iraklis had persuaded Fat Christos to coordinate his breaks with the beauty parlour’s siesta time. The youngsters had so far managed to keep their afternoon rendezvous secret from Mrs Kolokotronis to avoid her tagging along to the beach as an unwelcome chaperone.

“It’s a pity he turned ‘is back on the church. I’d ‘ave preferred Iraklis to oversee our vows, the Pappas cant’s be trusted not to make a pig’s breakfast out of it,” Tasos sighed.

“Well I’m very glad he gave up the church in favour of a good steady job in the supermarket. If he’d stayed in the church he wouldn’t have been allowed to date me, not that I’d have wanted to date a boy in a black clerical dress, it’s hardly the height of fashion, and I don’t like boys with straggly beards though Iraklis did say he struggled to grow one. He said he’d tried in the hopes it would cover his acne, but it was hopeless. Now he’s discovered Fotini’s curative his pimples have gone.”

“My, ‘ow Sofia does prattle on,” Toothless Tasos whispered to the turquoise cat who, attracted by Tasos’ fishy smell, had jumped up to lick his face.

“Fat Christos has promised to send Iraklis on a management course and we’re both saving up towards our future,” Sofia confided.

“I is ‘appy to ‘ear yous ‘ave a more responsible attitude to money than yous Nona,” Tasos applauded.

“But if Nona hadn’t been such a spendthrift she would never have had to rent out her harbour-side house and move in with you Taso,” Sofia said quietly as Thea returned.

Toothless Tasos dwelled morosely on Sofia’s words when the two women left the house. He couldn’t bear the thought that Thea was only with him because she couldn’t afford to live without him. His thoughts turned to Friday and he cheered a little, thinking “Thea will ‘ave no doubt about my feelings when I slip the ring on her finger an’ officially make ‘er my goddess.”

Chapter 14

Skinny Dipping in the Moonlight

Tables and chairs lined the street outside ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima,’ carried outdoors by Takis as soon as the tourists began to arrive for the summer season. Blue and white chequered paper tablecloths flapped in the breeze, with four plastic corner clips preventing them blowing away. Plant pots fashioned out of old olive tins, home to aromatically scented basil plants, were dotted beside the tables, and feral kittens played skittishly in the hope of winning scraps from gullible tourists and tentatively learning it was best to avoid Takis when he rushed out to make a clean cat sweep with his broom. Pancratius the village policeman was called out at least once a week by Stavroula complaining Takis’ customers were talking too loudly. Takis wasn’t petty enough to return the complaint even when Stavroula’s customers chatted just as raucously, although at times he was sorely tempted.

Quentin found a table with a fresh down-wind breeze, conscious his guest Pedros was a bit off-puttingly pungent and that his distinctive goat smell might overpower the natural scent of geranium blooms, citrus and jasmine. Yiota greeted her favourite American by dragging him into the toilets where she ministered to his blood caked artichoke wounds with a bottle of stinging antiseptic, sympathising how awful it was that his puncture holes had attracted so many blood-sucking mosquitoes.

Pungent Pedros’ eyes nearly swivelled out of his head when mail order Masha strolled up to take a seat at the next table, trailed by that old fool Vasilis who tethered Onos the donkey to a nearby orange tree, joining the tethered goat kidnapped from the mountain. Masha managed to project a combined image of virgin and hooker in a short strappy white lace number, so low cut her curvaceous breasts would have spilled over the top if the silicone wasn’t so rigidly immovable. Her rounded belly pushing against the lace was a glorious symbol of lush fecundity.

Deirdre arrived, driven in style by Prosperous Pedros who’d stopped to give her a lift in his pick-up. Pungent Pedros’ face dropped when Deirdre explained Hattie wouldn’t be joining them as she’d stayed at home to minister to Melecretes who’d apparently had a bit of a queer turn.

“It’s probably this heat,” Quentin suggested.

“Mother didn’t elaborate,” Deirdre replied, slapping down the groping hand of the goat-herder.

“I ‘ope Fotini shows her face, I really want to see ‘ow the years ‘ave treated ‘er,” Pungent Pedros said. “Oh what a vision, this must be Fotini now,” he cried excitedly as the clashing colours of Quentin’s Hawaiian shorts heralded the attention seeking arrival of Nitsa.

“You thieving old hag, what on earth do you think you’re doing prancing round in my shorts?” Quentin spluttered, so driven to fury by Nitsa’s brazen washing line thievery that he forgot his usually impeccable good manners.

“I’m sure she has a perfectly good reason to be wearing your clothes,” Deirdre defended their neighbour, revelling in the knowledge she would never have to be seen in public with Quentin wearing those ghastly loud shorts ever again. He’d think they were fit for nothing but the garden scarecrow or the mulch pile after Nitsa had contaminated them.

“That’s no way to talk to Fotini,” Pungent Pedros reprimanded Quentin, instantly bowled over by Nitsa’s bright and cheery appearance. Rushing over to greet her he threw his arms around her in a smelly embrace, saying “Fotini, yous ‘aven’t changed a bit, ‘ow long ‘as it been?”

“’Ere get yous ‘ands off my Aunty Nitsa,” Tall Thomas shouted. “Yous is bein’ far too familiar.”

“I do begs yous pardon Kyria, I thought yous was Fotini,” Pungent Pedros excused himself.

“Fotini ‘ad to take the parrot ‘ome after its surgery,” Nitsa said, batting her single false eyelash and the dead caterpillar at this charming old rogue before swivelling her head to look daggers at Tall Thomas for his unwanted interference. Without waiting for an invitation she hastily joined Quentin and Deirdre’s table, smooching up close to the goat herder and hissing at Quentin “why is yous bein’ so precious about yous shorts, Hattie didnt’s ‘ave a problem with me borrowing ‘em.”

“Mother is perfectly free to let random neighbours go through the contents of her wardrobe but she has no jurisdiction over mine,” Quentin said possessively, clueless that at that very moment Hattie was confronting Melecretes over cramming his hairy legs into her stockings and his manly hairy chest into her twinset.

“I’m in need of a brandy; it was very traumatic watching the parrot nearly drown an’ then ‘ave surgery. I ‘ave to say I don’t think much of the new quack’s bedside manner,” Nitsa rambled, swatting away a swarm of mosquitoes which had gravitated from Quentin’s artichoke puncture holes to the dead caterpillar glued to her eyelid.

“Allow me to get that bug out of yous eye Kyria Nitsa,” Pungent Pedros offered, leaning in closely to grab hold of the dead caterpillar. The grub was so strongly super glued in place it refused to budge and it was only the fortuitous arrival of the mosquitoes soaking up the surplus glue that prevented Pungent Pedros’ fingers from being permanently stuck to the caterpillar.

With the weather perfect for outdoor dining, tables were filling up quickly. Thea began to mellow as she relaxed in the company of Sofia and they tucked into kolokithokeftedes and tzatziki. Gorgeous Yiorgos arrived with a handsome cuttlefish he’d caught earlier and Yiota cooked it up with spinach and a nice lemon dress. The bountiful fisherman shared the delicious dish with Vangelis the chemist, Prosperous Pedros and Tall Thomas, with Fat Christos looking on enviously and drinking a glass of liquidised watermelon, still stuck on his stomach stapled restrictive diet.

Mail order Masha had binged on so many tart pickled lingonberries she only had an appetite for feta and watermelon, a simple choice that appealed to Quentin and Deirdre once the breeze died down, leaving the evening shrouded in a layer of stultifying humidity. Pungent Pedros was vocally disappointed to hear Yiota didn’t have goat on the menu, prompting Quentin to whisper to Deirdre,

“How can he even contemplate eating goat while that creature we kidnapped is staring at us? It’s positively cannibalistic.”

Thea recognised the English tourists who had tried to order Spanish food in Stavroula’s taverna earlier. Watching them struggling to make Yiota understand their ploddingly mispronounced words from a dog-eared Spanish phrasebook Thea intervened, telling Yiota to bring them a jug of Retsina poured over chopped nectarines as they wanted fruity wine.

“They seem to think they is on holiday in Spain an’ are clueless they ‘ave landed up in Greece,” Thea told Quentin and Deirdre.

“Why disillusion them? It’s an easy mistake to make with international travel. Remember when I botched up that romantic break to Paris by booking it online, Quentin,” Deirdre said.

“How could I forget? It was a bit of a shock to see a huge metal cowboy hat stuck on top of the Eiffel Tower. I should have twigged when we didn’t need to flash our passports at the airport that we weren’t flying into Paris France, but Paris Texas.”

“We made the best of it though dear,” Deirdre reminded him.

“We did indeed, it was a lovely vacation darling,” Quentin agreed.

“I’d no idea there was more than one Eiffel tower,” Sofia said in amazement.

“Oh there are lots of them,” Quentin enlightened her. “After visiting the one in Texas, albeit accidentally, we made a point of visiting the one in Paris, Tennessee, the following year. It wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat though.”

“We were glad we saw them because when we did finally make it to Paris, France, we missed the real tower because poor Quentin had his wallet lifted by a grubby urchin in the Louvre and we spent the rest of the day in a Parisian police station,” Deirdre explained.

“I bet them Parisian policemen looked dishy in their uniforms,” Nitsa cackled, prompting Pungent Pedros to wonder if he could still prise himself into the volunteer fireman uniform he still had from his younger days.

“So about these lost tourists,” Thea interrupted. “Should we tell ‘em they isn’t actually in Spain?”

“Well they don’t look as though they are enjoying themselves too much, but they could just have that type of face. If they don’t like it here let them continue under the delusion they are in Spain, rather than risking them bad-mouthing our lovely Greece,” Quentin advised.

“’Ow could anyone not love Greece? There’s no other country with such wonderful scenery and such magnificent goats, and just look at the beautiful women,” Pungent Pedros reasoned, extending his arms to include Nitsa, Deirdre, Thea, Sofia, Yiota and mail order Masha in his gushing compliment.

Looking over, Tall Thomas narrowed his eyes, grumbling,

“He seems a bit of a ladies’ man, I dont’s like the way he’s all over Aunty Nitsa. She’s already got enough on ‘er plate putting up with that malaka Fotis Moustakos and his persistent marriage proposals.”

“He seems ‘armless enough,” Prosperous Pedros said, having no idea the smelly goat herder was desperate to become reacquainted with his mother.

Concerns over the possibly rogue romantic intentions of the goat-herder were soon overshadowed by the momentous gossip, shared by Thea, that Lecherous Lukas was due to arrive back in Astakos at any time. It had been years since Lukas had put in an appearance in the village, despite being the owner of the finest and most ostentatious house in Astakos, one that remained empty in his absence whilst he lived in his other fine house in Athens. Lukas, the uncle of Stavroula, was somewhat of an anomaly in this working fishing village, having inherited a large fortune that allowed him never to do a day’s honest labour. His inheritance afforded him a life of tedious leisure, yet ironically he was genetically inclined to be a miserly skinflint who made tight-wad Toothless Tasos look like a spendthrift.

Each year Lecherous Lukas flashed enough cash to purchase a brand new automobile which he then drove home from the showroom and stashed in his garage under a plastic cover, satisfied his once yearly extravagance would impress all his neighbours. The shiny new car would be used for a single annual outing on Assumption Day when he would coax a fellow villager, who he insisted sit on the factory plastic seat cover to avoid sweating directly onto the upholstery, into splitting the petrol expenses for this religious pilgrimage. He preferred to make any necessary journeys he could not manage on foot by moped, after carefully assessing if the price of the petrol represented a saving on shoe leather. Recent technological advances saw him trade in the old moped for an electric model which he brazenly charged up at whichever local taverna could bear to endure his parsimonious custom, in a penny-pinching exercise designed to save money on his own electric bill.

The village men were not averse to the company of Lukas, finding him an entertaining companion in the taverna, regaling them with tales of his embellished adventures. They were all too aware their womenfolk considered him a persistent sex pest with a nasty habit of frequenting brothels, which he boasted about indiscreetly. Lukas had been too afraid of any money grabbing claims on his fortune to ever marry, reluctantly opening his purse strings to pay for services such as cooking and cleaning that a wife could have provided for free. Whilst the women folk of the village gossiped about his rumoured brothel visits, Lukas openly bragged about them to any male audience he could bore with his seedy exploits.

“Well I will make ‘im welcome in ‘ere of course,” Takis proclaimed, hoping Lukas’ tales would drive his other customers to drink more and boost his takings. Lukas himself was renowned for never partaking of more than a solitary glass of wine he would mull over all evening, unless someone else was buying the drinks. He would occasionally indulge in a single pita gyros, the most inexpensive dish on the menu.

Quentin and Deirdre were fascinated to hear about Lukas, and mail order Masha’s ears pricked up at the talk of his wealth. Thea warned her goddaughter to be sure to avoid him, assuring her he wasn’t suitable company for an impressionable young woman. Deirdre’s morbid interest in salacious gossip overcame her natural prudery. Ignoring Quentin’s warning kick she blurted out “is it really true there used to be brothel in the village?”

“Like that bordello museum K-Went-In took us to in Idaho,” Nitsa interrupted. “What a place that was, yous got that glow-in-the-dark thong there Did-Rees.”

At the mention of the now infamous thong Deirdre blushed so much her sun-reddened face turned scarlet and Pungent Pedros gave her a knowing wink, remembering how she’d inadvertently flashed him with the aforementioned thong on her first visit to Ankinari.

“The brothel wasn’t in the village as such Did-Rees,” Fat Christos said hastily, hoping to spare Deirdre’s blushes. “It was on the outskirts.”

“How fascinating,” Deirdre gasped, desperate for more information.

“It was a place for men to get away from their womenfolk in peace an’ ave a drink without bein’ nagged,” Gorgeous Yiorgos elaborated.

“Over priced watered down drinks,” Prosperous Pedros reminded him.

“We paid the high prices to be served by foreign floozies who was ‘appy to be a bit free with their favours,” Gorgeous Yiorgos explained.

“But their favours weren’t free, was they?” Prosperous Pedros pointed out disapprovingly. “Yous came ‘ome fleeced enough times Yiorgo.”

Prosperous Pedros and Bald Yannis were the only two of the village men to never avail themselves of the brothel services. Bald Yannis had never shown an interest in women until he took a matchmaker arranged wife and the prosperous fisherman had the strong belief that if he wanted a woman, which he didn’t, he could attract one without paying for the privilege. He had companionably joined his fellow fishermen in the downstairs bar on occasion but made his excuses when any loose floozy had attempted to lure him upstairs.

“The brothel doors have been shut now for a decade and a half,” Vangelis the chemist stated. “Lukas will be mightily disappointed when he returns.”

“If I recall rightly he left when it went out of business. ‘Appen without it the village wasn’t excitin’ enough for ‘im,” Takis observed.

“Or maybe it was the other way round an’ the brothel went out of business without ‘is regular custom. It was the only place he would willingly part with any of ‘is money,” Gorgeous Yiorgos said, before remembering the police had shut the place down and the vile prosecutor had refused to renew its alcohol licence.

“Of course brothels are legal these days, but there’s no need of one in Astakos anymore as all the old clientele are past it,” Vangelis the chemist remarked.

Deirdre was still shocked to hear Gorgeous Yiorgos speak so casually about going to the brothel and wondered if Petula knew what her other half had got up to. Then she reflected his brothel visits were years ago when Petula was unhappily saddled to the Pappas. Casting her eyes over the other customers she speculated which of her friends had been brothel regulars and made a mental note to book an appointment at the beauty salon soon to get to the bottom of the more sordid details. Mail order Masha was too engrossed in untangling her hair extensions with her perfectly painted finger nails to give much mind to the conversation or even care if that old fool Vasilis had been one of the regulars in his younger days.

Sighing wearily Yiota watched the female half of the English tourist couple emerge shame faced from the toilets with obviously damp feet. Grabbing her mop and bucket Yiota stomped into the bathroom, wondering how long it would take the latest crop of tourists to get the hang of not putting paper down the toilet. She was mightily sick of dealing with flooded floors and blockages. Deirdre smiled sympathetically at the tourists, remembering her own faux pas when she’d first flushed unwanted octopus down the toilet.

“How are you feeling Masha?” Deirdre asked. “It can’t be easy being heavily pregnant in this heat.”

“I’m coping better than Bald Yannis, he’s such a drama queen about all ‘is imagined symptoms,” Masha laughed. “But it is so ‘ard to keep cool Did-Rees.”

“Here, take this battery operated hand-held fan, your need is greater than mine,” Deirdre offered, rummaging round in the depths of her enormous handbag.

“That’s so kind of you,” Masha exclaimed, genuinely touched by the gesture. “Yous is always so nice Did-Rees, I would take it as a great honour if yous would be the baby’s Nona.”

Deirdre flushed with pleasure, immediately proclaiming she would be delighted to be godmother to Masha’s imminent off-spring.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?”

“They weren’t able to work it out on account of it turning its back to the scanner,” Masha grumbled.

“So it’s still just a silicone chip at this stage,” Vangelis the chemist rudely butted in.

“I feel in my blood it’s a girl,” Masha said. “I just ‘ope it looks like me an’ not my ‘usband.”

Everyone agreed it would indeed be a tragedy if Masha’s baby resembled that old fool Vasilis rather than taking after the gorgeous and glamorous Russian.

“I don’t mean to put a spoke in your plans Masha, but wouldn’t Deirdre have to convert to Greek Orthodoxy in order to be your baby’s godmother?” Quentin queried.

“Po po, there’s nothin’ to it, she just ‘as to be dunked in a bigly vat of oil,” Gorgeous Yiorgos told Quentin. “I’m sure the Pappas can sort it out before Masha ‘as the baby.”

Deirdre looked rather alarmed at the prospect but Masha assured her undergoing a baptismal conversion was no big deal and on the plus side she’d be able to wear a new frock. Deirdre decided the personal sacrifice of undergoing the religious ritual was a price worth paying to call herself Nona to Masha’s baby. She even considered it would leave her well placed to accept further offers of Nona status if Tassia or Soula fancied offering her the position. Quentin wasn’t sure whether to feel excluded or relieved by Masha’s failure to invite him to be the godfather, but on reflection he decided he’d rather avoid any oily dunkings ministered by the Pappas.

“Speakin’ of the baby, I ‘ave been thinkin’ yous look far too ancient to be the father of a new born Vasili. We dont’s want to scare the baby with yous wrinkly face,” Masha chimed up.

“That’s a bit harsh Masha,” Tall Thomas interjected. “It’s not as though he can do anything about ‘is craggy old face.”

“Well that’s where yous is wrong Thoma, they can do some wonderful things with plastic surgery. Vasili, I ‘ave booked yous into a plastic clinic in Athens to ‘ave yous face lifted,” Masha declared.

“I wont’s do it, I is too old to be goin’ under the knife,” that old fool Vasilis refused vehemently.

“But it’s all arranged,” Masha protested.

“I don’t care Masha, I am not ‘aving a face lift an’ I won’t ‘ear another word on the matter. An’ that’s final.”

“You’re taking his refusal very well,” Deirdre whispered to Masha, surprised she hadn’t flown into a dramatic Russian tantrum.

“Po po, I ‘ad no intention of makin’ ‘im do it, the clinic ‘ave already told me they wont’s lift the face of anyone of his advanced years, after all he’ll be ninety if he makes it to his next birthday. It was just a ploy to butter ‘im up so he wont’s say no to Botox when I tell ‘im he’s havin’ a few jabs to make a goodly improvement to his facial sag,” mail order Masha whispered smugly.

Deirdre gawped in awe at Masha’s clever manipulation of her husband, wondering if she should pick up a few tricks for next time Quentin was cantankerous.

The relative peace of the evening was suddenly disturbed by the noisy arrival of a rusty old pick-up in dire need of a spot of fine engine tuning. The door slammed and a rough-hewn peasant type climbed down from the cab shouting, “Pedro, you old rogue, I’ll get you for this.”

Prosperous Pedros immediately ducked out of sight, clueless how he had enraged this angry stranger. He breathed a sigh of relief when the stranger stormed right by him, grabbing Pungent Pedros by the collar, shaking him violently and accusing him of stealing his goat.

“Get yous ‘ands of me Anton, I ‘aven’t ‘ad one of yous goats yous mad malaka.”

“Mad am I, then what do you call that?” the angry man yelled, pointing at the tethered goat Quentin had inadvertently kidnapped from the mountain.

Quentin went completely white beneath his sunburn. Quivering in his seat he muttered to Takis, “Who is that?”

“That is Kyrios Antonopoulos from Katsika,” Takis replied. The name rang an immediate bell with Quentin who recalled the goat from the goat-hit-and-run incident served up in this very taverna after Adonis claimed it as tasty road-kill had indeed been the goat of a Kyrios Antonopoulos from Katsika, the village named for a goat. Quentin had visions of being arrested and dragged off in handcuffs to a Greek prison and he nervously wondered how much truth there had been to Nitsa’s tall tales of torture in the prison dungeon.

Quentin’s worst fears were confirmed when Pancratius the village policeman appeared. Leaning over, Quentin clasped Deirdre’s hand with his own sweaty one, whispering to her, “Darling, I love you. Please make sure you get me the best lawyer.”

Deirdre barely heard her husband, so engrossed was she in the sudden drama.

“What can I do for yous Pancratiu?” Takis asked the village policeman.

“The usual, get them to keep the noise down. Stavroula has been on the blower complaining about all the shouting,” Pancratius replied.

“It’s that mad idiot from Katsika, he’s just arrived and started kicking off,” Takis told the policeman, eager for Kyrios Antonopoulos to be taken away before he could accuse Takis of once serving up his road-kill goat.

Pancratius approached the noisy interloper who reluctantly let go of Pungent Pedros’ collar, dropping him onto the road. “It’s all right, I don’t want any trouble. I have just come to collect what is rightfully mine,” he shouted, stalking over to the tethered goat and releasing its rope. Pointing at the blue ‘A’ branded on the goat’s side he added “A for Antonopoulos,” and without another word he led the goat off to his pick-up, pushing it into the passenger seat and driving away, bald tyres squealing.

“I wish the malaka would remember to put a seat-belt on the goat,” the policeman sighed; annoyed he was now obliged to go after the pick-up and issue a hefty fine for the traffic code violation.

Quentin slowly exhaled, relieved he had not only got away with the goat-hit-and-run but goat kidnapping too, and would be spared a night in a dank prison cell before summary deportation and banishment from his beloved adopted homeland of Greece. Amazed to find Pungent Pedros doubled over with laughter he recovered himself enough to ask,

“What on earth is so funny Pedro, it looked as though he was going to kill you before Pancratius came along?”

“Po po, get a grip K-Went-In. Anton and me ‘ave a regular spat at least once a month. Next time he’ll get ‘is ‘ands on one of my goats an’ I’ll ‘ave to track ‘im down and claim it back.”

“You mean to say you take turns taking each other’s goats and then threatening each other?” Quentin asked in disbelief.

“Of course, dont’s yous ‘ave that sort of sport in Idaho K-Went-In? Now, it’s gettin’ late, we’d best be riding off,” Pungent Pedros said.

“We’d rather walk,” Quentin said, taking one look at Deirdre’s horrified face.

“I wasn’t talkin’ to yous. ‘Ave yous never ‘eard the expression four’s a crowd?” Pungent Pedros laughed, holding his hand out to Nitsa who gave him a saucy wink before suggesting,

“’Ow about a spot of skinny dippin’ in the moonlight?”

“Yous aunty is a public nuisance,” Prosperous Pedros told Tall Thomas as they watched Nitsa goosing the pungent goat-herder before accepting his help to get her leg over the motorbike. Tossing the crash helmet aside Nitsa clasped her arms tightly around the goat- herder and the pair roared off towards the beach.”

Chapter 15

Trifled Affections

Hattie endured a fitful night’s sleep, tossing and turning in the stifling heat without the benefit of air conditioning, waking frequently from nightmarish dreams where she was endlessly plucking the feathers of a pandemonium of parrots drowned in the vat of curative. She’d been in no mood to join Quentin and Deirdre at the taverna after discovering Melecretes prancing round in front of the mirror wearing her favourite twinset, stockings and heels. Mel’s pathetic explanation that he was assembling a costume for Halloween sounded implausible even to Hattie since the American holiday was still many months away, but Mel hastily excused himself from the embarrassing situation by claiming he was late for a hot date with his girlfriend Evangelia. Smoothing his manly moustache he stripped off the twinset and pearls, pulled on his trousers and kicked off the heels, hot footing it out of the house with his legs still encased in the stockings. Hattie, deciding it wasn’t her place to pass judgement or to gossip about Mel’s peculiarities, thoughtfully laid out a few of her least favourite dresses and blouses on his inflatable bed for him to pick over, before she retired for the night.

Finally, after falling into a deep sleep mercifully free of parrot dreams, Hattie awakened again in the early hours of the morning, disturbed by the strangled spluttering of the clapped out two-stroke outside her window. Recognising the less than dulcet tones of Pungent Pedros’ rusty old motorcycle her heart skipped a beat as her fertile imagination conjured up images of Pedros sweeping her off her feet with declarations of the feelings he had been unable to contain since their earlier meeting. Opening the shutter enough to provide a view of the moonlit garden, Hattie was crushed to see Pungent Pedros lifting Nitsa down from his motorcycle. The moon cast just enough light for Hattie to notice Nitsa’s gaudy outfit appeared to be soaking wet.

Hattie crept down the stairs to the kitchen, careful not to disturb Fotini and the parrot. Putting a pan of water on to boil to make her friend a hot cup of mountain tea, she handed Nitsa a towel, asking “has it been raining? You’re soaked to the skin.”

“Rainin’?” Nitsa laughed. “No, I’m wet ‘cos I went skinny dippin’ with Pungent Pedros. Course I couldn’t risk excitin’ ‘im too much so I kept my thermal vest and shorts on in the sea.”

“Quentin’s shorts,” Hattie corrected, wondering whose clothes Fotini would appear in the next day seeing as everyone else in the household seemed to be freely helping themselves to the contents of other people’s wardrobes.

“It was a bit of a lark. That Pedros knows ‘ow to show a girl a good time,” Nitsa gushed.

