Date: 2018-03-06 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Greece

Goatly Goings On

Book 4 in The Greek Meze Series

KATERINA NIKOLAS

GOATLY GOINGS ON

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 and George for Edits

Cover Design by Yuse Art Works

Interior Formatting by The Book Khaleesi

Other Books in the Greek Meze Series

Book 1: Goat in the Meze

Book 2: Rampaging Roosters

Book 3: Olive Virgins

Contents

Other Books in the Greek Meze Series

Chapter 1

Quentin and Deirdre Suffer Unwelcome Greek Guests

Chapter 2

Glow In The Dark Undies And Cuddly Syphilis

Chapter 3

Granny’s Greek Gyros

Chapter 4

There’s The Time Difference To Consider

Chapter 5

Sickly Sweet Cravings

Chapter 6

Headless Grannies Blowing In The Wind

Chapter 7

We Grow ‘Em Big In Idaho

Chapter 8

Left On The Shelf

Chapter 9

Strip Searched By A Suma Wrestler

Chapter 10

Bald Yannis Pregnant And Scamming

Chapter 11

The Cat Gets A Bath

Chapter 12

Masha Is Exposed As A Binging Glutton

Chapter 13

Pappa Iraklis Questions His Celibate Calling

Chapter 14

A Creepy Shrine

Chapter 15

No Stray Husbands

Chapter 16

The Parrot Masters Fifteen Languages

Chapter 17

Prosperous Pedros Attracts An Admirer

Chapter 18

Don’t Call Me Pappas

Chapter 19

Credulous Cretins Believe Any Old Codswallop

Chapter 20

Horny Goats And Christmas Tinners

Chapter 21

Spreading The Tzatziki

Chapter 22

Cycling Goat

Chapter 23

Slick City Types

Chapter 24

Sleep Tight, Sweet Pedro

Chapter 25

Steaming Up The Car Windows

Chapter 26

A Matter Of Life And Death

Chapter 27

Deirdre Flashes A Randy Old Goat Herder

Chapter 28

Goat To The Boat

Chapter 29

Glamping For The Gullible

Chapter 30

Frightful Bed Companions

Chapter 31

Quentin And Deirdre Get Lumbered

Chapter 32

The Pious Malaproper Arrives

Chapter 33

Goatly Goings On

Chapter 34

Goat Is Off The Menu

Chapter 35

Gloria Gets Deflated

Chapter 36

Quentin Quivers

Chapter 37

Handcuffed To The Altar

Chapter 38

A Bag Of Cheese And Onion In A Damp Tent

Chapter 39

Kyria Sisyphean Suffers A Nasty Shock

Chapter 40

Furry Handcuffs Point The Finger Of Suspicion

Chapter 41

Imagined Affairs

Chapter 42

Prosperous Pedros To The Rescue

Chapter 43

Blood and Borscht

Chapter 44

Rappelling Away

Chapter 1

Quentin and Deirdre Suffer Unwelcome Greek Guests

Deirdre rolled her eyes in exasperation as her ears were assaulted by a constant stream of choice Greek expletives and a cacophonous clatter of pans drifting up from the kitchen. Nightmare images of her home devastated by unwanted house guests were not enough to tempt her from the self-imposed exile of her Idaho bedroom, even though she desperately craved a potato fix. The sudden silence descending over the house was more sinister than welcoming.

“What do you suppose the old crone is up to now?” Deirdre asked Quentin, forcing herself up from the Valium strewn bed to peer cautiously out of the window. Her line of vision was partially obscured by the row of hideous old lady dresses frozen solid to the washing line in a ghoulish display.

“With any luck she has electrocuted herself or stuffed so much confectionary down her gullet she’s fallen into a sugar coma,” Quentin sighed hopefully.

“No such luck,” Deirdre exhaled wearily, dragging Quentin to the window and pointing to Fotini attempting to clamber clumsily over the wall into the neighbouring garden whilst clinging on desperately to a pair of purloined skis.

“We’ll be stuck with her forever if she breaks a leg on those skis. Why do you suppose she is filling a carrier bag with poisonous dogbane?” Quentin queried.

“She could be planning to cook horta and mistook Mrs Jones’ prize flowers for weeds. Quentin you must go and grab Fotini before the neighbours have her arrested for trespassing, I cannot face yet another afternoon at the police station.”

“Must I? The blasted parrot was sick in my boots and I will have to traipse through the snow in my slippers.” One look at Deirdre’s face assured Quentin his wife meant business. Having no wish to provoke yet another argument over their Greek visitors he flounced meekly out of the bedroom to follow his wife’s bidding.

It was all Hattie’s fault that Nitsa, Fotini and her parrot were holidaying in their Idaho home. When Quentin had suggested Fat Christos, Tassia and baby Andromeda extend their honeymoon trip to the Big Apple with a visit to Idaho, he hadn’t reckoned with Hattie’s insistence that her two new best friends be included too. In the end Hattie had nagged him into submission and their usually orderly and quiet Idaho home was now bursting at the seams with rowdy Greeks. The honeymooners were horrified their romantic Idaho interlude had been invaded by Hattie’s interlopers. Only Andromeda’s adoration of the parrot had prevented them taking the first flight out as Fat Christos could not deny his daughter anything.

Quentin snapped out of his reverie as Mr Jones demanded to know “Does this trespassing creature belong to you?” Quentin’s neighbour was frogmarching an irate Fotini across the snow by the scruff of her neck. Fortunately he had no idea the wily old woman was cursing him since Quentin managed to convince him ‘malaka’ was the Greek word for snow.

“It’s all new to her you see, she has only ever seen snow once before in her eighty odd years. In her quaint Greek village it is the custom to climb over garden walls for a neighbourly visit.”

“And is it the custom to steal the neighbour’s plants too?”

“She apologises profusely,” Quentin fibbed, twisting Fotini’s ear painfully. “Old Greek ladies often forage for food and Fotini was planning to boil up your dogbane for dinner with a traditional lemon and olive oil dressing. Of course she wishes to invite you to join us.”

Mr Jones thawed visibly, concluding he had perhaps been a tad hasty in presuming Quentin’s houseguest was a pilfering nuisance without taking into account cultural differences. He readily accepted Quentin’s invitation to dinner that evening when his neighbour assured him there would be no poisonous boiled up dogbane on the menu. Wrapping his arms around his body in an exaggerated gesture Mr Jones smiled at Fotini, saying “brrr, this malaka sure is cold.”

Fotini raised her arm to slap this fool across the face for his impertinence in calling her a malaka, but her intention was thwarted by Quentin yanking her sharply by the ear. Fotini lost her balance and slid precariously off down the garden slope on one ski; tumbling into a frozen embrace with the snowman Nitsa had spent all morning building for Andromeda’s amusement.

“Get yous ‘ands off me yous pervert,” she screeched at the snowman.

“How nice that your foreign house guest is enjoying this new experience in the ‘malaka,’” Mr Jones sociably observed, testing out this novel Greek word.

“K-Went-In, get ‘ere now and rescue the parrot,” Fotini screeched, yanking herself upright with the snowman’s scarf. “I suppose Nitsa thought it was funny to dress this ice sculpture in my best bloomers and use the parrot as an ‘at, but the blasted bird is frozen in place.”

Quentin was busily pretending he couldn’t hear Fotini’s plaintive plea to de-ice the parrot’s posterior from the frozen head until Mr Jones suggested telephoning an animal welfare group to release it. Quentin had endured enough run-ins with the authorities over the last week and the very mention of the word ‘telephone’ sent him into a panic since he had discovered Nitsa making endless long distance phone calls to her boyfriend Fotis back in Greece, at Quentin’s expense.

“I’ll go and get Deirdre’s crème brulee blow torch,” Quentin offered. The prospect of singeing the parrot’s feathers made him momentarily smile and forget all about the slush in his now soggy slippers.

Chapter 2

Glow In The Dark Undies And Cuddly Syphilis

“We can’t possibly have the neighbours round for dinner, what on earth will they think?” Deirdre asked in dismay, surveying the destructive chaos Fotini had created in the kitchen.

Every surface was cluttered with the debris of exploded Idaho Spud Bars following Fotini’s failed experiment concocting a new dish in the new-fangled microwave. Fotini, with her voraciously sweet tooth, had become addicted to this local chocolate marshmallow treat but had failed to remove the chocolates from their metallic wrappers before turning the microwave on. Her attempts to wash her bloomers in the new-fangled dishwasher had caused a flood and the kitchen walls were still blackened from her efforts to cook a pork chop in the new-fangled toaster. The kettle was still clogged up with sprigs and twigs after Fotini had put the Greek mountain tea, smuggled in her suitcase, directly into the electric appliance.

“Let’s go to ‘Granny’s Greek Gyros’ for dinner,” Quentin suggested, eager to keep Nitsa away from the telephone. “I’m sure everyone would love a taste of Greece and it would spare you the embarrassment of the Jones’ seeing what Fotini has done to the kitchen.”

“What a wonderful idea, dear. I’d never live it down if the Jones’ see what the two old crones have done to the downstairs toilet,” Deirdre agreed. She shuddered each time she recalled how Fotini and Nitsa had been fascinated by the novelty of being able to flush paper down the toilet and had experimented by feeding the contents of the kitchen waste bin into the porcelain receptacle, and then terrorised Andromeda by flushing away her cuddly stuffed goat. The local plumber had extorted an extortionate fee to unblock the toilet of potato peelings and incinerated pork chops, though Andy had rewarded him with a big sloppy kiss when he salvaged her soggy goat.

“We can go out for dinner as soon as the others get back from the Potato Museum. Let’s just hope baby Andromeda can coax the parrot off your head before we set off,” Deirdre added, looking in dismay at the singed parrot clamped tightly to Quentin’s scalp as he furtively hid a bottle of brandy inside Deirdre’s wellingtons to keep it out of Fotini’s clutches.

Their moment of relative peace was interrupted by the return of Hattie and Nitsa, Fat Christos, Tassia and the wailing baby.

“Did you have fun at the Potato Museum?” Quentin asked.

“We got lost and couldn’t find it, all the roads looked the same buried under so much snow,” Hattie exclaimed. “You should have come with us Quentin, you know the way.”

“We couldn’t have left Fotini home alone, she would probably have burned the house down,” Quentin said defensively.

“But we ‘ad a wonderful day out at the Oasis Bordello Museum in Wallace. Look what a treat I ‘ave for Fotis,” Nitsa said, brandishing a pair of glow in the dark panties she had bought at the bordello gift shop. “I got a pair for you too Did-Rees,” Nitsa said with a saucy wink, waving a fluorescent green throng in the air, “these are a bit more likely to turn K-Went-In’s ‘ead than those serviceable things frozen to yous washing line.”

“I hardly think a bordello is a suitable place to take an impressionable baby,” Deirdre sniffed while wondering if she dare wear the luminous underwear.

“Nonsense, it is ‘istorical,” Nitsa insisted. “The ‘ole place was preserved as it was when the ladies of the night fled before an FBI raid in 1988. It must ‘ave been so exciting.”

Andromeda clapped in agreement and threw a pair of glow in the dark red satin panties at the parrot. They landed in its beak and dangled provocatively over Quentin’s forehead.

“It wasn’t all bordellos,” Hattie interjected. “We took the baby to the very educational Museum of Clean as well, though I had a bit of a hard time explaining the concept of a vacuum cleaner to our guests.”

Tassia glared at Hattie in silence as she was the proud owner of a new-fangled vacuum cleaner, which she found very useful for hovering up spiders, ever since coming into her late uncle’s inheritance.

“It was boring,” Nitsa interrupted. “Fancy charging good money for people to look at brooms. I must tell Bald Yannis, it could give ‘im ideas.”

“Andromeda adored it until she got trapped in the giant display dustbin and had to be rescued by the fire brigade. Fat Christos bought her a giant educational microbe stuffed toy from the gift shop,” Hattie expanded.

“Want cuddly sip-lly,” Andy cried loudly in a fit of temper tantrum.

“Cuddly syphilis it not a suitable toy my sweetheart,” Fat Christos cooed. “Play with your nice stuffed typhoid fever instead.”

“Want cuddly sip-lly,” Andy screamed, hurling the stuffed typhoid bundle across the kitchen, knocking over Deirdre’s wellingtons. The bottle of brandy rolled out of one boot across the kitchen floor and landed at Nitsa’s feet. Sweeping up the bottle she announced “I’ll just make a quick call to Fotis before we go out to eat Greek.”

Quentin groaned at the thought of the exorbitant telephone bill while Deirdre nagged him about rousing Fotini from her siesta. She was insistent Fotini join them on their gyros jaunt, convinced it wasn’t safe to leave her home alone.

Fotini’s journey into the Jones’ garden was the furthest she had ventured out in Idaho since landing on Quentin and Deirdre’s doorstep. She found it quite impossible to get her head around the Fahrenheit to Centigrade conversion and had expected the average Idaho February temperature of twenty seven to equate to balmy Greek spring days, having never before confronted a minus symbol on a thermometer.

This year was proving to be an exceptionally cold ten degrees and Fotini was worried about getting frost bite on her extremities. She insisted on strapping hot water bottles to the exposed flesh on her hairy legs between her pop socks and her garish bloomers, whilst Nitsa had adapted to the cold by dressing in a hooded onesie with floppy rabbit’s ears. She was in her element discovering this new continent and the endless ‘all you can eat buffets’ though the others had to physically restrain her to prevent her making off with any randomly parked taxis.

Nitsa finally managed to persuade Fotini to join them at ‘Granny’s Greek Gyros’ by convincing her there was nothing left to eat at the house apart from one of Quentin’s self-heating Christmas tinners. “Granny’s Gyros ‘as ‘omemade spanakopita an’ Hattie says yous can borrow ‘er thermal knickers,” Nitsa reasoned, “an’ tomorrow we can get K-Went-In to stop at the supermarket an’ stock up on Spud Bars an’ brandy on the way to the Potato Museum.”

“Yous is right Nitsa, I cant’s spend one more day in this pigsty,” Fotini agreed, looking contemptuously at Deirdre’s now disgusting kitchen.

Chapter 3

Granny’s Greek Gyros

Flamboyantly moustached ‘call me Mel’ Melecretes, the proud proprietor of ‘Granny’s Greek Gyros,’ was so delighted to have a contingent of genuine Greek customers he shovelled a pathway through the snow and gave Nitsa a fireman’s lift so she wouldn’t slip on the ice in her new stilettos. She had paired her ridiculously unsuitable footwear with the rabbit-eared onesie and groomed her moustache over her lips to stop her teeth from chattering in the cold.

The sight of Fotini in her hideous old lady dress and pop socks flooded Mel with nostalgia for the old Greek granny he had named his gyros shop for. He sent the two old crones complimentary Metaxas, gushing what a pleasure it was to welcome them to his humble establishment. Cooing and fussing over the baby who was still demanding “cuddly sip-lly” he attempted to oblige by offering a sippy cup. Andromeda immediately hurled it to the floor, forcing Fat Christos to confess his daughter actually wanted cuddly syphilis. Tweaking his moustache ‘call me Mel’ huffed “cook ‘asn’t got syphilis,” before taking the groups order for tzatziki, spanakopita, horiatiki, horta and gyros.

Mrs Jones was on a diet and ordered an egg white omelette, causing Mel to scoff derisively and practically force-feed her a generous plate of home-made baklava which she had to admit was delicious. He took umbrage when Mr Jones attempted to get into the swing of things by proclaiming “lots of malaka this evening,” and only refrained from punching him due to Quentin’s quick explanation that the expletive had been lost in translation. He was more than happy to liquidise Fat Christos’ gyros and was so charmed by the charmless Fotini he sent one of the waiters out in search of Idaho Spud Bars.

Mrs Jones was desperate to know why one of the old crones had been delivered home in a police car earlier in the week. “There was a misunderstanding at a wedding,” Hattie muttered, hoping this morsel would be enough to quash Mrs Jones’ insatiable appetite for gossip.

“Oh, do tell, I love a good wedding tale,” Mrs Jones insisted.

“Nitsa gate crashed a wedding, spat all over the bride and got arrested,” Tassia volunteered.

“How disgusting,” Mr and Mrs Jones recoiled in unison.

“Not at all, it is a traditional Greek custom signifying good luck,” Quentin quipped, inwardly cringing as he was in full agreement with his neighbours that spitting at the bride was a ghastly custom.

“The police would have released Nitsa much sooner but her protestations of being on intimate terms with the Greek Minister of Prisons since her incarceration led them to the false conclusion she is an international criminal,” Hattie said.

“I ‘ad to object to being strip searched even though the officer was quite beefy with a lovely thick ‘ead of ‘air,” Nitsa complained in a regretful tone. “It was too cold to take my dress off, my chest ‘air would ‘ave sprouted icicles.”

“Well at least you didn’t gate crash the wedding in your horrible onesie,” Deirdre said. “That would have been a fashion crime.”

Quentin hoped Nitsa wouldn’t mention the second occasion when the police had been called to forcibly remove her from ‘The Home Depot’ for stripping off her clothes and demanding to try on hideous old lady dresses while swearing at the manager and zooming round in a trolley that ended in an unfortunate encounter with a twelve foot display of plywood.

“Ere, ‘ave some horta,” Nitsa invited, spooning the greenery onto Mr Jones plate.

“I hope she wasn’t locked up in a Greek prison for poisoning,” Mr Jones said to his wife, remembering how the other old crone had intended to boil up poisonous dogbane for human consumption.

“No, it was for vehicular grievous bodily ‘arm to the electric man,” Nitsa said.

“He deserved it, the malaka cut off our electric,” Fotini shouted to the bafflement of Mr Jones who thought it never snowed in sunny Greece.

“Anyway Nitsa was exonerated,” Quentin said, sensing his neighbours were by now convinced he was harbouring a criminal mastermind dressed in a bunny suit.

“Yous will never guess what Fotis told me on the telephone,” Nitsa suddenly shouted. “The mail order floozy ‘as only gone an’ got ‘erself pregnant.”

“I rather think that old fool Vasilis might have had something to do with it,” Quentin reasoned.

“So the plastic bride is ‘aving a silicone chip,” Fotini cackled, impressing everyone with her grasp of new-fangled technology.

“We must toast Masha, she has wanted a baby for so long,” Deirdre said, whipping out her mobile phone to show Mr and Mrs Jones a YouTube video of mail order Masha presenting the weather.

“She looks like a Russian hooker,” Mrs Jones whispered to her husband who nodded in silent agreement whilst salivating over Masha’s ample silicone assets. Overhearing the spiteful remark Tassia rushed to her best friend’s defence, proclaiming Masha had a heart of gold and was Andromeda’s godmother.

“We are all very proud of Masha’s fame as a weather girl,” Deirdre said with sincerity.

“Mail order floozy is not the only one ‘aving a baby,” Nitsa declared. “Fotis said Bald Yannis’ plain lame wife as only gone and got ‘erself pregnant with twins.”

“I rather think Bald Yannis might have had something to do with it,” Quentin reasoned once again.

“Po po, everyone knows the malaka is a virgin,” Fotini scoffed.