“I thought he was going to show me a good time,” Hattie said with a heartfelt sigh, “but it seems when I didn’t come to the taverna he transferred his attentions to you with no thought at all of me. I didn’t have him down as the fickle type, but I’ve never been a good judge of men.”

“Hattie, is yous sayin’ Pungent Pedros ‘as been triflin’ with yous affections?” Nitsa asked, instantly contrite and concerned about Hattie who had only just got over having her heart broken by the scheming catfisher swindling from his Nigerian cubbyhole.

“He said I had big blue eyes,” Hattie revealed.

“An’ he told me I ‘ad brown eyes as deep as mud pools,” Nitsa groaned. “I would never ‘ave gone swimmin’ with the old rascal if I’d known he’d been leadin’ yous on. I only went off with ‘im to make Fotis Moustakos and Bald Yannis jealous. The malaka never stopped talkin’ about Fotini anyway, he’ll be tryin’ it on with ‘er next I expect.”

“I can’t see Fotini falling for his charms,” Hattie remarked, passing Nitsa a small bowl of curative and saying “dab a drop of this on your eye Nitsa, it is horrendously swollen.”

“Yous ‘ave to be jokin’ Hattie, likely it’s been contaminated by that malaka parrot. It might be good enough for our payin’ customers but I ‘ave higher standards an’ will purchase a proper remedy at the pharmacy. As for Pungent Pedros, he’ll get his comeuppance if he shows his smelly self round ‘ere again. He mustn’t ‘ave realised we ‘ave girl power solidarity if he thought he could toy with our feelins’.”

Chapter 16

Stumped by an Artichoke

Fotini was up at the crack of dawn bottling the parrot contaminated curative prior to preparing a new batch. The parrot, much recovered from its traumatic near drowning and open throat surgery of the previous day, perched on the kitchen windowsill, squawking the odd insult. When it suddenly announced “Did-Rees weedy,” Fotini nosily peered out of the window, doubling over with manic laughter at the sight that greeted her.

“Nitsa, get down ‘ere, yous will never believe what that addled-brained Did-Rees is up to,” Fotini yelled.

Joining Fotini at the window Nitsa gawped in disbelief at Deirdre’s antics. Armed with a shovel and trowel Deirdre was strenuously turning over a rock hard patch of bone-dry soil, ready to plant the aromatic herbs she’d risked their lives for on the mountain.

“Why is Did-Rees planting that rampant ragweed in ‘er garden? It makes no sense to put weeds in the ground rather than pullin’ ‘em out. It’s so pervasive it will take over in no time an’ it isn’t even edible,” Nitsa chortled. “’Appen she’s stupid enough to think it is horta?”

“Should we go out an’ tell the dopey dunderhead it will be a disaster or just let ‘er get it all planted first ‘fore we tell ‘er?  That way we can ‘ave a goodly laugh watchin’ ‘er trying to dig it all up,” Fotini cackled. “’Ere watch yous step Nitsa,” she added as her cousin tripped over a cardboard box full of bottled curative and went sprawling onto the cold tiled floor.

Extending a hand to help Nitsa up Fotini screeched, “What ‘ave yous done to yous eye, it’s a right ‘orrible mess? It’s no wonder yous is tripping over things.”

The hairy black caterpillar Hattie had super glued to Nitsa’s eyelid had swelled up alarmingly, its putrid bloating corpse obscuring her eye which was now engulfed in a mass of lurid yellow and green bruises. “Perhaps we should call back at the quacks,” Fotini suggested.

“I ‘aven’t got time for that, I promised Bald Yannis I’d sabotage the grand opening of Stavroula’s tourist tat annex an’ I cant’s let ‘im down. If I does a good job he might see me in a new light as ‘is desirable co-conspirator.”

“Well if yous wont’s see the doctor at least pop next door and borrow a pair of K-Went-In’s dark sunglasses. Yous dont’s want to draw attention to yourself with that frightful eye when yous is out causing chaos,” Fotini suggested.

“I wonder if K-Went-In ‘as a deerstalker hat I could nab. It would ‘elp to add to the mysterious air I will project in dark glasses an’ Bald Yanni’s flasher mac,” Nitsa pondered.

“I thought yous is meant to look incognito so yous wont’s get blamed for the chaos,” Fotini said.

“Po po, no one will know who I am in my goodly disguise,” Nitsa assured her cousin, never considering her plan to cause chaos involved driving up in the old Mercedes taxi, a dead give away to her disguised identity.

“I’ll come along an’ help myself to some of their eggs while yous distract Did-Rees with a bit of inane chatter,” Fotini suggested, making a mad dash to her neighbours chicken coop as Nitsa casually ambled over to make small talk with Deirdre.

“Kalimera Nitsa, I’m surprised to see you up at this early hour considering how very late it was when Pungent Pedros brought you home on his noisy motorcycle,” Deirdre said, casting a disdainful look over her aged neighbour and recoiling in disgust at the state of her eye. She didn’t risk mentioning the eye in case it provoked an outpouring of invective from Nitsa regarding the violent passions of her latest man-friend.

“Yous should try a midnight swim sometime Did-Rees; it might ‘elp yous to let yous ‘air down.”

“Actually, I find a spot of gardening is most relaxing. You wouldn’t catch me in the sea after dark; goodness knows what could be lurking underwater. Now Nitsa, is there any particular reason for your early morning clamber over the garden wall? As you can see I have my hands full,” Deirdre asked, distracted by the sticky red rash beginning to erupt all over her hands.

“Actually it is K-Went-In I is wanting,” Nitsa replied.

Preferring to subject Quentin to an early morning dose of the mad old hag rather than endure anymore of Nitsa’s unwanted company, Deirdre volunteered, “You will find Quentin in the kitchen up to his elbows in artichokes.”

“Nitsa, I am immensely pleased to see you, come on in,” Quentin greeted his nuisance neighbour with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, holding a spiky artichoke aloft in rubber gloved hands as though it was a dangerous unexploded bomb. “It looks so easy to prepare artichokes in this cookery book, but in reality it’s more like handling a lethal weapon. Can you help me to get to grips with a pain free method please? I’m determined to get the hang of it and fill the pantry with jars of artichoke hearts in olive oil.”

“Po po, there is nothin’ to it K-Went-In,” Nitsa crowed, grabbing an artichoke and impressing Quentin no end with her skilfully precise cutting of the thick thorny outer leaves with a serrated knife, before triumphantly unveiling the coveted heart.

“Slow down Nitsa, you worked so fast I couldn’t quite get your technique. Could you show me again please, but this time in slow motion?” Quentin begged.

“K-Went-In, I will turn yous into a natural if yous will lend me a pair of your dark sunglasses to cover up this ‘ere shiner,” Nitsa bartered. Quentin had been so obsessed with his artichokes he hadn’t even noticed Nitsa’s swollen eye. Peeling off his rubber gloves he rushed over to his neighbour with genuine concern, declaring,

“Oh Nitsa, that looks so nasty, did that roguish old goat herder hit you?”

“Dont’s be so daft, that malaka is no match for me. I think I ‘ave ‘ad an allergic reaction to my false eyelash,” Nitsa explained, clueless Hattie had mistakenly stuck a dead caterpillar in place rather than her falsie.

“Certainly I will lend you a pair of dark glasses Nitsa; they will help to protect your eye from the sun until you can seek medical attention. Would you like me to drive you to the new doctor’s surgery? Oh hang on, I forgot the car’s off the road. I could always drive you there in your taxi,” Quentin offered.

“Po po, no one gets behind the wheel of my taxi ‘cept me,” Nitsa refused haughtily. “Yous just get me the glasses an’ a hat with a brim if yous ‘ave one, and I will show yous the secret of mastering artichokes like a natural born Greek woman.”

By the time Nitsa surreptitiously slunk out of Quentin’s kitchen wearing his dark glasses and a Sherlock Holmes inspired deerstalker hat, she was fully immersed in her ridiculous role of mysterious secret agent on a mission to sabotage the grand opening of Stavroula’s tourist tat annex. She left Quentin flummoxing around in mountains of artichoke leaf debris, none the wiser how to avoid serious injury whilst preparing the vegetables, and asking himself “how on earth did Nitsa make it look so easy?” The tips of the leaves pierced his rubber gloves painfully for the hundredth time and the exposed creamy yellow flesh of the tricky vegetable turned black because he’d already forgotten to add lemon to the pan of water.

“I ‘ave turned yous ‘usband into a dab ‘and with the artichokes,” Nitsa announced to Deirdre who had just finished planting the cuttings she had carried home from the mountain. Arching her back to relieve the aches and pains of digging in the parched soil Deirdre used a muddy finger to tuck a stray hair behind her ear and asked Nitsa, “Are you taking the taxi into Astakos at all? I could do with a lift to the beauty salon. Evangelia has managed to squeezed me in for a trim.”

“Yous is welcome to come along as a paying customer when I leave in a minute, if yous can pay my reasonable fare,” Nitsa replied. “Yous will ‘ave to wait till yous get ‘ome to dig up all this ragweed yous ‘ave just planted, before it takes root all over yous garden. Didn’t yous know Did-Rees that this is the most pervasive weed yous can ‘ave the misfortune to find in yous garden, an’ it’s not even edible?”

Surveying the huge patch of greenery she had just tenderly planted under the scorching sun Deirdre was very tempted to throttle her annoying neighbour.

“Nitsa, don’t talk nonsense, this is a mountain herb which will be an aromatic addition to my cooking,” Deirdre insisted.

“No, it’s not. It’s a noxious weed with an ‘igh pollen count what will most likely set off K-Went-In’s hay fever. Look, it’s already given yous ‘ands a red itchy rash,” Nitsa said, squinting at Deirdre’s now blotchy hands. “Luckily I can sell yous a bottle of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ to fix it.”

“I tell you it’s a herb,” Deirdre cried, wringing her itchy hands in frustration.

“We will get Fotini to settle the matter,” Nitsa said as Fotini scuttled out of the chicken coop, walking with great caution to prevent a baker’s dozen of stolen eggs from dropping out of their secreted spot in her bloomers.

“Fotini, do you know the name of this herb?” Deirdre asked. She was conscious the two old crones couldn’t possibly have had the chance to confer and drum up a pack of lies to amuse themselves at her expense because Nitsa had been indoors schooling Quentin in the fine art of peeling artichokes whilst Fotini had no doubt been ransacking the chicken coop of every last egg.

“That’s not an ‘erb Did-Rees, it is nasty ragweed,” Fotini clucked. Staring at Fotini in dismay Deirdre danced awkwardly as a huge black beetle circled her hair before landing on Fotini’s head. Instinctively swatting the noisy insect away, her hand connected with a purloined egg stashed under Fotini’s headscarf. There was the telltale sound of breaking eggshell and the yellow yolk dripped down Fotini’s nose. Ignoring the egg on her face as evidence of her petty thievery Fotini hobbled back to her kitchen with as much dignity as she could muster, desperately hoping no further eggs would fall out of the legs of her bloomers.

Chapter 17

A Vacant Position

Stavroula was sweeping away the squashed fruit that had fallen from the mulberry tree, splattering the ground between the taverna tables with blood red juice, attracting an army of ants. Boukali the taverna cat sprawled languidly in the early morning sunshine, keeping a wary eye on Stavroula’s broom and licking up drops of water splattering from the leaking hosepipe.

Stavroula had been up and about before the first cock crow, excited by the prospect of the grand unveiling of her tourist tat annex. Looking out across the tranquil blue sea she spied the distinctive blue and white striped sun awning of Toothless Tasos’ fishing boat puttering slowly back towards the harbour. Stavroula debated whether to call him to drop off some sardines. She was preparing a selection of complimentary meze for the crowds she expected to swamp the taverna for the opening. However the very thought of that particular dish still turned her stomach since her hospitalisation after eating the fish meze prepared by Fotini from the sardines and anchovies fished out of the beauty salon’s wart infested and fungal foot infected fish pedicure tank.

The idyllic peace was disturbed by the sudden toot of a horn and a swish new sports car screeched to a halt in the ‘No Parking’ spot outside the taverna. Automatically brandishing the broom, Stavroula rushed over, shouting,

“Cant’s yous read, yous eejit? The sign says No Parkin’.”

“Stavroula, you haven’t changed at all, still welcoming your customers with an offensive weapon I see,” the driver drily observed.

“Uncle Luka, is that you?” Stavroula cried out, instantly affecting a posh and proper accent. “I wasn’t expecting you until next week,” she blanched; realising there had been no time to make sure his house was thoroughly cleaned before his arrival. Lukas was a stickler for a clean house and was willing to pay below minimum wage for the convenience of a woman to come in to sweep, scrub, polish and cook.

“I decided to surprise you,” Lukas announced, unfolding his long lean body from the too small confines of the car. Stavroula noticed even though Lukas had arrived in flashy wheels he still dressed like a penniless peasant. A length of twisted string around the waistline of his shapeless shorts acted as a belt, holding them precariously in place, reminding Stavroula of her uncle’s propensity for wearing indecent budgie smugglers beneath them, ever ready to strip off for a bit of beach posing. His tatty red tee-shirt had faded to pink from too many washes and there was an obvious hole in the sole of his flip flops. His face was pleasantly clean shaven and his sparse greying blonde hair was held rigidly in place with a generous application of something cheap and greasy.

“It’s a surprise all right, there’s been no time to get a woman what does to clean up the cobwebs yet,” Stavroula admitted.

“A woman what does just won’t be enough anymore Stavroula. I need a live-in housekeeper these days, I’m not getting any younger you know.”

Lukas’ reminder that his days might be numbered brought a smile to Stavroula’s lips as she contemplated being the main beneficiary of his fortune. She could imagine soaring off in the shiny silver sports car with the wind in her hair. She pictured herself in a fashionable outfit, an arm draped around Slick Socrates sporting a loosened bow tie and off-the-shoulder braces, exploring scenic spots along the coastline and discovering secluded coves perfect for seducing the slimy side-burned lawyer.

Her smile faded as it dawned on her the luxury car was destined to spend the rest of its time in the village hidden away beneath a plastic tarpaulin and it would be a practically impossible task to find a live-in housekeeper who hadn’t already heard of her uncle’s reputation as the local sex pest.

Lukas frowned in annoyance, before remembering that in all the confusion of his sudden departure from Athens he hadn’t actually tasked Stavroula with securing him a live-in housekeeper. The only reason he had returned to Astakos was because his live-in Athenian housekeeper had threatened to call the police over his persistent groping and he’d been forced to pay her off with a not insubstantial brown envelope. In spite of being bribed to keep her mouth shut she had blabbed so much about his sex pest proclivities he hadn’t been able to attract any new applicants for the position, except an illegal Moldovan who threatened to hoover his extremities with the vacuum cleaner attachment when he tried to goose her.

“As soon as you can with the housekeeper Stavroula, I’m not used to keeping house myself.”

“I’ll do my best for you Uncle,” Stavroula replied, thinking she had quite enough on her plate already without trying to find him a live-in servant. At least he hasn’t specified she has to be young and pretty, she thought with relief, wondering if she could dig up some old crone willing to supplement her meagre pension.

“Oh and Stavroula, do make sure you don’t hire anyone old or ugly,” Lukas added.

Stavroula smirked inwardly as she imagined hiring a young man for the position, thinking there were employment laws against sexual discrimination. “Malaka, I ‘ave to keep on ‘is good side if I’m to get in his will,” she muttered, waving with fake cheer as Lukas drove off to the finest house in the village. “Where on earth am I goin’ to find a presentable woman who isn’t ancient an’ who asn’t ‘eard of his reputation as a disgusting old pervert?”

Chapter 18

Soula Plants a Seed

Taking the doctor’s advice Bald Yannis rifled through the padlocked shotgun box stashed under the bed, looking for a bra that would offer suitable support. The steel box was the only place secure enough to keep his supply of stolen underwear hidden from the prying eyes of his wife Soula.

“I cant’s think who this brassiere belonged to,” he mumbled, holding up a scarlet push-up number that Thea had purchased from the Home Shopping channel. Bald Yannis discarded it, considering the padded cups would only accentuate his man boobs.

“Ah, this is more like it,” he exclaimed, examining a practical cotton sports bra edged with dainty trim, though wondering whatever had possessed him to steal it as it really wasn’t his style. Struggling to fasten the clasp of Tassia’s plain but serviceable bra he pondered if perhaps a purloined corset would suit his purpose better as it would hold his pregnant stomach in too. Hearing Soula return with Agapimeni he hastily threw a shirt over the sports bra and slipped the padlock back into place.

“Oh Yanni, such news. My sister Toula is to be wed,” Soula told him delightedly. “An old farmer up in the village ‘as a son what was looking for a wife and Toula caught ‘is eye. He doesn’t even want a dowry.”

“That is good news,” Bald Yannis agreed. He knew Soula had been worried about her two spinster sisters living alone in the dreary old farmhouse up in the high mountain village of Osta ever since her father’s unfortunate death by falling from a helicopter during his botched prison escape attempt. To add to her worries her sister Koula was still incarcerated in a padded cell for stalking Prosperous Pedros, and attacking mail order Masha and the Pappas.

“I will worry though about poor Voula being stuck all alone in the farmhouse once Toula is wed,” Soula sighed.

“Can’t she move in with Toula?” Bald Yannis asked.

“It might be a bit awkward Yanni. Toula an’ ‘er new ‘usband will want the chance to be alone, to get used to each other like. Yous wouldn’t ‘ave liked it if I’d brought one of my sisters to live with us as soon as we got wed,” Soula said, buttering up her husband as groundwork to spring a clever plan on him.

Bald Yannis agreed. It had been a huge adjustment bringing Soula into his home. Living with a woman took a lot more getting used to than simply living with a goat. He mused it wouldn’t have been seemly to take Soula, a practical stranger on their wedding night, into his bed, if she’d insisted on moving one of her sisters in with her. More than likely he would have felt obliged to offer the pair of them the goat’s bed on the living room floor and move the goat into his own double bed.

“I ‘ave been thinkin’ Yanni,” Soula continued in a hopeful tone. “It’s goin’ to be ‘ard for me to be workin’ in the ‘ardware shop, keeping ‘ouse an’ tendin’ to all the sponsored goats, when the twins is born. I was thinkin’ we could do with an ‘and looking after the babies.”

“Cant’s yous just bring ‘em to the ‘ardware shop with yous?” Bald Yannis asked, clueless how much extra work the arrival of twins would mean.

“It will be ‘ard Yanni, sometimes the cryin’ can keep a new mother up all night, an’ they will want feedin’. It might be ‘andy to ‘ave an extra pair of ‘ands, even if it’s just at the beginning.”

Bald Yannis mulled over Soula’s words. He hadn’t given any thought to the practical implications of how their lives would change once the twins arrived, presuming Soula would simply manage everything in her usual competent style in addition to keeping up with all her other wifely duties. He had no experience of babies and hadn’t bothered reading up on them, simply dismissing it as women’s work.

“Of course, yous could be one of them ‘ands on fathers and ‘elp with the night feeds,” Soula suggested.

“Soula, yous know ‘ow I need my eight ‘ours,” Yannis vociferously complained.

“I understand Yanni. I suppose if I’ve been up with the babies all night yous can look after ‘em during the day in the shop, that way we won’t need any ‘elp at all,” Soula suggested.

“That don’t sound too sensible, babies an’ chainsaws sounds like a dangerous combination,” Bald Yannis objected, suddenly beginning to fear just how much disruption these babies would bring to his pleasantly ordered life. He hoped Soula wouldn’t turn into a nagging shrew, expecting him to help in the house and harrying him out of the kafenion to change nappies and sterilise bottles.

“Which is why I was thinkin’ my sister Voula could come down from the mountain to give me an ‘and,” Soula cleverly suggested, having carefully led her husband down the route of acceptance. “That way she won’t be all alone when Toula is wed.”

“I can see it would be ‘elpful for yous to ‘ave Voula around, but there just ain’t no room for ‘er to stop at the ‘ouse,” Bald Yannis immediately decided, horrified at the thought of being outnumbered by nagging women in his own home. “We’ll be full to the rafters when the twins come, an’ there’s Agapimeni to consider. Yous cant’s expect ‘er to give up ‘er bed for yous sister, after all she did live ‘ere first.”

“I would never expect yous to put the darling goat out Yanni, but she’s not going to be the most reliable babysitter. I don’t want to speak badly of yous darling goat but she ‘as a bad habit of kicking an’ she’s a bit indiscriminate in ‘er chewin.’”

“Well let me think on it. It might be a good idea for yous to ‘ave Voula down in the village to give yous an ‘and with the babies, but we’d ‘ave to find somewhere else for ‘er to live.”

Satisfied the seed had been planted Soula smiled sweetly and thoughtfully asked her husband how he was coping with his syndrome.

“Well the doctor reckoned my symptoms would ease if I started doin’ something to prepare for the babies hatching. I’ve been thinkin’ on it an’ will start to construct somethin’ for ‘em to sleep in.”

“Yous is a natural at makin’ things Yanni,” Soula cooed. “Do you think you could manage to knock up these?” she added, showing him a glossy photograph of twin cots in her maternity magazine.

“They look a bit posh,” Yanni replied, studying the expensive baby beds. He’d been thinking of something more in the line of drawers for the babies to sleep in, but one look at Soula’s face when he made his suggestion necessitated a quick rethink.

“Yous offspring deserve the best Yanni, after all they will be yous sons an’ carry on the family name,” Soula encouraged, appealing to Yannis’ vanity. She realised she had a lot of work to do preparing her husband for the life changing event, but he’d coped amazingly well adapting to marriage for such a confirmed bachelor. She had every faith his paternal instinct would click into place once the babies were a reality, but she couldn’t quite imagine him being as doting a father as Fat Christos was to the side-burned Andromeda.

Chapter 19

Scissor Happy in the Salon

Fidgeting from foot to foot in her new uncomfortable bunion pinching high-heeled shoes, Evangelia was in a terrible strop, wielding her scissors with reckless abandon through Deirdre’s hair like a demented harpy on speed.

“Just a trim dear, don’t take too much off,” Deirdre reminded her.

Evangelia barely heard, ruminating over the previous evening with Melecretes who had finally kissed her the moment she opened the apartment door. She recalled how his manly Greek moustache had tickled her lips with thrilling promise; a promise that went unfilled as the evening progressed.

Melecretes had immediately excused himself to use the bathroom and Evangelia took the opportunity to loosen a few buttons and flame up some romantic candles. When Mel failed to reappear after an hour, Evangelia became worried. Sidling over she placed an ear to the bathroom door, tentatively asking, “Is everything all right in there Melecretes?” only to be greeted with the distinctive slurping and sucking sounds of a plunger attacking a blockage and Melecretes crying out, “Just call me Mel. I’ll be out in a jiffy.”

Finally the bathroom door opened and her love interest emerged, shirtless and incoherently blabbering away his absence by blaming a plumbing emergency. Rushing past him Evangelia was disturbed to discover her pristine clean bathroom basin overflowing with scummy water topped with an impenetrable floating layer of emollient clogged chest hair. The air was heavy with the sickeningly sulphurous smell of rotten eggs. This could only mean one thing: Melecretes had been making merry with the expired tube of hair removal cream lurking in the back of the bathroom cabinet.

With a desperate need to air the dreadful smell Evangelia rushed to open the window, immediately attracting a flurry of moths drawn to the light. A strangulated gasp escaped Mel’s lips as he slapped away a moth landing on his blotchy chest, its slight touch exacerbating the agony of his blotchy chemical burns. Evangelia stared at Mel in transfixed horror, watching the angry red patches begin to blister and suppurate, and couldn’t help but notice he appeared to have a pair of rolled up stockings bulging from his trouser pocket.

“Oh my goodness Mel, what the devil have you done to yourself?” Evangelia cried.

“I just wanted to get my body beach ready. I ‘ave to be all buffed and beautiful for summer posing. Yous ‘ave no idea ‘ow hot it gets Evangelia, having such a hairy body,” Mel said, impulsively trying to come up with a convincing lie rather than admitting his chest hair sprouting from the top of Hattie’s twinset had ruined the line of his nonexistent cleavage and the thick hairs on his legs had poked obtrusively through the sheer nylons like parched grass desperate to meet a lawnmower.

“Mel, have you forgotten I have a beauty salon? If you were worried about unwanted and unruly hair growth I could have given you a professional waxing,” Evangelia admonished. “There was no need for you to resort to such subterfuge in my bathroom. From the state of you it’s obvious you didn’t bother reading the instructions and left the depilatory cream on far too long.”

Mel acknowledged bashfully that the instruction leaflet had not even received a summary glance.

“Evangelia, I still recall the pain of that accidental moustache waxing yous gave me. The very thought of havin’ the rest of my body hair removed in such a torturous way was too much to contemplate,” Mel winced, stooping down to retrieve the stockings that had slipped from his trouser pocket. Noticing Evangelia’s inquisitive stare Mel immediately fibbed, “I brought some cushion filler along with me. I thought it was time the cases had some shape stuffed into ‘em.”

Sensing Mel’s physical discomfort Evangelia posed a hard question.

“Mel, have you used that depilatory cream anywhere else or just on your chest?”

“Well my legs were a bit hairy,” Melecretes admitted.

“Then you must strip of your trousers at once and let me rinse your skin with cool water and then apply some antibiotic ointment,” Evangelia sighed wistfully, wishing the circumstances necessitating Mel’s trouser removal were more passionate.

“Ouch, Evangelia you have just clipped my ear,” Deirdre screeched as warm blood flowed over her ear and trickled down her neck, bringing the hairdresser out of her reflective reverie.

“I’m so sorry Did-Rees,” Evangelia gasped, instantly contrite. “My mind was elsewhere, there really is no excuse for losing my concentration.

“Shall I take over, Evangelia?” Sofia asked, throwing Deirdre into a panic when forced to choose between the eager but inexperienced novice and the scissor happy salon owner.

“I think it is fine as it is, I just wanted it tidying up,” Deirdre decided, studying the lopsided hair skirting her nicked and bloody ear. The mood Evangelia was in she’d prefer to take her chances with Quentin making merry with his home hair clippers to finish the job. Evangelia was in such a tight-lipped mood that Deirdre’s salon visit had failed to uncork any of the juicy ‘back in the days of the brothel’ gossip which had been the only point of her visit.

Mail order Masha burst into the salon, indiscreetly whooping, “Ooh Evangelia, I is so thrilled for yous that Mel ‘as finally fallen for yous womanly charms.”

Tears trickled down Evangelia’s face as she protested, “No Masha, my romantic evening with Mel was a complete disaster.”

“But I ‘eard on the village gossip vine he stayed all night,” Masha blurted. “Trust Petros the postman to get the wrong end of the stick, but he swore blind he saw Mel sneaking out of yous apartment first thing this morning.”

“Mel only stayed the night as he was taken unwell,” Evangelia revealed, cursing the postman; reluctant to gossip about Mel’s unfortunate encounter with the expired depilatory cream. He had spent the night in excruciating agony, much exacerbated by his insistence on applying a generous coating of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ to his blistered skin. Evangelia had tenderly applied wet cloths to his feverish brow as she sympathised that his buffed and hairless body would need to stay under wraps on the beach until his chemical burns healed. She was no closer to interpreting Mel’s feelings for her but had to admit on reflection that his earlier kiss had sadly been far more sloppy than passionate.

Keenly sensing Evangelia’s embarrassment at being the subject of village gossip Deirdre hurriedly changed the subject by dropping a bit of gossip of her own.

“Nitsa stopped out till all hours with Pungent Pedros,” she revealed, adding “and she had a real shiner of a black eye this morning.”

“What a brute. It’s a pity Pancratius didn’t let Kyrios Antonopoulos knock nine bells out of ‘im,” Masha declared. “The ‘ideous old hag ‘as not had much luck lately, what with bein’ kidnapped by dastardly Dastan and now takin’ up with a woman beater. I think I will try an’ make an effort to be more nicer to ‘er, after all if Dastan ‘adn’t mistakenly thrown Nitsa in ‘is car boot the evil Kazakh might ‘ave ravished me.”

The other women pondered Masha’s words, agreeing poor Nitsa really had drawn the short straw lately and they should all make more effort to make allowances for her.

Chapter 20

Discovering a Duck in the Plumbing Aisle

Quentin had planned to indulge in a leisurely morning whilst Deirdre was otherwise engaged at the beauty salon. Taverna chat about the Eiffel Tower had reminded him of a weighty tome on the subject he looked forward to reading in the shade of the fig tree. Deirdre’s unwelcome discovery that she had inadvertently planted a rampant weed in the garden put paid to Quentin’s best laid plans and he was now under strict wifely orders to dig up the ragweed and replace it with seeds that would flower into something more visually appealing.

Venturing into the garden he hoped it would remain a parrot free zone. It was far too hot to work in the protective beekeeper’s outfit resembling a hazmat suit, a precautionary device he sometimes wore to deter the blasted bird from sinking its claws into his scalp. Hoisting the shovel Quentin made steady work of digging up the rampant weed, hopeful that his quick action would be enough to prevent the weed proliferating through random seed scattering. The most effective way to destroy the noxiously poisonous plant would be to burn it, but Quentin recalled there was a strict ban on lighting fires during summer. Wondering how best to dispose of it he came up with the ingenious idea of bagging it up and delivering it to Bald Yannis as a treat for his darling pet goat Agapimeni.

It occurred to Quentin he really ought to dedicate more time to the garden as the results were most rewarding. His muscles already felt more toned after his short spell with the shovel and he was ever conscious of the need to take more physical exercise to keep his body in shape. He didn’t want to end up with a pregnant belly like Bald Yannis or a quivering stomach such as the one which always presaged Gorgeous Yiorgos’ arrival. Quentin decided he would take up jogging again once the days cooled off, but in the meantime he would tackle the out of control undergrowth behind the house. The neglected area was home to waist high weeds which Quentin realised resembled the fledgling ones Deidre had transplanted from the mountain, as well as a host of other tall scratchy varieties of grass.

Surveying the spot he intended to aggressively scythe with a petrol strimmer, Quentin noticed glimpses of what appeared to be large green rugby balls scattered across the ground. Tucking his trousers into his socks as a precautionary measure against any snakes lurking with evil intentions in the overgrown undergrowth, he ventured tentatively forward with shovel in hand, unable to believe what his eyes were seeing.

Quentin had chanced upon the wonderful find of a field of wild watermelons. This rich bounty of lush green summer fruit made his mouth water. Sinking to his knees he examined the interconnecting vine snaking rope-like between the fresh melons. Most of the fruit appeared in perfect condition, though the odd one showed visible signs of intrusive nibbling, the skins punctured perhaps by mice or birds gnawing their way towards the ripe red flesh inside.

“No need to lift weights with these beauties to carry,” Quentin exclaimed, heaving a hefty watermelon onto his shoulder. Realising there were far too many for him and Deirdre he imagined the pleasure he would bring by generously sharing this fruity abundance with his neighbours and village friends. Suddenly realising it was almost time to meet Deirdre he made quick work of carrying a few watermelons into the kitchen. Grabbing the bag of weeds he’d put to one side for Agapimeni, he added a choice watermelon for the goat’s owner and set off on foot for Astakos.

Stavroula dashed out from the taverna, intercepting Quentin as he strolled along the harbour, reminding him the grand opening of her tourist tat annex was scheduled to begin very shortly. The mood soured when she received the sharp edge of his tongue on asking if Deirdre would possibly be amenable to moving in with her rich Uncle Lukas who was desperate for a house keeper.

“Really Stavroula, the sex pest reputation of your uncle preceded his arrival in the village. Do you really think that even if I was willing to hire Deirdre out as a ‘woman what does’ I would ever think of exposing my delicate wife to your disreputable uncle’s lewd advances?” Quentin snapped abruptly. He was so offended he added, “We have better things to do with our time this afternoon than perusing the cheap tat you wish to flog, which is no doubt, like you, entirely tasteless. Good day to you Kyria.”

As Quentin stomped off he didn’t look back, thus failing to notice Stavroula’s completely gobsmacked expression. “Well I never,” she muttered, “whoever would ‘ave ever thought K-Went-In would go an’ grow himself a backbone?”

“The nerve of that woman,” Quentin spluttered, entering the hardware shop. “The very idea that Deirdre would go and clean for Stavroula’s sex pest uncle.”

“What’s that?” Bald Yannis asked. “Is Lecherous Lukas after a cleaner?”

“Worse than that, he apparently wants a woman to move into his iniquitous den so he can pass the poor soul off as his housekeeper,” Quentin ranted.

“’Ang on a minute K-Went-In,” Bald Yannis shouted, hot-footing it over the road in the hope of securing the position of Lukas’ live-in housekeeper for his sister-in-law Voula. It occurred to him during Quentin’s rant that the live-in housekeeper position offered the perfect solution for Soula’s sister to move to the village to give a hand with the babies, whilst safely installing the nuisance of a woman well out of his way under someone else’s roof.

Bald Yannis was positively beaming on his return and remarkably still attached to the hand Stavroula had desperately snatched off. He was eager to share with Soula that he had just secured for Voula not only a job, but somewhere to stash her.

“Now what can I do for yous K-Went-In?” Bald Yannis asked, positively brimming with genuine bonhomie.

“Well nothing actually. I just stopped in to give you this bag of tasty weeds for your delightful goat,” Quentin replied.

“Is yous crazy? ‘Ave yous any idea ‘ow many fields of weeds my goats ‘ave at their disposal. Bringing yous weeds ‘ere is like bringing souvlaki to a pig farmer,” Bald Yannis mocked. Remembering Quentin had just done him a favour by mentioning the housekeeper job before Lukas had chance to find anyone else to fill it Yannis suddenly changed his tune.

“Now I thinks on it Agapimeni will enjoy these weeds. She does prefer to ‘ave a nice midday snack ‘ere at the ‘ardware shop rather than ‘aving to be dragged out to the fields. She’s very domesticated yous know,” he boasted proudly.

“Well I’m happy to oblige your special darling,” Quentin said sarcastically. “I also brought this amazingly fresh watermelon along for you and your good lady wife to enjoy. I had no idea the overgrown land at the back of the house was home to a magnificent growth of these fine wild specimens.”

“Is yous sure it’s yous land K-Went-In? Watermelons dont’s usually just grow wild, someone ‘as to plant the seeds an’ then water ‘em. There’s been no rain for weeks an’ they ‘ave a tendency to be thirsty,” Bald Yannis reasoned.

“It’s definitely my land,” Quentin assured him “but I didn’t plant any seeds and I haven’t been back there into the overgrown undergrowth until today.”

“Yous said the back of yous ‘ouse? Is this overgrown bit of land anywhere near yous bathroom?” Yannis queried.

“Yes, it’s definitely in the vicinity, just off to one side of the house below the bathroom,” Quentin agreed.

“Malaka, I’ll bet any money yous magical crop of watermelons ‘ave been watered by a leaking toilet pipe comin’ out of yous bathroom,” Bald Yannis yelled. “’Ave yous noticed any strange smells?”

“I can’t say I have. Of course we don’t sit out at that side of the house. How would I know if the pipes are leaking Yanni?”

“Yous will know soon enough as soon as a bit of wind picks up.”

“Oh no, if you’re right this will render all that magnificent fruit inedible,” Quentin groaned.

“Dont’s be so soft K-Went-In, a bit of manure does ‘em good an’ it would account for the humongous size of this watermelon.”

“I suppose you’re right, but I can’t see Deirdre being too enthused about eating something that grew in sewage.”

“I see what yous mean, she is a bit prissy. If I was yous I wouldn’t tell ‘er about the leak, women can be a bit squeamish when it comes to bathroom waste disposal.”

Quentin appeared surprised that Bald Yannis was so well up on what women might find disgusting until it dawned on him the hardware shop man been selling plumbing accessories for years so was probably an expert in the sewage arena.

“I trust you sell all the necessary whatnots I will need when I tackle the leaking pipes,” Quentin said, thinking he was more than capable of sorting the job himself, thus dispensing with the need to pay Achilles the borrowed builder for his services.

Bald Yannis didn’t deign to answer, instead indicating with his thumb the sign reading ‘Plumbin Parts: Cash Only, No Refunds.’

Quentin sauntered up the plumbing aisle, attempting to look knowledgeable as he handled widgets and whatsits he had no clue what to do with. A flash of brilliant yellow caught his eye, offering the only splash of colour amid the dusty merchandise.

“I say Yanni, is that some kind of inflatable?” Quentin called out excitedly.

“Yous mean the floating duck?” Bald Yannis replied, remembering his disastrous investment in a stash of giant inflatable’s with dodgy valves. Eager to offload the vinyl horror onto the gullible Quentin he pushed rudely past him to drag a deflated duck from the top shelf.

“This is just the ticket for Deirdre. She’s not a strong swimmer and prefers the security of something solid beneath her. Deirdre’s lilo was unfortunately ruptured,” Quentin began to explain, before biting his tongue. There was no point in amusing Bald Yannis at his expense by explaining Deirdre’s lilo had experienced an unfortunate encounter with the kidnapped goat’s horns when he’d tried to stash it onto Pungent Pedros’ motorcycle.

“Well there’s this blow up duck, or ‘appen this flamingo would be more goodly for Did-Rees ‘cos it’s a bit bigger. It ‘as a nice roomy seating bit for ‘er to relax in.”

Quentin shot Bald Yannis a filthy look for implying his wife’s bottom would require the larger inflatable. Dithering over the selection he suggested the hardware man blow up both floating creatures. Bald Yannis was taken aback, having presumed Quentin was stupid enough to buy one and only contemplate the hot air needed to inflate it when he was safely ensconced on the beach. Muttering under his breath he retrieved a rusty foot pump and pumped until he was red in the face. He managed the last smirk on the matter when Quentin plumped for the enormous pink flamingo and struggled to manoeuvre the plastic pink monstrosity through the shop doorway. The dilemma of what to do with the unsold inflated yellow duck was solved when Agapimeni wandered over and chewed its head off.

Chapter 21

Goodly News for Soula

“Ooh Yanni, such a morning,” Soula sighed, rushing into the hardware shop and yanking the pet goat off the inflatable duck before it choked on its vinyl snack.

“I ‘ad to undress fifty goats, those knitted clothes were makin’ ‘em sweat somethin’ ‘orrible in this heat.”

“I thought yous ‘ad a bit of a pong about yous Soula,” her husband replied. “I ‘ave goodly news for yous. I ‘ave managed to secure a position ‘ere in the village for yous sister Voula as the live-in housekeeper of Stavroula’s rich Uncle Lukas who ‘as just returned to live ‘ere from Athens.”

“Ooh Yanni, yous is so clever,” Soula gasped delightedly, planting a kiss on Bald Yannis’ cheek, blissfully ignorant of Lecherous Lukas’ reputation as the local sex pest.

“Now we’ll ‘ave ‘elp when the babies is born an’ I wont’s need to worry about Voula bein’ all alone in the dreary old farmhouse once Toula is wed.”

“I’ve been thinkin’ on that,” Bald Yannis said. “The farmhouse will be empty an’ we’ll still ‘ave to cough up for the property tax. I should scheme up some plan to make it pay for itself.”

“Like rent it out to a farmer?” Soula asked.

“Don’t be daft Soula; no one could make more than a subsistence livin’ out of that place. The olive trees are ‘ardly productive an’ all the goats ‘ave moved down ‘ere in that sponsored agreement I ‘ave with the Japanese,” Yannis said. “I was thinkin’ more on the lines of doin’ the old place up as a tourist attraction, ‘appen as a spiritual retreat for them new-age bearded hipsters with more money than sense. There’s always some stupid foreign type that go for things like that Soula an’ would be moronic enough to pay an exorbitant rent to run an exclusive mountain village business. Look ‘ow easy it was to con them gullible Doomsday trippers.”

“Well yous know best Yanni,” Soula said humbly, relieved he hadn’t suggested they move up to the village she’d been so happy to escape from. “When will Voula arrive? I’m that excited to see ‘er.”

“She was in luck that the weekly bus passes through Osta today. She should be ‘ere by early afternoon.”

“Ooh, I’m that excited to see ‘er. What’s this Lukas chap like?”

“He’s stinkin’ rich,” Bald Yannis said, not bothering to elaborate on Lukas’ penchant for visiting brothels and being a bit hands on with his cleaners.

“Do you want to grab a free bite of lunch over at Stavroula’s taverna? She’s invited everyone,” Soula asked.

“Absolutely not,” Bald Yannis snapped. He intended to keep his distance, determined no one would link him to the disruptive chaos his pet stooge Nitsa was about to unleash. Suddenly realising he didn’t want Soula caught up in whatever Nitsa was cooking up he announced, “I’d forgot all about them inflatables until K-Went-In wanted one for Did-Rees, now’s the time of year to flog ‘em. I’ll dig the rest out of the back and yous can get busy blowin’ ‘em up. We can ‘ang ‘em up outside the shop.”

Soula pumped air into an inflatable unicorn, imagining what fun it would be to spend a free afternoon frolicking in the sea. She had seen happy families playing together on the beach and hoped once the twins were born Bald Yannis could be persuaded to loosen up. It suddenly occurred to her that in all the time she had lived in Astakos she had never walked hand in hand with her husband on the beach or even dipped so much as a toe in the sea. Feeling suddenly brave she announced,

“Yanni, I want yous to teach me ‘ow to swim.”

Chapter 22

Voula Receives a Generous Gift of Poo

The news that Toula was to be married hit Voula hard. Her younger sister Soula was already off living the high-life in the picturesque backwater village of Astakos, having snared the successful businessman Bald Yannis from under her nose when the matchmaker brought him up to the bleak farmhouse in the high mountain village of Osta to take his pick from the four spinster sisters. She didn’t begrudge Soula her new found happiness, but with Koula locked up in a padded cell and Toula on the brink of departure, Voula contemplated a lonely mundane existence of plodding along and getting nowhere. Her daydreams of attending college and qualifying as a veterinarian had been shattered by her ogre of a father belittling her ambitions and forcing her to leave school to act as a farm skivvy. Finally free of his yoke she ruminated it was now much too late to pursue her dreams, even though she’d read every dog-eared book she could get her hands on in the village about animal welfare.

Toula attempted to comfort Voula as the two sisters sat in the walled courtyard under the shade of the almond tree, shelling fresh peas. “Look on the bright side, at least the cantankerous old malaka is dead and you won’t be stuck having to look after him.”

“Toula, I give thanks every day that our sadistic father was splattered falling from that helicopter,” Voula agreed, hastily making the sign of a cross.

The sisters might sound callous to an uninitiated observer, but in truth the four daughters of the fraudulent dead convict who’d thought nothing about stashing his dead sister’s corpse in the deep freeze, had endured untold suffering at his hands. Voula longed to escape from Osta, but was so destitute she couldn’t fathom a way to make a fresh start.

A sudden scraping sound alerted Voula’s attention. Opening the yard door she stared down into the trusting eyes of a pink and brown speckled piglet that pushed its warm snout into the folds of her skirt. “Look Toula, isn’t this just the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Voula, it must have wandered off from the taverna. Old Poulios’ sow just had a litter,” Toula said. “We should take it back before he misses it.”

“Oh but the darling thing looks hungry, let me just make it a bottle,” Voula cried, quite entranced by this unexpected visitor. Five minutes later the warm body of the feisty piglet was nestled close to Voula’s bosom, playfully squirming as she encouraged it to feed from a baby’s bottle filled with fresh goat’s milk.

“I told you we should have taken it back,” Toula hissed as the hollering tones of Poulios yelling “Voula,” reached them.

Barging into the courtyard Poulios, the ancient owner of Osta’s run-down taverna, doubled over, panting heavily with his hands on his knees.

“Voula, there was a phone call for you from Astakos at the taverna. Yous brother-in-law said it was very important and you should call ‘im back right away. ‘Ere fetch me a glass of water Toula, I’m gasping.”

Voula’s father had never installed a telephone at the remote farmhouse so the sisters were reliant on the good will of their neighbours to relay any telephone messages. As Poulios downed his water and fought to recover his breath, Voula apologised for not returning his stray piglet at once.

“Po po, it’s the runt of the litter, not fit for anything. The pig ‘ad another six that are bigger and stronger,” Poulios said. Noticing the way Voula seemed so fondly attached to the animal he told her, “Keep it if yous like, it will be more trouble than it’s worth for me to have to fatten it up.”

“I can keep it, really? Poulios that is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” Voula cried, rushing over to hug him.

“Aye, really,” Poulios assured her, touched by her delighted gratitude.

“I shall call it Poo in your honour,” Voula exclaimed. “I wonder what my brother-in-law wanted; I hope nothing bad has happened to Soula.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Poulios advised, dialling Bald Yannis on his new-fangled mobile phone and passing it to Voula. Never having seen such a thing before she bellowed at the top of her lungs so that Bald Yannis would be able to hear her.

“’Old it like this an’ speak into it normal like,” Poulios showed her, shaking his head at her unworldly ways.

Listening closely to Bald Yannis, Voula’s only response was a litany of endless “Ooh Yanni.” When the call ended she announced “my brother-in-law has got me a job as a live-in housekeeper to a wealthy person in Astakos. I can’t quite believe this day, first Poulios gifting me this gorgeous Poo and now the chance to leave Osta which I have dreamed of so long. I must hurry to the bus stop before the once weekly bus leaves.”

“I will help you pack,” Toula offered, happy that this stroke of good luck had befallen her sister and would ease her own guilt in leaving the farmhouse.

“I’ll wait an’ give yous a hand to the bus stop with yous luggage,” Poulios offered. The old man’s kind heart sank when Voula emerged from indoors two minutes later clutching nothing more than a half-empty olive sack containing all her worldly goods. Muttering under his breath he swore,

“If the father of them girls wasn’t dead already I’d ‘appily kill ‘im, treating ‘em like servants an’ makin’ ‘em live with nothing.”

Cutting the washing line down to make a lead for the piglet, Voula asked anxiously “Toula, you won’t miss this will you?”

The once weekly bus came to a halt in the village square and Voula embraced her sister before climbing aboard with the piglet. “Ere Voula, take this for the fare an’ a bit of lunch,” Poulios called, pressing some money into her hand.

As the bus pulled out of the remote mountain village Voula opened her hand. So many tears welled up in her eyes at the sight of the fifty Euro note she was clutching that the bus was ten kilometres away before her eyes had cleared enough to enjoy the spectacular views.

Chapter 23

The Grand Opening of the Tourist Tat Annex

Tilting the deerstalker hat at a jaunty angle, Nitsa adjusted Quentin’s dark glasses and belted the flasher’s mac tightly over her hideous old lady dress, seemingly unaware her black pop socks sloppily concertinaed around her ankles exposing her hairy legs. Feeling she projected an air of mysterious anonymity in the beguiling disguise, she was surprised when Sofia called across from the salon,

“Yassou Nitsa, don’t forget, we must go clubbing soon.”

“’Ow on earth did Sofia know it was me in my goodly disguise? I wish that girl would tell me once and for all what this ‘clubbin’ is she’s intent on us doing,” Nitsa muttered under her breath.

Quentin, struggling to control a ludicrous pink plastic flamingo far bigger than him, narrowly avoided sending Nitsa flying over the harbour wall. Ignoring Quentin’s cry of “Oops, sorry Nitsa,” she swore under her breath,

“’Ow did the malaka know it was me in my goodly disguise?” before making a beeline for Stavroula’s new annex.

The neglected one-storey old stone structure adjoining Stavroula’s taverna, originally built to house animals, had long since fallen into neglect until Stavroula engaged Achilles the borrowed builder to turn it into a tourist tat annex. Achilles replaced the rotten old wooden entrance that hadn’t been entered for years with a glass harbour-side doorway that allowed light to flow into the formerly dank gloomy place. He also created an open archway leading from the taverna’s interior into the adjacent space, now lined with shelves sagging under the weight of Stavroula’s tasteless merchandise.

The pavement outside the glass door was carpeted with overpriced knock-off Flokati Chinese rugs. Plastic racks full of plaques of Greek icons and strings of komboloi worry beads fought for floor space with Stavroula’s pride and joy, the shocking pink plastic busts of Aristotle crying out to have his learned head removed so his true purpose as a planter could be utilised. Ribbons across the doorway and archway held the crowds back, waiting for Stavroula to ceremoniously cut them for the grand opening.

In order to lure the crowds Stavroula had prepared a feast of free meze. Tantalising aromas wafted above the taverna tables that groaned with food. Bowls of tzatziki, skordalia, taramasolata and fava waited invitingly to be introduced to fresh crusty bread, and flaky pies burst with fillings of feta, spinach and sausage. Empty plates were stacked high next to a massive tray of homemade moussaka and glorious salads offered to slake mid-day hunger.

With arms folded over her sagging bosom Stavroula leant against the kitchen doorway with a scowl on her face, watching the villagers descend like a plague of locusts on the free food.

“Po po, dont’s they feed that child at ‘ome?” she lamented, clocking the side-burned toddler Andromeda grabbing a selection of pies and stashing them under her bedraggled summer bonnet, giving her head a lumpy lop-sided appearance.

Hungry fisherman had forgone the kafenion in favour of free food, annoying Stavroula with their presence as she was certain they weren’t in the market for any typically Greek souvenirs. Melecretes pushed his way through the crowds clutching a box full of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ he’d persuaded Stavroula to stock by telling her that the annex would be the only outlet in Astakos to carry it. Stavroula rolled her eyes at his brazen lie, knowing full well the curative was sold at the supermarket, the beauty salon, the hardware shop and the rival taverna, but not wanting to be out of the loop when it came to this surprisingly popular product.

Elbowing her way through the mass of people Nitsa was sidetracked from her chaotic mission by the thought of food. She greedily grabbed the last rings of deep fried calamari before piling a piece of crusty bread high with a generous portion of tirokafteri which she managed to clumsily smear down the front of the flasher’s mac.

The English couple who’d incredulously managed to maintain the delusion they were holidaying in Spain despite spending four days in Greece, hovered over the selection of meze, attempting to find something identifiable to eat.

“That looks like a prawn, Cilla,” the man said, pointing at a cheese covered crustacean in a delicious dish of shrimp saganaki.

“What a strange combination, Clive. Pass me a napkin to wipe the cheese off it,” Cilla instructed. “I must say I’m looking forward to this new shop opening. I hope we can snap up a stuffed donkey, a sombrero and some castanets as souvenirs.”

“I wonder if anyone around here speaks English.” Clive mused. “We can ask if there are any excursions to a bullfight or flamenco dancing.”

Propped up against the wall, Gorgeous Yiorgos amused himself by eavesdropping on their conversation before deciding to take pity on the poor lost couple.

“Yous does know yous isn’t actually in Spain?” he blurted out.

“What do you mean? Of course we’re in Spain. There’s sun, sea and sand, and souvenirs soon,” Clive replied.

“No, yous is in Greece,” Gorgeous Yiorgos assured them. “We do ‘ave sun, sea and sand ‘ere too yous know.”

The couple gawped gormlessly at Gorgeous Yiorgos, convinced he was winding them up; but before they had chance to challenge his geographical knowledge they were transfixed by the sight of the scowling taverna owner wielding a frying pan and chasing a grey-bearded man wearing a long black dress that flapped around his ankles.

Stavroula screamed at the Pappas, “Get out yous malaka, I’ve told yous a ‘undred times yous is banned.”

“But Stavroula, let me explain, I have something important to tell you about nefarious plans that are afoot,” the Pappas cried, defending himself against the frying pan. His pathetic attempt to win Stavroula over by warning her Bald Yannis and Nitsa were planning mischief went unheard as Stavroula swung the frying pan menacingly, shouting, “Just drop that loukanikopta and get out, yous odious little man.”

Scraping the cheese off another prawn Cilla watched Boukali the taverna cat pounce on the sausage pie dropped by the fleeing Pappas, convinced someone was about to leap out with the catchphrase, “Smile, you’re on candid camera.” She couldn’t contain her uneasy laughter when an old woman dressed in a rumpled tirokafteri smeared mac tripped over the cat, sending the table stacked high with salads crashing over, leaving the floor swimming in puddles of olive oil. The side-burned child with the lumpy head ran over to slide through the oily mess, unable to resist the delights of this impromptu skating ring.