“Twins,” Deirdre said with a shudder. “Just imagine the horror of two miniature Bald Yannis’”

“Tassia and me ‘ave an announcement to make too,” Fat Christos said, fondly taking his wife’s hand. “We are also expecting a new baby.”

“Is yous the father this time or is it another one of Slick Socrates cast offs?” Fotini spitefully shouted, totally ruining the moment before ‘call me Mel’ interrupted to demand Fotini gave him the name of her stylish dress supplier.

“I get my dresses from the ‘ardware shop in Astakos,” Fotini revealed, causing Mrs Jones’ eyes to bulge at the thought of such an odd choice of shopping venue.

“Bald Yannis does a lovely line in dresses,” Nitsa joined in, adding “such an ‘andsome man, I’m sure he would send yous some to sell in yous gyros shop. Yous just cant’s get decent dresses in yous giant Home Depot.”

Turning his full attention to Nitsa ‘call me Mel’ suddenly experienced a eureka moment. “We ‘ave the same moustache,” he exclaimed, “perhaps we are long lost family.”

As the two old crones and ‘call me Mel’ explored their family trees in the hope of finding a familial connection, the others toasted Fat Christos and Tassia, congratulating them on the new baby-to-be.

“Three new babies all at once in the village, how exciting,” Deirdre declared.

“Four, you forgot Soula is having twins,” Quentin corrected.

“I think we’d best do a quick stop at the Museum of Clean tomorrow and stock up on giant stuffed microbes,” Fat Christos urged. “Yous cant’s get stuffed germs like that in Astakos an’ all these new babies will love ‘em.”

“Want cuddly sip-lly,” Andromeda demanded, smearing tzatziki all over her stuffed typhoid toy.

“You can tell the baby has a Russian hooker for a godmother,” Mrs Jones whispered to her husband.

“I can’t believe tomorrow is the last day of our honeymoon, it’s just flown by,” Fat Christos said.

“It’s been lovely, but it will be so nice to be home,” Tassia said. She couldn’t wait to get back to Greece as she ached for its scenic beauty. After being forced to share a house with the two vile old crones she promised her husband she would never again complain about living with his mother.

“We have a full day tomorrow,” Quentin revealed. “We have to fit in a quick visit to the Museum of Clean before heading to the Potato Museum. You’ll be able to do all your gift shopping there before we head to the airport.”

Quentin and Deirdre were flying back to Greece with their visitors and fervently hoped they could find seats on the flight well away from Fotini, Nitsa and the caged parrot. Quentin was feeling smug he had managed to trap the parrot in the cage this evening as it could not be trusted to behave in mixed company.

Nitsa’s next revelation was a conversation stopper. Fluffing up her blue rinse she announced, “When we get ‘ome Fotis wants to take me to meet his mother.”

No one had imagined the ancient twinkly fisherman still had a mother. Everyone at the table was frozen with bemused expressions, suddenly engrossed in mental arithmetic attempting to work out how old Kyria Moustakos could possibly be.

“She’s one hundred and eight,” Nitsa volunteered, “but Fotis says she’s still very sprightly on account of ‘er ‘ealthy Greek diet.”

“That’s amazing,” Mr Jones blurted. “What does she eat?”

“Greek coffee and cigarettes for breakfast, a mid-morning raki with a cheese pie and whatever fish Fotis ‘as caught for ‘er dinner. She mashes it up with horta ‘cos she’s not got any teeth left and washes it down with a nightcap of brandy.”

“Remarkable,” Mr Jones observed, heaping a pile of horta on his plate as he called for a double brandy and contemplated taking up smoking, wondering if he could persuade his wife to start boiling up weeds.

Chapter 4

There’s The Time Difference To Consider

As the ‘Granny’s Greek Gyros’ revellers bid a tipsy goodnight to their new best friend ‘call me Mel’ and trundled home through heaps of snow, over in Astakos Prosperous Pedros was just sitting down at the kafenion for an early morning coffee in the sunshine after a peaceful night’s fishing. The villagers were just beginning to rouse, throwing open the wooden shutters of their traditional stone houses to the first sounds of the church bells. Pedros waved to Gorgeous Yiorgos who was busy untangling an enormous octopus from his nets, impatient to be done with the eight-legged creature as he was desperate for a kafenion coffee.

Waiting for Tall Thomas to drive along in his mobile refrigerated fish van to take his catch off his hands, Pedros hastily ducked down out of sight to avoid the approach of Nitsa’s boyfriend Fotis.

“There’s no point trying to ‘ide, yous bucket of fish is like a magnet,” Fotis greeted Pedros with a twirl of his moustache. “I’ve a message from Nitsa, yous is to pick ‘er and yous mother up at the airport tonight an’ they’ll ‘ave yous guts on a gyros if yous dares to be late.”

“They ain’t flying back until tomorrow night,” Properous Pedros pointed out.

“Aye, but there’s the time difference to consider. Forget yous ‘meth avrio’ excuses,” Fotis reasoned.

“Taking the time difference into consideration they won’t actually land until the day after tomorrow,” Prosperous Pedros reasoned, determined to make the most of the last couple of days free from the demanding orders barked by his mother.

“Considering the time difference it would be best if yous get to the airport tonight,” Fotis insisted, totally confused by the fact that Greece was nine hours ahead of Idaho. Spotting Tall Thomas approaching, Fotis decided he must pressurise him to make sure he wasn’t late collecting his aunty. “‘Ere Thoma, yous tell Pedro, yous needs to be at the airport tonight to collect yous Aunty Nitsa.”

“But they ain’t flying back until tomorrow night,” Tall Thomas assured him.

“Aye, but there’s the time difference to consider,” Fotis insisted, twirling his moustache.

“Yous could always go an’ get ‘em youself, yous keeps saying ‘ow much yous is missing Nitsa,” Prosperous Pedros proposed, hoping to get out of the airport pick-up.

“I would if I could, but I ‘ave to go an’ feed fish to my mother,” Fotis protested. “Yous ‘ad better make sure yous is at the airport tonight as yous cant’s leave two feeble old dears all alone and unprotected.”

Pedros and Thomas guffawed with laughter at the very idea Fotini and Nitsa were feeble and would need manly protection. “Yous is forgetting mother ‘as the parrot with ‘er,” Pedros reminded Fotis.

“An’ they is travelling with K-Went-In and Did-Rees,” Tall Thomas reminded the ancient fisherman.

“Those gormless wonders,” Fotis laughed.

Their conversation was interrupted by a resounding splash as Gorgeous Yiorgos lost his hold on the slippery octopus he had been grappling with. “Malaka, there goes dinner,” he swore. He had been looking forward to Petula preparing octopus in vinegar.

“The rest of the catch is nothing but sardines,” he called up to Prosperous Pedros.

“Well yous can liven ‘em up with a bit of fresh lemon,” Pedros advised, reaching up to pluck a lemon from the nearby laden tree and tossing it down into Yiorgos’ boat.

Fotis spied Bald Yannis opening the hardware shop and leapt up to intercept him, demanding he explain to the clueless fishermen the time difference meant they had to get to the airport immediately. Bald Yannis rolled his eyes at their collective stupidity and suggested Fotis splash out on a hideous old lady dress as a welcome home gift for his girlfriend.

Toothless Tasos hurried along the harbour front and took a seat with the other fishermen, complaining “I ‘ate to waste money on luxuries like kafenion coffee but Thea is in a right old strop this morning an’ as thrown me out.”

“What ‘ave yous done now?” Tall Thomas enquired of tight-wad Toothless Tasos.

“I put ‘er blasted cat out with the rubbish and the young Pappas ran over its tail with Fat Christos’ tricycle,” Toothless Tasos groaned, mopping his brow with the poor cat’s decapitated tail.

“Po po, tails is overrated anyways,” Prosperous Pedros mused.

“Try telling that to Thea, she’s besotted with the malaka cat,” Toothless Tasos complained, seized by a fit of feline jealousy.

“Bring ‘er cat to the ‘ardware shop, I can staple the tail back on,” Bald Yannis suggested.

“Yous did do a good job stapling my stub up,” Tasos agreed, examining his now deformed finger. “’Ere watch yous backs, ‘ere comes the young Pappas again on the tricycle an’ he ain’t got any road sense.”

Pappas Irakalis had been moonlighting as a supermarket delivery boy whilst Fat Christos was on his honeymoon. He enjoyed working for Mrs Kolokotronis because she kept him well fed on home-made pastitsio and baklava, though the latter did nothing to improve his rampant acne. Amazingly the Pappas encouraged his young charge’s entrepreneurial spirit and had even offered to lend him his briefcase of cutlery to sell on his delivery rounds. At least when he was pedalling around the village he wasn’t pouring his guilt-ridden heart out in a maudlin diatribe about his obsessive infatuation with mail order Masha.

The object of his obsession suddenly sashayed into view, tottering along the cobbled harbour on her way to the beauty parlour in impossibly high heels. Pappas Iraklis was so distracted by this vision of loveliness he cycled straight into Prosperous Pedros’ bucket of fish, violently propelling the contents back into the sea.

“That’s a full night’s fishing wasted, yous clumsy malaka,” Pedros bellowed at the young Pappas. Pappas Iraklis burst into tears and promised to reimburse the angry fisherman for his lost catch from his delivery boy wages.

“’Ere, stops yous bullying,” mail order Masha intervened, attempting to cradle the sobbing young man’s head against her voluptuous silicone bosom. Pappas Iraklis’ dreams of burying his face in Masha’s magnificent chest were thwarted as her abnormally huge belly protruded unnaturally far beyond her silicone assets. Spying a solitary fish lurking in the bottom of Prosperous Pedros’ bucket Masha scooped it up and rubbed it vigorously all over the young Pappas’ face, saying “Evangelia swears fish oil is good for acne.”

Blushing in mortification because the object of his desire had noticed his proliferation of pimples, Pappas Iraklis pedalled off hastily on the tricycle. Toothless Tasos grabbed the acne smeared fish, saying “I may as well use this to lure Thea’s cat to the ‘ardware shop to ‘ave its tail stapled.”

Chapter 5

Sickly Sweet Cravings

“Just look at the way the mail order floozy was givin’ the come on to that impressionable spotty young Pappas,” Stavroula sneered to her live-in-lover Slick Socrates. “Yous would think in ‘er condition she would try an’ keep ‘er ‘ands to ‘erself, she ‘as to know he is besotted with ‘er.”

“It is the first time he’s lived away from his mother and must be missing his home comforts. It can’t be easy for a Mama’s boy to live with the Pappas. Perhaps Masha’s condition has made her feel motherly towards Pappas Iraklis,” Slick Socrates said in defence of mail order Masha.

“Well ‘er condition ‘as certainly cramped ‘er pretensions of glamour, she’s fatter than Onos the pregnant donkey,” Stavroula smirked.

“Don’t be so snide, she’s expecting your sibling,” Socrates instructed.

“Half-sibling, if that old fool of my father is actually the father,” Stavroula hissed.

“Well she certainly served him enough Viagra,” Socrates argued, feeling the subject of questionable paternity was one best squashed speedily. He didn’t want any rumours reviving the gossip about his possible paternity of Tassia’s baby since he had gone to the drastic length of having an unnecessary vasectomy to put Stavroula off the scent of his infidelity.

Although still in her first flush of pregnancy Masha had ballooned so enormously she was already waddling around like a duck. Her inflated size was entirely due to her insatiable craving for deep fried feta cheese dipped in fig jam. That old fool Vasilis had to shoe horn his wife into her signature figure hugging dresses, now straining and threatening to burst at the seams.

Although Masha and Soula shared the same due date Soula still had an invisible baby bump, even though she was expecting twins. Whilst all day morning sickness prevented Soula from keeping anything down, Bald Yannis was suffering a phantom pregnancy in sympathy with his wife, leading to abnormal cravings. The usually strict vegetarian had morphed into a raving carnivore, only drawing the line at eating goat out of respect for his adored pet Agapimeni.

Mail order Masha was in complete denial about her ever expanding body, having convinced herself she was a voluptuous goddess. No matter how hard she tried to resist she could not deny her cravings for custard laden galaktoboureko washed down with extra virgin olive oil straight from the bottle. She indulged in midnight feasts of bougatsa bought in bulk from the bakery, and extra sweet frappes. The only thing she couldn’t face was her favourite borscht and vodka.

Masha was popping into the beauty parlour for daily tanning sessions as she couldn’t face topless sunbathing in the February chill. Evangelia was dithering between discreetly researching reinforced tanning beds or persuading Masha it was time to stop binging. She braced herself to raise the delicate subject as she plucked Masha’s eyebrows but was thwarted by the ringing of Masha’s mobile phone. Tassia was phoning long distance from Quentin’s Idaho house to congratulate her best friend on her pregnancy and share her own good news.

“Po po, that gossiping Fotis ‘as spoiled my surprise, I wanted to tell yous myself,” Masha lamented. “’Ows my darling Andromeda?... What’s that about syphilis, this is a terrible connection?” she shouted as the line went dead.

“I’ll kill Fat Christos if he’s been cheating on Tassia,” Masha threatened, jumping out of her seat in a sudden temper. “Malaka, this dress must ‘ave shrunk in the wash,” she cried as the straining seams finally exploded in an embarrassing rip.

Ten futile minutes later Evangelia had to admit defeat in her efforts to safety-pin Masha’s dress back together. Waving her hands in despair she conceded defeat, saying “There’s nothin’ else for it Masha, I will ‘ave to pop to the ‘ardware shop an’ get yous one of Bald Yannis’ hideous old lady dresses to go ‘ome in.”

Chapter 6

Headless Grannies Blowing In The Wind

“The long distance phone bill will bankrupt us,” Quentin moaned to Deirdre as he overheard Tassia chatting to Masha in Greece. Grabbing the phone from Tassia’s hand he rudely disconnected her mid-sentence, chiding “Hurry up and finish packing or we will be late for the Potato Museum.”

Fotini grabbed hold of his cardigan as she scuttled by, dragging him outdoors where she demanded, “What are you goin’ to do about this K-Went-In?”

Quentin was confronted with a washing line full of hideous old lady dresses frozen solid as boards, the sleeves extended full width and attached to the line with iced-over pegs. He could hear the dresses creaking ominously as they flapped to and fro in the wind, giving the ghoulish appearance of a row of headless grannies. “I’ll get Deirdre’s crème brulee blow torch,” he offered.

Rushing indoors Quentin discovered Nitsa making indecent suggestions to Fotis on a long distance phone call, with no thought to the cost. Incensed he wrestled the phone from her grasp, telling her “you should be ashamed of yourself, what if baby Andromeda had been listening?” In a threatening voice he handed Nitsa the blow torch, saying, “If you ever want to wear your hideous old lady dresses again you need to help Fotini defrost them from the washing line.”

Mr and Mrs Jones were glued to their window, engrossed by the antics in the neighbouring garden as they watched Nitsa accidentally set fire to the washing line with the blow torch. “Do you suppose she did time for arson?” Mrs Jones shuddered, hurriedly dialling the fire brigade in panic.

“Did you seriously think the old hag could be trusted with a blowtorch?” Deirdre screeched as Quentin rushed outdoors, grabbed the icy hosepipe and turned the full force of freezing water on the now raging flames. Dousing the fire Quentin inwardly smiled as Fotini and Nitsa felt the full force of the icy water. “Yous gormless twit, yous ‘ave ruined my onesie,” Nitsa accused through chattering teeth.

“Well that’s gratitude for you,” Quentin retorted. “I have just saved your life. Didn’t you notice your floppy bunny ears were on fire? Now hurry up and change out of those wet clothes and finish your packing or we will be late for the Potato Museum.”

Quentin staggered back inside; struggling under the weight of the pile of still frozen, but now charred round the edges, hideous old lady dresses. Feeling a tad guilty in case the old crones’ unexpected icy outdoor showers resulted in pneumonia, Quentin helped Nitsa to stash the rescued dresses into suitcases. As the dresses were still frozen solid it proved impossible to fold the sleeves so they ended up flapping outside the cases like dislocated limbs.

Meanwhile Fotini took advantage of Quentin’s absence to place a long distance phone call to Prosperous Pedros, reminding him to be at the airport to meet them that night.

“But mother you won’t land until tomorrow,” Pedros protested down the long distance line.

“Aye, but Fotis says yous ‘ave to consider the time difference,” Fotini insisted.

Catching Fotini making a long distance phone call enraged Quentin so much he brutally yanked the telephone cord from the socket.

“Yous ‘ave done it now, ‘ows yous going to order our taxis?” Fotini admonished, brandishing the severed wires.

“Dont’s worry Fotini, we can cadge a ride with those ‘andsome ‘unks from the fire department,” Nitsa exclaimed, loosening the top button of her hideous old lady dress and practically sprinting towards the uniformed heroes of the local fire department who had just pulled up in the garden.

Quentin cringed at the sight of the fire engine; the fire was under control and he hated to waste valuable resources and didn’t fancy a public dressing down from the brigade captain. “Who called the fire brigade?” he demanded “there was no need as I had my trusty hosepipe.”

Suspecting Nitsa was the guilty party due to her weakness for men in uniform he shot her a withering look. “Dont’s look at me K-Went-In, I was the one on fire,” she reminded him.

The brigade captain was wondering who to charge with wasting fire service time when the familiar form of ‘call me Mel’ Melecretes climbed down from the engine. Twirling his moustache he cried in delight “it’s my possibly long lost family from Greece.”

Noticing the charred edges of the hideous old lady dress Nitsa had changed into he gushed “I ‘opes yous weren’t ‘urt Nitsa, let me call an ambulance to check yous over. An’ Fotini yous lovely dress is all burnt round the edges.”

“What are you doing here Mel?” Quentin asked.

“I am a volunteer fireman,” ‘call me Mel’ proudly responded.

“Well now you’re ‘ere yous may as well give us a ride to the Potato Museum,” Fat Christos shouted, dragging a hefty pile of suitcases from the house.

“Delighted to oblige,” ‘call me Mel’ replied, helping them into the fire engine. Andromeda was allowed to ring the engine’s bell as they set off. Two feet down the drive they came to an abrupt halt when Fotini screeched “Ere K-Went-In, yous ‘ave forgot to get the parrot.”

Quentin’s brow was furrowed in anger when he climbed back on board the fire engine clutching the parrot’s cage. Taking his hand Deirdre whispered, “Calm down, dear. Only one more day to put up with this lot and then we can enjoy our privacy in the ‘Lemoni Spiti.”

“A fat chance of that with Fotini living next door,” Quentin sighed, before suddenly cheering up and suggesting “perhaps we should acquire a goat, it would keep the old crone at bay as she lives in mortal terror of them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” Deirdre chastised him. “The filthy creature would leave foul droppings everywhere and eat the contents of the washing line.”

“Fotini or the goat?” Quentin quipped.

Chapter 7

We Grow ‘Em Big In Idaho

‘Call me Mel’ was persuaded to park the fire engine at the Museum of Clean whilst Fat Christos ran inside to bulk buy giant stuffed microbes. He considered cuddly germs could be a runaway bestseller back home in his Astakos supermarket and did a mad trolley dash to stock up on stuffed salmonella, E.coli, cholera, flu and measles. Unable to say no to his baby daughter he finally gave in to her demands for a cuddly syphilis toy in neon pink nylon.