Steam came out of Stavroula’s ears as she turned on Nitsa, screaming “Nitsa, yous clumsy old hag, yous ‘ave ruined my salads.”

“’Ows she know it was me in this goodly disguise?” Nitsa muttered to herself just as Tall Thomas leapt to her defence, proclaiming, “Stavroula, it’s not my Aunty Nitsa’s fault. Yous should ‘ave more control over that malaka cat of yours.”

The arrival of Lecherous Lukas distracted Stavroula’s attention away from Nitsa. Firing a vulgar wink at Cilla he sauntered over to the table of pies, filling his pockets with the tasty pastries. Tempted as she was to turn her frying pan on her thieving uncle, Stavroula controlled her natural urge for violence by thinking how she would butter him up enough for him to shell out for a generous dowry.  Rushing over, her presence at least put paid to his petty thievery when she informed him she had found him a live-in housekeeper who would be arriving that very afternoon.

“That is excellent news Stavroula, you are a good niece,” Lukas said, genuinely relieved she had found him a woman so quickly. The task of putting sheets on his bed had so flummoxed him that he had considered booking a room at Adonis’ hotel, but the thought of parting with so much money had pained him. “Come to Takis’ taverna this evening where I will treat you to dinner as a thank you.”

Stavroula knew full well that her rich uncle’s offer of dinner would be a measly pita gyro, but at least it would give her the opportunity to persuade him to pay for her wedding. The now oily Andromeda skidded over, squashing Boukali the taverna cat who made a soft landing for the clumsy child; reminding Stavroula the floor was a slippery mess and prompting her to holler for that old fool Vasilis to tackle it with a mop.

The villagers began to disperse now there was no more free food to pick over despite Stavroula’s best efforts to contain them.

“I ‘ave fish to deliver,” Tall Thomas excused himself, happily sated on free fava.

“An’ I ‘ave to see if Toothless Tasos ‘as been sneakin’ round while my back was turned,” Thea explained, wiping pie crumbs from her chin.

“’An I ‘ave an important letter I must get to young Iraklis,” Mrs Kolokotronis piped up, pocketing a portion of moussaka for her young charge.

Stavroula, hoping to halt the embarrassing exodus, decided this was the moment to cut the ribbon. Before she had chance to sever the ribbon and bore everyone that hadn’t already scarpered with her speech, Nitsa elbowed her out of the way, grabbing the scissors and pronouncing the tourist tat annex open. Dashing headlong into the annex determined to spread further chaos she was closely followed by Cilla in pursuit of some Spanish souvenir bargains.

Cilla, zoning in on a teddy bear clad in an ‘I love Greece’ tee-shirt had her first inkling that the fat fisherman might not have been winding her up. A toy donkey draped in the Greek flag confirmed her suspicions they had been had by their travel agent.

“I say Cilla, this is a bit different,” Clive gushed, waving around a patriotic lobster adorned shower curtain.

“You know that fisherman was right, we aren’t in Spain at all,” Cilla told him.

“Not to worry, Greece is very nice and those pies were far superior to the ones back at home. It’s supposed to be big on ruins; we can book an excursion to something typically Greek when we’ve finished our souvenir shopping,” Clive boomed, prising his head through the neck of a Zorba the Greek tee-shirt.

“See if you can find a Greek phrase book in here Cilla while I stock up on these ornamental bottles of ouzo and tsipouro.”

“Yous should get Nitsa to give yous a tour in ‘er taxi,” Gorgeous Yiorgos butted in, pointing to Nitsa. The old crone had wandered onto the pavement where she was trying to discreetly untether that old fool Vasilis’ donkey and lure it into the annex where she hoped it would head-butt the fancy displays or leave a steaming deposit. Her attempts were thwarted by that old fool Vasilis rushing over protectively and shooing her away, so Nitsa turned her attention to the busts of Aristotle. Dumping her trilby on the donkey she picked up a planter, opened the lid and shoved her head inside.

“Malaka, it’s stuck fast,” Nitsa shouted, sightlessly staggering into the plastic racks and knocking them over. Wooden icons landed on the pavement with a thump and hundreds of strings of komboloi beads rolled into the harbour. The villagers stood around chortling and pointing at Nitsa whose head was now concealed inside the bust of Aristotle.

“What’s ‘appened now?” Stavroula shouted, rushing outside. Her mouth gaped open as she stared wordlessly at the scene of destruction and all her cheap tat in disarray. The ridiculous sight of Nitsa groping blindly around with her head firmly implanted in an Aristotle planter incensed Stavroula. Yanking the planter from Nitsa’s head she frogmarched the old woman back to her taxi, warning her never to set foot in her new annex again.

“’Ere Stavroula, these tourists want to pay for this huge pile of souvenirs,” Gorgeous Yiorgos shouted.

“Yous ‘aven’t ‘eard the last of this,” Stavroula hissed at Nitsa before dashing back to relieve Cilla and Colin of an outrageous amount of Euros and failing to see Nitsa giving the thumbs up to Bald Yannis across the harbour.

Chapter 24

A Disaster and a Delivery

“’Ang on Nitsa, these English tourists fancy the grand Greek tour in yous taxi,” Gorgeous Yiorgos called out, helping Cilla and Clive to carry their bulging bags of tourist tat to the old Mercedes taxi.

Delighted to receive an unexpected fare Nitsa grinned ghoulishly, removing her sunglasses and causing the tourists to gawp in horror at her dramatically swollen black eye. Clicking the central locking into place to prevent them escaping she stuck her foot down hard on the accelerator and grabbed a bottle of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’, pouring the contents over her throbbing eye.

“Malaka,” she screeched as the oily curative smeared her line of vision, preventing her from seeing Iraklis trundling along towards her on the supermarket tricycle. In a desperate attempt to avoid being splattered by the oncoming taxi Iraklis speedily swerved, planting him firmly in the path of Prosperous Pedros’ oncoming pick-up truck. Pedros veered like a scalded cat to avoid squishing Iraklis, violently rear-ending Tall Thomas’ mobile refrigerated fish van and propelling it straight towards the newly opened tourist tat annex.

With no time to control the van’s trajectory Tall Thomas screamed “malaka” as the mobile refrigerated fish van scrunched over the racks of tourist tat lying on the pavement, before coming to a shuddering halt wedged in the brand new glass doorway of the annex, its bonnet nosing shelves full of tat that promptly collapsed all over it. Villagers pushed a gobsmacked Stavroula out of the way, running over to check on Tall Thomas whose forehead had hit the windscreen with a sickening thump. Nitsa drove blindly off; blithely unaware of the destruction she had left in her wake but confident her earlier antics had more than delivered enough chaos to satisfy the warped scheming of Bald Yannis.

“Onos,” that old fool Vasilis wailed as the pregnant donkey brayed piteously before collapsing on top of Stavroula’s precious knock-off Flokati Chinese rugs.

“Tell me I didn’t hit the donkey?” Tall Thomas cried in horror, pushing the mangled van’s door open and falling unsteadily onto the rugs beside the distressed animal as his legs gave way in shock.

Prosperous Pedros hurried to his friend’s side, abandoning the pick-up next to Iraklis’ overturned tricycle and blocking the harbour road. After taking one look at the prostrate Thomas, Pedros turned on his heels, announcing, “I’ll go an’ get the new doctor.”

The momentary eerie silence that descended over the village as everyone reeled in shock was broken by loud honking as the bus pulled into the ‘No Parking’ spot, with the driver desperately thumping the horn. Soula had been waiting patiently at the bus stop when pandemonium struck. Her natural instinct to rush across the harbour to help was tempered by the thought of her sister Voula arriving with no one to greet her and feeling out of her depth in this strange village.

Seated directly behind the bus driver Voula had a bird’s eye view of the accident. The moment the bus braked she rushed to alight; her ears assaulted by the painful brays of Onos the donkey. Unable to ignore any animal in distress she thrust her olive sack and the piglet at Soula, saying “take hold of Poo while I help the poor donkey.” Dashing across to Onos she assertively instructed the villagers to stand back, saying, “This donkey is in labour, give it some room.” Her calm and measured tones cut through the general hysteria, lending her words an air of authority.

“So I ‘aven’t killed it then?” Tall Thomas asked hopefully in a weak voice.

“Don’t worry, your van didn’t touch the donkey but the shock of all the excitement may have brought on premature labour,” Voula assured him.

“Never mind the malaka donkey, look what yous ‘ave done to my annex, yous ‘ave destroyed it,” Stavroula complained, battering Tall Thomas round the head with an embroidered Evzone pompom slipper that had fallen from the display.

Voula grabbed the slipper from Stavroula’s hand, chiding “how can you be so vicious? This man is in shock, he’s just survived a nasty accident which could have been fatal.”

Turning to that old fool Vasilis she barked, “You. Go and get a brandy for this poor man.”

“But I dont’s want to leave Onos,” Vasilis protested, throwing his arms around the donkey and sobbing over its mane.

“There, there Vasili, don’t worry, Onos is in the very capable hands of my sister Voula,” Soula assured the old fool, leading him away to give Voula room to deliver the foal. “Let’s go inside and telephone Masha; she wont’s want to miss the birth.”

Voula fussed busily round the donkey, speaking to it in a soothing and reassuring tone as it strained and brayed. Glancing over at Tall Thomas she was alarmed to notice he’d passed out from the nasty bump on his head he’d received when he flew into the windscreen.

“Soula, stroke the donkey’s head to calm it,” she instructed as her sister reappeared with the brandy. Voula hurried to Tall Thomas, propping his head in her lap and pressing the glass of spirits to his lips. The mobile fishmonger revived and his eyes flew open. Gazing up at Voula their eyes connected and Tall Thomas gasped “are you an angel?” Their reverie was interrupted by the condescending voice of Doctor Konstantinos demanding:

“Do I look like a veterinarian? I don’t do donkeys. What sort of backwater place is this where my patients are parrots, pregnant men and pregnant donkeys?”

“The ‘uman patient is ‘ere,” Prosperous Pedros said, leading the pompous medic over to Tall Thomas and freeing Voula up to return to Onos.

Stavroula rushed over, attempting to yank her new rugs out from under the donkey, complaining, “I won’t ‘ave that animal leaving its mess all over my genuine hand-woven by nuns, from wool obtained by bottle-fed sheep hand-reared on the verdant plains of Epidaurus, Flokati rugs.”

“Leave Onos be Stavroula, I will pay for any damage to yous ghastly imitation rugs,” that old fool Vasilis promised, ashamed of his heartless daughter.

“Voula, I can see its ‘ead,” Soula cried excitedly. Onos tried to stand up and with a heartfelt bray and a final push delivered her foal into Voula’s waiting arms to a rapturous round of applause from the villagers.

Chapter 25

Happy with Granny

Mail order Masha felt clammy and overheated even after Evangelia had elaborately coiled her long blonde hair extensions into a glamorous upswept pile. The producer at the television studio wasn’t too happy when she telephoned to cancel the weather, but Masha pointed out it was blindingly obvious to everyone that it was hot and sunny. She told him no one would be stuck indoors watching the television for an update anyway so he may as well drag his cardiganed old mother out of retirement rather than expecting her to haul her pregnant body up to Paraliakos, and risk revolting her fans by visibly sweating on camera. Reminding the Russian of the ratings, the producer threatened to sack her, but Masha po po-ed him saying her ardent fans advised her to take it easy and there were laws against sacking pregnant weather presenters.

The relentless sunshine ensured Masha’s tan was permanently topped up. Bored of lazing around sunbathing without even a vodka to keep up her spirits and stuffed to the gills with tart Russian pickled lingonberries, she decided to pay a visit to Melecretes to find out what his intentions were towards Evangelia. She recalled Evangelia telling her Mel was into embroidery which sounded suspiciously like a dodgy pastime for a manly moustached Greek. Masha determined to get to the bottom of things as she couldn’t afford a scissor happy distracted hairdresser in case she ended up with a laughable lopsided hairdo like Deirdre. Thinking of Deirdre reminded her she must pop into the church and arrange Deirdre’s baptism with the ghastly Pappas so her American friend would be all set to take up her role of godmother to the silicone chip.

Masha tarted herself up in a pair of orange hot pants that matched her latest fake nail extensions and dangly earrings. “Malaka,” she muttered, looking down and realising her pregnant belly now obscured her view of her matching shoes. Another “malaka” hotly followed when she remembered that old fool Vasilis had taken the donkey with him to Stavroula’s grand opening and the local taxi service wasn’t answering calls. She would have to walk to Nitsa’s house to see Melecretes. Prancing along country lanes in stilettos wasn’t ideal, but Masha didn’t possess a pair of flat shoes.

“Good gracious child, don’t tell me you tottered all the way here in those ridiculous heels,” Hattie greeted Masha, ushering her into the kitchen and filling the washing up bowl with water topped up with a generous measure of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’.

“Take the weight off and stick your feet in this bowl before they swell up grotesquely,” Hattie invited. “Now what can I do for you?”

“I came to see Melecretes,” Masha said.

“I’m afraid he’s not at home dear, but he is due back any time now. I expect you’ve called round out of concern as you’ve probably noticed Mel has been acting a tad peculiar lately.”

“He ‘as been sending mixed messages to Evangelia. It doesn’t do a woman any good to ‘ave ‘er romantic feelings trifled with. Mel needs to let Evangelia know where she stands instead of leading ‘er on,” Masha said bluntly. “I ‘ave grown quite fond of the hairdresser, but ‘ave to confess to ‘aving a bit of a soft spot for Melecretes too. He’s always the first to heap lavish praise on my fashion choices and my glamorous style.”

“That might be the problem dear. I rather think Mel is a bit too keen on women’s fashion, if you know what I mean,” Hattie said enigmatically.

Hattie’s subtle hint might have struck home with Masha if the older woman had added a knowing wink, but without one it went right over the Russian’s head.

“I ‘ave told Evangelia she looks a bit frumpy an’ she is tryin’ to make more of an effort,” Masha said. “But even after I gave her a few fashion tips she reckons Mel is more interested in embroidery than in ravishin’ ‘er.”

“Oh dear, things may be worse than I suspected,” Hattie sighed. “I knew Mel had a few peculiarities, but I brushed them under the carpet. He spends so much time at the hairdresser’s apartment I naturally presumed they were engaging in amorous congress.”

“Evangelia didn’t mention anything about Mel bein’ political,” Masha said, failing to grasp Hattie’s euphemism.

“Not that sort of congress Masha, I meant I thought they were shaking the sheets,” Hattie said in exasperation, hoping Masha wouldn’t make her spell out her meaning.

“Evangelia didn’t mention that Mel was helping her with the laundry,” Masha said, beginning to wonder if Hattie was going senile.

“Oh Masha, how do I say this politely? I thought Mel was stamping her passport.”

“I didn’t know she was ‘aving any trouble with her travel documents,” Masha sighed, thinking she should mention to Quentin he really ought to consider having his mother committed as she’d clearly lost the plot.

“Masha you can be so infuriating,” Hattie cried. “I am trying to tell you the pair of them spend so much time together that I naturally assumed they were doing the horizontal tango.”

“Evangelia didn’t mention Mel had taken her dancin’,” Masha replied, rolling her eyes and thinking that the empty brandy bottle could explain Hattie’s bizarre ramblings. The older woman was obviously a secret tippler.

“Hattie is trying to tell yous she thought me and Evangelia ‘ave been sleepin’ together an’ indulging in carnal relations, but she’s too much of a lady to use vulgar language,” Melecretes announced, having returned and overheard the two women gossiping.

“Why’s she been twittering on about politics an’ passports then?” Masha asked, completely flabbergasted.

“Older ladies like Hattie don’t like to speak too bluntly, they don’t consider it polite,” Melecretes explained.

“Po po, ‘ave yous ‘eard the sort of filth that comes out of the mouths of Nitsa and Fotini?” Masha scoffed.

“Hattie has led a more sheltered life,” Mel said.

“Well I’m truly sorry you had to overhear us gossiping about you Mel,” Hattie apologised sincerely. “Masha was concerned you have been trifling with Evangelia’s affections which surprised me as I presumed the pair of you had been enjoying some afternoon delight.”

“She means sleepin’ together,” Mel explained for Masha’s benefit, having concluded she was linguistically clueless about euphemisms.

“Mel’s fondness for dressing up in women’s clothes might explain why they haven’t been, you know...” Hattie blurted, immediately covering her mouth with her hands, mortified she had revealed Mel’s aberrant secret.

Mail order Masha’s only response to this outlandish revelation was an attempt to arch her immovable Botoxed eyebrows; still half convinced Hattie was bonkers.

“Actually, my little dress hobby ‘as nothing to do with me not pouncing on the hairdresser, Hattie,” Mel confessed. “I’m not blind. I can see ‘ow much Evangelia likes me, an’ I like ‘er too, she’s a lovely woman. But if I get romantically involved with ‘er I expect she’ll get clingy. In no time at all she’ll be nagging me to move in with ‘er, no offence, but yous know ‘ow demanding women can be. I just couldn’t bear to move out of ‘ere. Yous ‘ave no idea ‘ow much I enjoy livin’ ‘ere with Nitsa, Fotini and yous. It reminds me of those happy days livin’ with my Granny before I lost ‘er.”

Throwing open his wallet Melecretes produced a photograph of a moustached old crone with a remarkable resemblance to Nitsa.

“Granny was the light of my life, such a wonderful woman. Hattie, the reason I sometimes dress up in women’s clothes is because Granny, bless ‘er, could be a bit of a smotherer. Nothin’ gave ‘er more pleasure than dressing me up like a girl, I think it made ‘er feel closer to ‘er lost daughter, my mother, as though she was recreating the days of her only child’s childhood.”

“Oh Mel, I had no idea your poor mother was dead,” Hattie lamented.

“Mother’s not dead,” Mel protested. “She got religion and ran off with a preacher from Pennsylvania, brainwashed by the manipulatively seductive words he spewed from the pulpit. Granny said Idaho just wasn’t exciting enough for ‘er.”

“And yous mother thought a bible basher was exciting,” Masha said, astonished by Mel’s confession.

“He had a lot of sway, not to mention swagger. He ‘ad a big radio congregation eating out of his hand, sending ‘im bigly donations he spent on a helicopter he used to fly banner advertisements full of gospel sayings. He got lots of gullible converts who turned over their cash to ‘is church. Granny couldn’t believe ‘er daughter converted from Orthodox to Ecstatic Evangelical, suckered into a cult full of vegan tambourinists,” Mel said.

“So your mother abandoned you, leaving you with your poor Granny who dressed you up like a girl because she missed her daughter,” Hattie summarised. “And sometimes you dress up in women’s clothes to make you feel closer to your dear dead Granny.”

“Yes, it brings back memories of ‘appy days,” Mel sighed. “I really should try to find some extra time to research my Greek roots ‘cos I ‘ave a sixth sense that Nitsa and me are related.”

“Because of the family moustache,” Masha exclaimed, finally beginning to make sense of this bizarre situation. “’Appen yous would ‘ave more time Mel if yous didn’t spend so long embroidering cushions.”

“Oh, has Evangelia told you about my passion for embroidery and my ambition to launch an embroidered cushion empire? I was hoping to keep it under wraps until I’ve got a goodly collection of cushions stuffed. I don’t want any of the villagers stealing my idea; yous know ‘ow the likes of Bald Yannis are always on the lookout for new money spinning ventures.”

“I can’t quite see Bald Yannis taking up embroidery,” Hattie laughed.

“No, but he’s a nasty malaka who would steal my idea and then pay Mrs Kolokotronis to do the dogsbody sewing work, like he does with his goat’s clothes.”

“I’m guessing your Granny taught you embroidery,” Hattie surmised.

“Granny was a positive virtuoso with a needle and thread,” Mel agreed, before asking.

“What does yous two think I should tell Evangelia? I’m very fond of ‘er and it pains me to think I’ve upset ‘er.”

“I think you should tell her you want to take things slowly and court her romantically in an old-fashioned way. Let her know you are sweet on her, but don’t want to rush things by moving in with her. As for your other little foible, Masha and I will keep it under our hats,” Hattie promised.

“We won’t breathe a word Mel. Hattie is right, yous must tell Evangelia yous isn’t ready to move in with ‘er yet but yous is up for a bit of afternoon delight, amorous congress and passport stamping. After all it’s a long time since Evangelia shook the sheets with anyone,” Masha winked, reaching for the mobile phone vibrating inside her hot pants.

“Po po what’s the old fool want now?” Masha tutted. “What do yous mean yous is a new father Vasili; talk sense? Don’t tell me yous ‘ave another middle-aged woman coming out of the woodwork claiming to be yous offspring because I can assure yous the silicone chip ‘asn’t put in an appearance yet.”

Tossing the phone aside Masha announced, “Mel, I ‘ave to get to the village. Can yous give me a lift? Onos ‘as given birth an’ by the sounds of it Vasili is rat arsed on ouzo.”

Chapter 26

The Grand Greek Tour

“Gosh, that was a close thing,” Cilla and Clive said in unison as Nitsa’s taxi narrowly avoided knocking a young man off his tricycle before speeding away from Astakos harbour. The English tourists remained as oblivious as their driver to the destruction and pandemonium left in their wake.

Gorgeous Yiorgos had told Nitsa that the English tourists wanted the grand Greek tour, but she was at a bit of a loss as to what it actually involved. She had no intention of driving them all the way to the Acropolis; it would take hours to get there and with her gammy swollen eye she might end up driving into the toll booths and denting the old Mercedes taxi. Pulling the taxi over by the beach, Nitsa gesticulated towards Quentin and Deirdre with their ridiculous pink plastic flamingo, cackling,

“Look. Gormless American tourists.”

Cilla and Clive soon discovered the central locking system effectively trapped them in the backseat of the taxi, preventing them from stepping out to experience the sandy delights of the beach or to dip their toes in the azure water that looked so refreshing in the broiling heat wave.

Fortunately the sight of Quentin and Deirdre inspired Nitsa. Remembering how much her foreign neighbours raved about the delights of exploring traditional old mountain villages she pointed the taxi in the direction of Ankinari, thinking to call in and have words with Pungent Pedros, the philandering goat herder. Cilla and Clive exchanged ominous looks as the taxi started coughing its way up a narrow pot-holed road with a sheer drop off to one side.

Spotting the fear on his wife’s face, Clive attempted to reassure her, whispering, “Cilla don’t worry; this is obviously a very experienced taxi driver. I’m sure the Greek authorities don’t just go handing licences out willy nilly to anyone.”

“Well it looks to me as though she should have been pensioned off in the last century, Clive. She can’t even see through the windscreen without balancing on that pile of magazines,” Cilla argued.

Hearing the word magazine, Nitsa shuffled around in the driver’s seat, sliding a glossy brochure out from beneath her bottom and causing the taxi to lurch violently through a pot hole. Leaning over she took her eyes off the road, offering the magazine to Cilla, thinking the tourist was after some reading matter.

“Watch out,” Clive shrieked as the taxi veered off into an olive grove, circling a tree and decapitating a snake before hitting the pock-marked tarmac again.

“Clive, pass me one of those ornamental ouzos,” Cilla cried, thinking she would never survive the grand Greek tour sober.

“Malaka,” Nitsa groaned, slamming the brakes on to avoid hitting a herd of goats suddenly milling across the road.

“Oh quick Cilla, pass me the camera,” Clive instructed, entranced by the sight of hundreds of goats of every size and colour flocking around the taxi and voraciously snacking on any bit of random greenery.

“Now this is what I call the real authentic Greece,” he trilled, snapping away.

“It doesn’t seem that authentic to me to have a shepherd herding his flock from the back of a motorcycle,” Cilla observed as Pungent Pedros rode into view whistling to his charges.

Nitsa jumped out of the taxi to berate Pungent Pedros, shouting, “Who does yous think yous is Pedro, ignoring me after we ‘ad that moonlit swim together?”

“Nitsa?” Pedros shouted back. “Good grief woman, I didn’t ‘ardly recognise yous in that strange ‘at, those dark glasses an’ that flasher’s mac.”

Rushing over to embrace her he asked, “What brings yous up ‘ere Nitsa?”

“These English eejits want a grand Greek tour,” Nitsa told him sourly, remembering how he’d upset Hattie. “Yous didn’t tell me yous ‘ad been making eyes at Hattie before yous turned yous charms on me.”

“An’ yous didn’t tell me yous was walkin’ out with Fotis Moustakos,” Pungent Pedros retorted. “What can I say Nitsa, I ‘ave always been a confirmed bachelor with a field to play, ever since Fotini rejected my advances all them years back.”

“K-Went-In said you ‘ad a daughter,” Nitsa said with narrowed eyes.

“Well, a confirmed bachelor, except for that time I was married to the mother of my daughter,” Pedros hedged.

“So yous was really taken with Fotini?”

“Aye, I was took badly but she gave me an ultimatum. It was either ‘er or the goats on account of ‘er ‘aving an irrational loathin’ of the creatures. Has Fotini changed much over the years?”

“Not a bit, she’s exactly the same as she was in ‘er twenties, an’ she still hates goats,” Nitsa sighed, deciding she might let Fotis take her out on the town later as she didn’t fancy the idea of dating Fotini’s smelly old cast offs.

“It’s just not natural ‘aving an aversion to goats,” Pungent Pedros said wistfully.

Their conversation was interrupted by Cilla and Clive banging on the window, demanding that Nitsa release them from the stultifying heat of the taxi.

“I’d better be gettin’ on with the grand Greek tour, even though I don’t ‘ave a clue what it is,” Nitsa groaned as the last goat gambolled safely into the olive groves.

“Well there’s nothing more authentically Greek than a goat so that pair should be ‘appy,” Pungent Pedros observed, adding,

“’Ere Nitsa, yous should take ‘em ‘ome with yous to see yous famous curative being manufactured. Apart from goats, olives an’ moussaka, there’s few things Greeker than yous curative.”

Climbing back in the taxi Nitsa pondered the possibility of turning the manufacturing of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ into a tourist attraction; after all some enterprising types had turned old olive presses into tourist magnets and Bald Yannis had scammed the Japanese into sponsoring his olive trees.

“Fotini would ‘ave to keep the blasted parrot under control,” she muttered to herself, “an’ even if the manufacturing bit bored ‘em to tears it would still give us a bigly captive audience to flog the curative to.”

With that Nitsa undertook a dangerous three-point turn that had Cilla groping around in the bulging carrier bags for another ornamental bottle of ouzo. “It’s been a long day with my spying mission. ‘Appen Pedros’ idea is a good one an’ I can likely palm some curative off on these eejits before extorting an exorbitant fare then popping over to see if I satisfied Bald Yannis.”

The thought of an up close and personal encounter with the hardware shop man brought a smutty smile to Nitsa’s face as she headed back towards Rapanaki, not sparing the brakes.

“Thank goodness, she seems to be taking us back to sea level,” Cilla said with relief. “These mountain heights are making me dizzy Clive.”

“It’s more than likely the ouzo that’s making you dizzy dear; it’s potent stuff,” Clive replied, equally relieved to be heading back towards civilisation.

Fifty traumatic minutes later Nitsa swung the taxi into Fotini’s driveway, narrowly avoiding a collision with Melecretes who was speeding away with mail order Masha. Releasing the central locking she practically dragged Clive and his now drunken wife into the kitchen where she pointed to Hattie, saying “Speaky English.”

Taking Hattie to one side Nitsa told her, “These English eejit tourists ‘ave come ‘ere to learn about the manufacturing process of the curative. If yous can flog ‘em enough bottles of the stuff we could turn this into a lucrative tourist attraction.”

“They don’t look as though they want to be here,” Hattie noted, observing the two reluctant English visitors visibly squirming.

“Make ‘em welcome then, but whatever yous do don’t let ‘er get ‘er hands on any more ouzo or we’ll ‘ave to carry ‘er back to the taxi,” Nitsa hissed.

Firing a disparaging look at Nitsa, Hattie rushed over to greet the tourists, saying “I hear you are eager to see where we manufacture the infamous ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All.’”

“I wouldn’t say that exactly,” Clive began. “This is the first chance we’ve had to actually get out of the taxi since we started the grand Greek tour. That eccentric Greek woman locked us in.”

“Most likely it was unintentional, probably just a miscommunication with the language barrier,” Hattie improvised. “I’m sure you had a grand time on the grand Greek tour?”

“Well we had expected to see some ruins but all we really saw was a load of goats, a rather pungent old goat-herder and some dramatic views,” Clive explained as Hattie shot Nitsa a dagger’s drawn look for fraternising with the enemy goat-herd after all her midnight talk of sisterly solidarity.

“There may have been more to see, but I had my eyes closed most of the time on account of those terribly terrifying bends,” Cilla slurred.

Clive studied the traditional Greek kitchen with its vast stainless steel vat, wondering how anyone could possibly try to pass it off as a tourist attraction. Reaching up to scratch his sweaty scalp he hurriedly tried to brush away the dandruff shower his fingers dislodged.

“’Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ will get rid of that in a jiffy,” Hattie declared, rushing over with a bottle of curative and vigorously rubbing the oily lotion into Clive’s hair. “If you have any other little embarrassing problems such as warts, fungal infections or acne, this wonder potion will sort them out.”

“Does it cure hangovers?” Cilla asked, grabbing the bottle and knocking back the contents.

“Hopefully you’ll still be alive to tell us tomorrow,” Hattie said drily.

“Clive, this stuff has improved your hair already.” Cilla turned to Hattie, confiding “he suffers something terrible with his dandruff, always scratching away at his scalp, such a nasty habit. We’ll take a dozen bottles.”

“Not as nasty a habit as you overindulging in the bottle Cilla,” Clive sniped back. “I bet the only reason we landed up here in Greece instead of Spain is because you were half-cut when you talked to the travel agent.”

Hattie interrupted the bickering couple before they could air anymore of their dirty laundry in public, saying “every single natural ingredient in the curative is grown locally.”

“Even this?” Cilla asked, dislodging a parrot’s feather from between her teeth.

“Oh indeed, the parrot is Greek born and bred,” Hattie assured them, kicking herself for offering them a contaminated bottle.

To Hattie’s horror the parrot honed in on the parrot based chatter. With a flap of feathers the blasted bird launched itself from its perch on top of the dented vinegar barrel, landing on Clive’s newly oiled head, squawking “nasty habits.” Hattie’s horror turned to surprise when Clive perked up, revealing himself to be a keen twitcher.

“Oh I say what a superb psittaculidae specimen. Cilla take a photo, I bet we wouldn’t have enjoyed this experience in Spain.”

Chapter 27

Bald Yannis the Gigolo

Fulminating over his public embarrassment at the hands of Stavroula, the Pappas massaged the tender spot on his shoulder where the deranged harpy had whacked him with the frying pan. Ever since being hospitalised following crazy Koula’s violent attack with a candlestick when she left him handcuffed to the blow up sex doll in the church, the Pappas had attempted to project a calm and reasonable personae in front of his parishioners. He considered his goodwill was still woefully unappreciated by the heathen villagers; why even his laudable intentions of warning Stavroula that Bald Yannis and the old crone Nitsa had conspired to create chaos at the tourist tat annex grand opening had only ended in ritual humiliation when Stavroula refused to give him the time of day. Deciding if he couldn’t earn the respect of the villagers by being respectable he may as well earn some cash with a spot of blackmail, he steadied his stove pipe hat and strode off purposefully towards the hardware shop.

Bald Yannis was sitting behind the hardware shop counter oiling a chainsaw, smugly satisfied that his scheming to put a spoke in Stavroula’s retail competition had gone off better than he could ever have envisaged. He’d expected Nitsa to create a bit of a rumpus in the new annex and had to admit her traffic bedlam stunt in the taxi had been a stroke of sheer genius. Tall Thomas’ mobile refrigerated fish van hurtling straight into the newly renovated annex would necessitate Stavroula closing down her new enterprise as the building was now unsound and liable to come crashing down on any customers. He may even be able to relieve her of any surplus stock of lobster adorned shower curtains at rock bottom prices.

The Pappas blundered his way into the hardware shop, fighting his way through a throng of gaudy inflatables suspended around the doorway. About to launch into his prepared blackmail speech, his nerve almost failed him when he tripped over a headless deflated duck that he presumed had been decapitated by the very chainsaw Bald Yannis was now wielding menacingly. Squaring his shoulders the Pappas thought of the blackmail cash he could extort, but before he could utter a word Bald Yannis openly mocked him, saying,

“’Ave yous come to ‘ave some more hot air blown into Gloria?”

The Pappas turned puce, incensed that the hardware shop man never missed an opportunity to ridicule him about the blow up sex doll.

“No, I have come to inform you I know all about your nefarious activities with the old hag Nitsa and my silence will cost you,” the Pappas said haughtily.

“Ha, the holy roller is wanting ‘is thirty pieces of silver. Does I look like a gigolo, yous moron? Does yous really think Soula will believe yous ludicrous lies that I am carrying on with Nitsa?” Bald Yannis guffawed, creased up with laughter at the thought he would ever succumb to the hideous hag’s bawdy advances.

Before the Pappas could explain his cack handed attempt at blackmail related to Bald Yannis’ and Nitsa’s scheming rather than anything sexually sordid, Soula returned to the shop with her sister Voula.

“’Ere Soula, yous will never believe this. The phony god botherer ‘ere is under the deluded notion I am ‘aving adulterous relations with Nitsa.”

“Does he look like a gigolo?” Soula scoffed. “My ‘usband is an ‘appily married man with twins on the way and yous ‘ave no right to cast slanderous accusations at ‘is goodly character by suggesting he is carrying on with a woman old enough to be his Granny. Yous should be ashamed of yourself, raking up mucky gossip. Imagine how Nitsa will feel if she ‘ears about this.”

“She’ll most likely be delighted. It can’t have escaped your attention the way she throws herself at your husband,” the Pappas said peevishly.

“Enough. Get out of the shop,” Soula commanded, relieving her husband of the chainsaw and chasing the Pappas outside.

Humiliated, the Pappas scuttled away. Soula’s arrival had put a spoke in his blackmailing plans when he realised it wasn’t wise to openly blackmail Bald Yannis in front of an attentive audience. He decided to turn his blackmailing attentions on Nitsa if he could get her alone; after all she was the one who had actually used her cunning wiles to disrupt and destroy the tourist tat annex, even if it had been at the instigation of Bald Yannis. Satisfied with his plan he returned to the church to brush up on the finer points of the wedding ceremony he was due to conduct for Toothless Tasos and Thea.

“Ooh Yanni, such goings on across the road,” Soula said to her husband. “Tall Thomas had a dreadful accident in the mobile refrigerated fish van and crashed right into Stavroula’s new tourist tat annex.”

“No!” Bald Yannis exclaimed, feigning utter surprise.

“The crash sent Onos the donkey into premature labour. Luckily Voula arrived in the nick of time to deliver the foal an’ she took charge when Tall Thomas fainted clean away,” Soula gushed.

“Is Thomas all right?” Bald Yannis asked worriedly. He hadn’t intended for anyone to be actually hurt through his scheming.

“Prosperous Pedros and Gorgeous Yiorgos ‘ave carried ‘im over to the new Doctor’s clinic for the once over,” Soula said.

“He was more in shock than physically hurt, but he has got a nasty bump on his head,” Voula explained. “Yanni, I am that grateful to you for finding me a job in the village. Getting away from Osta is exhilarating.”

“It will make Soula ‘appy to ‘ave yous close,” Bald Yannis stated.

“Yanni is always so thoughtful,” Soula piped up. “Now I ‘aven’t met yous new employer so it’s probably best if Yanni comes with us to introduce yous. All I know is he’s Stavroula’s wealthy uncle from Athens.”

Bald Yannis decided it was best if he didn’t elaborate on Soula’s description. There was no need to alarm the two women by mentioning Lukas’ reputation as a lecherous sex pest.

“I just hope he doesn’t mind me bringing Poo along,” Voula sighed, holding the piglet aloft for Yannis to admire. “I couldn’t bear to be parted from this squishy little darling.”

“I should say not. That is an ‘andsome creature, but best to try an’ keep it out of ‘is way,” Bald Yannis advised, thinking Lecherous Lukas would have no qualms about turning Voula’s pet piglet into bacon sandwiches if it could save him a cent or two on his food bill.

“I’ll take yous over to Lukas’ ‘ouse now,” Yannis offered, locking the shop.

As the threesome marched past Stavroula’s taverna Voula rushed over to intervene between that old fool Vasilis, who was sozzled on ouzo, and his equally sozzled old neighbour Sotiris. Each of the drunken men had hold of one end of the new foal as they vociferously argued over who owned the donkey’s offspring.

“I ‘ave rights. It was my donkey what got Onos pregnant,” Sotiris shouted, keeping a tight hold on the newest donkey’s ears.

“But it was Onos that gave birth,” that old fool Vasilis retorted, securing his grip on its tail.

“Gentlemen, you must settle your differences at once and agree to joint ownership. This public disturbance is distressing the newborn,” Voula cried.

Instantly chastened the two old fools let go of the foal and reluctantly shook hands, just as mail order Masha sashayed onto the scene, berating her husband with her fists for breaking his promise to keep off the ouzo.

“I only wetted the baby’s ‘ead,” Vasilis protested.

“That’s right, he only ‘ad a drop,” Sotiris echoed.

Mel agreed to drive the two inebriated old fools and their new offspring home, whilst Prosperous Pedros piled Onos onto the back of his pick-up. Bald Yannis, suitably impressed with his sister-in-law’s no nonsense approach to the locals, hurried along to the finest house in the village; hopeful Lecherous Lukas would keep his hands to himself and not scare Voula away.

Having no clue that the long single Bald Yannis was now married Lukas erroneously presumed the hardware shop man was bringing along two women for him to select his live-in housekeeper from. Goatishly eyeing the two sisters up from head to toe, he pulled Bald Yannis to one side, hissing,

“Is that the best you can come up with? I told Stavroula I wanted someone young and pretty.”

“’Ow stupid of me,” Bald Yannis replied, slapping his head in an exaggerated fashion to indicate he ought to have known better. His voice dripped with sarcasm as he continued, “I was forgettin’ Astakos is awash with young beauties that can’t wait to come and skivvy for yous at below minimum wage.”

Lukas harrumphed in acknowledgment the village may not exactly be bursting at the seams with nubile young things lacking any sort of ambition beyond cleaning up after cantankerous old men. Casting another glance over the two women he whispered,

“Well the short one is not to my liking at all, she’s too plain and lame. I could take the taller one off your hands I suppose. Her figure’s not too bad with that fulsome bosom and at least she’s not fat like the short one.”

“That’s very generous of yous Luka. I’m very ‘appy to ‘ear yous don’t want to get yous hands all over my pregnant wife but that ‘er sister will do.”

“Very funny, Yanni,” Lukas mocked; before it dawned on him the hardware shop man was serious. Having the grace to blush, Lukas finally stuttered, “How was I to know you’d gone and got yourself tied to a ball and chain Yanni? It’s a risky move; she might be after half of your shop.”

“’Ave yous ‘eard yourself? Does my wife look like a gold digger? I may ‘ave been late to marriage, but I’m more than ‘appy with my Soula an’ more than ready to turn my trusty chainsaw on any malaka who makes unwanted advances to ‘er.”

“It’s admirable the way you defend your wife,” Lukas said, desperately trying to dig himself out of the hole he’d dug. “I’ve never been lucky enough to experience your matrimonial good fortune.”

“Yous mean no woman would put up with yous perving around,” Bald Yannis pointed out.

“By remaining a bachelor I am in the position to create employment opportunities for women to keep house for me. Now does your sister-in-law want the job?” Lukas asked brusquely, worried Bald Yannis was about to deprive him of the only willing housekeeper in the village.

“Voula will take the job, but yous ‘ave to pay ‘er properly and give ‘er time off. If I ‘ear yous is harassing ‘er or getting too handy I’ll be back with my chainsaw,” Bald Yannis threatened. About to leave he turned back to the older man, warning him, “An’ keep yous hands off the piglet.”

Bald Yannis and Soula waved goodbye to Voula and set off for home. Soula turned to her husband saying, “I ‘eard what yous said Yanni, that I ‘ave made yous happy.”

“Of course yous ‘ave Soula, it goes without saying.”

“It might do Yanni, but it does a woman good to ‘ear it now and again,” Soula sighed.

Bidding goodbye to her sister and brother-in law, Voula took stock of her new home, having never imagined a house as fine as this one existed. Marble floors stretched from the entranceway, leading into a magnificent sitting room furnished with elegant pieces. The kitchen was fitted out with all the latest appliances, worrying Voula who had no idea how to operate them. A grand staircase with an ornate iron balustrade swept upstairs where the balconies overlooked a tiled patio decorated with statues of naked nymphettes.

“You can have this room,” Lukas told her, opening a door leading off from the kitchen to a room furnished far more simply than the rest of the house. The servant’s quarters suited Voula perfectly, being free of damp patches and religious icons, and equipped with a single bed big enough for herself and the piglet. The en-suite bathroom brought joyful tears to her eyes when she realised she wouldn’t need to venture outdoors to an outhouse as she’d done in Osta.

“Your duties will be keeping the house clean and tidy, and cooking meals. You can have the afternoons off during siesta hours,” Lukas said, not wanting her around during the allotted hours he dedicated to watching the porn channel.

“I’ll be kept busy with a house this size,” Voula said, thinking the job would be a doddle once she got to grips will all the new-fangled gadgets and without the pressure of a farm to run on top of the housekeeping. She’d have spare time to spend with her sister and help with the babies when they arrived, and if she didn’t need to work evenings she could perhaps sign up for a course and earn some qualifications.

“Will you need me in the evenings?” Voula asked.

Lecherous Lukas had to bite down a suggestive remark, remembering the new housekeeper was out of bounds unless he wanted to risk getting up close and personal with Bald Yannis’ chain saw.

“Your evenings will likely be free as I like to socialise and eat my dinner at the taverna. This very evening I will be treating my niece Stavroula to an evening out. It will make a nice change for her as she runs a taverna and must be sick to death of eating her own cooking,” Lukas boasted.

Reassured to know her new employer was such a thoughtful and upstanding family man Voula smiled pleasantly, grateful for her change of fortune. Hugging the piglet she skipped down to the kitchen and filled the dishwasher with Lukas’ dirty laundry.

Chapter 28

Impatient Patients

A lump the size of a newly laid egg adorned Tall Thomas’ luridly bruised forehead as he lay stretched out on the examining table in the new clinic. Doctor Konstantinos wound a bandage around his mangled head, relieved to finally have a human patient with a genuine ailment to experiment on.

“I saw an angel, a sweet vision with a goodly smile,” Tall Thomas sighed.

“The bump on your head may have caused you to hallucinate,” the doctor assured him. “You had a nasty accident and are suffering from shock and concussion.”

“It seemed so real,” Thomas insisted.

“Thoma, you fainted and although you are convinced you saw an angel I can assure you there was nothing more than a gaggle of peasant women without any medical training hovering over you.”

“’Ang on, are yous saying I imagined the donkey giving birth as well?”

“Oh no, that was real enough,” Doctor Konstantinos shuddered; mightily relieved he hadn’t been called upon to assist in the donkey’s delivery. “Now try to rest and recover your strength.”

“’Ow’s the patient doin’?” Gorgeous Yiorgos demanded, bursting into the clinic. Without waiting for a reply he told Tall Thomas,

“Adonis the mechanic ‘as managed to pull yous mobile refrigerated fish van out of Stavroula’s annex. Yous is lucky the annex ‘ad more damage than yous van and Adonis reckons he’ll be able to fix it. Stavroula was hopping mad until Slick Socrates told ‘er she should be able to make a killin’ on the insurance.”

“Did yous see an angel?” Tall Thomas asked his friend.

“Yous will be meaning Soula’s sister Voula what rushed to ‘elp yous an’ delivered the donkey. She impressed everyone with ‘er calm demeanour and no nonsense ways,” Gorgeous Yiorgos told him.

“The vision of loveliness I saw ‘ad kind hazel eyes. See Doctor, I knew I wasn’t hallucinating; the angel I saw must ‘ave been Voula.”

“Well ‘appen yous will ‘ave chance to thank ‘er for ‘elping yous. She ‘as taken up employment as the live-in housekeeper of Lecherous Lukas,” Gorgeous Yiorgos revealed.

“She is too goodly to be under the same roof as that pestering pervert,” Thomas cried in alarm.

“’Appen Bald Yannis will ‘ave warned the old devil off getting too handy with his sister-in-law,” Gorgeous Yiorgos suggested.

“I must go and thank her at once,” Tall Thomas announced, swinging his legs off the examining table and collapsing in a heap on the floor.

“You are in no fit state to go courting just now,” the doctor objected as Gorgeous Yiorgos hauled Tall Thomas back onto the table. Thomas closed his eyes, trying to recall the four sisters he had briefly encountered on his trip to Osta with Bald Yannis at the instigation of the matchmaker. He remembered being so repulsed by the bullying coarse loud-mouthed ogre of a father that he had barely cast a glance at his daughters. He determined to put things right as soon as he recovered his strength.

“Make way, sickly people comin’ through,” Fotini shouted, pushing Gorgeous Yiorgos out of the way.

Fotini had returned home to discover an English woman vomiting in the garden, the parrot clamped fast to the scalp of a greasy haired English man, and Nitsa colliding into things in the kitchen, complaining she’d suddenly gone blind.

“Yous eye looks really nasty,” Fotini told her, alarmed by the black oozing mass stuck between her cousin’s eyelids. Realising Nitsa was too blind to drive the taxi Fotini dashed next door, but there was no sign of Quentin.

“Typical, no sign of the gormless malaka when he’s needed in an emergency. There’s nothing else for it, that tourist chap will ‘ave to drive the taxi to take ‘is vomiting wife and poor sightless Nitsa to the clinic,” Fotini complained.

Nitsa’s resistance to handing over control of her precious taxi to the reluctant English man was well founded as the ‘parrot topped’ Clive proved incapable of driving the short distance on the right side of the road. Fotini forced Cilla to sit with her head sticking out of the window, knowing Nitsa would be furious if the taxi ended up stinking of sick. Fortunately they arrived at the clinic without any mishap. Fotini insisted the doctor give Nitsa his full attention, dismissing the English woman as drunk rather than possibly poisoned by drinking a parrot contaminated bottle of curative.

“I absolutely refuse to treat that blasted bird again,” Doctor Konstantinos stubbornly announced as soon as he saw the parrot.

“The parrot isn’t the patient, Nitsa is,” Fotini snapped.

“I should be seen first, I’ve been poisoned by their curative,” Cilla demanded.

“But I’ve gone blind doctor, I can’t see anything,” Nitsa wailed.

“Perhaps it would help if you took off those dark glasses,” the doctor suggested, deciding the old crone constituted the greater emergency. Peering closely at Nitsa through his scope he exclaimed,

“Good grief woman, what is that grotesquery in your eye?”

“It’s my false eyelashes stuck on with superglue. I thought I was just ‘aving an allergic reaction, but now I can’t see anything,” Nitsa cried hysterically.

“You have a putrid mass lodged in there. If I had to hazard a guess I’d say it is the rotting corpse of something nasty that has swollen up with noxious gases as the decomposition process begins. It must be removed at once,” the doctor pronounced, swinging around to grab a long needle.

“Now hold still, you won’t feel a thing,” he said, injecting the skin around the eye with a local anaesthetic as Nitsa screamed like a banshee.

“Calm down you hysterical hag, otherwise I won’t be responsible for where these tweezers end up,” Doctor Konstantinos snapped, poking around in Nitsa’s eye with his surgical instruments. Just as he tweezed out the rancid caterpillar corpse, Cilla raised her head out of the sick bucket long enough to threaten to sue Nitsa and Fotini for poisoning her with the contaminated curative. Taking a good hard look at the doctor Cilla couldn’t believe her eyes.

“I know you,” she shrieked. “Clive look, isn’t that Doctor Konstantinoupoleos who was struck off from the local hospital for being a fake?”

Chapter 29

Shaking off the Chaperone

Thea missed out on all the excitement at the tourist tat annex by returning home before the grand opening, hoping to catch Toothless Tasos out in some compromising behaviour. She discovered her fiancé engaged in the very aberrant activity of ironing a shirt and chatting innocently to Sofia. Before she had chance to quiz Tasos on his sudden ability to wield a household appliance she received a telephone call from Gorgeous Yiorgos saying her supposedly medic tenant in the harbour-side house was being interrogated by Pancratius the village policeman for possibly impersonating a doctor. Alarmed at the prospect of losing the rent money she dashed off.

“I do ‘ate keeping secrets from Thea,” Toothless Tasos lamented to Sofia. “If only I could tell ‘er we are to be wed on Friday she might stop looking at me as though I am up to no good.”

“Your big surprise wedding won’t be a surprise if you go and tell Nona what you are planning. I must run now Taso, I have to go to Tassia’s house to try on my bridesmaid dress,” Sofia lied.

The teenager felt a tad guilty for leaving Tasos so down in the doldrums, but she was already late for her secret afternoon rendezvous with Iraklis. She knew she really ought to go and check her bridesmaid dress out but she couldn’t be in two places at once. She just had to trust that Tassia hadn’t plumped for a ghastly dress that would make her look as stylish as a sack of potatoes.

Rushing outside she exchanged a chaste kiss on the cheek with her ever awkward boyfriend Iraklis who was looking much more attractive these days. His usual pasty skin was bronzed by the sun since he spent so much time tricycling his deliveries throughout the village. The curative had worked wonders on clearing up his acne and his chest had even managed to sprout three manly hairs.

“Did you manage to sneak away without being seen?” Sofia asked.

“Yes indeed,” Iraklis replied. “I don’t think Mrs Kolokotronis will be playing gooseberry today. I must confess I did something wicked and hid her knitting in the refrigerator. You know she never goes anywhere without it.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Sofia sighed in relief. “Much as I like the old dear it does get so irritating when she follows us to the beach. She’s so determined to play the good chaperone she even insists on joining us in the sea with her knitting. The constant clacking of her needles drives me mad; she makes more noise than an olive grove full of cicadas.”

“I can never understand why she does that, it makes the wool go all soggy and then she insists on lighting the fire in the evening to dry out all the wet bits. The house has been like a furnace with the wood burner going in this heat wave,” Iraklis complained as they strolled to the beach.

“How was your morning in the beauty salon, Sofia?”

“As dull as usual,” Sofia replied. “I did get to cut my first bit of nostril hair and one old dear who came in for a perm was practically dead, so she was excellent practice for styling corpses.”

Sofia had shared her ambition with Iraklis of one day styling corpses in her uncle’s ‘Cosy Coffins Funeral Homes’ business. Iraklis, loathe to lose his girlfriend to the bright lights of Athens had tentatively suggested that with his clerical training they could perhaps one day open their own funeral parlour business right here in Astakos. With a joint ambition to strive for the young couple felt very close and enthusiastically saved their wages towards a sensible future together.

“How was your morning at the supermarket, Irakli?” Sofia asked.

“Exhausting. Fat Christos was crazed when he saw Bald Yannis displaying a load of vinyl beach inflatables at the hardware shop and had me blowing up plastic ducks and flamingos all morning. I wouldn’t have minded but he couldn’t find the foot pump so I had to revive them to their full glory with mouth to mouth resuscitation.”

“Your poor lips,” Sofia giggled, planting a soft kiss on his mouth.

“When I finally got round to my deliveries I nearly came a cropper when Nitsa almost drove into the tricycle with the taxi,” Iraklis continued.

“Gosh, thank goodness she missed you. I heard the dreadful commotion when Tall Thomas crashed into Stavroula’s annex. I was almost convinced my customer with the perm was actually dead until she jumped out of her seat at the sound of the crash,” Sofia confided.

“Race you to the sea Irakli,” Sofia called, running ahead as they reached the beach and stripping off her long floaty sun dress to reveal a blue and white polka dot one-piece skirted swimsuit Mrs Kolokotronis had gifted her for swimming. The older lady had presumed the sight of Sofia in a bikini would be a temptation too far for her young charge. Sofia was delighted with her choice of swimwear as it was actually the height of beach fashion and she was grateful Mrs Kolokotronis hadn’t gifted her a hand-knitted swimsuit. Eager to feel his arms around Sofia in the sea, Iraklis raced after his girlfriend, pausing to exchange a friendly greeting with Quentin and Deirdre who were soaking up the sun on a pair of plastic sun loungers.