‘Call me Mel’ persuaded his fellow firemen to pose for a few selfies with Fotini and Nitsa draped over the giant potato sculpture outside the Idaho Potato Museum. The brigade captain put an abrupt end to the photo session when Nitsa goosed his bottom. The fire engine drove away with ‘call me Mel’ barely holding back his tears of emotion at parting from his new Greek friends and overcome with nostalgia for his homeland.

Walking round the museum Fotini ranted, “Back ‘ome we ‘ave the Acropolis and the Parthenon, but the best K-Went-In can come up with in ‘is country is a shrine to malaka potatoes.”

Deirdre sniffed “there are plenty of places in Greece celebrating the production of olive oil, this is the American equivalent.”

“Po po, yous is comparing olive oil to potatoes,” Fotini sneered derisively.

Tassia shushed the old crone. She was quite intrigued by the educational lecture on the history of irrigating potatoes and reminded Fotini, “We still have the animated talking potato exhibit to enjoy.”

Quentin suggested the group have lunch at the Potato Museum cafe and then hit the gift shop before heading to the airport. The mention of food animated Fotini far more than the animated talking potato, but she soon complained again when she realised potatoes were the only thing on the menu.

“You could hardly have expected they would serve up Greek gyros in a museum dedicated to potatoes,” Hattie chided, persuading Fotini to order a potato cupcake served with potato ice cream to satiate her voraciously sweet tooth. Quentin sulked at his guests’ dismissive attitude whilst he quietly fed the parrot through the bars of its cage with kernels of sweet corn from his baked spud topping. He threatened Fotini with the sharp prongs of his fork when she tried to let the parrot out of its cage, wishing he’d had the foresight to drug it.

“It will soon be flying in the plane,” he attempted to persuade Fotini.

“It’s not natural keeping it caged up, it likes to spread its wings” Fotini countered.

“The airline policy is very strict, it must remain caged,” Quentin insisted.

The argument ended when Nitsa returned from the gift shop bearing a potato adorned shower curtain. “Look what I found for Bald Yannis, he’ll love this,” she said.

Quentin snatched it from her hands, throwing it over the parrot cage and saying “it will help the creature to settle down.”

The gift shop offered the perfect shopping experience for last minute presents. Nitsa bought matching his and her ‘Hot Potato’ tee-shirts for herself and Fotis, and Fotini treated herself to a unique Idaho potato peeler. Deirdre picked up a potato shaped cookbook entitled ‘Tasty Taters’ as a thank you gift for Stavroula who had been keeping an eye on their chickens in their absence. She also snatched up a ‘We Grow ‘Em Big In Idaho’ mug, exclaiming “this will be perfect for Achilles the borrowed builder, he’s always so clumsy with my best china.”

Fat Christos hoped his purchase of an Idaho ‘spuddy buddy beanie’, the mascot of the Idaho Potato Commission, would tempt baby Andromeda to hand over her inappropriate stuffed germ toy, but she hurled the beanie at the parrot’s cage, wailing “Andy wants cuddly sipp-ly.”

Tassia attempted to calm the baby down by dangling a shiny antique silver potato masher necklace in front of her face, saying “you can give this lovely present to Nona.”

“I think Masha will like this too,” Fat Christos said, waving a tee-shirt emblazoned with the slogan ‘You Say Potato, I Say Vodka.’

Despite Quentin’s firm instructions the parrot must remain in its cage, Fotini could not resist opening the door, proclaiming “it’s just not natural keeping it caged up.”

Snatching the tee-shirt out of Fat Christos’ hand with its beak, the parrot flapped wildly round the gift shop, scattering a tall display of Idaho Spud Bars at Fotini’s feet and sending the shop assistant, who suffered from advanced ornithophobia, into a hysterical meltdown. Hyperventilating, she cowered in terror under a display of tee-shirts and pressed the panic button linked to the local police station.

Perching in the gift shop rafters the parrot had a bird’s eye view of passing tourists it could turn into potential victims. Ignoring Quentin’s efforts to coax it down it spotted its prey in an unsuspecting elderly gent hobbling slowly around on a pair of crutches. The parrot clamped itself to his head, causing him to lose his balance. Hitting out with one crutch he knocked over a woman who was engrossed in the recipes in one of the potato cookbooks. The woman fell forward into the cook book display, sending weighty potato tomes toppling to the floor. Having lost his balance the crutched man fell on top of the woman, causing Fotini to cry out “there is perverts everywhere,” as she made a grab for the parrot still clinging to the now prostrate man’s head. Her clumsy attempt to free it resulted in the man’s toupee being yanked clean from his head. Nitsa surreptitiously stuffed the fake hair rug down the front of her hideous old lady dress, muttering “I’ll take this ‘ome for Bald Yannis, he always did look better with a full ‘ead of ‘air.”

As the others rushed to help up the two victims of the parrot’s antics the bird was busily pecking up Idaho Spud Bars and depositing the spoils in Fotini’s enormous handbag.

Two police cars screeched to a halt outside. Uniformed officers rushed in shouting “Everyone stay calm, which way did the intruder go?”

“It’s there in plain sight, stealing Idaho Spud Bars,” the traumatised shop assistant cried out, pointing at the parrot.

“Dont’s shoot it,” Nitsa screamed, throwing herself on one of the police men.

“Oh no, not you again,” he responded in horror, thinking he had seen the last of this mad old bag after arresting her for causing a disturbance of the peace when she spat all over the bride at a wedding. “What have you done this time?”

“It is all a misunderstanding officer,” Quentin butted in. “Nitsa just wants to help Fotini get the parrot back into its cage so we can all make our way quietly to the airport. We don’t want to miss our flight to Greece.”

“If you promise she will get on the first plane out of here and never set foot in this town again we will personally escort her to the airport,” the police man promised after conferring with his colleagues.

“Yous ‘ad better ‘andcuff me to yous ‘andsome body to be on the safe side,” Nitsa simpered, holding her wrists out. The policeman recoiled in disgust before turning his attention to capturing the thieving parrot. Fotini, Nitsa and the parrot were finally bundled into a police car and driven to the airport with sirens blaring.

The rest of the party finished their gift shopping in peace whilst waiting for a taxi to arrive, only disturbed by the frantic cries of the now bruised and toupee-less pensioner wailing “it has to be here somewhere, I hate being bald.”

Chapter 8

Left On The Shelf

Throwing a handful of oregano into a bubbling pan of simmering rabbits, Stavroula demanded of her old fool of a father, “Who was that on the telephone?”

“It was only that malaka pervert ‘eavy breather again,” that old fool Vasilis replied. “’Appen you ‘ave a secret admirer, Stavroula. After all yous is still an attractive woman.”

Stavroula preened momentarily at the compliment, before grimacing at the thought the best she could attract was an anonymous nuisance caller with a penchant for panting down telephone lines and no doubt wearing a grubby raincoat. She could not dispel the nagging doubt that the constant anonymous phone calls to the taverna were from an admirer of her live-in-lover Slick Socrates and she was determined to have it out with him again later. Whilst she had been wrong to accuse him of infidelity with Tassia, it was his colourful past that had landed him with the reputation of a bit of a ladies’ man. If he was ever to live up to his reputation again she would gladly add his cheating carcass to the pan of boiled bunnies.

Stavroula was savvy in suspecting Slick Socrates was indeed the intended recipient of the frequent phone calls to the taverna, but he was oblivious to the existence of his obsessive secret admirer and had done nothing to encourage her.

In the high mountain village of Osta the heavy breather slammed the phone down in frustration. Once again the object of her current obsession had failed to answer her call. Ever since her sister Soula had bagged a husband, Koula had been eaten with jealousy, convinced as the eldest she should have been the chosen bride. Instead she had suffered the humiliation of being left on the shelf whilst short, plain, lame Soula had been whisked off to a glamorous new life, leaving Koula stuck in the dismal remote farmhouse with her tyrannical father and her two younger sisters, Voula and Toula.

With her father’s arrest for the murder of his sister for her unmarried woman’s pension, following the discovery of a body in the deep freeze, Koula was experiencing a new found freedom. Along with her two remaining spinster sisters she was giddy with delight over her father’s incarceration and fervently hoped it would be a long one. Free from the yolk of her father’s demands Koula spent her days dreaming up ways to entrap a husband and embroidering bottom drawer items for her dowry. The manic glint in her eyes put off even the most scurvy old-timers who were the only men available to pursue in the village. Unfortunately they went out of their way to avoid any alarming encounters with ‘crazy Koula’ who reeked of desperation.

Koula was incensed when her interfering sister Soula persuaded her husband Bald Yannis to send a slick lawyer to the village to represent their father. She was happy for him to rot behind bars as his troublesome reputation was a deterrent to any potential suitors. However when Slick Socrates arrived in Osta, Koula was immediately smitten with the side-burned lawyer, and concentrated all her efforts on ensnaring him. Her father had banned all his daughters from wearing makeup so Koula resorted to rubbing black boot polish onto her eyelashes and dunking her dreary lank locks into olive oil in a futile attempt to make them shiny.

Slick Socrates failed to notice the greasy haired woman with a manic glint in her boot polish smudged eyes because his attention was focused on avoiding any unnecessary stimuli which might increase the pain in his nether regions caused by his recent vasectomy. When Koula discovered Slick Socrates was technically an unmarried man because he hadn’t yet tied the knot with Stavroula, she decided to pull out all the stops to turn him into her husband. When she wasn’t following him around the village she spent her time embroidering the scales of justice onto hand sewn traditional cotton curtains and pillow cases, in the hope her needlework would impress him.

Koula was distraught when Slick Socrates returned to Astakos still unaware of her existence. She bombarded the taverna with phone calls, hoping to hear the husky tones of the man she was determined would be her future husband. Even on the rare occasion when Socrates answered she could do no more than breathe heavily down the line in tongue-tied awe. Horrified at the prospect of his lawyerly endeavours actually freeing her father from prison before she could claim her man, she worked herself into a frenzy. This latest hang-up was the final straw.

Desperate to be close enough to Socrates to snag her prize she seized an opportune moment to hide herself in the back of a truck full of Soula’s dowry goats being transported to the coast, to be dressed up in clothes and sponsored by Japanese goat fanatics.

Arriving in Astakos covered in goat droppings, Koula did not want her sister Soula to know she was chasing after a man who lived in her new village. Seeking a discreet place to stay whilst she spied on Socrates’ every movement she settled on the empty Lemoni Spiti and moved in to squat with her embroidery.

Chapter 9

Strip Searched By A Suma Wrestler

“We don’t have a moment to spare if we are to catch our plane,” Quentin urged, herding the others through the busy airport at breakneck speed.

“Ere K-Went-In, carry the parrot, it is weighin’ me down something rotten,” Fotini complained.

Quentin was relieved his wife and mother, Fat Christos, Tassia and the baby, had passed through security clearance without incident, though Fat Christos had kicked up a stink over the exorbitant sum extorted for his excess luggage of stuffed germs. Waiting for the two stragglers to catch up, Quentin hissed at Fotini and Nitsa, “I’m warning you two to be on your best behaviour; I’ve had as much of your antics as I can stand.”

The two old crones shot him withering looks and Fotini retorted, “’ave a bit of respect for yous elders, yous gormless malaka.”

“I give up, you two just can’t be told,” Quentin replied, hurrying forward to distance himself from the obnoxious pair.

“Did you pack these bags yourself, sir?” the agent from the Transport Security Administration questioned.

“Of course,” Quentin replied.

“Then can you explain what you intended to do with this potentially deadly weapon?” the TSA agent demanded, wielding a lethal looking Idaho potato peeler comprising a gleaming steel blade attached to a potato shaped handle which Fotini had shoved through the bars of the parrot’s cage.

“Oh no, I should clarify the cage belongs to the old lady I am travelling with, it isn’t mine,” Quentin vehemently protested.

“Indeed, that’s the latest excuse all the terrorists are trotting out,” the TSA agent sneered sarcastically, pulling Quentin out of line and dragging him off to be strip-searched and interrogated in a private room.

The waiting agents smiled benevolently at the two old ladies as they approached security. A handsome uniformed fellow with a full head of hair caught Nitsa’s eye, making her fancy the chance of a quick pat down. “Ow do yous know I aven’t got a bomb in my bloomers unless yous strip search me?” Nitsa taunted at full volume, causing mild panic in the airport as the other travellers thought they heard the word ‘bomb.’

“You shouldn’t make jokes like that,” the agent chided indulgently, still under the delusion this was a harmless old lady.

“Ere, dont’s be bashful, I bet yous cant’s wait to get yous ‘ands all over me. I promise yous will find it an explosive experience,” Nitsa encouraged with a saucy wink.

“Best pat them down to be on the safe side,” his fellow agent recommended, annoyed at these troublesome old bats. His shift was due to finish and he really didn’t relish the prospect of overseeing this strange pair disrobing out of their hideous old lady dresses.

“Step this way for a pat down,” the agent instructed Fotini, menacingly snapping the wrists of his surgical rubber gloves.

“Get yous ‘ands off me yous filthy pervert,” Fotini screeched, whipping a sharpened souvlaki stick out of her bloomers to use as a protective weapon.

The agent responded by pushing an alarm button which sent a small army of TSA agents scurrying over to manhandle Fotini to the floor. “The suspect is disarmed,” the agent shouted, straddling her backside and holding the greasy wooden skewer aloft.

“The other one said something about a bomb,” he bellowed, causing the remaining queue of passengers to stampede towards the exits in fright as Fotini and Nitsa were frogmarched from the scene to be interrogated by the bomb squad.

Deirdre was blissfully unaware of the plight of her husband and the two old crones as she boarded the plane with the others. Their flight was halfway to Greece before the suspect threesome was released from police custody, with the two old crones banned from ever flying into America again. As they re-entered the airport waiting area they were greeted with the flash of cameras as television stations had dispatched their reporters along to get the dirt on the newsworthy bomb scare.

Preening for the cameras Nitsa finger-combed her moustache and opened her top buttons of her hideous old lady dress, unaware the purloined toupee she had shoved down her bra was now sprouting gorilla like hairs on her wrinkled cleavage. Playing it up for the cameras she plaintively asked “Does I look like I ‘ave a bomb in my bloomers? I’m just a little old lady trying to get ‘ome to Greece but these malaka eejits ‘ave treated me worse than a terrorist.”

“It’s against our ‘uman rights what these perverts ‘ave put us through, putting their filthy ‘ands all over our bodies,” Fotini piped up.

“That’s right, against our ‘uman rights to be mauled like that,” Nitsa echoed, furious her best efforts to be strip searched by the handsome agent with a full head of hair had come to nothing when a female agent built like a Suma wrestler had taken over.

“An’ they confiscated all my Idhao Spud Bars,” Fotini wailed.

“Disgraceful it was, does Fotini ‘aving a sweet tooth make ‘er a drug mule?” Nitsa shouted. The TSA agents, convinced anyone smuggling such an abundance of confectionary must be hiding something unsavoury in the shiny wrappers, had rendered Fotini’s chocolate stash inedible with their invasive search.

The reporters took a long hard look at the two frail old women, realising they could spin an excellent story about TSA brutality and an abuse of power that would tug on their viewers’ hearts strings. Only one diligent reporter dared to question the old crones’ narrative, asking, “But isn’t it true you did declare you had a bomb? Even if you say such a thing in jest it is a threat the authorities must take seriously.”

“I ‘ave a bomb,” the parrot squawked from the confines of its shower curtained cage amid a frantic flash of cameras.

“See it wasn’t us, it was the blasted parrot what couldn’t keep its mouth shut,” Nitsa insisted.

“Bomb, bomb,” the parrot squawked, jerking its head to avoid Quentin’s attempts to gag it.

“Outrageous,” a suited fellow cried, pushing his way through the reporters to press his ambulance chasing lawerly card into Nitsa’s hand. “We will sue the TSA for a fortune for the ordeal they have put you innocent ladies through.”

“Innocent, my hat,” Quentin muttered under his breath, heading off to the airport pharmacy to purchase some travel sickness pills to drug up the parrot. By the time he returned the reporters had dispersed, eager to file their stories, and Fotini and Nitsa were distracted by their rumbling stomachs. Without a single Idaho Spud Bar left to nibble on they were overcome with hunger, but Fotini fussily refused to eat any more foreign food. She insisted on placing a telephone call to ‘Granny’s Greek Giros,’ demanding ‘call me Mel’ deliver a takeaway Greek feast to the airport.

The obliging Melecretes rolled up bearing tzatiki, souvlaki and pita. Pouring generous glasses of ouzo he sympathized with the old ladies’ horrendous ordeal at the hands of the fascist and brutal airport agents.

“Po po, they brought it on themselves, they acted disgracefully as usual,” Quentin huffed. Turning to Nitsa he asked “What on earth do you think Fotis is going to make of your latest arrest?”

“He will think I’m a game old bird,” Nitsa retorted.

“Well don’t forget you are supposed to be meeting his mother and this won’t make a good first impression,” Quentin sneered at their antics.

Surveying the crumb strewn mess the two old crones were creating with their airport Greek picnic he suddenly launched himself on the souvlaki, removing all the potentially dangerous wooden sticks that could get them re-arrested before they could board the next flight. As Fotini grumbled he silenced her with an ominous threat, saying “I don’t care what Deirdre says, as soon as we get back to Greece I am buying a goat as a guard dog. That will put paid to your unwanted visits.”

Chapter 10

Bald Yannis Pregnant And Scamming

Bald Yannis cycled along admiring the lush carpet of early spring poppies and wild orchids blooming in the olive groves. It reminded him he must get Soula to move the goats into these groves for a spot of tastier grazing. Greedily gulping fresh sea air to counter his morning sickness, his efforts to pedal uphill were somewhat impeded by his rapidly expanding stomach bouncing up and down on the bicycle’s crossbar. Nearing the hardware shop he was almost asphyxiated by a lungful of fishy diesel fumes belching from the dodgy exhaust pipe of Tall Thomas’ mobile refrigerated fish van.

“Yous is an environmental vandal,” he bellowed after Tall Thomas. Swerving to avoid Pappas Iraklis approaching erratically on the tricycle, Bald Yannis pedalled straight into the back of Onos the donkey who promptly deposited a steaming pile of manure all over his feet. Spluttering in anger he called for Soula to come and hose down his shoes. As she wielded the hosepipe Bald Yannis lamented “I shouldn’t be cycling in my condition.”

“Soula’s the one what is pregnant, yous is just ‘aving a phantom one,” Thea interjected, annoyed Soula had rushed to her husband’s aid when she was meant to be serving.

“His symptoms are real enough,” Soula said defensively. Bald Yannis had not taken the news of her pregnancy well, having no interest at all in babies. Initially worried her husband would feel trapped, she interpreted his raging heartburn, morning sickness, unnatural cravings and rapid weight gain as an unconscious sign of resignation to the reality of his impending parenthood.

“I ‘ear yous is not so sick to stop yous messing with my cat. I ‘ave to say it’s a pretty sick thing to staple its tail back on,” Thea accused.

“Yous always was an ungrateful woman,” Bald Yannis sneered. “If yous dont’s appreciate my stapling handiwork, fetch the cat over an’ I’ll chainsaw its tail off again.”