“Don’t they make a lovely couple, Quentin?” Deirdre observed, sitting up to watch the young lovebirds frolicking in the water.

“I think I might join them in the sea,” Quentin said, wiping an arm across his sweaty brow.

“Quentin, don’t you dare. It looks as though they’ve finally managed to shake off Mrs Kolokotronis and they won’t thank you for playing gooseberry,” Deirdre chided.

“I think you may have spoken too soon dear,” Quentin said, pointing to Mrs Kolokotronis slowly wheezing her way across the sand with her dress tucked into her bloomers and her arms flapping wildly to attract the attention of Iraklis. Plonking herself down next to Quentin and Deirdre, a very red in the face Mrs Kolokotronis fanned herself with an official looking envelope, struggling to catch her breath.

“Ooh, I’m too fat to be runnin’ around in this heat,” Mrs Kolokotronis wheezed wearily. “Would yous go and fetch young Iraklis out of the sea K-Went-In. I ‘ave an emergency letter for ‘im that he must see at once.”

“Anything to oblige,” Quentin replied, squealing in pain as the hot sand scalded the soles of his feet. Finally locating his flip flops he set off to drag Iraklis out of the sea.

“So much for shaking off our chaperone,” Sofia complained when Quentin delivered the message.

“What is it Mrs K? K-Went-In said it was an emergency,” Iraklis asked in concern as the threesome joined Mrs Kolokotronis and Deirdre.

“Ooh Irakli, I’ve been dreading this moment,” Mrs Kolokotronis cried. “Yous ‘ave ‘ad a letter. It looked important so I opened it, I knew yous wouldn’t mind.”

“What is it?” Iraklis asked, panicked by Mrs Kolokotronis’ visible distress.

“It is yous Call Up Papers lad. Yous ‘ave to report to the army for yous mandatory national service.”

“No,” Sofia screamed, throwing her arms tightly around her boyfriend and sobbing, “I don’t want you to go.”

“Sofia darling, I have no choice. I’ve been expecting this moment ever since I left the church. My exemption on clerical grounds became null and void when I reverted to civilian status,” Iraklis said worriedly.

“It’s not right, it’s not proper. They ought to exempt yous on the grounds yous is so weedy,” Mrs Kolokotronis wailed. “’Ave a look at ‘im Did-Rees, a puff of air would blow the lanky lad over. ‘Ows he meant to bayonet the enemy or not collapse under the weight of a big manly gun?”

“Try not to upset yourself Mrs Kolokotronis,” Deirdre comforted her. “Perhaps there is another way to get Iraklis an exemption. What about those brown envelopes we are always hearing so much about?”

“No Did-Rees, it is my duty to serve, however unpleasant it may be,” Iraklis said, his Adam’s apple visibly quivering in his neck. “I need you all to be strong for me so I can steel myself for what must be done.”

“Irakli, I promise to wait for you and write every day,” Sofia vowed.

“Does the letter say when and where you must report for duty?” Quentin asked.

Grabbing the letter Iraklis perused the contents before replying, “I must report to the army barracks in Paraliakos on Friday at noon.”

“Thank goodness they aren’t shipping yous off to one of the islands,” Mrs Kolokotronis declared, making the sign of the cross.

“Yes, you’ll be near enough for us to visit you in Paraliakos,” Sofia exclaimed in relief.

“When my Christos did ‘is national service it was two long years an’ he was shipped all the way off to Kriti. At least yous will only be gone nine months and there’s a daily bus that stops near the barracks,” Mrs Kolokotronis said, thinking she could deliver home-cooked food to Iraklis and get a lot of knitting done on the bus ride.

“Perhaps they could assign you to the kitchen,” Sofia said hopefully, realising it would be a good idea going forward if at least one of them could cook.

“Yes, yous must ask to go in the kitchens, at least until yous get fattened up,” Mrs Kolokotronis agreed, squeezing Sofia’s hand.

“I must dutifully face whatever assignment I am given,” Iraklis said bravely, suddenly emboldened by the memory of mail order Masha telling him there was nothing sexier than a man in a uniform. “Come on Mrs K, I bet you have your cossie on under that dress, let’s have a swim while I still have my freedom.”

“The poor boy, he certainly doesn’t look old enough to be sent off to the army,” Deirdre said to Quentin, watching Iraklis and Sofia hauling Mrs Kolokotronis out of the sea.

“It will make a man of him,” Quentin declared. “The enforced separation might be good for their relationship.”

“Yes, Mrs Kolokotronis can be a bit clingy,” Deirdre agreed.

“I was referring to the relationship between young Iraklis and Sofia,” Quentin explained.

“I see dear,” Deirdre said. “Now there’s no chance of playing gooseberry I think I’ll test out this pink flamingo in the water. It really was most thoughtful of you to buy it for me.”

“Let me rub some sun cream into your back before you go dear, you don’t want to risk burning like you did the day we ran into Pungent Pedros,” Quentin offered. “And don’t forget your straw hat for protection. I’m just going to laze here with my book about the Eiffel Tower. Have fun.”

Tying a sarong around her swimsuit Deirdre dragged the inflatable pink flamingo across the sand, launching herself onto it as she reached the water. Quentin, sitting up to watch her progress, smiled to himself when a family plonked themselves down on the beach with an identical pink flamingo. Picking up his book he relaxed on the plastic sun lounger, promptly falling asleep.

Chapter 30

Doctor Konstantinoupoleos, I Presume

“This is outrageous,” Doctor Konstantinos proclaimed, facing off against Pancratius the village policeman in the clinic. “I have never even been to England and the preposterous accusations of this deluded woman that I am a struck off doctor going by the name of Konstantinoupoleos are patently false.”

“It is indeed a serious allegation,” Pancratius stated. “What makes you think this doctor is a fraud madam?”

“Well his name sounds the same as the struck off quack. I remember the case well, this Konstantinoupoleos character was actually a veterinarian with a very distinctive Greek name who had the nerve to try and operate on human patients. I remember there was a picture of the moustached fraudster plastered all over the local paper. There was a big stink when he was uncovered, you must remember it Clive.”

“Konstantinos is my name, not Konstantinoupoleos, they don’t even sound remotely similar. I can assure you I am not a veterinarian, I have no love for animals,” Doctor Konstantinos declared.

“That’s right, ‘is bedside manner with the parrot was ‘orrible,” Fotini piped up.

“An’ he refused to go anywhere near the Onos the donkey just now when she was in labour,” Gorgeous Yiorgos agreed.

“I think it may be the ouzo talking, my wife has been a bit free with the bottle,” Clive ventured.

“I am not drunk Clive, I have been poisoned by that nasty curative and intend to sue those old women who make it,” Cilla threatened.

Ignoring his wife’s threats Clive suggested, “Has anyone in the village got Internet access, we could bring up the photographs of the fraudulent doctor for comparison?”

“That bald malaka at the ‘ardware shop ‘as it,” Fotini volunteered, recalling Nitsa had explained their underwear shopping spree using Bald Yannis’ credit card on the occasion when they’d been locked in the hardware shop, had been conducted on something known as the new-fangled Internet.

“There is no need for you to conduct your investigation in the hardware shop,” Doctor Konstantinos sneered. “I have Internet access here in my office.”

The sheepish look on the policeman’s face was a dead giveaway that he had no idea how to use it, so Doctor Konstantinos Googled the information himself.

“Ha, the blighter looks nothing like me,” he exclaimed, swinging the screen around so everyone could take a look at the struck off imposter.

“Well yous do ‘ave the same moustache,” Gorgeous Yiorgos pointed out.

“So you think similar facial hair is enough to malign my reputation? Any idiot can see this fraud in the photographs is a young Chinese man who weighs a good forty kilos less than me and obviously cultivated that moustache in an attempt to look Mediterranean. How on earth did he manage to successfully pass himself off as Greek?”

“That would be political correctness gone mad,” Clive suggested. “Cilla, you have wasted police time and cast aspersions on the good doctor. The fraudster was a Chinese chap using a false Greek name.”

“Do you want me to charge her with wasting police time, doctor? Those were indeed nasty aspersions she cast on your good name,” Pancratius asked.

“’Old on a minute, I need a quiet word with my doctor,” Nitsa interrupted, dragging Doctor Konstantinos to one side and whispering frantically.

“But the names were almost the same,” Cilla gulped, terrified she was about to be arrested for slander and wasting valuable police time.

“Greek names can indeed be very confusing to the linguistically challenged; especially when the said confused parties have inadvertently imbibed a contaminated dose of our highly respected village curative on top of a high dosage of ouzo,” Doctor Konstantinos concurred, turning to give Nitsa a sly wink. Addressing Cilla he continued “I must commend you madam on your due diligence in ensuring I am a verified, bona fide qualified doctor and not some fraudulent imposter struck off from your local hospital.”

“So you aren’t going to prosecute my wife for wasting police time?” Clive asked glumly, thinking a night in a Greek police cell might do Cilla good and allow him to spend some quality time alone with the parrot without her nagging.

“I will instruct this policeman to take matters no further if your wife promises to drop her threats to sue over being poisoned by ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’,” the doctor said in his most pompous tone, slapping a paper down in front of Cilla. “I will prescribe her an antiemetic and say no more about the matter if she signs this paper extolling the wonderful curative effects of the curative.”

“Sign the paper Cilla,” Clive instructed. Not needing to be told twice Cilla meekly added her moniker. As the English pair turned to leave, Fotini yanked the parrot off Clive’s head, leaving claw like incisions in his greasy hairline. Turning to Nitsa she asked, “what did you say to the doctor?”

“I told ‘im if he could persuade Cilla not to sue us for poisoning ‘er we’d give ‘im a generous commission on any bottles of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ he can flog ‘ere at the clinic.”

Cackling hysterically the two old crones left the clinic arm in arm. “Anyone could tell he’s a genuine doctor, look ‘ow he cured my blindness, an’ he even forgot to demand payment,” Nitsa said admiringly, wincing as the sun hit her now caterpillar free eye.

A sudden dark shadow loomed across their path.

“Who put the sun out?” Fotini asked.

“Po po, don’t yous get fed up of wearing that gloomy black dress?” Nitsa said contemptuously, looking up into the bearded face of the Pappas.

“I want a word with you Nitsa. I know all about you scheming with Bald Yannis to sabotage the grand opening of Stavroula’s tourist tat annex,” the Pappas said ominously.

“What, did our alleged plotting come to yous in a heavenly vision?” Nitsa mocked.

“No, I overheard you talking when I was lurking by the bins in the back alley. My silence will cost you dearly, old woman.”

“Po po, what a load of old malarkey, yous must ‘ave misheard. It’s not a crime for an attractive woman to ‘ave a secret assignation with ‘er ‘andsome lover yous know,” Nitsa retorted, imagining Bald Yannis had indeed taken diabolical liberties with her by the dustbins.

The Pappas was taken aback by Nitsa’s ready admission she was in fact engaged in a passionate fling with the hardware shop man. It was possible he had got the wrong end of the stick when he eavesdropped, perhaps mishearing the mutterings of sweet nothings as dastardly scheming.

His eyes narrowed, remembering how Bald Yannis had lied to his face, insisting there was nothing of an amorous nature between him and this hideous hag. Recalling Soula’s emphatic defence of her husband’s fidelity the Pappas made one last feeble effort to extort blackmail money from Nitsa.

“Now you have admitted to your disgraceful and sinful affair with a married man, my silence will cost you. If you don’t pay up I will tell Soula all about your disgustingly torrid carryings-on with her husband,” the Pappas threatened.

“More likely I’d pay yous to tell ‘er, that way she’ll divorce ‘im an’ I can ‘ave ‘im all to myself,” Nitsa chortled, rudely pushing the Pappas aside.

As the two old crones headed past the hardware shop towards the taxi Bald Yannis summoned Nitsa inside.

“Did the Pappas just try to blackmail yous too? He reckons he overheard our scheming in the back alley,” Bald Yannis hissed.

“Don’t worry Yanni. I put the malaka off the scent by telling ‘im we is ‘aving a passionate affair. I bet the old pervert’s picturing us now makin’ love in the bins,” Nitsa chortled before elbowing Bald Yannis and suggesting with a saucy wink, “We should give it a try some time, I’m very flexible for my age yous know.”

Bald Yannis’ stomach recoiled at the very thought of getting up close and personal with the deluded old bag, but he had to admire her quick wit in putting the Pappas off the scent.

“Yous did go a bit far today Nitsa, I didn’t expect you to be responsible for completely destroying Stavroula’s annex,” Bald Yannis noted.

“What is yous on about, I only knocked over a few racks of tat an’ a table of food,” Nitsa said.

“Yous caused a pile-up when yous nearly hit Iraklis on his tricycle.”

“I don’t know what yous is on about. What pile-up?” Nitsa asked, genuinely bewildered.

“The pile-up what put Tall Thomas in the clinic,” Bald Yannis explained.

“I’ve just come from there, I never saw sight of my nephew Thomas,” Nitsa said in confusion.

“That’s because yous was blind Nitsa,” Fotini reminded her, at the same time convincing Bald Yannis there was absolutely no point in attempting to engage the pair in a serious conversation as it was patently obvious they were losing their marbles.

Chapter 31

Quentin Loses Deirdre

The sun washed down over Deidre’s reclining body, caressing her with its warm rays as she floated on the giant pink plastic flamingo. Quentin’s latest purchase was far more roomy and comfortable than the old lilo that had been punctured by the goat on the motorcycle. Deirdre trailed her hands leisurely over the sides of the flamingo, the water cooling her fingers with its soothing ripples. Her gaze settled on the mountainous terrain dotted with olive trees behind the beach; the odd wispy white cloud flitting across the dreamy blue sky.

Deirdre decided she would try to persuade Quentin to extend their Greek stay as she would love to be in the village when the three expectant mothers delivered their bundles of joy. She would hate to miss the births and have to settle for hearing about it over the long distance telephone line in Idaho. She remembered promising mail order Masha she would be Nona to the silicone chip and wondered if there was any way round the threatened oily dunking in the church font necessary to turn her Orthodox. It struck her as quaintly odd that in order to be godmother at the baby’s baptism she first had to be baptised into the Orthodox Church herself. She hoped that perhaps there was a simple remedy using a well stuffed brown envelope.

The combination of the sun’s warming rays, the refreshing sea breeze and the gentle bob of the water beneath the flamingo lulled Deirdre into a dreamless sleep. The subtle swell of the sea soon carried the floating flamingo further away from the beach. By the time Quentin woke up the flamingo and Deirdre were too far out to sea to be visible.

Quentin awoke, stretching languidly and cursing when he noticed he had a sunburned outline of the Eiffel Tower on his chest. Turning to ask Deirdre the time he was surprised to notice her plastic sun lounger was empty except for her towel. Digging his watch from his pocket he was shocked to realise how much time had passed; his manual labour in the garden must have exhausted him more than he’d realised.

Quentin wondered where Deirdre could have got to. Strolling over the sand he peered out to sea, but there was no sign of the vibrant pink flamingo anywhere on the horizon. It was very unlike his wife to wander off without telling him and her absence left him uneasy.

“At least she isn’t still out on the flamingo,” he reasoned, spotting a pink inflatable nestling against the rocks to one side of the beach. Quentin jumped to the erroneous conclusion the flamingo was the one he had purchased from Bald Yannis when in fact it belonged to the family who’d been on the beach earlier, having left it behind when they returned to their tourist apartment late afternoon.

Unable to imagine where Deirdre had gone, Quentin kept peering out to sea, his perturbed expression resembling a ship’s lookout tasked with watching for pesky icebergs. He told himself not to be an alarmist even though the sun was setting. Picking up Deirdre’s towel to check if it was dry he uncovered her handbag on top of the sun lounger. Now he really began to worry, knowing Deirdre simply wouldn’t wander off without her enormous handbag. There was always something inside it she would need to put her hands on with a quick rummage.

“If she did decide to leave without a word, which is most unlikely, would she have gone home to Rapanaki or strolled back to Astakos?” Quentin questioned. “She simply wouldn’t have left without telling me or taking her handbag, it’s just not like her,” he reasoned, more worried by the minute.

Quentin’s monologue was interrupted by the return of the family who’d been on the beach earlier. The children ran excitedly towards the pink flamingo by the rocks, but their parents told them to leave their inflatable until the next day as it was time to eat. Quentin’s heart sank: where could Deirdre’s inflatable flamingo be if not still out at sea? Rushing over, he waylaid the family, frantically questioning them to see if they’d spotted Deirdre. He let out an anguished cry when they told him they were pretty sure a pink flamingo had been bobbing out at sea when they’d left the beach earlier, though they couldn’t be certain.

Chapter 32

Chicken Soup and Taverna Barriers

“Do stop bawling Sofia, yous will set me off again,” Mrs Kolokotronis pleaded, wringing out a voluminous handkerchief and blowing her nose noisily. She had insisted on treating the two youngsters to dinner at ‘Mono Ellinka Trofima’ to take their minds off the dreadful news that Iraklis must leave for the army. The taverna bustled with locals and tourists packed around the outdoor tables and Mrs Kolokotronis hoped the cheery atmosphere would lighten their despondent mood.

“At least Fat Christos has promised I’ll still have my job in the supermarket to come back to,” Iraklis said.

“Are yous going away?” mail order Masha asked from the next table.

“The poor lad ‘as ‘ad is army Call Up Papers,” Mrs Kolokotronis answered for him, prompting another bout of hysterical weeping.

“Can’t yous get an exemption on the grounds yous is so weedy?” Masha asked, causing Iraklis to blush with embarrassment. Though he was happily dating Sofia he would never forget that the voluptuous silicone Russian had been his first crush.

Iraklis perked up when Masha mused, “A man in a uniform is very sexy,” but reddened again when she added “but poor Iraklis will just look like he’s playin’ dress up. I used to fantasise about being rescued from the icy barren wilderness of the wolf infested Verkhoyansk by a sexy Cossack who pinned the severed tail of the wolf he saved me from to his uniform.”

All the men stared longingly at Masha, her eyes sparkling with passion, until she put a damper on the moment by saying, “of course that was before I married Vasilis. Now the only wolves I ‘ave to worry about are my over eager fans.”

“I don’t think my uniform will excite your imagination so much as a Cossack in all his glory, Masha,” Irakli said, earning him a clip round the head from Mrs Kolokotronis who considered all this chatter about uniform fetishes quite inappropriate.

“At least yous will only ‘ave to do nine months Irakli, back in my day it was a mandatory two years,” Prosperous Pedros piped up. “Appen after yous basic training yous will get an easy posting to an office.”

“It’s not likely, I don’t have any useful ‘visma’,” Iraklis said, referring to powerful connections who could wangle him a cushy number.

“Perhaps Lecherous Lukas has some handy connections, what with him being so rich and having lived in Athens so long,” Moronic Mitsos speculated.

“Po po, the malaka didn’t even ‘ave enough ‘visma’ back in ‘is day to wangle ‘is way out of his own conscription,” Takis chortled. “He was that desperate not to be sent to the army he tried to make out he was a conscientious objector, even though everyone knew he was just bone idle, ‘aving never done an honest day’s work in ‘is life.”

“Did it work?” Sophia asked, buoyed up by the thought Iraklis was very conscientious.

“Po po, did it work? It nearly got him locked up,” Takis roared with laughter, explaining, “He made out he’d gone Jehovah’s witness to get out of serving ‘till he found out the only exemption they got was a prison sentence. Yous ‘ave never seen anyone convert back to Orthodox so fast.”

“Forget the visma, Irakli. Yous is so feeble lookin’ yous isn’t likely to ‘ave to do anything more strenuous than pickin’ up old cigarette butts or moppin’ out toilets,” Prosperous Pedros reasoned reassuringly.

“I just ‘ope they assign ‘im to the kitchens,” Mrs Kolokotronis sighed. “After all Iraklis ‘as a real knack for oiling salads.”

“Where’s that old fool Vasilis this evenin?” Yiota asked, taking mail order Masha’s order for fried feta with honey and sesame seeds.

“He’s at ‘ome with Onos and the new baby donkey, but should be ‘ere shortly,” Masha replied, looking forward to her husband’s arrival. Masha had berated Vasilis mercilessly for being inebriated on ouzo and breaking the promise to stay sober he’d made after being buried alive in his coffin. After several hours of her incessant nagging the old fool had been putty in her hands. Willing to agree to anything to put an end to her Russian expletive laden diatribe, Vasilis had almost welcomed the arrival of the Botox technician who had agreed to a home visit. Masha had bribed the rather suspect needle wielding woman to try and sort out the worst of Vasilis’ saggy wrinkles in the hope he wouldn’t look quite so past it when he was pushing a pram.

“It’s a good job that old fool’s not ‘ere yet. All this army talk might ‘ave set ‘im off reminiscing about the war,” Yiota observed, rolling her eyes.

The taverna customers burst into spontaneous applause when Tall Thomas arrived with his head neatly wrapped in a bandage. He clutched a bunch of paper wrapped flowers newly purloined from the graveyard.

“How’s the head?” Vangelis the chemist enquired.

“I’ll live, I was just a bit concussed,” Tall Thomas replied, before turning to Prosperous Pedros and quietly asking if Lecherous Lukas had been in yet. “I want to go round to ‘is ‘ouse to call on Voula, but would rather wait till Lukas ‘as gone out.”

“’Ere he comes now,” Prosperous Pedros, pointing out Lecherous Lukas strolling up.

“Your finest table Yiota, I am treating my poor downtrodden niece to dinner,” Lecherous Lukas declared loudly, wanting to impress upon everyone that he was a man of substantial means.

“So that will be two pita gyros to put on the grill, Takis,” Yiota said sarcastically.

“’Ang on, ‘as she really got the nerve to think she can bring her own food in ‘ere?” Takis asked angrily when Stavroula arrived, closely followed by Slick Socrates staggering unsteadily under the weight of an enormous pan.

“Uncle Luka, I’d like you to meet my fiancé Socrates, he’s a lawyer,” Stavroula introduced. Nodding at Lukas, Socrates asked Yiota if he should take the enormous pan he was carrying through to the kitchen before he dropped it.

“It’s my famous homemade chicken soup,” Stavroula boasted.

“Yous can’t be bringing yous own cookin’ into my taverna,” Yiota stated.

“Heavens above,” Stavroula exploded. “’Ave yous any idea of the traumatic day I’ve ‘ad with my grand opening ruined an’ my annex destroyed? The whole place stinks of fish an’ donkey an’ I can’t even open the taverna again until Achilles blocks up the annex archway.”

Pushing Socrates through to Yiota’s kitchen Stavroula continued, “An’ if that’s not enough I ‘ave to come ‘ere to eat with pervy old Uncle Lukas an’ I’m not in the mood as yous can imagine. Yous know as well as I do Yiota that the tight fisted old git won’t be payin’ for anything more than a single gyro an’ I’m so hungry I could eat a scabby ‘orse.”

“It looks like yous brought one with yous,” Yiota said in disgust when Socrates put the pan down and lifted the lid to reveal the scummy contents still bubbling away with a layer of unplucked boiled chicken skin floating unappetisingly on the surface.

“’Ow dare yous, this is my finest chicken soup,” Stavroula protested. “There’s not a bit of the chicken wasted, it’s all in there.”

“Along with most of the leftovers from the free meze lunch,” Socrates hissed to Yiota, grimacing.

“This soup is Lukas’ favourite from Granny’s recipe,” Stavroula pleaded to Yiota’s better nature.

Yiota was fully aware if Lukas invited anyone to dinner he would consider it the gravest insult if they tried to split the bill, yet his legendary stinginess meant he would rather starve his guests than buy them more than a single gyro. If the soup softened him up enough he may well throw caution to the wind and splash out on an extra half kilo of wine.

“Oh for goodness sake,” Yiota relented. “Just this once yous can bring yous own food in ‘ere Stavroula, but only ‘cos I sympathise with the ‘orrid day yous ‘ave ‘ad.”

“Thank yous Yiota, that is very gracious of yous,” Stavroula said, squaring her shoulders. “Now we ‘ave to go out there and make nice with the lecherous malaka if we’ve any chance of extorting a dowry out of ‘im. Come on Socrate.”

Stavroula and Socrates joined Lukas who was leering lasciviously at Evangelia who had just arrived with Melecretes. Evangelia was positively glowing following an afternoon spent shaking the sheets with Mel who had for once lavished more attention on her than his embroidered cushions. Mel’s explanation that he’d like a relationship with her, but not a live-in-one, had gone down much better than he’d expected. Evangelia liked the idea of a traditional romantic courtship, guessing a live-in Mel would expect to be waited on hand and foot in typical manly Greek style.

Lecherous Lukas managed to tear his eyes away from the glowing Evangelia when Stavroula demanded his attention by kicking him under the table.

“Dinner is my treat tonight, I have already ordered for us,” he said loudly, inwardly seething that Stavroula had brought her fiancé as he hadn’t calculated on paying for an extra pita gyros.

“Well that’s very generous of yous Uncle Luka. I brought some home-made chicken soup along too. I remembered ‘ow much yous love it,” Stavroula said.

“Is it from the family recipe with lots of boiled skin?” Lukas asked, licking his lips. “That was always my favourite.”

Socrates covered his mouth to stifle a contemptuous laugh. Much as he adored Stavroula and loved her cooking, her old family recipe for chicken soup was beyond nauseating.

“How’s the new housekeeper working out Uncle?” Stavroula asked, thinking Lukas hadn’t even bothered to thank her for organising his hired help. She reflected he was so self-absorbed he hadn’t even sympathised about the destruction of her new annex or the forced closure of her business.

“She seems capable,” Lukas replied glumly, still disappointed his niece hadn’t found him someone young and pretty, and having no idea his grubby underpants had been treated to the heavy pots and pans cycle of the dishwasher before Voula experimented with drying them out in the microwave.