“Yous wants locking up,” Thea declared, rushing off to make sure the cat was safely indoors.

“I want to ask you something,” Soula said, smiling tentatively at her husband.

“Cant’s it wait till I’ve ‘ad some tsai and a nausea repelling ginger biscuit at the kafenion?” Bald Yannis asked in a weary tone. “An’ I ‘aven’t seen my darling Andromeda all day an’ want to take ‘er with me.”

“Sometimes I think you think more of yous pet goat than me,” Soula sighed, exasperated her husband was so caught up in his phantom pregnancy he gave no thought to her condition. She would love a chance to rest her swollen ankles and nibble her way through a packet of ginger biscuits, but all her time was spent tending the shop, the house and the ever expanding herd of goats.

“Dont’s be ridiculous, it’s just not goodly for the goat to be cooped up in the ‘ardware shop all day,” Bald Yannis replied, grabbing Andromeda’s lead.

“I know the feeling,” Soula muttered to her husband’s departing back.

“Nag nag nag,” Bald Yannis complained, pulling up a chair to join Moronic Mitsos in the kafenion. Casting his eye across the harbour he pointed to Tall Thomas’ mobile refrigerated fish van and said “that environmental hazard on wheels wants condemning.”

“Well your old banger isn’t much better,” Moronic Mitsos argued.

“Which is why I am thinkin’ of trading it in for a more environmentally friendly electric car,” Bald Yannis said.

“It’s a pity yous cant’s get a car to run on goat droppings,” Mitsos observed, adding “’Ere comes another one what looks nagged to ‘is limits.”

Pulling a seat up Toothless Tasos turned to Bald Yannis, demanding “Is it true yous ‘ave been threatening to chainsaw Thea’s cat?”

“That woman ‘as no sense of humour,” Bald Yannis scoffed.

Toothless Tasos refused to rise to the bait. As much as he worshipped the ground Thea walked on, he loathed her cat. He would happily borrow Bald Yannis’ chainsaw and do the job himself if he could guarantee she would never find out.

“’Ave yous ‘eard the news?” Moronic Mitsos asked. “It said on the television the world is about to end.”

“What, again?” Toothless Tasos laughed. “I suppose there’s another load of cultish nutters trying to cash in on a manmade panic. ‘Ow long ‘ave we got left this time then?”

“Till the end of next month,” Mitsos clarified.

“It’s amazing ‘ow many people always falls for these daft Doomsday end of the world predictions. It’s like the dimwits is askin’ to be scammed,” Bald Yannis mused. Stroking the pet goat he drifted into silence, allowing the cogs of his brain to whip up possible ways he could exploit this latest Doomsday scare for financial gain. If he thought long and hard he was sure to come up with a viable plan to part the gullible from their money.

Realising he would need Soula’s support if he was to invest his time cooking up a successful scam, Bald Yannis headed back to the hardware shop. Taking a furtive detour through Toothless Tasos’ back yard he trampled all over the delicate spring flowers. Giving into his warped desire to stir up a bit of trouble he snatched a pair of Thea’s silk knickers from the washing line. He would present them to Soula with an abject apology for being so insensitive.

Chapter 11

The Cat Gets A Bath

“Thea, I’m home,” Toothless Tasos called out. At the sound of his approach the cat fled in terror, taking refuge in the electric oven which had been left open. The house was empty and Tasos experienced one of his regular panics that Thea had left him. He could never quite believe his good luck the goddess of his dreams was content to live with him.

Determined to put things right with his fiancée Tasos stepped outside and wandered up the cobbled lane, picking a posy of wild wayside flowers for his beloved, commending himself he hadn’t resorted to raiding the graveyard for the blooms. By the time he returned bearing flowers Thea was home, preparing vegetables for a dinner of briam.

“I am so sorry about ‘avin the cat stapled, my little bougatsa,” he lied. “Let me take yous out to the taverna tonight in way of an apology.”

Thea visibly thawed at the prospect of her tight-wad fiancé actually offering to loosen his purse strings. “Well it would be nice to dress up and go out for a change,” she relented, accepting the posy. “I’ll just fetch the washin’ in and then get changed.”

“That’s odd,” Thea muttered, returning indoors with the basket of clothes. “I could ‘ave sworn my best undies were on the washin’ line. ‘Ave yous ‘ad yous ‘ands on them Taso, I knows yous will grab anything when yous want to polish yous rods.”

“I ‘aven’t ‘ad my ‘ands on yous undies for ages,” Toothless Tasos sighed wearily, hoping the trip to the taverna would put the spark back into their bedroom. As Thea climbed the stairs she called out, “Turn the oven off Taso, I put it on for the briam.”

Approaching the oven Tasos caught a faint whiff of burning and wondered if Thea had left something cooking. Opening the door he discovered the traumatised cat slowly baking and the unmistakable smell of singed fur. Grabbing the cat he hastily threw it in the kitchen sink, drenching it with the full force of the cold water tap. The cat was so overheated it didn’t complain. As it sat in the sink cooling off Toothless Tasos ran round opening all the windows and spraying the contents of Thea’s favourite home shopping channel perfume liberally. Luckily for him Thea always took an age to decide what to wear. Even though he was technically the innocent party because it was Thea who turned the oven on without first checking it was free of cat, he knew he would be the guilty party in Thea’s eyes if she ever discovered the incident.

Thea finally re-emerged in her glad rags and was taken aback to discover Tasos cradling the cat in a fluffy towel. “I was just givin’ it a bath,” Tasos lied. “Yous cant’s be too careful about fleas at this time of year.”

“Oh Taso, what a sweet gesture,” Thea sighed, watching Tasos plant a duplicitous kiss on the furry creature. “I always knew one day the cat would win you round.”

“Did yous find your best knickers?” Tasos questioned.

“No, it’s a complete mystery,” Thea replied.

“Well I’ll just ‘ave to treat yous to some new ones,” Tasos offered. Taking a surreptitious look under the towel to ensure there was no visible evidence of the cat’s baked trauma he decided he would treat the cat to a bell. At least it would alert him to the cat’s next hiding place and keep him out of trouble.

Chapter 12

Masha Is Exposed As A Binging Glutton

Thea wasn’t the only one dressed up in the taverna that evening. In anticipation of his first ever visit to an airport Prosperous Pedros had been easily teased by Evangelia that he must wear his best clothes and have a smart haircut. Shoe-horning himself into the dated suit he had bought for his father’s funeral, Pedros felt smug his vegetarian diet had kept him so trim.

“’Ere’s your vegetarian chicken, Pedro,” Yiota announced, presenting a plate of lemon chicken and spinach. Turning to Thea she whispered, “He scrubs up quite ‘andsome when he gets out of them awful pullovers.”

Thea cast her eyes over Toothless Tasos’ drab pullover and wished he too would make more effort, then felt guilty as he had at least tried to woo her by bringing flowers and bathing the cat. Remembering his offer to replace her missing smalls she asked Yiota “’Ave any of yous undies gone missing from the washing line lately?”

“I cant’s say they ‘ave,” Yiota replied.

“Well I’m missing some silk knickers and it makes me wonder if the elusive underwear thief is back to ‘is old tricks.”

“Well it’s true he was never caught,” Yiota agreed “but ‘appen yous just mislaid ‘em ‘cos I ‘avent’t ‘eard about his return on the gossip vine.”

Peering over the deep fat fryer Takis took in Pedros’ unusual garb and asked, “Ave yous got a hot date Pedro?”

“Perish the thought, yous know I dont’s date,” Pedros recoiled with a shudder. As a confirmed bachelor with a horror of marriage he was quite determined never to let any woman get him into her clutches. He considered he’d had a lucky escape when his only love had left him for a man with an inside bathroom. “I am off to the airport to collect my mother.”

“I thought Fotis said ‘er and Nitsa was comin’ ‘ome two days ago,” Takis said in confusion.

“Take no notice of that old rogue, he’s goin’ senile,” Pedros assured him. “They is due to land this evening, along with K-Went-In and Did-Rees. Thomas should be ‘ere soon then we are off to get ‘em.”

“It will be good to ‘ave the Americans back,” Yiota said with a smile, noticeably not extending the sentiment to Fotini and Nitsa.

“What yous all dressed up like that for, we is only goin’ to the airport?” Tall Thomas called out as he entered the taverna.

“Evangelia said it was the done thing to be smart.”

“She was ‘avin yous on, no one ‘as dressed up for the airport since the 1950s,” Thomas laughed.

“Yous mean to say she conned me out of good money for this ‘aircut?” Pedros said, annoyed for being so gullible. “Yous ‘ad better ‘urry up and eat, there’ll be hell to pay if we’re late.”

“Kalispera Socrate, it’s good to see you ‘ere, ‘as Stavroula let you off the leash?” Takis said to Slick Socrates as he entered the taverna.

“I had to get out, she’s harping on constantly about these anonymous phone calls we’ve been getting from a heavy breather,” Socrates said.

“That doesn’t sound good, the last thing we need is another pervert when it’s possible the elusive underwear thief is back in town,” Thea butted in.

A gust of cold air blew into the taverna as mail order Masha sashayed in wearing a vintage mini tent dress cut to hide her expanding belly, followed by that old fool Vasilis staggering under the weight of her enormous designer handbag.

“What on earth ‘ave yous got in ‘ere Masha, it weighs a ton?” Vasilis complained.

“Oh nothing much, dont’s make such a fuss,” Masha chided, grabbing the bag to keep its emergency contents from prying eyes. “Yous knows I’m not meant to carry anythin’ heavy in my condition. Now what’s cooking this evening Yiota, I could eat an ‘orse?”

The door was opened in trepidation by the nervous young Pappas Iraklis. Approaching the taverna he had bumped into a shadowy figure lurking outside with its nose pressed against the window. The close encounter had further unnerved him when his abject apology for being so clumsy had drawn no response beyond heavy breathing. Carrying a large box of cream puffs he anxiously approached Masha, saying “Kyria Masha, you forgot your kokakia when you left the supermarket and Mrs Kolokotronis asked me to deliver them to you.”

“Masha you promised me you would stop this binging. Yous is already too heavy to get on the donkey and yous know the television studio ‘as threatened to sack yous if yous get any fatter. Yous is supposed to look sexy when you do the weather an’ ‘ere you is buying fattening kokakia,” that old fool Vasilis reproached his wife.

“I am not fat you old fool, I am pregnant. They can’t sack me for that, it would be sexist discrimination,” Masha retorted, thrashing her arms in anger. Her wild flailing knocked the enormous handbag over, revealing its sweet contents as honeyed loukamades and bottles of chocolate milk spilled out.

“Good grief woman, is there no end to your gluttony?” Vasilis demanded, holding aloft a giant sized packet of baklava and oregano flavoured crisps. “This ‘as to stop, it isn’t ‘ealthy.”

“But I am eating for two,” Masha guiltily protested.

“Get a grip, Soula is eatin’ for three and she’s a third of the size of yous. What is ‘appening to yous Masha? Yous ‘ave always taken such a pride in your appearance. Dont’s think I didn’t see you sneaking ‘ome in one of Bald Yannis’ hideous old lady dresses after you split your seams.”

Masha burst into hysterical sobs at her husband’s reprimand. “I cant’s stop, I ‘ave these cravings I just cant’s control. I hate the way I look.  I cant’s even see past my stomach to admire my stilettos. Vasili yous ‘ave to ‘elp me stop eatin’ so much junk.”

“I will pray for you to control your cravings,” Pappas Iraklis offered, adding “there are bible verses countenancing against gluttony which may offer you comfort.”

“Well that acne of yours shows Masha’s not the only one with a chocolate addiction,” Vasilis shouted, furious the obsessed with his wife young priest would attempt to bring up religion at this sensitive moment. Taking his weeping wife in his arms he promised to help her, consoling her with the words “Masha I will always love yous no matter what size yous is, but I am worried about your ‘ealth.”

“An’ I want my amazing figure back,” Masha cried. “I promise I will stop using my pregnancy as an excuse to binge on all the sweet things I ‘ave deprived myself of for years. Yous ‘ave no idea what a struggle it was to live on nothing but borscht and vodka while denying myself custard laden galaktoboureko and buttery koulourakia, but I can do it again.”

“And I will help you my love, you’ll soon have yous luscious figure back,” Vasilis promised. Realising his promise could be an uphill struggle without a suitable incentive Vasilis resorted to bribery, offering “’Ow about when you gets your figure back I will treat yous to that eyebrow lift yous ‘ave been wanting.”

Always a sucker for plastic surgery, Masha agreed, “It’s a deal.” Taking pity on Pappas Iraklis she told him to take all the sweet confectionary home with him.

Elated at the prospect of soon regaining his shapely wife Vasilis shouted, “Yiota, my wife will have a salad.”

The other customers visibly exhaled as this embarrassing scene came to a close. Wiping her eyes Masha turned her attention to Prosperous Pedros, asking him “Pedro, did you see the news. Apparently your mother and Nitsa were arrested for trying to sneak a bomb onto their aeroplane?”

A shocked silence descended over the taverna as Masha’s words sank in.

“Dont’s talk such nonsense,” Tall Thomas piped up.

“It’s true; reports were coming through when I left the television studio. Turn the television on Taki, the news will be on.”

All eyes were riveted to the television news where the lead story concerned panic and pandemonium at an American airport where two Greek old ladies had been arrested for attempting to smuggle a bomb. The camera zoomed in on Nitsa and Fotini, with Quentin lurking behind them clutching the parrot’s cage in abject embarrassment.

Prosperous Pedros grasped his head, slamming it up and down on the table, muttering “Tell me this isn’t ‘appening.”

The others shushed him as the newsreader began to speak, saying “It is a national disgrace the way these two elderly innocent ladies from Greece were treated by brutal TSA agents with no respect for their advanced years.” Shoving the microphone under Nitsa’s nose he urged her, “Can you tell me in your own words what transpired?”

“We was dragged out of line, strip searched and interrogated, beaten an’ humiliated,” Nitsa explained. Getting into her stride she continued “we was stretched limb from limb, hung from a hook in the dungeon and whipped mercilessly.

“That’s the same pack of lies she came out with when they ‘ad her locked up in Paraliakos prison,” Prosperous Pedros spluttered. Once again he was shushed by the others who didn’t want to miss a word of the unfolding story. The camera was on Fotini as she claimed, “They took away all my Idaho Spud Bars, the greedy thieving malakas.”

“Abused our ‘uman rights is what they did,” Nitsa shouted. “What is them eejits at Amnesty International goin’ to do about it?”

Before the reporter could get a word in edgeways Nitsa shoved him aside, saying “’Ang on a minute, I just want to wave to my boyfriend Fotis.”

“Dear God, don’t let mother wave at me,” Prosperous Pedros shouted at the television, hoping to retain his anonymity. He had no idea what had led to the arrest of his mother and Nitsa, but he was certain they were anything but innocent. Yet again he was shushed by the others, desperate to hear the full story.

Nitsa was once again holding centre stage under the cameras, claiming “Treated like common terrorists we was, just because the parrot squawked ‘bomb.’ Them TSA fellows must be pretty dim witted to mistake the parrot for that Bun Laden bomber just because it ‘ad a shower curtain over its head. ‘Ere, K-Went-In bring the parrot over ‘ere.”

The camera zoomed in on Quentin who had turned an unnatural shade of puce. Nitsa yanked the potato adorned shower curtain off the cage he was holding to reveal what appeared to be a dead parrot.

“They’ve only gone an’ killed it,” Fotini accused.

“The murdering malakas, that was ‘er only companion and comfort in her lonely old age,” Nitsa declared, playing it up for the cameras.

“It isn’t dead. I simply drugged it to shut it up. I couldn’t go through another bomb scare,” Quentin said, at the end of his tether. Grabbing a discarded souvlaki stick he poked the parrot through the bars to prove it was still alive. Jolted rudely awake the parrot announced “Quentin is a pervert,” before falling back into its drugged coma.

The newsreader finished his report by saying “The authorities have promised a full investigation into the despicable way these two elderly Greek ladies have been mistreated on American soil. I think we can safely say we haven’t heard the last from these two brave old souls. For now we can only wish them a safe flight home.”

“’Ere Pedro, this means we dont’s need to be at the airport to meet ‘em as they ‘aven’t got on the plane yet,” Tall Thomas said.

Pedros nodded in silent agreement, wishing with every fibre of his being he could disown his mother. Still in a state of shock from her latest antics he rushed out of the taverna, almost knocking over the shadowy figure lurking outside with its nose pressed against the window.

Chapter 13

Pappa Iraklis Questions His Celibate Calling

A further brush against the shadowy figure lurking outside the taverna caused Pappas Iraklis to drop Masha’s rejected box of cream stuffed kokakia, denting the cardboard and squishing the contents. His initial instinct to check on the welfare of what appeared to be a pitiful lost soul was thwarted when the shadowy figure once again offered nothing more than heavy breathing instead of an apology. Heading home to the miserable house he shared with the Pappas, he muttered “I am beginning to think everyone in this village is lacking in manners.”

The Pappas greeted his young charge with a carping complaint, moaning “What time do you call this? I’ve been waiting hours for you to come home and cook dinner.”

“Dinner is served,” Pappas Iraklis announced sarcastically, slapping the cream puffs, loukamades, bougatsa crisps and chocolate milk on the kitchen table.

“There’s no need to take that uppity tone,” the Pappas rebuked. “Perhaps you should re-read your bible chapters on humility.”

Sighing heavily, the young Pappas decided to confide in his mentor. “I suggested Masha may take inspiration in bible verses to control her sin of gluttony, but her heathen husband mocked me.”

“Well you’re still new to this priest lark, you should concentrate on keeping the house and church clean until you gain more experience. You must keep away from that mail order hussy; you know she incites lustful thoughts that risk corrupting you. You’d be better engaged spending the evening scrubbing the candle wax out of my clerical dress than dwelling on adulterous thoughts,” the Pappas advised.

The Pappas never failed to make Pappas Iraklis feel inadequate in his calling. He knew he needed to banish all thoughts of Masha from his sordid mind and focus on offering spiritual solace to the community. Thinking of this, he said “I have a confession to make. I was so wrapped up in my own humiliation at the hands of Masha’s husband I failed to offer comfort to a poor creature lurking in the shadows outside the taverna. Perchance it was some starving soul desperate for a crumb, and I didn’t even offer them a cream puff.”

“Or it could just as likely been some nefarious type who could have done you physical harm,” the Pappas suggested, demonstrating his usual lack of compassion.

Pappas Iraklis had led a sheltered life, free from nefarious types. Even the small backwater village of Astakos appeared to be a veritable metropolis to him after the tiny hamlet he had been raised in by an overprotective abandoned mother who imagined she saw sin lurking behind every olive tree. The other children had teased young Iraklis because his weedy and lanky stature made a mockery of his Herculean name, but any question of physical intimidation had been avoided as his mother escorted him to school and back, spending every break time sitting in the school yard, fixing her beady eyes on him whilst crocheting bible bookmarks in the shape of a cross and knitting toilet roll holders in the image of the Virgin Mary. For the first time in his life he was free of her chains and beginning to question his calling. He was experiencing the first inkling that his mother’s stifling influence had led him to the church, rather than his own free will. He had never dared to stand up to her, meekly falling in with her ambitions for him to become a celibate priest.

As he ironed the Pappas’ clerical dress he ruminated on his mentor only allowing him to do churchly drudge work. The only opportunity he had been given for a bit of hands-on priestly business had resulted in the humiliating experience of dropping baby Andromeda in the oily font at her baptism. In contrast he was enjoying his part time job as a supermarket delivery boy far more than his priestly duties.

He cherished the warm affection Mrs Kolokotronis extended towards him as a novelty in his life. Instead of chastising him for being clumsy when he went head-over handlebars on the tricycle, she had taken him home to bathe his grazed knee. After fussing over his bruises she had fed him a heaped plate of papoutsakia, insisting he needed feeding up. She had mopped up his tears of gratitude with a tea-towel as he confided his own mother had kept a frugal kitchen as a form of eternal penance and the only entertainment allowed had been bible reading.

Mrs Kolokotronis’ gentle probing led Pappas Iraklis to confess the move to Astakos had raised questions within him about the path in life dictated by his mother. He hated living with the Pappas who he suspected was a religious fraud, and his infatuation with Masha had stirred doubts within him about a life of celibacy. Overcoming his shame he’d told the grandmotherly figure “I know Masha is unattainable, but maybe there’s a nice simple girl out there for me. I would need to relinquish my job as a Pappas in order to marry as I didn’t even consider getting wed before committing to the church.”

“Yous is right about the Pappas being a god-bothering fake who is using yous as a dogsbody. It sounds as though yous mother is a cold, heartless woman who ‘asn’t recognised yous is starved of affection,” Mrs Kolokotronis told him. “If yous dont’s want to live a miserable chaste life you can always chuck the church in, yous deserve a chance of ‘appiness with a nice simple girl. Christos ‘as left me in charge of the supermarket and it’s all getting a bit much for me to handle, ‘ow about I give you a promotion. It’s good honest work.”

Pappas Iraklis promised to give serious thought to the matter, but worried giving up the church would make him homeless. Mrs Kolokotronis po poed his fears, telling him “You could come and lodge with me. I still ‘ave my ‘ouse, but moved in with Christos when he wed. ‘Appen it is time to move back to my own home and let Christos and Tassia ‘ave quality time together. I’ll still see ‘em at the supermarket.”

Pappas Iraklis was roused from his reflections by the Pappas chucking a bible at his head and shouting “look what you’ve done now you clumsy oik, you’ve only gone and burned an iron shaped hole in my best vestments.”

It took all Pappas’ Iraklis’ self control to restrain from taking the iron and beating the Pappas to a pulp. Without uttering a single word he packed his bag. Walking out of the house he ignored the furious cries of the Pappas yelling “get back here at once and finish your duties, the toilet still wants a good scrubbing.”

Chapter 14

A Creepy Shrine

Deirdre spent most of the flight home to Greece with her head stuck in a sick bag, hyperventilating. She couldn’t imagine why Quentin wasn’t on the plane, but the absence of the two old crones led her to believe they had something to do with it. Allowing her imagination to run riot she created increasingly ridiculous scenarios to explain their absence. Hattie po poed her fears, pointing out Quentin was a grown man and there was any number of reasonable explanations to account for his missing the flight. By the time the plane landed Deirdre was easily persuaded to accept a lift to the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ from Fat Christos, leaving Hattie to wait at the airport for her son and her two best friends.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right waiting here alone?” Deirdre asked Hattie.

“Of course, though I can’t imagine why Pedros and Thomas aren’t here yet to collect Fotini and Nitsa,” Hattie replied, completely oblivious to her friends’ antics hitting the international news. “You get along home and make everything comfortable for Quentin’s return.”

“What a relief it is to be back secure in the knowledge our Greek home will be free of those repugnant creatures from next door,” Deirdre said to herself, opening the door of the ‘Lemoni Spiti.’ Making a beeline for the bathroom she was confused to discover an embroidered toilet roll holder hanging on the back of the door and a rather grotesque knitted bride disguising the toilet brush. Rushing into the living room she found all the furniture had been rearranged, with embroidered antimacassars draped over the back of every chair. “How odd,” she said aloud, wondering which of their Greek friends not only had access to a key, but had a natural bent for interior decorating. The rearranged furniture was certainly an improvement on the layout she had designed and whoever had been in the house was a dab hand with the furniture polish and a feather duster as every surface gleamed.

Heading into the kitchen Deirdre exclaimed “How thoughtful,” at the sight of a pan of stifado with a delicious aroma bubbling away on the hob, though she was less enthused that the contents of her kitchen cupboards had been anally lined up in alphabetical order. Dragging her suitcases into the bedroom she smiled at the sight of the double bed neatly made up with starched, ironed sheets, but began to suspect something odd was going on when she pulled back the covers to be assaulted by a sweet cloying perfume emanating from the pillows. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” Deirdre wondered.

Turning to the triple folding mirror atop the dressing table Deirdre let out an involuntary scream as she clapped eyes on what could only be described as a creepy shrine to Slick Socrates. A cluster of lighted candles cast eerie shadows on a gruesome arrangement of photographs of Stavroula’s live-in-lover stuck around the mirror. She couldn’t see her reflection clearly in the glass as one of her best lipsticks had been used to scrawl the word ‘Socrates’ inside a garish red heart. Deirdre’s usual clutter had been replaced with a neat display comprising a folded pair of underpants, a set of braces and a clump of dandruff infested hair.

The hairs on the back of Deirdre’s neck stood on end at the sudden realisation she may not be alone in the house. It was now clear the house had been cleaned and tidied by a crazy woman suffering an unnatural obsession with the local lawyer. Deirdre imagined Socrates’ stalker could attack her in a fit of deranged madness if she discovered her unhealthy fixation was exposed. Immediately dismissing the notion the obsessive could be Stavroula, Deirdre turned tail and ran from the house, determined to warn Stavroula and Socrates there was a compulsive neurotic on the loose in her house who must be ejected.

Chapter 15

No Stray Husbands

Deirdre had only just missed running into the obsessed stalker squatting in her house by minutes. Koula, bored of using the ‘Lemoni Spiti’s’ telephone to place a deluge of heavy breathing calls to Socrates, determined instead to do something to make him notice her. Ambling along Astakos harbour she ducked out of sight in the beauty parlour to avoid the prying eyes of her sister Soula busy polishing a chainsaw on the doorstep of the hardware shop.

“Can I ‘elp yous?” Evangelia asked, thinking it would take more than a good brushing to remove the matted knots from this manic looking stranger’s long hair. Evangelia’s question roused Koula from her trance like state and she looked around in wonder, having never before been inside a beauty parlour.

“Can you make me look irresistible?” Koula asked.

“Well nothins’ impossible,” Evangelia replied, staring at the shabbily dressed woman who appeared to have made up her eyes with boot polish and thinking irresistible would take a miracle. “Come back in an hour an’ I’ll see what I can do.”

Spotting the coast was now clear of Soula, Koula darted into Stavroula’s taverna and ordered a cup of mountain tea. Sloshing the tea on the table Stavroula’s curiosity was piqued at the sight of the stranger. “I ‘aven’t seen you in the village before, ‘ave you business ‘ere?”

“I’m here to look for my husband,” Koula replied, glaring manically at her host.

“’Ave yous lost ‘im then?” Stavroua asked.

“You have him, but he is rightfully mine,” Koula answered. Having spied the love of her life canoodling with Stavroula when she followed him round the village in darkness, she was consumed with jealousy, but didn’t think much of her rival who she considered a temporary irritation to be swatted from Socrates’ life like a pesky fly. Stavroula had popped up in the some of the photos Koula had snapped. She had decapitated her out of them with neat precision, careful to leave Socrates intact in the treasured celluloid images.

“What are you talking about, I ‘aven’t ‘ad any stray husbands in here today, only my regulars?” Stavroula asked, completely baffled by the stranger’s odd utterance.

“You have to let Socrates go, he belongs to me. Only his sorry liaison with you is stopping him from being my husband,” Koula hissed.

“Are you mad?” Stavroula shouted, picking up her broom and violently brushing Koula out of the taverna, straight into the arms of Slick Socrates returning from his lawerly office.

“’Ave yous been carrying on with this trollop?” Stavroula accused, turning the broom on her lover and showering him with painful blows.

“What are you talking about?” Socrates cried, fighting for control of the broom in an attempt to avoid a thrashing. “I have no clue who this creature is. You know I only have eyes for you, my love, and would marry you tomorrow if it wasn’t for your blasted entanglements.”

“Well she come in ‘ere claiming yous was her husband,” Stavroula puffed in righteous indignation.”Somethin’ must be goin’ on.”

Grabbing Koula by the scruff of the neck Socrates demanded “Explain yourself woman, how dare you tell Stavroula I am your husband.”

“I heard up in Osta you are unmarried. You deserve a good wife to look after you. I wanted to tell you on the telephone that we belong together, but couldn’t get the words out.”

“So yous is the nutter what ‘as been tormenting us with heavy breathing phone calls,” Stavroula accused.

Socrates interrupted to ask, “You say you’re from Osta. Are you related to that tyrannical chap I represented who was found with his dead sister’s body in the deep freeze? I honestly have no clue who you are and did nothing to encourage your deluded notion I would ever want to be your husband.”

Stavroula knew her lover well enough to know he was not feigning ignorance of this now sobbing woman. “Be gone with yous, yous is off your trolley,” she commanded, brutally hitting out with the broom again.

Koula fled the scene, just as Deirdre rolled up in a panic to warn Slick Socrates an obviously besotted stalker had broken into her house and set up a shrine in his honour.

“I’ve never seen anything so creepy, photos of you all round the mirror and what I suspect are your underpants and braces enshrined by lighted candles. She could have burned the house down,” Deirdre wailed, downing in one the large glass of Metaxa Stavroula pressed on her.

“We’ve just had a run in with her,” Stavroula explained. “Mad as a hatter she is, claiming Socrates is her ‘usband.”

“And to think she’s been hiding out in my house,” Deirdre said with a shudder.

“’As she made an awful mess?” Stavroula asked.

“Well that’s the strangest thing; apart from the creepy shine in the bedroom the whole house was immaculate. I thought one of our friends had been in to spring clean until I discovered the photographs and lipstick heart. I could have been in danger returning alone,” Deirdre said.

“Breaking in to clean doesn’t sound exactly dangerous,” Socrates observed.

“I think she’s actually been living there in our absence. It gives me the shivers to think she was sleeping in my bed.”

“Well I’ll come back with you Did-Rees and make sure it’s safe until K-Went-In returns from the airport,” Socrates offered.

“That’s very kind of you Socrate. I really don’t fancy being alone in the house,” Deirdre said in relief. “I just can’t understand why Quentin wasn’t on the plane, leaving me to cope with this all on my own.”

“’Aven’t yous seen the news then? K-Went-In and those two old crones was only arrested in America for terroristic activity after trying to sneak a bomb on the plane.”

Deirdre went as white as a sheet and hastily downed another large medicinal brandy. “How could anyone mistake poor Quentin for a terrorist?” she asked. “Oh heavens, have they locked him up in Guantanamo? It must be a case of mistaken identity.”

“Not to worry Did-Rees, they were arrested in error and have now been released and are on their way back. From what Nitsa said on the television news the parrot innocently squawked ‘bomb’ and they were all carted off, strip searched and interrogated.”

“Oh poor Quentin, that’s the very last time I let him go anywhere with Fotini and Nitsa, the pair of them are a liability,” Deirdre said, relieved to hear Quentin was actually on his way back. “It was a complete nightmare having them as houseguests, I swear they are certifiable.”

“It seems yous is surrounded by nut jobs Did-Rees, two of ‘em next door and one in yous house,” Stavroula said. “Now, shall I put some of my moussaka in a packet for you to take ‘ome in case yous get hungry?”

“Oh there’s no need for that, Socrates’ stalker left a pan of aromatic stifado bubbling away on the hob and it looked very tasty.”

“’Ow do yous know it isn’t poisoned? I’m not ‘aving Socrates risking ‘is life with possibly spiked stifado,” Stavroula replied, loading Deirdre up with the aforementioned moussaka and the rest of the Metaxa. Planting a kiss on Socrates’ lips she urged him “Now stay alert an’ if the crazy stalker turns up again telephone Pancratius the village policeman.”

Chapter 16

The Parrot Masters Fifteen Languages

Sighing in relief Quentin finally fled the refuge of the aeroplane’s toilet when the pilot announced they were about to descend.

“About time, hogging the bathroom for hours when I was wantin’ to use it to lure that ‘andsome young flight attendant with a full ‘ead of ‘air into the Mile High Club,” Nitsa complained, fluttering her eyelashes at the obviously camp steward.

Fotini had insisted on letting the parrot out of its cage when it woke from its drugged stupor, prompting Quentin to barricade himself in the bathroom to avoid further humiliation. Even from the cell-like confines of the on-board lavatory he could hear the parrot squawking “bomb” and the screams of terror from his fellow passengers. He was unaware the flight attendant who had caught Nitsa’s predatory eye was now a hero for defusing the situation by skilfully taming the parrot. The steward’s theatrical efforts to teach the parrot to say “bomb” in fifteen different languages was so hysterically funny he had the passengers creased with laughter and received a standing ovation when the flight landed.

“Ere K-Went-In, carry the parrot, it is weighin’ me down something rotten,” Fotini demanded, elbowing her way off the plane.

“Not on your life,” Quentin retorted, sprinting down the air-stairs to put as much distance as possible between himself and the two old crones, determined to be nowhere near them when he went through customs. Passing uneventfully through passport control Quentin looked frantically round for the soothing presence of Deirdre, but was instead greeted by the smothering embrace of his mother Hattie.

“Mother I insist you move in with me and have nothing more to do with those ghastly old bags next door,” Quentin told her, still mortified by the embarrassment they had caused him.

“’Ere K-Went-In, that’s no way to speak about my aunty,” Tall Thomas butted in.

“Can yous blame ‘im, yous saw what he went through on the news,” Prosperous Pedros said in Quentin’s defence. “I’d disown my disgraceful mother if I could.”

“That’s no way to speak about your mother,” Quentin protested, worried if Pedros neglected his responsibilities towards Fotini he could end up lumbered as her nearest neighbour. “Why isn’t Deirdre here to meet me?” he asked.

“Now you’re not to worry Quentin, but Deirdre is at the house making sure the crazy squatting stalker doesn’t come back,” Hattie revealed.

“How on earth has she got herself a stalker?” Quentin asked.

“She hasn’t, Socrates has, but as you’ve got a crazy squatter who’s been living in your house I will be moving back in with Fotini and Nitsa,” Hattie said, still rather confused by Deirdre’s garbled phone call about Slick Socrates underpants and a knitted bride toilet brush cover.

Just then Fotini and Nitsa emerged from passport control, followed closely by ‘call me Mel’ Melecretes, laden down with their suitcases and bulging handbags.

“What on earth are you doing here Mel?” Quentin asked, surprised to see the owner of ‘Granny’s Greek Gyros’ on Greek soil. He hadn’t spotted Melecretes on the flight due to his self-imposed incarceration inside the lavatory.

“Call me impetuous. I managed to get a last minute flight. I was so ‘omesick for Greece and Nitsa persuaded me we is probably related on account of us ‘aving the same moustache,” ‘call me Mel’ explained.

“He’ll be stopping with us,” Fotini announced to the great delight of Prosperous Pedros who considered if his mother had a man under her roof he would be spared the usual daily running round to keep up with her demands. Tall Thomas looked less than enamoured at the prospect, not keen on any more relatives turning up out of the woodwork to attract his aunty’s largesse when it came to her inheritance.

A flash of bulbs exploded in their faces as the smitten young reporter from Paraliakos television station turned up for the scoop on Fotini and Nitsa’s arrival home after their arrest at the hands of the evil and fascist TSA agents. “Can you tell us about your awful ordeal?” he asked.

“Ooh it was terrible, strip searched and interrogated we was,” Nitsa declared, adjusting her top buttons to give a garish flash of her hairy wrinkled cleavage. Her sudden movement dislodged the purloined toupee. It fell out of the bottom of her hideous old lady dress, landing at her feet like a smuggled bedraggled rat.

“Was the experience so traumatic it caused you to lose your hair?” the smitten young reporter asked.

“’Ow dare you imply I am goin’ bald,” Nitsa scoffed, plumping her wispy blue rinsed hair. “This is just a little token I picked up for Bald Yannis,” she added, scooping up the rug and shoving it back down her bra.

Looking around the airport Nitsa was disappointed Fotis hadn’t turned up to meet her, but she gave him a wave on camera.

“Shall we be off home then?” Prosperous Pedros urged, eager to get out from the limelight.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere without the parrot,” Fotini cried.

“Well where is it?” Pedros asked in frustration.

“The cage was ‘eavy so the ‘andsome young flight attendant with a full ‘ead of ‘air offered to carry it through customs,” Nitsa explained, unaware the parrot and the flight attendant were now being quizzed by Greek customs officers over the parrot’s verbal prowess in being able to squawk bomb in fifteen different languages.

Fifteen minutes later the flight attendant emerged in a terrible temper, carrying the parrot. Luckily for Fotini she escaped the verbal lashing he was primed to deliver when the television cameras zoomed in on him, allowing him to ham up his heroic handling of the parrot mid-flight and the way he had calmed the traumatised passengers with laughter. He was so eager to claim his moment of fame he didn’t even flinch when Nitsa goosed him on camera.

Chapter 17

Prosperous Pedros Attracts An Admirer

Koula fled the scene of her humiliating rejection and ejection, furtively taking cover behind a tombstone in the local graveyard. Stinging from the painful snub by her chosen husband, her tears rolled freely, further adding to her deranged appearance as the boot polish smeared her cheeks. “He didn’t mean it, he is meant to be with me, not that horrid Stavroula,” she chanted.

Suddenly remembering her appointment at the beauty parlour Koula perked up. “I will look so irresistible he will have to marry me,” she convinced herself.

Dragging herself up from the ground she scuttled head down in the direction of the beauty parlour. She was so wrapped up in her deluded ambition of snaring Socrates away from Stavroula that she failed to notice Prosperous Pedros parking his pick-up after dropping his mother home, and was knocked off her feet as his door slammed against her.

Climbing out of the pick-up Pedros fervently hoped he hadn’t done any damage to the woman. The last thing he needed was an inconvenient trip to the hospital. Apologising profusely he helped the shabbily dressed woman to her feet, paying scant attention beyond noting none of her limbs appeared to be broken. He failed to notice the desperation in her eyes, suddenly transformed into a manic glint of fanatical passion as her deluded feelings for Socrates were instantly transferred to this handsome vision of manliness. Too awestruck to speak, Koula brushed her ripped skirt down and scuttled into the beauty parlour, giving herself over to Evangelia’s professional care.

Evangelia’s attempts to draw the strange woman into conversation at first elicited no response, but as she dragged a comb through the tangled knots Koula finally struck up the courage to ask “Who was that gorgeous man who knocked me over with his pick-up door?”

Peering through the window Evangelia spied the familiar pick-up and told her customer “well the vehicle belongs to Prosperous Pedros.”