Table talk ceased as everyone became transfixed by the doddering entrance of that old fool Vasilis whose face had undergone the most bizarre transformation. His signature sagging skin no longer flapped loosely since the folds of flesh had been blown up to balloon like proportions with far too much plastic filler. In addition a surfeit of Botox injections prevented him from moving his rigidly held in place facial muscles, exposing his stretched gums hosting teeth looking like a vandalised graveyard. The dermal fillers had drained his face of all character, leaving the octogenarian looking like a grotesque waxwork replica of himself. Mail order Masha decided the best response was to simply ignore her husband’s physical changes in order not to draw attention to them.

“’Ow’s the new donkey?” she asked.

In response Vasilis’ attempted to put his gaping mouth into motion but failed miserably, leaving him looking like a startled goldfish. Staring pointedly at Stavroula, Masha voiced the ridiculous opinion, “no one would guess my ‘usband is old enough to ‘ave a middle aged daughter.”

That old fool Vasilis flapped his mouth in a futile gesture, being under strict instructions from Stavroula not to reveal her true paternity in front of her wealthy uncle. Lukas was too busy lusting over the voluptuous Russian’s ample silicone assets to take any notice of the words she’d uttered.

Approaching the tables full of alfresco diners Bald Yannis made a commotion, dragging along a set of gaudily painted safety barriers in the shape of a three-sided square.

“Yous can’t be puttin’ them up now Yanni, people are eatin’,” Takis remonstrated.

“Suit yourself, yous said it was an emergency,” Bald Yannis retorted.

Pancratius the village policeman had been on Takis’ back citing numerous anonymous complaints that the outdoor tables created a vehicular obstruction. Pancratius was well aware all the complaints were made by Stavroula putting on different but recognisable accents, determined to put a spoke in the popularity of the competition. Unfortunately after picking the sly brain of her slick lawyer fiancé, Stavroula was well versed in obscure bylaws, including the one which put Takis’ outside tables under threat. Eventually a ludicrous compromise had been agreed entailing the erection of safety barriers alongside Takis’ tables to prevent any passing cars from mowing down his customers.

“I can do it now or I can come back in two weeks, I ‘ave a very busy schedule you knows,” Bald Yannis stated flatly, having no intention of dragging the barriers all the way back to the hardware shop. “But I want payin’ for the barriers now, either way.”

Knowing the deadline for the barriers being in place was in two days time or he faced a hefty fine, Takis had no choice but to give Bald Yannis the go ahead or risk losing his customers. No one would willingly eat indoors in such high temperatures, exacerbated by the heat of the indoor grill and the bright overhead fluorescent lights.

“Start at Stavroula’s table,” Takis instructed the handyman, wondering if she would have the cheek to complain about the disturbance her endless anonymous complaints had caused.

“I think now is a good time to slip away an’ call on Voula,” Tall Thomas told Prosperous Pedros with a wink.

Chapter 33

Deirdre Drifts in the Dark

Deirdre stretched out drowsily, trying to recall when she had last enjoyed such a relaxing sleep. Opening her eyes, the darkness confused her and she called out,

“Quentin, why didn’t you wake me? Turn the air conditioning off, it’s getting cold.”

The sudden awful realisation hit Deirdre that she hadn’t woken up at home unless Quentin had surprised her by indulging her secret desire for a water bed. The darkness surrounding her was all encompassing. Looking up at the stars she failed to appreciate their beauty when it suddenly dawned on her she was floating out at sea on the inflatable pink flamingo.

Shivering, she adjusted her sarong, pulling it over her shoulders, leaving her bare legs exposed to the cold breeze. Her movement caused the flamingo to wobble dangerously. “Keep calm, keep calm,” she intoned, trying to remember her deep breathing yoga techniques and at the same time realising this was not the moment to let hysteria get the better of her. Her stomach rumbled hungrily, making her wonder how long she had been drifting. It was far too dark to see any landmarks and a cold nauseating panic gripped her. Geography had never been Deirdre’s strong point and she desperately tried to conjure a mental map of the Mediterranean Sea, wondering where the currents would carry her. She had a terrible feeling if she drifted too far south she might end up in Libya and arriving in bathing attire would be quite inappropriate.

“Keep calm, keep calm,” she muttered aloud, “a scrambled brain won’t help. Maybe the beach is really near and I could swim in, holding onto the flamingo. But which way is land?”

Deirdre had utterly lost her bearings in the total darkness. The complete absence of any lights shimmering in the distance made her think she was far from land, but then again it may be so late that all the lights on land had already been extinguished for the night.

“Quentin will get help,” she realised with relief. “Keep calm, keep calm, help is on the way,” she repeated over and over, longing for a sip of water.

The flamingo was suddenly catapulted through the water, buoyed on by something unseen in the darkness. Thrown abruptly forward, Deirdre clung onto the long stalk like neck of the flamingo for dear life, finally unleashing the hysterical scream she’d been suppressing ever since awakening to this watery nightmare.

Chapter 34

Tall Thomas Goes Courting

Slipping away from the taverna unnoticed, Tall Thomas headed towards the finest house in the village, his head swirling with fanciful images of the smiling angel with the hazel eyes who had gazed down on him earlier, precipitating palpitations. Flattening his hair with his fingers he wondered if Voula would notice it was in dire need of a cut, the long ends of his thinning hair brushing the collar of the shirt he hastily sniffed for any tell tale signs of fish. It was so long since Tall Thomas had last gone courting he struggled to remember the rules. Slapping his bandaged head he muttered “malaka, I should ‘ave brought a bottle of my olive oil to impress ‘er.” Deciding he may lose his nerve if he trudged home to decant some oil from his one hundred kilo wooden barrel, he hurried on, hoping she would find the flowers a romantic touch.

Voula was in a dreadful tizzy attempting to fathom the workings of Lukas’ new-fangled vacuum cleaner when she heard the door bell. Expecting to see Soula she threw the door open, saying,

“I hope to goodness you can show me how to work this contraption before my new boss finds out how useless I am.”

“I’ll be ‘appy to take a look at it for yous,” Tall Thomas replied, relieved to be faced with a practical dilemma.

“Oh, what must you think, I thought you were Soula,” Voula cried, her hands flying up to tidy her hair as she realised her gentleman caller was the concussed mobile fishmonger.

“Should you be up and about with your injury?”

“I’m much recovered and ‘ad to come and thank yous for the tender care,” Tall Thomas stammered, suddenly remembering to present her with the flowers. Neither of them knew how to dampen their blushes nor where to look, so Thomas took manly charge by grabbing the vacuum cleaner.

“You must think I’m a real peasant but this house is full of fancy appliances the like of which we never saw up in Osta,” Voula said.

“Well I’m not sure there’s much call for ‘em ‘ere in Astakos either,” Tall Thomas assured her, equally ignorant about the workings of the vacuum cleaner but determined to come to Voula’s rescue.

“It beats me why anyone wants one of these new-fangled floor cleaning things when a mop and bucket does the same job without running up the electric bill,” Thomas opined.

“Oh my,” Voula squealed as the vacuum roared into action and sucked up the flowers Tall Thomas had brought her.

“They must be in ‘ere somewhere,” Thomas said, working out how to open the machine. “Ah, here we are,” he exclaimed, retrieving the now extremely dusty floral offering.

“No one’s ever brought me flowers before,” Voula admitted, delighted by the gesture.

“I was ‘alf way ‘ere before I remembered the done thing is to bring olive oil,” Thomas confessed.

“Flowers are so much nicer,” Voula gushed as their eyes met.

“’Appen I can ‘elp yous sort out ‘ow the other new-fangled things work,” Thomas offered.

“I’d be so grateful. Come through, I can’t work out why this washing machine isn’t getting the grime out of Lukas’ collars,” Voula said, leading him towards the dishwasher that was spewing the soapy evidence of washing powder all over the floor.

“Now, I’ve seen one of these before in Takis’ taverna kitchen, it’s for washing pots and pans, not clothes,” Thomas explained helpfully.

“That must be why it didn’t get the skid marks out of his underpants,” Voula mused to Thomas’ amusement. “I ended up scrubbing them by hand, but that’s what I’m used to.”

“Well there’ll be no need for that anymore, I’m sure Lukas will have a washing machine in the bathroom,” Thomas said. “Now are there any other appliances that are confusing you?”

“Well Thoma, I have to say I have never seen such a thing as he has in his living room. A big black box on the wall and when I turned it on it was full of, oh, I can’t say, it was too embarrassing for words,” Voula tapered off, burying her blushing cheeks in the soft warmth of the piglet that trotted over to her.

“Yous sort out a bottle for the piglet Voula, an’ I’ll go an’ see what this box is all about.”

Tall Thomas strode into the living room. He would have struggled to believe Voula had never encountered a television before if he hadn’t had the misfortune to visit the drab damp farmhouse she’d been brought up in, deprived of even the most basic of entertainment and hideously decorated with religious icons. Turning the television on Thomas muttered “the smutty old devil,” when he discovered the channel was tuned in to play Lecherous Lukas’ porn collection. He was incensed that the innocent Voula should have been unwittingly exposed to such depraved filth.

Composing himself Thomas returned to the kitchen. His heart melted at the sight of Voula cuddling the piglet to her breast and lovingly feeding it goat’s milk from a baby’s bottle. He was delighted to realise Voula was a good head taller than her shorter sister. They would not look out of place walking out together, if Voula was amenable to the idea of walking out with him.

“Yous mustn’t turn that box on again Voula; it is set up to cater to Lukas’ sordid viewing habits. If yous will allow me I will bring yous my spare smut free television for yous to watch in yous room. I think yous might enjoy it. Mail order Masha presents the local weather and ‘Seven Deadly Mothers-in-Law’ is a very popular soap opera yous can watch,” Thomas suggested.

“Ooh, Soula mentioned that and told me all about the glamorous Masha. I can’t believe you’d do that for me Thoma,” Voula said.

“Tipota,” Thomas replied, assuring her it was nothing. He intended to have strong words with Lukas. He wasn’t above telling the whole village about Lukas’ viewing habits if he didn’t agree to move his obscene channels into the privacy of his bedroom to spare Voula’s blushes.

“Yous ‘ave a real way with animals, yous was amazing with the donkey,” Tall Thomas praised.

“I always had a silly dream about being a veterinarian,” Voula said, confessing her most cherished ambition.

“It’s not a silly dream when yous ‘ave a natural affinity with animals,” Thomas told her. “If yous studies an’ gets some qualifications yous dream could come true. There’s no need to be stuck doing something that doesn’t make yous ‘appy.”

“Are you happy doing what you do, Thoma?”

“I am now, but that’s because I made changes. I was a fisherman but hated it ‘cos every time I took the boat out it made me seasick. Does yous know Voula, yous is the only person I ‘ave ever told that to. The very idea of a seasick fisherman would make me a laughin’ stock in the village.”

“I’m honoured you feel able to share your secret with me Thoma,” Voula said.

“I’m ‘oping we can share lots together moving forward,” Thomas sighed as each of them recognised they had just discovered their soul mate.

Chapter 35

Drilling for a Dowry

“Shift yous feet Stavroula, I ‘ave to drill an ‘ole in the road for this protective barrier,” Bald Yannis barked.

“Yous can’t be doin’ that now, we are having a private conversation,” Stavroula objected. Intent on ingratiating herself with Lecherous Lukas she was shovelling the charm on in the hope of extricating a generous dowry from the rich skinflint and didn’t want Bald Yannis hovering around their ankles

“Well I ‘ave to do it Stavroula. Some miserable busybody ‘as been making endless complaints to the police about the dangers of eating outdoors at unprotected tables,” Bald Yannis bluntly stated, knowing full well the interfering busybody was none other than Stavroula. “’Ere Luka, yous will ‘ave to sidle round and budge up next to Socrates ‘cos I ‘ave to put this barrier where yous chair is.”

The layout of the barriers was most inconvenient as the tables were lined up against the wall, with the chairs spaced out on the other three sides. The barrier would replace the chair facing the wall, leaving room for only two very skinny diners squashed up together on each remaining side. Stavroula was far too fat to allow room for Lukas to squeeze in beside her.

Stavroula continued her charm offensive, trying her best to ignore the ear-shattering drilling and Bald Yannis’ running commentary about interfering busybodies with nothing better to do than harass the police with their petty gripes against local businesses. Stavroula turned puce when Bald Yannis commented, “Po po, yous standards is dropping,” having clapped eyes on the scummy looking chicken soup infested with anaemic skin that Yiota served up.

“What does yous know about cordon bleu chicken soup when yous is a vegetarian malaka,” Stavroula fired back.

“That slop is out of Stavroula’s kitchen, not mine,” Yiota defended.

“’Ere yous should eat that with a chaser of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ ‘cos it looks likely to give yous a dodgy tummy,” Melecretes piped up.

“It was yous revolting cooking that got me closed down by the public health inspector,” Stavroula shot back.

Lecherous Lukas tucked into his soup with relish, wishing his niece would stop dropping her heavy-handed hints about a dowry: he hadn’t held onto his wealth by recklessly squandering his fortune on money grubbing relatives. Spotting Socrates feeding the slimy skin to the cats hovering under the table, Lukas snapped at him, “I’m not sure you’re good enough for Stavroula if you don’t respect our cherished family recipe.”

Slick Socrates was sorely tempted to tell the old pervert there was no family connection as Lukas’ step-brother had been cuckolded in an overgrown olive grove by that old fool Vasilis, but he knew Stavroula would likely explode in apoplectic rage if he revealed the truth and put a spoke in any possible inheritance. Socrates knew all too well what his fiancée was capable of when crossed and had no intention of ending up buried under the chicken coop like her second unfortunate husband Kostas.

“Socrates and I are planning a wedding that will make the whole village sit up, as befits our standing,” Stavroula told Lukas pompously.

“But surely you don’t need a lot of fuss, it’s not as though it’s your first marriage, Stavroula,” Lukas argued. “What’s this one, your fifth or sixth wedding?  I can’t keep track of all the husbands you get through, niece. ”

“It’s my third,” Stavroula replied haughtily, beginning to wonder if she should simply give up all hopes of extricating a dowry from her rich uncle in favour of speeding along his demise in order to get her greedy hands on her inheritance. Plastering a sickly sweet but totally false saccharine smile on her face she fondly reminisced that a liberal dose of the strongest, deadliest weed killer added to this very same chicken soup recipe had seen off her second husband Kostas in a very speedy fashion. She pondered pinning the poisoning of her pervy uncle on Voula as it was already well-known craziness ran in that strange peasant family who hailed from the mountain.

Their wedding chatter was overheard by Sofia who suddenly realised her bridesmaid role at Friday’s surprise wedding would clash with Iraklis’ departure for his army training. Dissolving in a fresh bout of weeping she pictured Iraklis pitifully climbing aboard the bus whilst she was stuck in the church, depriving her beloved of a tearjerker movie style goodbye she could Instagram. Whispering her concerns to Mrs Kolokotronis she was shocked when the older woman exclaimed, “malaka, I ‘ave to do their meze so I won’t be able to see Iraklis off at the bus stop in a movie style tearjerker goodbye either.”

“’Ave yous ever seen such a miserable lot,” Takis said to his wife, surveying his glum and weeping customers. “They needs somethin’ to shake ‘em out of their morbid self-pity.”

“Don’t say that, it’s tempting fate that somethin’ awful may ‘appen,” Yiota warned him, flashing him the evil eye.

Yiota’s fateful words still hung in the air when a dishevelled Quentin ran up the street, screaming “Help, help. Deirdre has disappeared, she is lost at sea. Come at once, Deirdre is in dreadful danger. Help.”

“What’s that about Did-Rees? ‘Ere Yanni, shut that drill up,” Yiota called out. “Say that again K-Went-In.”

“I need help. Deirdre is missing. I think she must have floated out to sea on a giant pink plastic flamingo,” Quentin screeched hysterically to the captive audience.

Chapter 36

Holy Goats and Amorous Seals

“Are yous ‘aving a laugh K-Went-In? Yous ‘ave misplaced Did-Rees an’ think she might be floating out at sea on a giant pink plastic flamingo?” Takis guffawed.

“If she’s on a flamingo perhaps she can fly back to land,” Vangelis the chemist joked.

“It is no laughing matter Vangeli, my wife is missing and may have been lost at sea for hours. I’m at my wits end. I’ve searched everywhere for her thinking it was too preposterous that she could actually have floated away, but there is simply no other explanation for her disappearance,” Quentin said, quickly losing patience with his apathetic audience of supposed friends and exhausted from his extensive search.

“Take this brandy K-Went-In and try not to panic,” Yiota urged, passing him a glass of Metaxa.

“We must call the American Embassy at once; they may be able to locate her by helicopter or drone,” Quentin cried hysterically.

“’Appen the local Coastguard would be more useful,” Bald Yannis suggested, hoping the dodgy and flimsy inflatable wasn’t past its ‘best before’ perishable date.

Prosperous Pedros alone seemed to grasp the urgency of the situation. If Quentin was right the currents could have carried Deirdre far out to sea, potentially spelling disaster if the ditzy American woman panicked. Leaping into action Pedros immediately started barking orders at them all.

“Yiota get onto the Coastguard an’ then rouse any fishermen who haven’t already heard Did-Rees is missing at sea. The rest of us will start searching for Did-Rees from our boats. We must double up so each boat ‘as a lookout with a search light, it’s as dark as Hades out there tonight with no moonlight.”

Prosperous Pedros’ urgent commands inspired the others to quick action. Most of them had grown quite fond of Deirdre and wouldn’t leave her abandoned to a watery fate. Every able bodied man made a quick dash to the harbour and Yiota phoned round to rouse the other villagers who soon gathered around the harbour as the first fishing boats were launched. Before putting out to sea Prosperous Pedros adamantly insisted Quentin’s presence in the boats would be more of a hindrance than a help and instructed him to help Yiota coordinate the rescue from dry land.

“Try not to worry K-Went-In, Did-Rees is made of stern stuff,” mail order Masha reassured him, reminding him, “even that crazy stalker who broke in to do yous housework didn’t scare ‘er.”

“But I feel so useless stuck here when all the other men are out at sea,” Quentin despaired.

“Not all the men ‘ave gone, Vasilis is still ‘ere,” Masha pointed out, making Quentin wonder why he’d been lumbered in with the feeble octogenarian when even old timers like Fotis Moustakos were doing their bit.

“Yous just ‘aven’t got the sea legs for it, K-Went-In,” Yiota explained. “They is experienced in sea rescues. Remember ‘ow Prosperous Pedros saved Tall Thomas when he was chucked out at sea by them malakas down in Gavros.”

“And Prosperous Pedros saved me from a watery grave,” the Pappas puffed, having just run from the church to offer fake comfort. The Pappas considered it would be must inconsiderate of Deirdre if she actually drowned as her watery death would mean no one would be in the mood for Toothless Tasos’ wedding to Thea and it would likely be cancelled. He couldn’t even count on a good funeral in place of the wedding as he wouldn’t put it past Quentin to demand Deirdre’s body be flown back to Idaho.

Unbeknown to the Pappas his words really did offer some comfort to Quentin who realised Prosperous Pedros was indeed experienced in conducting rescues at sea and that the other village men who had not hesitated to help were strong and brave in their rough and ready way. Bald Yannis had paired up with Pedros in the fishing boat and Quentin remembered how the hardware shop man had heroically rescued the goat from the upper storey of the burning harbour-side house, gallantly saving it from death by roasting. Quentin put his faith in the concerted efforts of his trusty Greek friends: Prosperous Pedros, Bald Yannis, Takis, Tall Thomas, Gorgeous Yiorgos, Fat Christos, Toothless Tasos, Moronic Mitsos, Vangelis the chemist, Slick Socrates, Fotis Moustakos and even young Iraklis; confident in their nautical abilities.

Prosperous Pedros steered the boat with a steady hand whilst Bald Yannis scanned the water with the searchlight. Co-ordinating details via mobile phone, Pedros ordered all the other boats to shut off their engines so he could monitor the drift of the currents. The message was soon relayed to “Spread out towards Gavros,” once the path of the current had been determined as southerly.

“’Opefully Did-Rees is drifting down the shore line rather than out across the Mediterranean,” Prosperous Pedros calculated, staring dolefully at the water through pierced eyes. “A Coastguard boat ‘as set out from Gavros and there’s another on its way from Paraliakos.”

“I can’t think what she was playin’ at thinking one of my inflatables was fit for an ocean journey,” Bald Yannis said.

“’Appen she just got carried out unawares. K-Went-In says ‘er swimming skills are limited to a bit of pathetic dog paddling. She might not ‘ave wanted to risk swimming back to shore once she realised she’d gone out too far,” Pedros reasoned.

The other fishing boats fanned out to one side of Prosperous Pedros’ boat as they puttered slowly along in unison towards Gavros, the beams of the searchlights casting eerie glows across the ominously dark water. The silence was only broken by the odd cry when one of the men confused a shadow for a possible sighting. It was well after midnight when the beam of Bald Yannis’ searchlight illuminated the unmistakable shape of the floating flamingo. The air was thick with the raucous cheer that erupted and the fishing boats zoned in on the pink inflatable.

“That’s it then,” Prosperous Pedros said solemnly when his boat pulled up next to the empty flamingo. The only evidence of Deirdre was her discarded sarong.

“Should I phone in the news?” Bald Yannis asked.

“No leave it. I’d rather tell K-Went-In in person, it’s the right thing to do,” Prosperous Pedros said gloomily, reluctant to turn the boat around and give up on the American woman, but resigned to her unfortunate drowning. Across the boats each man made the sign of the cross, utterly despondent at the tragic turn of events.

The flotilla of fishing boats prepared to turn back to Astakos, only delayed by Bald Yannis insisting on throwing a rope around the neck of the floating pink flamingo to tow it back home.

“Holy goats, the cold hands of death are upon us,” Bald Yannis yelled fearfully, jumping back in horror to avoid the gleaming white hands being propelled towards him across the water. Losing his footing he tripped over Pedros’ bait bucket, somersaulting backwards into the sea and almost dislodging Deirdre from the back of the fast-moving seal she was desperately clinging to. Rising slowly to the surface of the water Bald Yannis came face to face with the whiskered snout of the seal and a bedraggled Deirdre who he realised wasn’t a watery apparition.

“Did-Rees, yous isn’t dead,” Prosperous Pedros screamed elatedly, leaning over the boat to haul her in. “Yanni, give ‘er a push from behind, she must be exhausted.”

Between them Yannis and Pedros managed to push and pull Deirdre into the boat where she collapsed in a sodden heap. “We’ve got ‘er, she’s not dead after all,” Pedros bellowed to the others, prompting another resounding cheer.

“Did yous see that Yanni? She was saved from drownin’ by that seal, it’s a miracle,” Prosperous Pedros said, pulling the hardware shop man back into the boat.

“Holy goats,” Bald Yannis repeated, not quite believing what he had seen.

Pulling herself up Deirdre was surprisingly perky as she explained, “That seal is the reason I ended up in the sea, and the reason I am saved. It developed an unnatural attraction to the pink flamingo, so overtaken by lust it wouldn’t take no for an answer. It started off by nosing the flamingo, pushing it at high speed through the water and terrifying me. Then it got more amorous and its brutish attempts to have its wicked way with the flamingo were so boisterous I ended up being lobbed into the water. Luckily I was able to get a grip of its flippers and pull myself onto its back: it’s been the longest half-hour of my life trying to keep hold of the seal. I do think it was trying to save me in its own way, once it lost interest in having its wicked way with the inflatable.”

“Holy goats,” exclaimed Bald Yannis again.

“Seals are intelligent creatures Did-Rees an’ can ‘ave an affinity with ‘umans if they don’t feel threatened. Yous was lucky it didn’t turn on yous,” Pedros told her.

“It sounds like Did-Rees is lucky the seal didn’t take a fancy to ‘er,” Bald Yannis opined, wondering if he could market the rest of his inflatables as irresistibly desirable specimens.

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am you all came out to search for me,” Deirdre said. “I knew Quentin would raise help, but wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold on.”

“Yous ‘ave ‘held up like a real trooper Did-Rees,” Prosperous Pedros praised her. “Even skilled naval men would ‘ave lost their nerve in the circumstances.”

“I have to confess I was scared silly, but the hunger was worse,” Deirdre admitted.

“’Ere ‘ave a prawn,” Prosperous Pedros offered, waving the bait bucket under her nose.

Chapter 37

A Lucky Escape

“Deirdre, you should be recuperating in bed, my darling,” Quentin gently chided his wife as she entered the kitchen. Smothering her in a suffocating embrace he thanked his lucky stars, the local fisherman and the flamingo obsessed seal, that Deirdre had been saved from a watery grave. When he’d heard the message that she had been found alive and suffering from nothing more than hunger, he had fallen to his knees on the harbour, thinking himself the luckiest man alive.

“You must stop fussing Quentin, I’m perfectly fine except for a few aching muscles,” Deirdre assured him. “Prosperous Pedros said I was a real trooper.”

“Well I want you to take it easy indoors today, no over exerting yourself,” Quentin insisted. “Now how about I cook you a nice omelette and serve it with some of those fresh artichoke hearts I bottled in olive oil?”

“That sounds delicious,” Deirdre agreed.

Using all his strength to prise the lid off a jar of artichokes, Quentin was shocked to discover the contents had turned black and mouldy.

“Holy goats,” Deirdre exclaimed at the sight of her festering lunch, adding, “I can’t think where I’ve picked up that peculiar expression.”

“I just don’t understand it. These hearts were an appetising cream colour when I bottled them and now look at them, all black and manky, sprouting a disgusting putrefying growth,” Quentin said, bitterly disappointed all his spiky endeavours had been wasted.

“Not to worry dear, worse things happen at sea,” a remarkably upbeat Deirdre commiserated. “I’m sure Nitsa won’t mind showing you her technique again.”

It seemed that nothing could faze Deirdre so Quentin decided to come clean about the toilet pipe leaking raw sewage and fertilising the field of wild watermelons.

“Have you telephoned Achilles the borrowed builder to come and take a look?” Deirdre asked before remembering their botched leaking roof was his handiwork and suggested perhaps Bald Yannis should be called instead.

“Oh, no need for all that expense,” Quentin replied. “I have armed myself with an impressive arsenal of plumbing widgets and whatsits from the hardware shop and feel more than capable of tackling the burst pipe that is feeding the watermelons with flushed effluent.”