“Does he live round here?” Koula asked, desperate to obtain any scrap of information on her latest obsession.

“He lives on the coastal road leading out of the village. ‘Appen you’ve noticed his little stone cottage with the primitive outside bathroom,” Evangelia volunteered in relief. She hated to work in silence, enjoying nothing better than a bit of gossip. “Pedros is a fisherman, a quiet type, a bit shy.”

“Is he married?” Koula asked with her fingers crossed.

“Po po, Pedros is a confirmed bachelor. You’ll never catch ‘im with a wife,” Evangelia confided, remembering the days when she’d had her own eye on Pedros but had been met with complete disinterest. Koula’s eyes glinted, mad with excitement at the news Pedros was single and she immediately decided to make him her husband. How pathetic she had been ever imagining Socrates was the man for her when the godlike Pedros existed, she’d had a lucky escape. Her reverie was interrupted when Evangelia asked her if she’d like a complete makeover.

“Yous hair could do with a good cut; it’s in terrible condition if yous don’t mind my saying, an’ yous moustache could do with a waxing. That black eye make-up is like somethin’ out of a horror movie, a nice touch of blue eye shadow would be much more becoming. ‘Appen yous could buy a new dress from the ‘ardware shop when I’ve made yous over.”

“Oh I can’t go outside in this ripped dress, what would people think? It got ruined when Pedros knocked me over,” Koula exclaimed in panic, terrified of running into her sister Soula or her new brother-in-law Bald Yannis in the hardware shop. She didn’t want them to know she was in the village pursuing a new husband until she had a wedding ring safely on her finger.

Evangelia rolled her eyes at Koula’s sudden vanity, thinking she hadn’t given any thought to what people would say when she was wandering round the village with matted hair and ghastly boot polish smeared round her eyes. “Well I suppose I could pop in an’ get yous a dress,” Evangelia volunteered, thinking Bald Yannis should start paying her a commission for buying hideous old lady dresses on behalf of her customers.

By the time Koula left the beauty parlour in her new hideous old lady dress she looked almost presentable. Her waist-long locks were free of tangled knots and her face, scrubbed clean of black boot polish, had been made up with a touch of dated blue eye shadow and a dab of powder. Making a beeline for the coastal road Koula wandered along until she spotted the only stone cottage with an outside bathroom. After carefully casing the joint she muttered “I’ll come back after dark with my camera,” before heading off to the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ in Rapanaki.

Taking a seat outside the kafenion Prosperous Pedros was totally oblivious his brief encounter with the strange woman had provoked an all-consuming obsessive infatuation that would lead to some bizarre events.

Chapter 18

Don’t Call Me Pappas

“Mother, we’re home,” Fat Christos called out, dragging the suitcases bulging with stuffed microbes into the house. “She must be at the supermarket,” he said when his greeting was ignored. “I’d best go and give her a hand Tassia while you unpack and see to the baby, I feel a bit guilty I left her to run it single-handed.”

“Well it’s not every day we go off on honeymoon, but I have to say it is nice to be home,” Tassia replied. Observing a thick layer of dust in the house she joined in the guilt, saying “Oh Christo, yous mother must have been run off her feet, it’s not like her to let the ‘ouse get so grubby.”

“Well she’s no spring chicken. Now we’re back we must let her take things a bit easier,” Fat Christos suggested.

Entering the supermarket Fat Christos was surprised to see Pappas Iraklis scrubbing down the cheese counter. “Kalispera Pappas Iraklis, where is my mother?” he asked.

“She’s at home cooking dinner,” the young man replied.

“I’ve just come from home and there was no sign of mother or of any dinner cooking’” Fat Christos said, confused.

“No, she’s home at her own house, she decided it was time to move back. She thought it would be a bit crowded if we all lived at your place.”

“Yous mean to say yous is livin’ with my mother?” Fat Christos asked, his confusion growing by the minute. “An’ what is yous doin’ scrubbing the cheese counter Pappas.”

“I’m working here full time now since your mother kindly gave me a job. Please call me Iraklis and dispense with my old title of Pappas, now I have renounced the church,” Iraklis requested, nervously hoping Fat Christos would not object to his new position on the supermarket payroll.

Since walking out on the Pappas, moving in with Mrs Kolokotronis and taking up his new job at the supermarket, Iraklis had never been happier. He realised the Pappas had treated him abysmally, but he’d just accepted it as a natural continuation of the dismal home life he’d experienced. Now he was learning to enjoy cosy evenings with Mrs Kolokotronis fussing over him and feeding him up, and praising him for all his hard work in the supermarket. She was even teaching him the invaluable skill of knitting. He was becoming much more proficient on the delivery tricycle since Gorgeous Yiorgos had taken the time to give him a few pointers on the tricky art of cycling and road safety.

“Well frankly I’d be glad of yous ‘elp, what with mother not getting any younger and Tassia pregnant again. But is yous sure giving up the church is what yous wants, it’s a mighty big step to take?” Fat Christos asked.

“I never realised until now that the church was what my mother expected me to do and I just acquiesced to keep in her good books. My heart wasn’t in it and I have to confess I had some very ungodly thoughts. I couldn’t trust myself not to batter the Pappas to a pulp if I was forced to live with him any longer, and I’m not even the violent type,” Iraklis said with brutal honesty.

“Well we’ve all been there where the Pappas is concerned,” Fat Christos sympathised. “Yous could never meet a gentler woman than my Tassia, but even she confided she could ‘ave done ‘im an injury when he accused her of bein’ a thief at our wedding. If yous is sure this is what yous want I will train yous up in all areas of supermarket management and yous won’t find a better ‘ome than with my mother.”

As the pair of them made ambitious plans for the future of the supermarket, the Pappas was desperately trying to find a way to contact Iraklis’ mother, a difficult task as she didn’t have a new-fangled telephone, in the hope she could persuade her ungrateful son to resume his churchly career. Without his young dogsbody to push around he was once again reduced to doing his own housework and cooking, matters he considered far beneath his standing.

He’d got used to young Iraklis being around and considered living with him was an improvement on putting up with his estranged wife Petula or the rooster stealing Widow Christeas, though it did put a damper on the possibility of any hanky panky should a suitable parishioner wish to take discreet advantage of his body. He needed to get Iraklis back before the Bishop got wind of his defection or he would be in for an earful.

Chapter 19

Credulous Cretins Believe Any Old Codswallop

Pedros was feeling a tad tired after driving out to the airport when he took a seat outside the kafenion, relishing the prospect of a solitary coffee. There was a bit of a nip in the late afternoon air, making him shiver in his holey pullover. “I’ll ‘ave to do a bit of darning tomorrow,” he muttered, pondering if he should take a day away from fishing to catch up on neglected housework. The bedding could do with a wash and it was about time he gave the outside bathroom a good going over with the scrubbing brush.

Casting his eye out to sea Pedros decided the definite swell to the water and rough seas would make for difficult line fishing. Waves were already crashing into the harbour wall and the salty sea spray was diluting his coffee. Grey clouds flitted across the sky, obscuring the promise of a spectacular sunset.

Pedros was less than pleased when Bald Yannis pulled up a chair to join him, closely followed by Moronic Mitsos and that old fool Vasilis. “Am I late?” a breathless Toothless Tasos asked, just as Adonis arrived, saying “What’s this all about Yanni?”

“I’ll tell yous all in a minute, we still need Yiorgos to put in an appearance. Moron, why dont’s yous run to the supermarket and see if Fat Christos is back, what I ‘ave to say will benefit all of yous,” Bald Yannis declared.

Gorgeous Yiorgos and Fat Christos joined the others, but Christos’ attempt to describe his honeymoon travels was rudely interrupted by Bald Yannis who had no time for trivial small talk. “I ‘ave a serious matter to discuss what will bring lots of money to the village. It will be of benefit to local businesses, anyone with a bit of land, and to yous hotel Adoni.”

The others settled down to listen as the prospect of a cash injection to the village in these austere times was indeed most appealing. “Right now, yous will all ‘ave ‘eard this whole song and dance that the world is goin’ to end next month,” Bald Yannis began.

“I feel it in my guts that the world is indeed going to end,” that old fool Vasilis piped up.

“Dont’s be so daft, yous ‘ave probably just got a bit of wind,” Fat Christos laughed. “Yanni, dont’s says yous believe all that claptrap?”

“Does I looks stupid? The point is lots of gullible eejits do believe it will ‘appen an’ we can make a fortune out of ‘em.”

“’Ows that then?” Gorgeous Yiorgos enquired sceptically.

“Just listen up will yous,” Yannis growled in frustration. “Now back in 2012 the end of the world was predicted and a load of Doomsday believers fell for it, convinced the French village of Bugarach was the only place what would survive judgement day. These eejits flocked there in force and the locals cashed in by renting out rooms and bits of land to pitch tents on. Now all we’s ‘ave to do is market Astakos as the ultimate Doomsday destination to the credulous cretins who fall for all this codswallop. Yous hotel could be bursting out of season Adoni and we all ‘ave ‘ouses an’ olive groves to let ‘em sleep in.”

“’Ang on Yanni, I seem to recall that French village ‘ad some special mountain where UFOs would swoop down to scoop up them daft enough to believe they could escape an apocalypse,” Adonis pointed out.

“Yes, but it was all rubbish, that’s the point, the lame brained boneheads what are taken in by this type of religious nonsense will believe any old baloney if we give ‘em a credible reason. We can concoct a tale that all them caves we ‘ave off the coastal road are the only place to survive the end of the world next month. While they ‘ang around Astakos waitin’ for the world to end they will eat at the tavernas and stock up on supplies in the supermarket.”

“Not to mention yous ‘ardware shop,” Prosperous Pedros dryly observed.

“Exactly, yous get the picture,” Bald Yannis said triumphantly, waiting for an opportune moment to mention the commission he planned to charge the others for increased business.

“Dont’s yous think a bunch of cultish hippies ‘anging round Astakos might put other tourists off the place,” Toothless Tasos worried.

“There are no tourists ‘ere at this time of year an’ the cultists will bump up village revenue,” Bald Yannis insisted.

“But ‘ow are we supposed to convince a bunch of hippie nutters they will survive Doomsday ‘ere in Astakos? The only thing Astakos is famed for is Masha doin’ the weather,” Moronic Mitsos asked.

“It’s easy; we advertise it on social media?”

“What’s that then?” Toothless Tasos asked, clueless that technology had moved on since telephones and television were invented.

“We could get the smitten young reporter to do an international story on it,” Fat Christos suggested, warming to the plan. Convinced Bald Yannis had come up with a genius idea he envisioned the supermarket cash register ringing continually.

Adonis, equally enthused by the idea, rubbed his hands together in glee at the prospect of his hotel rooms being booked solid in March.

“Who’s with me?” Bald Yannis asked, putting his devious money making scheme to the vote.

Everyone raised their hands enthusiastically with the exception of Prosperous Pedros who announced “Yous ‘ave all lost yous marbles,” before stalking off in a huff.

That old fool Vasilis shouted, “yous can all mock but I feels it in my gut that this Doomsday prophecy could ‘appen.”

Returning to the hardware shop Bald Yannis was delighted his end of the world scam had garnered so much enthusiastic support, with the other villagers promising to go out of their way to make it happen. He was soon engrossed in compiling a list of necessary items to put into the apocalypse kits he planned to flog to gullible fools in his shop. So far his list comprised raincoats as protection against torrential end of world downpours, torches to shine in the end of world blackness, and bottles of ouzo to drown out the end of the world hysteria.

“Ere Soula, can you turn this lot into raincoats?” Bald Yannis asked his wife, dumping a pile of dusty lobster adorned shower curtains on the hardware shop counter.

“Are people still wanting that fashion Masha made popular when she did the weather in one?” Soula said.

“Orders from that fad ‘ave dried up, this is the new project I told yous about. It should bring in a lot of cash.”

“Ohh Yanni, yous is so clever,” Soula gushed, impressed with the way her husband always had a money making scheme on the go and knowing her pregnancy with twins would further rack up their expenses. Bald Yannis was waiting for an opportune moment to tell Soula he planned to rent their home out to Doomsday trippers the following month and expected her to bed down with him in the goat pen.

As Soula got busy with the scissors she decided to broach a delicate subject with her husband. “Yanni, now Tassia and Christos are back from their honeymoon I’d like to ‘ave ‘em round for a meal, along with Masha and Vasilis.”

“What on earth for?” Bald Yannis asked, genuinely perplexed by Soula’s request. Being a total novice when it came to entertaining he couldn’t understand why anyone would wish to waste time socialising.

“I thought as we will all be ‘aving babies at the same time it would be nice to get together.”

“Why cant’s yous just go a taverna like a normal person?”

“’Ow can we do that when yous is banned?” Soula asked.

At a pinch Bald Yannis could put up with an evening in the company of Fat Christos and his mousey wife, but the very thought of getting together and making baby small talk with that decrepit old relic Vasilis and his silicone wife bored him rigid. Preparing to put Soula in her place with a sharp remark about getting ideas above her station it suddenly occurred to him he really must keep the other villagers on side if he was to pull off his scam successfully. They might even proffer some valuable suggestions as to what items would be a big hit in his apocalypse kits; after all Vasilis had lived through the war and Masha had grown up in some frozen Russian wasteland. He had no idea where he could get hold of the skanky nalgenes and frog ascending systems his internet searches had revealed were essential cave supplies. He must have a word with Quentin about those Christmas tinners he was always raving about as self-heating food should go down a treat in his handy kits.

“Okay Soula, yous can go ahead an’ invite ‘em,” Yannis relented.

“Ooh thank yous Yanni, yous won’t regret it, our first ever dinner party,” Soula said delightedly, planting a sloppy kiss on her husband’s bald head.

“Well dont’s get carried away trying to impress plastic Masha. Good plain ‘ome cooked food will do,” Bald Yannis told her, already beginning to regret giving in.

Chapter 20

Horny Goats And Christmas Tinners

“Deirdre, I do believe you are tipsy,” Quentin accused his wife as she greeted him in a fit of hiccups. “Have you been trying to get my wife drunk?” he quizzed Socrates suspiciously, having heard the rumours he was a bit of a ladies’ man.

“Oh Quentin, how can you be so ungrateful after Socrates stayed with me to ensure my safety. Don’t you realise a crazed stalker has been squatting in our house and could be dangerous? She’s obsessed with Socrates and set up a creepy shrine to him in our bedroom, it gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.”

“Mother did garble something, but you know how she exaggerates. You mean someone has actually been living in our house while we were in Idaho? Have they done any damage?”

“On the contrary, the crazy stalker appears to have been obsessed with cleaning as much she was with Socrates,” Deirdre told him.

“Well whoever it was she couldn’t be any worse than those two crazed old bats next door.  Honestly Deirdre, you have no idea what I have been forced to endure through their latest antics.”

“That’s nice dear,” Deirdre replied, smiling vacantly through her tipsy haze.

“This is not the sympathetic welcome home I expected after my traumatic ordeal of being strip searched and interrogated by fascist and brutal TSA agents, and then being forced to fly back in the unsavoury confine of a small airline toilet,” Quentin complained. “The absolute cheek of someone having the gall to squat in our house, I can’t believe it. Socrate, has the squatting stalker been driven out?”

“There’s no saying when she will return, but I’m sure she will. She is so obsessed she will be bound to want get her hands all over her photos of me.”

“That does it. I am overriding your objections Deirdre and I will invest in a guard goat. I planned to get one to keep Fotini at bay as she’s terrified of goats, but who knows the squatter may share her fears. Socrate, would you mind holding the fort to protect Deirdre while I pop along to the hardware shop to negotiate the purchase of a goat from Bald Yannis?”

“An excellent idea,” Socrates concurred, thinking if the deranged stalker returned the gormless Quentin would be as much use as a chocolate teapot and it would be down to him to drive the fanatical female away. If he had to he was prepared to throw Koula in the back of his car and dump her back in the high mountain village of Osta. He had taken the precaution of bringing along the kinky furry handcuffs Stavroula enjoyed when she was feeling frisky in the bedroom.

Quentin drove along to the hardware shop where he was greeted with uncommon enthusiasm by Bald Yannis. “Just the man, K-Went-In, ‘ow do I go about getting ‘old of a job lot of them Christmas tinners you is always raving about?”

“What on earth do you want with self-heating cans of Christmas dinner at this time of year? They aren’t vegetarian you know.”

“Good grief, I dont’s want to eat ‘em, I want to put ‘em in my apocalypse kits,” Bald Yannis sneered.

“Well, never mind that, you appear to have lost the plot Yanni. I am here to agree a price for one of your goats, the bigger and more menacing the better.”

“I ‘ave to make it clear I dont’s sell goats for eatin’, it ain’t right,” Bald Yannis thundered whilst stroking Agapimeni protectively.

“I have no intention of eating it. I want a goat to keep that pest Fotini from darkening my door, she’s terrified of them,” Quentin explained.

“I ‘ave just the one to put the jeepers up the bloomers of that old hag, I’ll deliver it in the mornin’ when I’ve given its horns a good ‘ole polish. Now ‘ow about we barter one horny goat for one hundred Christmas tinners?”

“You’ve got a deal,” Quentin agreed, having once done the accounts for a store that stocked tinners and still offered him an excellent discount. Applauding himself that for once he’d got the best end of a deal with the hardware shop man he decided to treat himself to a kafenion coffee. He was in no rush to return home and possibly be confronted with the squatting stalker as he’d had just as much crazy women as he could take for now.

Koula practically floated back to the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ on a cloud of love. She had waited all her life for Prosperous Pedros to come along and was already planning every last meticulous detail of their wedding in her mind. Sneaking round the back of the house she hurled herself inside through the kitchen window she’d left open earlier, landing in an unruly heap at the feet of the man she had now so casually mentally discarded.

“Got you,” Socrates shouted, snapping her wrists together with the furry handcuffs.

Emboldened by copious amounts of Metaxa Deirdre confronted the intruder, saying “How dare you squat in my house and scribble all over the mirror with my best lipstick.

Socrates was completely taken aback to receive what appeared to be a genuinely contrite apology from his crazy stalker who no longer looked quite as unhinged as she had earlier. “Please forgive me for my behaviour before; I can’t begin to imagine how I ever found you attractive.”

“It’s not that implausible,” Deirdre offered, “Socrates isn’t completely ugly, in fact he’d look halfway decent if he shaved off those bushy sideburns.”

“Get a grip Did-Rees,” Socrates admonished. “How attractive you find me is not the issue, this mad woman has broken into your house and terrorised Stavroula with her relentless campaign of heavy breathing phone calls.”

“I’m so sorry, I’ve no idea what came over me. I think discovering the frozen remains of father’s unmarried sister in the deep freeze led me to act out of character,” Koula improvised, desperate to extricate herself from this tricky situation and the furry handcuffs so she could start stalking Prosperous Pedros.

“You poor dear, that must have been a nasty shock to your system,” Deirdre consoled. She could sympathise with the squatter’s desire to flee a home populated by a frozen corpse in preference for her own lovely ‘Lemoni Spiti.’

“Please don’t call the police, I promise to go quietly and never again enter your house,” Koula begged with apparent sincerity.

“Not so fast,” Socrates objected. “There’s the small matter of my braces and underpants to fathom, how on earth did you get your hands on them?”

“Forgive me; I took them from the washing line,” Koula admitted.

“And what else have you been stealing from washing lines?” Socrates accused, recalling the elusive underwear thief had never been identified.

“Nothing at all, I swear. You’ll find the things I took have been carefully laundered.”

“That’s true, she’s done a lovely job with my bedding, the sheets have never been so well starched,” Deirdre piped up, feeling nothing but a rush of pity for this pathetic creature. “Was it just a bit of a crush that got out of hand, it’s easy to get carried away in the first flush of love?”

“Any love was not only unreciprocated but completely delusional,” Socrates insisted, still feeling uneasy in Koula’s presence.

“It’s finished, I don’t love you anymore,” Koula insisted. “Surely you can just let me go and say no more about it. I’ll never bother you again.”

“If I let you go do you promise no more heavy breathing phone calls and absolutely no harassing Stavroula with your jealous nonsense?” Socrates demanded, annoyed Deirdre’s sympathy appeared to be contagious.

“I promise. If I could just take my camera as it’s an old family heirloom you won’t hear from me again.” Turning to Deirdre she added “I meant no harm staying in your lovely house. I’d like you to keep the embroidered toilet roll holder and the knitted bride loo brush cover as thank you gifts. Socrate, perhaps you could give the photos I took of you to Stavroula.”

“I’d rather burn them, she’d be livid to see how you cut her head out of them.” Unlocking the kinky cufflinks Socrates advised her to make her way back to Osta and try to put all this crazy business behind her.

“Yes, I’ll do that, just please don’t tell my sister Soula about it,” Koula said, having no intention at all of returning to Osta. She was desperate to escape and had heard of the perfect place to squat on the gossip village vine. Thea’s empty harbour-side house in Astakos was close to Pedros and if she was very discreet in her comings and goings no one would have a clue she was in residence.

“You have one chance. If you come here again or bother me and Stavroula, I’ll have you locked up with your father,” Socrates threatened.

“You won’t see me again,” Koula promised, discreetly sneaking the furry handcuffs into her pocket.

Koula was almost at the garden gate when Deirdre caught up with her, thrusting an old coat round her shoulders. “Take this; it’s getting a bit chilly.”

“I can’t help it, I feel sorry for her,” Deirdre said to Socrates as she waved to the retreating figure. “When all’s said and done she was a far better house guest than those two old hags next door.”

Chapter 21

Spreading The Tzatziki

After downing a kilo of black coffee Deirdre had sobered up enough to join Quentin for an evening at ‘Mono Ellinka Trofima’ with their Greek friends. She had taken Socrates advice and binned the stifado, despite its delicious aroma. Even though she wasn’t convinced crazy Koula had spiked it she worried some of the contents may have been lifted from the deep freeze that had unhygienically harboured a corpse. Quentin and Deirdre were greeted warmly by Takis and Yiota who were delighted to have the Americans back, having grown very fond of them.

Prosperous Pedros turned up in a breathless temper after being summoned by his mother to inflate an airbed for Melecretes to sleep on. Fotini insisted it wasn’t seemly to expect her guest to blow up his own bed and because the pump was broken Pedros was forced to inflate it using his lung power. In a fit of pique he had surreptitiously stabbed the inflated mattress with the handy darning needle kept in his pocket, amused at the thought the resultant slow puncture would guarantee his mother’s irritating house guest an uncomfortable night gradually sinking into the cold tiled floor.

Melecretes tagged along with Pedros to the taverna, unaware his grating company was less than welcome. He was eager to taste genuine Greek cooking on Greek soil. “Call me Mel” he invited, enthusiastically lifting Takis in an unwanted bear hug and giving a covetous look to the grill he was itching to take charge of.

Pedros had barely sat down when his mobile phone rang. “What is it now mother?” he asked with a sinking feeling. Fotini had only been home for two minutes and already her demands on his time were becoming outrageous. “Save me a plate of vegetarian lamb,” he called out to Yiota. “I ‘ave to go the ‘ardware shop and purchase a lobster adorned shower curtain for Melecretes to use as a waterproof bedspread.”

“Yous mother is so thoughtful wanting me to ‘ave all the homely touches,” ‘call me Mel’ beamed, impervious to the scowl on Pedros’ face.  Elbowing Takis out of the way, the proprietor of ‘Granny’s Greek Gyros’ grabbed a bowl of tzatiki, saying “let me show yous the special way I have of spreading tzatiki on the tastiest pita gyros in Idaho.”

Before Takis had the chance to show ‘call me Mel’ how he personally smeared tzatiki on pushy know-it-alls who had the temerity to wander behind his counter, the situation was defused by the entrance of mail order Masha and that old fool Vasilis.

‘Call me Mel’ dropped the cucumber yoghurt dip, along with his jaw, exclaiming in awestruck admiration, “What a vision of statuesque beauty,” at the sight of Masha with her new ‘You Say Potato, I Say Vodka’ tee-shirt straining to contain her voluptuous silicone bosom. She flaunted her exposed pregnant stomach like a fashion accessory in a low slung pair of skin tight pink leather trousers, complementing the new pink streaks in her long blonde hair extensions.

As the mismatched couple sat down Melecretes told Yiota, “I just love bein’ back in my ‘omeland, Greece is so family orientated. How lovely it is to see an old grandfather bringing his granddaughter out to dinner.”

“That’s not his granddaughter,” whispered the hovering Yiota. “That’s the old fool Vasilis with his mail order bride Masha. He has to bring her out for dinner as she can’t cook.”

Yiota’s response elicited a feeling of déjà vu in Quentin who recalled he’d made exactly the same erroneous assumption the very first time he’d clapped eyes on Masha and the old relic together.

Mail order Masha pushed a Tupperware bowl of home cooked borscht into Yiota’s hands, asking, “Can you heat this up? It’s the only thing I really fancy eating at the moment.”

“Well it’s not really the done thing to bring your own food, Masha,” Yiota tutted disapprovingly.

“Po po, I never ‘ear yous complaining when the fishermen bring their own catch and some of it not even gutted. Yous is happy to cook their fish up in a lemon dress,” that old fool Vasilis piped up. “My wife is very particular what she eats at the moment as she struggles to control her insatiable sweet pregnancy cravings.”

“I spent all afternoon slaving over an ‘ot stove so I could stick to my diet,” Masha lied. She had just come back from the presenting the weather at the television studio and that old fool Vasilis had collected the borscht from his daughter Stavroula who had perfected the Russian soup when practising foreign dishes for the disastrous televised cooking show.

Melecretes’ excitement at the sight of Masha was only surpassed by the nostalgia that overwhelmed him when the taverna’s next customer entered. The Pappas had come off worse for wear during a fight with a rooster gifted by one of his parishioners. He had intended to cook the rooster up for his evening meal, but the pesky feathered creature had evaded his clutches and was last spotted squatting on the top of the chimney stack, staring malevolently down at the Pappas who had slipped in the mud as he’d chased it round the yard with a meat cleaver. “Bother that ungrateful Iraklis not being here to climb up and get it,” he’d shouted. With not a scrap of food left in his pantry he’d decided to treat himself to dinner at the taverna.

The Pappas was surprised to be confronted with a noisy American-Greek giving him a hearty handshake. “What a sight for sore eyes,” Melecretes boomed. “’Ave yous any idea ‘ow long it ‘as been since I saw a genuine Greek Orthodox priest in a long black dress an’ a chimney-pot hat? Let me buy yous a drink.”

Unused to be being greeted with such bonhomie, the Pappas eyed up the stranger, calculating if he was likely to be an easy touch for a generous donation to the church collection plate. “Well young man, I would be most delighted to see you in church.”

“Call me Mel,” Melecretes urged. “Perhaps you could pose for some photos. I’ve an idea to redecorate Granny’s with black and white pictures of old world Greece.”

Having no idea the Granny alluded to was actually ‘Granny’s Greek Gyros’ restaurant, the churlish Pappas replied huffily “It wouldn’t be seemly for me to be posing with your Granny, I’ve my reputation to consider.”

“Granny’s dead. I wasn’t suggesting we dig ‘er up so you can pose with ‘er corpse,” the now affronted ‘call me Mel’ pouted, turning his back on the insensitive priest. The tense atmosphere was lightened by the return of Prosperous Pedros, accompanied by Tall Thomas and Vangelis the chemist.

“’Ere, I trust yous is capable of putting this waterproof bedspread over your inflatable bed without my assistance,” Pedros said sarcastically, thrusting the lobster adorned shower curtain he’d just purchased from the hardware shop into Mel’s hands.

“There was no need to go wasting money on that,” Tall Thomas told Pedros. “Aunty Nitsa brought a potato adorned shower curtain back from Idaho that Mel could ‘ave slept under.”

“Nitsa bought that for a gentleman called Bald Yannis who has a very special place in her heart,” call me Mel interrupted. “I refused her kind offer to use it as it meant so much to her to gift it to him in pristine condition. Anyway this one is much more patriotic.”

Pedros was furious to have been sent on a wild goose chase to the hardware shop when there was already a perfectly adequate shower curtain to serve as a waterproof bedspread under his mother’s roof. Mel’s assertion the potato adorned shower curtain was meant for Bald Yannis at least cheered up Tall Thomas who concluded if his Aunty Nitsa was still hankering after the hardware shop man she couldn’t be too serious about Fotis who he suspected was courting his Aunty to get his hands on her inheritance.

A cold draught blew into the taverna at the entrance of Gorgeous Yiorgos and Petula. “I tell you there was definitely someone pressing their nose up against the taverna window. Suppose they were hungry and couldn’t afford a meal,” Petula anxiously whispered to Yiorgos.

“You were seeing things, my love,” Yiorgos reassured her, having failed to spot crazy Koula creepily spying on Prosperous Pedros in the darkness. Petula instantly forgot all about the possibly starving figure as she clapped eyes on her estranged husband the Pappas, greedily dipping a chunk of bread into a plate of fava. The colour drained rapidly from her face, until Yiorgos reassuringly pressed her hand, reminding her “there, there, he cant’s do any harm to yous now.”

Firmly planting her back to the Pappas, Petula accepted the chair proffered by Quentin, saying “it’s so good to see you two back. How were things in Idaho?”

“Cold and snowy,” Deirdre replied. “I was happy to return to Greece, this cold spell here is quite mild, nothing like a winter in Idaho.”

“Po po, if you think a winter in Idaho is cold you should try the frozen wastes of Verkhoyansk,” Masha shivered, recalling the sub- zero temperatures of her Russian hometown where the prowling wolves were chased off by armed men in snowmobiles.

“Oh good, Adonis has arrived,” Quentin said, pleased to see his good friend had made it. Adonis joined the others, ruffling the hair of his cousin Petula with obvious affection.

“Did-Rees, K-Went-in, it is goodly to see you back my friends, ‘ow was America? I kept an eye on the ‘ouse and can report it is still stood up.”

“It’s a pity you didn’t notice it had been invaded by a squatter,” Quentin pointed out, eliciting a nervous laugh from Adonis who hadn’t actually been anywhere near the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ in their absence.

“’Ave yous thought of letting the ‘ouse out to the end of the worlders, you could make a bigly profit?” Adonis asked.

“We’ve only just got back and rid the place of a nuisance squatter, why on earth would we want to rent it out?” Quentin asked, being clueless about Bald Yannis’ end of the world scam and its enthusiastic reception by the other villagers.

“Can you believe Quentin has bought a goat from Bald Yannis to keep Fotini from beating a path to our doorway,” Deirdre said before remembering Fotini’s son was sat at the next table. “Oops, no offence intended Pedro.”

“None taken Did-Rees, think nothin’ of it,” Pedros assured her, thinking he would invest in a goat deterrent himself if his mother ever took to visiting him in his cottage. “That was a rum do you ‘ad to endure at the airport K-Went-In, if I’d known the trouble that parrot would cause I’d never ‘ave bought it for mother.”

“Well hopefully the parrot will be as terrified of the goat as your mother is,” Quentin said, unconsciously rubbing the permanently indented scratch marks etched in his scalp by the parrot’s unnatural attachment to him. “Bald Yannis has promised to deliver a ferociously handsome specimen with sharp horns in the morning.”

“It’ll be worth gettin’ up early to watch him tryin’ to deliver a horny goat on ‘is bicycle,” Vangelis the chemist chortled, jumping to his feet to hold the door open for Mrs Kolokotronis.

“Ooh, such a gent,” she cooed, not budging from the open doorway. “Come on, they wont’s bite,” she called out to the hovering young Iraklis. “Yous deserve a treat after all that ‘ard work at the supermarket.”

The Pappas went puce with rage at the sight of the nervous Iraklis following Mrs Kolokotronis into the taverna.

“Welcome, welcome,” Takis cried “It’s the first time we’ve ‘ad the pleasure of yous company as a customer Pappas Iraklis.”

“Please dispense with the title of Pappas, I am simply Iraklis now,” Iraklis humbly requested. “I am done with the church.”

“Stop doin’ yourself down, there’s nothing simple about yous, yous is a clever lad,” Mrs Kolokotronis gushed, on a mission to boost his confidence. “Now what do you fancy, this is my treat?”

It was quite obvious what Iraklis fancied as his eyes were protruding on stalks at the sight of mail order Masha in her bosom clinging tee-shirt. He was so engrossed staring at Masha he failed to notice the brooding presence of the irate Pappas, until he was shaken out of his reverie by a litany of harsh words.

“‘Ave yous no shame, flaunting yourself in ‘ere without your clerical dress. Yous is a disgrace to the church. Yous poor mother would be turning in her grave if she was dead, but no doubt your selfish plan is to put her in an early one,” the Pappas thundered, standing over Iraklis. He cast a ridiculous figure with breadcrumbs stuck in his shaggy grey beard and visible stains of red mud smeared all down the front of his long black clerical dress.

“Call yourself a man of the church. How dare you carry on in this bullying way,” Mrs Kolokotronis shouted, standing up to shield Iraklis from the older man’s rage. “It is yous that should be ashamed of yourself, treating this sensitive young boy no better than a dogsbody.”

“It’s only what yous would expect from the God-bothering fraud. Look ‘ow he treated my Petula, always free with ‘is fists he was when he’d ‘ad a drink,” Gorgeous Yiorgos shouted, standing up to protect Mrs Kolokotronis in case the Pappas turned nasty.

“If Iraklis wants to leave the church that’s his business, he’s old enough to make his own mind up,” Masha joined in. “It’s not natural expecting ‘im to live a celibate life when he’s in his prime.”

“Dont’s go givin’ the young chap any ideas about givin’ up celibacy Masha, yous knows he is besotted with yous,” that old fool Vasilis butted in.

Iraklis blushed to the roots of his hair, clueless his crush on Masha was so patently obvious, yet deliriously happy Masha had so publicly defended him. He was equally impressed Gorgeous Yiorgos had looked out for him so paternally. He had never had a father figure in his life unless the Pappas counted, and he was immediately drawn to the fisherman as a fine example of the type of man he aspired to be now he had cast off the churchly shackles. Yiorgos had been especially kind and patient when giving Iraklis road tips for safe tricycling.

“Yous should all be ashamed, sticking up for a Pappas that has turned his back on the church after making a commitment. Yous don’t see me chucking the towel in when the going gets rough,” the Pappas admonished.

“It’s a wonder you ‘aven’t been slung out for all yous deplorable ways, you odious little man, always pontificating from on high when yous is nothin’ but a religious sham,” Gorgeous Yiorgos bellowed. “Yous isn’t welcome in ‘ere. This is a place for friends to gather and the sight of yous ugly mug is likely to make the vegetarian chicken curdle.”

Drawing himself up to his full height the Pappas turned on his heel, storming out of the taverna without even bothering to settle his bill. Yelling his last word from the doorway he warned “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this Iraklis, there will be consequences to face for your actions.”

“Take no notice of the old wind bag, no one else does,” Mrs Kolokotronis said, giving Iraklis’ arm a reassuring squeeze. Grabbing the end of the paper table cloth she scrubbed at his face to dry his tears.

“Don’t trouble yourself Mrs Kolokotronis, these are tears of joy. I am so happy the way you all stood up for me, it makes me feel part of the community in a way being affiliated with the church never did,” Iraklis gushed.

“You lot dont’s even know the ‘alf of it,” Masha suddenly declared. “Yous remember when yous buried Vasilis an’ he wasn’t even dead. It was the Pappas’ blackmailing ‘im what put ‘im in the grave, demanding money to keep his trap shut that Stavroula was his secret love child.”

By now everyone in the village was aware that old fool Vasilis was actually Stavroula’s father so Masha wasn’t revealing a dark secret. However the Pappas’ blackmailing role had been kept under wraps and Masha’s disclosure truly shocked her audience. Even Petula was unaware of the depths her estranged husband had sunk to and she knew his grubby secrets better than anyone.

“I swear I didn’t know he was capable of such depravity,” Petula said in a quiet voice. “I kept his sordid secret about him carrying on with the rooster stealing Widow Christeas in order for him to agree to the divorce, but I fully intend to write to the Bishop and expose my soon to be ex-husband as a blackmailer.”

“Sounds like there might be a job going begging in the church soon,” Vangelis the chemist suggested. “Aren’t you tempted to take it if the Pappas gets kicked out, young Iraklis?”

“Not at all, I am excited by my new prospects in supermarket management,” Iraklis said, looking forward to helping Fat Christos build a display of stuffed microbes the next day. As for temptation it was smiling at him in the form of mail order Masha, but he resolved to stand up to temptation through inner resolve rather than biblical quotes, and find a nice suitable girl to court.

“Well it’s certainly all happening ‘ere,” Melecretes observed. “I dont’s know ‘ow I’m goin’ to sleep tonight after so much excitement.”

“Less comfortably than he imagines,” Prosperous Pedros whispered to Tall Thomas, inwardly amused at the thought of the airbed in his mother’s house slowly deflating.

Chapter 22

Cycling Goat

“’Ere Soula, grab its front legs and stick its hooves over my shoulders,” Bald Yannis instructed his wife from his seat on the bicycle’s saddle.

“Did yous ‘ave to pick such a big one?” Soula asked, grappling with the heavy goat as she attempted to hoist it over Bald Yannis’ shoulders, piggy-back style.

“Well K-Went-In said he wanted somethin’ ferocious looking’” Yannis explained.

“This fellow might be big an’ horny, but he’s as gentle as goats come,” Soula laughed. “It’s no use, I cant’s get it to stay in place, it’s too antsy,” she added as the fidgeting goat slid down Yannis’ back, puncturing the bullet proof vest he wore for cycling with its horns.

“Get some rope and try tying the goat on my back,” Bald Yannis suggested, having already given up his efforts to get the goat to grip hold of the handlebars whilst sitting on his knee.

“Are you sure K-Went-In wanted a naked goat?” Soula queried, being used to their flock prancing round in knitted outfits under the sponsorship deal with the Japanese.

“Well if he wants it kitted out in a knitted jacket he’ll ‘ave to cough up more Christmas tinners,” Yannis pronounced as Soula finally secured the goat to his back with a thick rope.