“Can I help at all?”

“Certainly not Deirdre, you are supposed to be taking it easy,” Quentin insisted, climbing into the beekeeper hazmat suit and donning a pair of rubber wellies. Deciding it was too hot for the helmet he discarded it, thinking it was mainly his lower limbs which would need protection from any stray sewage.

“Perhaps if it’s not too strenuous you could flush the toilet at regular intervals to help me identify which bit of the pipe is leaking.”

“But aren’t the pipes underground?” Deirdre asked logically.

“Darling, the pipes are the handiwork of Achilles,” Quentin said meaningfully.

“Enough said,” Deirdre replied, realising by now if you wanted a job botching, Achilles the borrowed builder was the man to call. Failing to bury the waste pipe was typical of his shoddy approach.

Quentin marched manfully out to the undergrowth at the back of the house, determined to tackle the leak. Following the line of the pipe from where it emerged from the bathroom he was soon able to pinpoint the hole with the help of Deirdre’s regular flushing.

“It looks like there’s something blocking it,” he called up to Deirdre who was hanging out of the bathroom window. “I’m going to try and flush it out with the hosepipe,” he explained, attaching it to the outside tap and turning it on to full pressure. The water surged through the pipes until it hit the blockage, the build up of pressure suddenly causing a tumultuous internal explosion. Quentin was leaning over the hole in the pipe attempting to identify the extent of the blockage when an eruption of revolting squelching sewage hit him squarely in the face.

“It’s a nice day for it K-Went-In,” a booming voice greeted him.

Cringing in embarrassment at being caught with a sludge splattered visage, Quentin turned to welcome the unwanted interloper, Pungent Pedros.

“What are you doing here, Pedro?” he asked brusquely.

“I came to call on Fotini, but ‘eard an explosion out ‘ere ‘fore I ‘ad the chance to knock,” Pungent Pedros said. “It looks like yous ‘ave made a right mess there, ‘appen yous is clueless as to what needs doin’.”

Quentin looked shiftily over Pungent Pedros’ shoulder, hoping with every fibre of his being that his unwanted guest wasn’t being trailed by Fotini or Nitsa. He would never live down this humiliation if the two old crones got wind of it, imagining they would mock his remaining days with some unseemly moniker such as ‘shit face’ or ‘sewage head.’

“Yous shouldn’t ‘ave tried to flush it without giving it a good poke first,” Pungent Pedros advised, stepping into the knee-deep puddle of sewage and elbowing Quentin out of the way. Breaking a long thin branch from an olive tree he proceeded to get up close and personal with the stinking pipe, not sharing Quentin’s prissy revulsion to ripe and reeking waste matter.

“Ah, I can feel the blockage moving,” the pungent goat-herder exclaimed, wiggling the branch inside the pipe.

Quentin turned his attention back to the pipe, waiting breathlessly next to Pedros who said, “yep, it’s still movin, ‘ang on it’s movin’ this way.”

The blockage revealed itself by slithering out of the hole, prompting Quentin to scream “snake” at the top of his lungs.

Quentin’s scream alarmed the creeping reptile so much it turned tail, disappearing back into the pipe but changing direction towards the bathroom.

“Deirdre, put the toilet lid down at once and get out of the bathroom now,” Quentin yelled in alarm, convinced the snake would slither up the vertical pipe.

“I never knew yous was such a big girl’s blouse, K-Went-In,” Pungent Pedros scoffed, slipping his arm into the filthy pipe, retrieving the snake by its tail bone and slinging it into the weeds with a high flying circular motion. “It’s ‘armless,” he said in response to Quentin’s horror struck expression “but it wouldn’t ‘ave been very nice for Did-Rees if it introduced itself to ‘er glow-in-the-dark thong up the toilet, would it now? Let’s see what yous ‘ave got ‘ere amid these whatsits an’ widgets that we can seal up this hole with.”

Declining Quentin’s kind offer to clean up in his bathroom, Pungent Pedros simply wiped the worst of the sewage off with an old rag before scrambling goat-like over the prickly pear plant into the neighbouring garden, running straight into Fotini who was balanced precariously atop the three-legged olive ladder, spying on Quentin.

It was over sixty years since Pungent Pedros had been rejected by Fotini yet he had carried her image faithfully in his mind across the decades. It never for one second occurred to him that the scrawny scowling old hag perched before him, clad in a hideous old lady dress with concertinaed pop socks wrinkled around her hairy legs, could possibly be Fotini, so much had she changed.

“Po po, what’s that ‘orrid malaka smell?” Fotini demanded, wrinkling her nose and getting a distinct whiff of goat beneath the more pervasive stench of sewage.

“Yous reek like a stinky old goat-herder.”

“Fotini, I didn’t ‘ardly recognise yous, but I’d know that contempt for goats in yous voice anywhere,” Pungent Pedros said flatly.

“Does I know yous? What business ‘ave yous got climbing over my wall?” Fotini asked suspiciously.

“Fotini, it’s me, Pedros from up in Ankinari. I ‘eard yous was livin’ next door to them foreign friends of mine and thought to call and get reacquainted with yous.”

“Pedros? Pedros what trifled with my feelings, but thought more of is malaka goats than me? Yous can’t be turnin’ up ‘ere with yous disgustin’ intentions of seducing me, I’m a married woman.”

“I ‘eard yous was a widow.”

“Wicked lies. My ‘usband is away in Athens on business,” Fotini said, losing her footing on the three-legged olive ladder.

Pungent Pedros rushed to her assistance, offering a steadying hand to prevent her from slipping.

“Get yous ‘ands off me yous pervert, yous ‘ave always been obsessed with gettin’ yous ‘ands on my bloomers,” Fotini shrieked.

“Yous delusional hag, I was only tryin’ to stop yous from fallin an’ doin’ yourself an injury,’” Pungent Pedros protested, removing his hand quick sharp. Without his steadying touch Fotini slid down the ladder faster than a fireman down a greasy pole, landing in an ungainly heap sprawled on the ground with her skirt in the air and her bloomers on display.

“What ‘appened to yous Fotini?” Pungent Pedros asked sadly. “Yous always was a bit standoffish, but now yous is downright unpleasant.”

“Who does yous think yous is comin’ ‘ere with yous insults after leavin’ me with a lifelong aversion to goats?” Fotini cackled.

“Po po, goats is warm and lovin’ creatures whereas yous is nothin’ but a vicious old hell-hag,” Pungent Pedros said. The scales had lifted from his eyes. It dawned on him he had romanticised a fancied attachment to an idealised version of Fotini who had never existed beyond his imagination. He had happily played the field, convincing himself if only Fotini hadn’t rejected him, she would have been the one to tame him.

“Yous led me on then absconded on the eve of our wedding,” Fotini accused him.

“It looks like I ‘ad a lucky escape, but don’t yous dare accuse me of absconding when yous changed yous mind at the last minute and broke my ‘eart,” Pungent Pedros countered, remembering how he fled to the hills with his goats when he learned of Fotini’s rejection.

In his youth Pungent Pedros had worshipped Fotini from afar, without ever exchanging a word with her. He broached the subject of marriage with Fotini’s father rather than proposing directly to her, the accepted way of doing things back in the day. Fotini’s father promised his daughter’s hand to the goat-herder. Even though he didn’t consider Pedros a good catch he preferred to marry Fotini off sharpish rather than risk being stuck with a spinster daughter. Fotini was summarily informed by her father she was to wed the goat-herder and arrangements were duly made. The couple were formally introduced in the presence of a chaperone, a brief encounter during which Pungent Pedros practised a cheesy range of sweet nothings on Fotini. In turn Fotini giggled bashfully, concealing her naturally malevolent nature from this ardent suitor. Pedros was so smitten he readily dismissed her vocal loathing of his precious goats as nothing more than a girlish fear of the skittish creatures that she would grow out of.

Unbeknown to the engaged couple, Fotini’s father was still in the market for a more advantageous marriage offer. When a rival suitor with better prospects came along he callously informed Pungent Pedros his daughter had rejected him, at the same time shattering Fotini’s dreams by telling her the goat-herder had changed his mind and legged it up to the hills with his goats rather than go through with the wedding.

“’Appen yous father played us both, Fotini,” Pungent Pedros sighed.

“He always was a manipulative old devil,” Fotini agreed.

Fotini accepted the helping hand Pungent Pedros extended to pull her to her feet without slapping him off with her usual insults.

“I’d best be getting back to my goats,” Pedros said.

“Aye, an’ I’ve got curative that wants stirring,” Fotini replied.

As the pair parted Fotini realised her fear of goats had developed into an obsessive aversion after she’d been deceived into believing Pungent Pedros had abandoned her at the altar. Pedros strolled off with a wistful expression, realising even though he hadn’t been rejected things would never have worked out between them. It was just so unnatural for anyone not to have a natural affinity for goats.

Chapter 38

A Midget Blancmange

“Nona, Tasos has arranged a treat for you. Evangelia is going to style your hair and do your nails at the beauty salon,” Sofia announced on the morning of Thea’s surprise wedding.

“Since when do I let that man tell me when I need a change of style?” Thea asked suspiciously, still convinced Toothless Tasos was carrying on an illicit relationship with Tassia.

“Oh Nona, don’t be such a grump. I’d be delighted if Iraklis came up with such a thoughtful treat,” Sofia said, breaking into inconsolable sobbing when she remembered that Iraklis would be boarding the bus for the army barracks whilst she played bridesmaid.

“Sofia, pull yourself together, all that cryin’ will make yous face as pink as yous ‘air,” Thea chided, thinking her goddaughter couldn’t be that broken hearted if she’d time to tinker with her hair colour yet again.

“I’ll try Nona, but I miss Iraklis so much.”

“He hasn’t even left the village yet,” Thea pointed out; having no idea Sofia would miss his departure by playing bridesmaid. “Military service will make a man out of Iraklis; he’ll come back ready to settle down. ‘Ave yous seen Tasos this morning Sofia, he’s sneaked off somewhere? He ‘asn’t gone fishin’ ‘cos ‘is bait bucket is cluttering up the kitchen.”

“He’s arranging something very special for you Nona,” Sofia said excitedly. “All will be revealed shortly.”

“Hmm,” Thea sneered, convinced if he was arranging something nice it was because he had a guilty conscience. “’Ave yous seen the cat, it’s on the missing list along with Tasos?”

Toothless Tasos was on such tenterhooks that he had left for the church two hours before the appointed hour of the service. He had polished his dentures till they gleamed and shoe horned himself into his new wedding suit, leaving him uncomfortably stiff. Determined to have everything just so, he had carried along the newly dyed pink cat in a cardboard box, worried it would never get the hang of being the ring bearer. The Pappas’ relentless religious droning did nothing to quell Tasos’ anxiety and he alternated between using his decorative pocket handkerchief to mop his sweating brow and to put an extra spit of shine on his shoes.

Tasos’ fidgeting presence was annoying the Pappas so much he decided it was time to get the service underway. “Is it time already?” Tasos asked.

“It is indeed,” the Pappas lied. “I’ll do the announcement over the megaphone now, telling folks it kicks off in twenty minutes.”

The wedding announcement took the villagers by complete surprise. It was such short notice that the fishermen who had only just moored their boats after a morning’s fishing had no time to change out of their fishy smelling work clothes before legging it to the church. The shopkeepers turned their signs to ‘Closed’ knowing everyone would be at the wedding and there would be no customers to serve.

Quentin and Deirdre, trapped in the back of Nitsa’s taxi as she drove them to the garage to collect their newly repaired car, were turfed out at the harbour as soon as Fotini heard the wedding call.

“Ooh I love a good wedding, moisten up Nitsa, we can get in lots of spittin’,” she cackled.

“Fancy Tasos makin’ an honest woman of ‘er. It should be me and Bald Yannis getting hitched if ‘she’ ‘adn’t got ‘er claws into ‘im,” Nitsa said, sending a draggers drawn look at Soula who was waddling by. Climbing out of the taxi Nitsa offered her arm to Deirdre, saying, “Stick close to me Did-Rees; we don’t want to lose yous again after that nasty scare yous gave us.”

“Po po, only the gormless K-Went-In could lose ‘is wife on a floating ostrich,” Fotini mocked.

“It was a flamingo,” Nitsa said.

“’Appen ostriches ‘ave more sense,” Fotini retorted.

Sofia had just arrived at Tassia’s house when the booming voice of the Pappas echoed around the village through the church megaphone. “What on earth is the Pappas playing at, it’s much too early. Nona’s still at the beauty salon and we still have to get her into her dress.”

“Put your bridesmaid dress on quick, then run and get Thea so she can slip into her bridal gown,” Tassia advised.

“Seriously. You can’t expect me to wear that sickly pink meringue, it’s the fugliest frock I’ve ever seen,” Sofia wailed, clapping eyes for the first time on the elaborate crinoline bridesmaid dress with enormous puff sleeves.

“I told you I wanted something pink and edgy, that frothy thing looks as though it was spewed out of an explosion in a marshmallow factory,” Sofia objected.

“Don’t exaggerate Sofia, it’s not that bad. Little Andy chose it and see how adorable she looks in her matching dress,” Tassia said as the side-burned toddler pirouetted into the room, tripping over her hemline and landing on her stubbly haired chin. The bilious green furry bonnet fashioned out of the cuddly syphilis stuffed microbe and resembling a well-worn bathmat spared the child’s head from smashing open on the floor tiles.

“Just put it on and run and get yous Nona,” Mrs Kolokotronis urged. “An’ look on the bright side, young Iraklis won’t see you in it.”

Her reminder of Iraklis prompted more tears from the hideously dressed bridesmaid who looked quite a fright by the time she arrived at the beauty salon.

“Are yous goin’ to a fancy dress party?” Thea asked, still clueless about the wedding since her head had been under the dryer when the Pappas made his megaphone announcement.

“No Nona, I am the bridesmaid at your surprise wedding, Tasos has arranged everything. Come with me now,” Sofia blurted.

“My wedding,” Thea gasped, completely flabbergasted by this unexpected turn of events. “I was convinced Tasos was sneaking round with another woman.”

“He hated being so sneaky, but if he’d let on it would have spoiled the surprise. It’s his way of showing you how much he loves you, even though he went about in a bit of a cack-handed way,” Sofia explained.

“’Ow silly I’ve been, suspecting him of being unfaithful when he always tells me I am his goddess. It was wrong of me to think badly of ‘im,” Thea said regretfully. “’Ang on, I can’t marry him now, this skirt and blouse isn’t at all bridal.”

“Tasos even organised your wedding dress Nona, he hid it at Tassia’s house. We need to hurry there now so you can put it on.”

“Tasos went wedding dress shopping,” Thea exclaimed, suddenly dejected. Her fisherman fiancé had about as much sense of style as one of his dead catches.

“Well Tassia actually chose it, but Tasos told her what style of wedding dress he dreamed of seeing you in,” Sofia said gingerly, realising Tassia had also selected the hideous frock she was stuck in. If the wedding dress was anything like the monstrosity she was modelling Sofia realised that Tasos was likely to be left heartbroken at the altar.

Sofia’s worst fears materialised when Thea took one look at the over the top ruffled white ball gown festooned with flounces, frills and enormous plastic like flowers. The skirt was so voluminous it would dwarf Thea’s slender body, turning her into a midget blancmange. The sequined puffed sleeves were so broad they could have been blown up by Bald Yannis’ foot pump, extending so high their sharply starched edges could take the sides off Thea’s ears.

“I wouldn’t be seen dead in that nylon horror,” Thea announced, grabbing the dress and running out of Tassia’s house.

“Trust Tasos to muck things up, what was he thinking?” she muttered, shoving the frilly dress into the nearest bin. Slowing her pace she reflected Tasos’ intentions had been kind and thoughtful, and she couldn’t expect him to suddenly acquire good taste in women’s clothing when the bar for village fashion was set by hideous old lady dresses.  Mentally cataloguing the dresses in her wardrobe Thea smiled happily as she pictured the very elegant cream silk number she’d bought from the Home Shopping channel and was saving for a special occasion.

“There’s no more special occasion than my fourth wedding,” she said aloud, making a beeline for her wardrobe.

Chapter 39

Waiting at the Altar

Standing stiffly at the altar, Toothless Tasos could feel his heart racing. His lifelong fantasy of marrying the goddess of his dreams was about to come true. He was gratified to see the church pews begin to fill up with his friends who had dropped whatever they were doing to celebrate his wedding.

“Shall I chuck those two old crones out before they start spitting at your bride?” the Pappas asked, watching Fotini and Nitsa rudely elbow their way through to front row seats.

“No, leave ‘em be. I’m ‘appy they turned up to support us,” Tasos replied.

The fishermen filed into the church, their fishy clothes immediately attracting the attention of the dyed pink cat. Forcing its way free from the cardboard box it sprang on top of Prosperous Pedros’ head, desperate to lick up the smeared residue of prawn bait. Tasos rushed over to grab the cat, tying a pink bow with the wedding rings attached around the feline’s neck in preparation for its vital role as ring bearer.

“What’s he going to do for an encore? ‘Ave Bald Yannis’ darling goat carry Thea’s train up the aisle in its teeth,” Stavroula sniggered snobbishly, thinking she would never settle for such a last minute haphazard affair when she tied the knot with her slick lawyer.

The English tourists Cilla and Clive tentatively took the seats behind the fishermen, hoping to see something typically Greek, but the overpowering smell of fish soon sent them scuttling to the other side of the church.

“’Ere come and squeeze in with us Did-Rees,” Prosperous Pedros called out, feeling very protective of the gutsy woman since saving her at sea. He regretted the invitation as soon as the American pair squashed in between the fishermen. Quentin still emanated a lingering scent of sewage, even though he’d had a vigorous scrub in the shower and Deirdre had sprayed him liberally with air freshener.

Soula smiled knowingly at her sister as Tall Thomas sidled into the seat next to Voula, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Did yous manage to shake off Luka?” Thomas asked.

“Po po, he’s up to no good in his bedroom. I could hear his television blaring,” Voula confided.

“Ooh Yanni, a church is no place for yous chainsaw,” Soula tutted disapprovingly as Bald Yannis joined her.

“I want to get it cleaned up now so I’ll ‘ave free time this afternoon to take yous to the beach an’ teach yous ‘ow to swim,” Bald Yannis grinned, rubbing an oily rag over his trusty tool.

“Ooh Yanni, yous remembered. Yous is the best ‘usband ever,” Soula beamed.

Mail order Masha managed to epitomize glamour even on short notice. Making a grand entrance she floated in wearing a pastel pink evening gown that cascaded loosely over her bump.

“Andy, yous look adorable,” Masha shrieked delightedly as Andromeda raced past her, having spotted the cat. The cat took one look at the pink blob hurtling down on it and ran to hide beneath the folds of the Pappas’ long black clerical dress. The Pappas stood firm, determined to maintain a dignified stance in front of his parishioners even though the cat was trying to skim up his leg.

Sofia looked utterly dejected when she arrived to deliver the bad news to Toothless Tasos that his bride-to-be had done a runner and ditched him at the altar. She hadn’t bothered changing out of the ghastly bridesmaid dress that clashed hideously with her blushing tear-streaked face.

“Taso, I don’t know how to tell you. Nona isn’t coming. She was really excited when I first told her about the surprise wedding but she took one look at that frightful wedding dress and legged it,” Sofia said sorrowfully, having jumped to the erroneous presumption that Thea’s departure from Tassia’s house meant she had unceremoniously dumped the groom.

“No,” Tasos moaned, not daring to exhale.

“I’m so sorry Taso,” Sofia sympathised.

Toothless Tasos slumped to his knees; shaking his head at the thought Thea had rejected him.

“Nona said she wouldn’t be seen dead in that ghastly dress and I can’t say I blame her. What on earth were you thinking Taso, having Tassia buy that nylon horror? It was even worse than this monstrosity I’m wearing; I tell you I would die rather than let Iraklis see me in this and I expect Nona felt the same,” Sofia waffled.

“It’s only a dress, what’s it matter what it looks like?” Tasos asked, clueless about Thea’s desire to be a beautiful bride.

“Oh Taso, it does matter, Nona would have been a laughing stock in that thing.”

“Is this wedding off or on?” the Pappas interrupted impatiently.

“Taso, yous need to go and find Thea and talk things out,” mail order Masha butted in. The silicone Russian had hurried up the aisle after her goddaughter Andromeda and overheard Sofia telling Tasos about the dress disaster. “Sofia is right, if yous expected Thea to say ‘I do’ in a dress even more ‘orrid than that sickly pink disaster then yous know nothing about women. But it doesn’t ‘ave to mean the end of yous engagement.”

“Tell ‘em the wedding is off,” Tasos glumly instructed the Pappas. “I’ll go an’ see if I can find Thea an’ see if she’s dumped me or just ‘ad a fit of vanity,” he added, slipping out through the back door.

“I might as well send this lot home,” the Pappas said, irritated his parishioners wouldn’t get to see him being his priestly best.

“No, don’t send anyone home,” mail order Masha told the Pappas. “As everyone is already gathered ‘ere in church, which yous ‘ave to admit is a bit of a miracle, we might as well get Did-Rees baptised. She ‘as to be Orthodox so she can be godmother to the silicone chip.”

“This is must irregular,” the Pappas objected.

“Will this brown envelope make it a bit more regular?” Masha asked, slipping the Pappas a crafty hundred Euros.

The congregation was getting antsy, wondering what was going on since Toothless Tasos’ disappearance had not gone unnoticed.

“Order, order. There has been a slight change of programme,” the Pappas announced. “Instead of joining Toothless Tasos and Thea in Holy matrimony I will be conducting an impromptu baptism. Please step forward Did-Rees and prepare for your oily dunking.”

Chapter 40

A Beautiful Bride

Something about Sofia’s words sank into Toothless Tasos’ downcast mind as he hurried home. Even though he knew nothing about women’s fashion he had to admit Sofia had looked absolutely awful in that ridiculous dress. It dawned on him that Thea would never subject herself to public humiliation by appearing in anything half as hideous, being very particular about her appearance. Even if her reason for not showing up at the church was so shallow, he still adored her and hoped he hadn’t lost her.

The door to the fisherman’s cottage opened as Tasos approached and a vision of loveliness emerged. Thea looked magnificent in an elegant silk gown, the sleek cream fabric flattering her colouring. Walking towards him, his goddess smiled, saying,

“I ‘ope I didn’t keep yous waitin’ Taso, I wanted to be a beautiful bride for you.”

“Thea, yous take my breath away, yous is truly a goddess,” Toothless Tasos declared, elated she still wanted to marry him after his hideous dress blunder.

Holding hands the pair strolled towards the church, surprised to discover Deirdre’s baptism taking place.

“Malaka, I thought yous wasn’t coming so I told the Pappas the wedding was off,” Toothless Tasos confessed.

“It doesn’t matter darling, we can still be married. Exchanging our vows is the important thing. Why don’t we slip up to the Dimarcheio and get married there quietly? That way Sofia will be able to see Iraklis off instead of having to play bridesmaid,” Thea suggested.

“Is yous sure yous don’t mind not ‘aving a bigly church do?” Tasos asked.

“Oh Taso, our wedding photographs will be ruined if Sofia is caught on camera in that revolting frock,” Thea laughed.

“Okay let’s do it. Just ‘ang on a minute while I sneak into the church and catch the cat,” Tasos laughed, remembering he needed to retrieve the wedding rings.

Chapter 41

Goat Afloat

“Did-Ree’s oily dunkin’ was a turn up for the books,” Bald Yannis said, striding along towards the beach beside his waddling pregnant wife and leading Agapimeni. It was far too hot for his darling goat to be dressed in a woolly two-piece but she looked cute in a pink bow, with a floral sunhat perched jauntily on her head.

“Now that Did-Rees ‘as been baptised we could consider askin’ ‘er to be Nona for one of the twins Yanni, what does yous think?” Soula asked.

“It’s a possibility,” Bald Yannis agreed, feeling quite pleasantly disposed to the American couple after they’d promised not to sue him for selling them the dodgy inflatable flamingo.

“Ooh Yanni, I’m that excited to be goin’ in the sea,” Soula exclaimed as the clear turquoise water came into view.

“Yous isn’t the only one, it will be Agapimeni’s first time too,” Bald Yannis said proudly.

“Ooh Yanni look,” Soula shouted, waving excitedly as the bus passed on its way up to Paraliakos. Soula pointed out Iraklis squashed between Sofia and Mrs Kolokotronis on the back seat.

“Imagine ‘ow embarrassed the lad will be turning up at the army base with that pair in tow,” Bald Yannis laughed. “He’ll never live it down.”

“Well I think it’s sweet, an’ they all looked happy for a change, smiling and laughin’ instead of their usual crying,” Soula said. She had no idea the threesome were rendered helpless with hilarity having just seen Melecretes sneaking into the Evangelia’s apartment wearing Thea’s discarded meringue wedding dress he had surreptitiously retrieved from the bins, hotly pursued by Fotini and Nitsa intent on covering him with spit.

“I’ll let ‘er off the lead for a bit,” Bald Yannis said, releasing his darling goat.

“Ooh Yanni, I’m so ‘appy to be on the beach with yous,” Soula gushed, taking her first ever steps in the sea.

“Come on Soula, I will teach yous ‘ow to swim,” Yannis offered.

“Ooh Yanni, it’s wonderful,” Soula giggled as her husband showed her how to stay afloat with a steadying hand beneath her back.

“Yous is a natural Soula,” Bald Yannis praised her.

“Ooh look, Yanni,” Soula laughed, pointing to Agapimeni. The goat had clambered on top of the giant pink plastic inflatable flamingo Bald Yannis had towed back to the beach after Deirdre’s rescue. A wave caught the edge of the float, nudging it into the water with the goat wobbling unsteadily on top.

Creasing up with laughter at the goat’s bemused expression Soula called out “goat afloat.”

“Malaka, it’s goin’ to sink,” Bald Yannis cried out, watching Agapimeni about to chew the head off the flamingo.

“Stop it quick Yanni. Don’t let the flamingo deflate. I think yous is going to ‘ave to float me back to the village on it as I’ve just gone into labour.”

I Hope You Enjoyed Float the Goat!

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~ Katerina Nikolas