“Yous do ‘ave a lovely way with knots,” Yannis praised his wife, admiring the excellent constrictor knot she’d fashioned. “I’ll see you later,” he called out, pedalling off towards Rapanaki.

Cycling along the coastal road Bald Yannis was waved down by Vangelis the chemist who had risen especially early in the hope of spotting Yannis cycling along with a goat on his bike. “Kalimera, it’s a fine morning for taking a goat for a ride,” the chemist called jovially, stepping out in front of Yannis with his camera to capture this totally ridiculous sight for posterity.

“Ere, watch where you’re standin’ and remember there’s no goat pictures without coughing up two Euros,” Bald Yannis shouted, wobbling precariously as he swerved to avoid being captured on celluloid by the pharmacist until he opened his wallet. A driver heading along behind Bald Yannis tooted his horn to indicate he was overtaking, petrifying the goat who hated loud noises. The sudden jolty movement of the goat caused Bald Yannis to lose his balance. Falling from the bicycle he landed face first on the ground with the goat still tied on his back.

“Say feta cheese,” Vangelis the chemist ordered, taking several snaps of the wretched cyclist sprawled on the floor beneath the goat, before even thinking about hauling Bald Yannis to his feet.

“Now, ‘ow am I going to manage this?” Vangelis pondered standing over the two prostrate figures presenting a bizarre image of a compromising sexual position. Planting one foot on either side of the goat he gripped hold of the horny creature and yanked with all his strength, sending him flying onto his backside. The goat ended up sitting on the chemist, with Bald Yannis sitting on the goat.

“I’m going to try and stand up and you’ll ‘ave to push the goat ‘ard from behind,” Bald Yannis stated, “but I can’t think of a way to get us back on the bicycle.”

Fortunately for Yannis, Prosperous Pedros drove by, slowing down to laugh at the ridiculous road block. While he was quite tempted to drive past and leave Bald Yannis to stumble along with the heavy goat on his back, Vangelis the chemist shamed him into lending a helpful hand. Despite the best efforts of the fisherman and the chemist they were unable to untie the expertly knotted rope to release the goat, so ended up hauling Yannis and his piggy-backed partner into the back of the pick-up along with the now dented bicycle.

“Malaka, the one time I go somewhere without my chainsaw and it turns out I needed it,” Bald Yannis complained as the goat licked his ear fondly.

“K-Went-In is sure to ‘ave a knife, so we can cut the rope when we get to his ‘ouse,” the chemist suggested.

“Mother ‘as an axe, but I’m not sure I’d trust ‘er to use it to cut the rope, she’d be more inclined to decapitate the goat,” Pedros laughed.

“’Ow can you even joke about such things, yous is supposed to be a vegetarian,” Yannis groaned.

Pedros had been heading towards the kafenion for a coffee but now resigned himself to doing a three point turn and driving in the opposite direction towards the house next door to his mothers. Driving past his stone cottage he was just a fraction too late to clock crazy Koula picking his lock and scurrying inside.

Chapter 23

Slick City Types

By the time Prosperous Pedros turned the pick-up into the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ driveway Fotini had been hammering relentlessly on Quentin’s door for a good twenty minutes. Quentin was in the kitchen pointedly ignoring her whilst tucking into a breakfast of Greek yoghurt, honey and walnuts, and Deirdre was enjoying what had been a peaceful lie- in. Determined to drown out Fotini’s frantic entreaties to get out of bed, Quentin plugged his ears up with kitchen roll. He’d endured quite enough of Fotini in Idaho and hoped once the ferocious horny goat was delivered she would be too fearful to ever darken his door again.

Turning her attention to her son Fotini shouted, “’Ere Pedro, why ‘aven’t yous been answering your telephone?” Pedros cast a glance at the fifteen missed calls registered from his mother and cursed her persistence.

“Poor Mel ‘ad a dreadful night, there’s a slow puncture in the airbed an’ he ended up sleepin’ on the cold tiled floor with only a shower curtain to keep ‘im warm. As yous couldn’t be bothered to answer yous phone to come and fix it I’ve been banging on K-Went-In’s door for the last half-hour, but the idle malaka must still be in bed,” Fotini complained, shaking her head at the slothful habit of foreigners sleeping in past dawn.

“’Ere Pedro, hurry up an’ get a knife,” Bald Yannis called down. “I’m sweatin’ buckets under the weight of this ginormous goat.”

Hearing Bald Yannis’ words Fotini peered up at the back of the pick-up, clocking the absurd spectacle of the hardware shop man roped into a piggy-backed embrace with a gargantuan goat. The goat was struggling to climb down from Yannis’ back and its annoyed bleating terrified Fotini who had a mortal fear of such creatures, sending her scuttling back at breakneck speed into the safe confines of her own house.

Quentin emerged wielding a bread knife and was soon sawing at the rope holding Yannis and the goat together. “This appears to be a most excellent specimen of a guard goat,” he observed, delighted it had already successfully scared Fotini out of his garden. “Worth every one of those Christmas tinners.”

The goat deliverers declined Quentin’s kind offer of coffee. Pedros wanted to make a quick exit before his mother started her demands up again, Vangelis needed to open the pharmacy and Bald Yannis hoped to make a killing flogging the Clean Monday kites he had bodged together for the upcoming holiday. Pedros tooted his horn in a friendly gesture as they drove off, unnerving the goat who hated loud noises. The goat gambolled over to Deirdre’s washing line where it promptly chewed up Quentin’s socks and Deirdre’s best blouse.

“Blast Bald Yannis, the skinflint, he could have left the rope behind,” Quentin muttered, wondering what he had handy to tether the goat with. Grabbing the rest of the drying clothes before the animal could devour them he cut the washing line down, using it to tie the goat to the washing pole.

“Ere K-Went-In, yous will ‘ave to get rid of that goat, it’s just not neighbourly.  Yous know Fotini ‘as a mortal fear of em,” Nitsa shouted over the garden wall as she emerged from the neighbouring house arm-in-arm with Melecretes.

“Really, I had no idea,” Quentin lied brazenly. “Still, it is my garden and I’ll keep whatever I want in it. If Fotini stays on her own side of the prickly pear fence the goat won’t trouble her.”

“I think she might ‘ave somethin’ to say about that,” Nitsa threatened. Quentin found it hard to take any threats seriously when issued by an elderly woman wearing a hideous old lady dress paired with fishnet stockings, instead of her usual pop socks. Nitsa’s face was caked in a thick layer of orange powder and her eyelids were weighed down with a ridiculous pair of false eyelashes.

“Are you off somewhere nice?” Quentin enquired, wondering if he’d been excluded from some important event in the Astakos social calendar as he could think of no other explanation why Nitsa was tarted up to the nines before nine in the morning.

“Nitsa is taking me for a drive in her Mercedes to see the sights,” Melecretes volunteered. He was too sleep deprived after a night on the slowly deflating airbed to notice how ridiculous Nitsa looked, but hoped a drive in the fresh air and a strong coffee would quickly revive him.

“Watch out for the exorbitant taxi fare she is sure to extort from you,” Quentin warned.

Melecretes gave Nitsa a leg up onto the pile of old magazines she kept on the driver’s seat so her short body would be perched high enough to peer through the windscreen. The pair of them drove off with a jaunty wave to Quentin and headed into Astakos, where Nitsa brought the old Mercedes taxi to a juddering halt by driving into a concrete mixer positioned outside the hardware shop.

“I just ‘ave to pop in ‘ere with a gift for Bald Yannis,” Nitsa explained, rushing into the shop to present Yannis with the potato adorned shower curtain she had carted back from Idaho. Melecretes followed close on her heels, extending a hand for Bald Yannis to shake, saying “Call me Mel.”

“Ave yous missed me Bald Yannis? Look what I’ve got yous for a Valentine’s gift,” Nitsa gushed, fluttering her false eyelashes in her best femme fatale manner.

“What am I supposed to do with that ‘orrible thing?” Bald Yannis sneered.

“Well I know ‘ow much yous loves shower curtains an’ this one ‘as a lovely potato pattern.”

“Yous is deluded, I ‘ave a shop full of the things. Anyway, why are yous giving me, a married man and expectant father, a Valentine’s gift, instead of that old reprobate Fotis? ‘As he come to his senses and dumped yous?”

“I will be seeing Fotis this evenin’ if yous must know,” Nitsa said to Soula’s great relief. The stab of jealousy she felt when Nitsa threw herself so blatantly at Yannis receded when he pointed out he was taken. Gently chiding him Soula said, “Yanni, dont’s be so ungrateful, it will make a lovely waterproof floor covering for the goat pen.”

Bald Yannis smirked, thinking if Soula liked the potato adorned shower curtain so much she wouldn’t object to bedding down on it in the goat pen when he rented their house to the misguided end of the world gullible fools.

“I ‘ave somethin’ else for you too. Yous look lovely when yous ‘ave a full ‘ead of hair,” Nitsa announced, undeterred by Bald Yannis’ revulsion to her abundant charms. Groping round in her bra she yanked out the toupee she’d worn close to her heart ever since purloining it in the Potato Museum gift shop.

“If yous think I am putting that revolting rug on my ‘ead after it’s been tucked in yous undies, yous is mad,” Bald Yannis mocked.

“Nonsense dear, it will look lovely on yous when I’ve given it a good wash and it will stop yous ‘ead getting a chill. This is real quality nylon, Yanni,” Soula insisted, stroking the toupee which resembled a synthetic hamster.

“Yous never said you ‘ad problems with me ‘aving no hair Soula, if yous feel that strongly about it I could always have another hair transplant.”

“On second thoughts it will make an excellent duster,” Soula backtracked, desperately hoping she hadn’t hurt her husband’s feelings by implying he would be improved with a nylon wig. Even though he was yet to reveal his sensitive side Soula was convinced he had one. Just because he’d forgotten all about Valentine’s Day the previous week did not mean he didn’t have a romantic streak buried deep within him.

“Time for that coffee,” Melecretes declared, dragging Nitsa out of the hardware shop. “I want to stop at some spot with real old world charm,” he added as Nitsa drove the taxi into the mountains. The road narrowed as they climbed steeply and Melecretes seemed enchanted with the stone houses abutting the road with no room for pavements.

“Let’s take this turning on the right,” Mel suggested just too late, as Nitsa had already missed it. Reversing wildly she backed into a  ceramic plant pot full of colourful blooms, eliciting a screech of anger from a woman hanging out of an upstairs window who had carefully nurtured the flowers in the expensive pot which was left shattered by Nitsa’s incompetent manoeuvre.

The fresh mountain air soon put Melecretes in a jovial mood and he gushed with delight at the beautiful views over the sea. Every old olive oil tin painted Greek blue and stuffed with seasonal flowers elicited a rapturous commentary from Nitsa’s seemingly fearless passenger who gave no thought to how close she spun the old Mercedes wheels on the edge of the hair-pin bends with their sheer drop into the sea.

“This looks a likely place for coffee,” Nitsa announced, slamming the brakes on outside a scruffy looking stone house set back from the road in the village of Ankinara, named for an artichoke. As the pair emerged from the taxi a sudden rainstorm drenched them and they rushed to take shelter in what they erroneously presumed was a taverna.

“Kalimera, two of your finest coffees please and do call me Mel,” Melecretes boomed to the scowling peasant woman dressed in an odd assortment of homemade rags. Her head was propped upright by a grubby unyielding surgical collar and she appeared to be rather taken aback by their entrance.

“Oh this is so traditionally Greek,” Melecretes enthused, taking in the basic furnishings. An old fashioned kitchen containing a two-ringed gas cooker and a single bed took up one side of the room, while the other side was cluttered with a sofa, a collection of mismatched broken chairs and a wonky three-legged table. Throwing himself onto the sofa Melecretes was attacked by a recalcitrant spring rudely poking his posterior so he hastily adjourned to one of the wobbly chairs by the table.

Glancing around he noted the soot covered cobwebs trailing from the grimy ceiling and the collection of children’s toys scattered over the floor. He couldn’t help but notice the filthy looks fired in their direction by the woman preparing the coffee and he belatedly surmised they had staged a home invasion in their pursuit of refreshment. “I don’t think this is actually a taverna,” he hissed to Nitsa. “I think we have barged into someone’s home.”

“That will be ten Euros,” the woman announced with a frown, holding her head stiffly as she slammed two tall glasses of frothy lukewarm coffee down on the table.

“What an exorbitant price for two coffees, yous didn’t even put any Metaxa in ‘em,” Nitsa complained, wincing at the foul tasting liquid. “It’s nothing less than extortion.”

“Does I look like a taverna? Yous slick city types reckoning yous can just walk into my ‘ome demanding coffee, showing off in yous fancy clothes,” the woman snapped, throwing a disdainful look at Nitsa’s obviously shop bought dress and fishnet stockings.

“So sorry to have troubled you, do keep the change,” Melecretes blushed, throwing a twenty Euro note on the table and dragging Nitsa out before she could put her foot in it even more.

“Suckers,” the woman laughed, ripping the collar from her neck, stashing the note in her pinny and wondering how many more passing tourists she could rip off before the day was finished.

Chapter 24

Sleep Tight, Sweet Pedro

After leaving the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ Koula shuffled head down back to Astakos, careful to keep out of sight. Passing the Pappas’ house she sneakily plucked a pocketful of clementines from his tree to snack on and a handful of lemons she had other plans for. Later Deirdre’s cast-off coat helped to ward off the cold as she stood with her nose pressed against the glass window of the taverna watching Prosperous Pedros tuck into his vegetarian lamb. “We will be so happy together, my one true love. It won’t be long now before we are together forever,” she whispered, following him home in the darkness.

Koula slept fitfully in the harbour-side house which was empty until Thea could find someone to rent it. She was on tenterhooks in the morning waiting for Pedros to leave so she could make an elicit entrance by picking his lock and explore her future home. Koula was quite surprised to discover Pedros lived such a simple life in his small two-roomed cottage with an outside bathroom. In one room an iron bedstead with a thin mattress was propped up on bricks, with Pedros’ fishing paraphernalia stored neatly beneath it. A single cold water tap dripped incessantly into an old stone sink, with an old fashioned tarnished mirror dangling from a rusty nail above it. Koula was relieved to find Pedros kept nothing more sinister than dead fish in the chest freezer sited opposite the bed and under the barred window, next to a single gas burner and coffee pot. Rummaging through his utensils Koula noted he possessed a solitary mug, glass, and teaspoon. Obviously he wasn’t used to entertaining and there was no evidence of another woman to contend with.

The second room was just as sparsely furnished, with an old television sitting atop a fridge holding nothing but a pot of yoghurt and a bottle of water. A chair was positioned opposite the television and musty history books were piled on top of a dusty dresser. Opening the drawers Koula breathed in the scent of Prosperous Pedros’ underwear and buried her head in his pullovers. She pondered how someone who had earned the sobriquet of ‘prosperous’ could exist in such an obvious frugal habitat, unaware Pedros maintained such a lifestyle on purpose, knowing full well it would deter any women determined to snare a husband. Unfortunately for Pedros, Koula was not put off so easily. His home may be simple but it was still an improvement on the cold, uninviting house in the high mountain village where she had grown up.

Rolling up her sleeves Koula set to polishing every visible surface with a mix of vinegar and one of the Pappas’ stolen lemons. She stripped Pedros’ bed, replacing the pillowcases with ones she had spent the night embroidering with fish, presuming the fishy embellishment would appeal to a fisherman. Throwing herself on the newly made bed she imagined being held fast in his embrace, leaving the cloying scent of the shopping channel perfume she had discovered in the harbour-side house and used liberally, all over the bedding. Next she fixed the dripping tap and darned every last hole in his holey pullovers, before tackling his grubby outside bathroom.

Prosperous Pedros’s plans to catch up on house cleaning had been thwarted by a series of busy events. Firstly he’d been side-lined by delivering Bald Yannis and the goat to Quentin’s house, and then he’d been obliged to thrash Moronic Mitsos at tavli while drinking coffee and avoiding his mother’s phone calls. He was happy to help Gorgeous Yiorgos with the oily business of tinkering with his boat’s engine, even though it left no time to hand wash his bedding and run it through the mangle. After such a busy day all he wanted was to sluice himself down with the hosepipe over the outside toilet and climb into bed for a welcome siesta.

Heading into the outside bathroom Pedros failed to notice the rusty nail he deposited his towel on had been replaced with a pastel pink hook, as he was too distracted by the gleaming toilet. Jumping to the erroneous conclusion that some passing animal had stopped in and licked the porcelain clean, he wrapped himself in his towel and sprinted across the garden into the cottage.

His olfactory senses were immediately assaulted with the pervasive smell of a cloyingly sweet perfume, wafting in the air in marked contrast to the usual distinct aroma of fish. Sniffing suspiciously Prosperous Pedros examined the fitting on his heater’s gas bottle, but everything appeared to be in order. “I must be imagining things,” he muttered, throwing back the blankets to climb into bed. The sheets felt cool and starched, with a floral scent emanating from what appeared to be ironed pillow cases. Pedros jumped up to examine this strange phenomenon since he didn’t even possess an iron, scratching his head in perplexment as he couldn’t remember buying fish embroidered bedding. Looking around the room everything else appeared to be in order. His fishing paraphernalia was neatly in place beneath the bed so he shrugged off his suspicions and settled down to his siesta, unaware he was being observed by an obsessive stalker ogling him through the bars of his window with a glazed look of adoration on her face.

“Sleep tight, sweet Pedro,” crazy Koula whispered, blowing him a kiss.

Chapter 25

Steaming Up The Car Windows

“What a sight for sore eyes. Yous ‘ave an uncanny resemblance to my dear dead Granny,” Melecretes declared as Nitsa waltzed into the kitchen wearing a rather smart orange skirt and matching jacket she’d borrowed from Hattie. Nitsa had chosen to pair the formal suit with a purple floral blouse, a woolly pink bobble hat and black pop socks, revealing a good few centimetres of hairy leg.

She’d spent the afternoon in the beauty parlour having her hair coiffed into a ridiculous orange beehive. Recalling the agonising pain of her last moustache wax she’d refused the treatment, instead persuading Evangelia to dye her hairy upper lip orange to match her new hair colour. The kaleidoscope of garishly clashing colours hurt Melecretes’ eyes and he reached for his sunglasses even though darkness had fallen.

“I thought I’d make an effort as Fotis is takin’ me to meet his old mother down in Gavros,” Nitsa preened.

“Do yous think he will pop the question?” Fotini asked, selfishly hoping he wouldn’t as she enjoyed living with Nitsa. Nitsa was excellent company, particularly as she considered her own husband was most inattentive. Fotini still laboured under the delusion her husband had gadded off to Athens on business even though he’d been in his grave for over a decade. She had no idea it suited Pedros to keep up the pretence his father was alive and kicking.

“I think he will go down on one knee tonight,” Nitsa said.

“That could be dangerous at his age, he might not be able to get up again,” Hattie warned.

“Ooh he ‘as quite flexible parts,” Nitsa reassured, thinking the twinkly eyed fisherman was in remarkably fit shape for an octogenarian. “That must be ‘im now, he’s such a gentleman coming to collect me,” she said as a horn tooted outside. Nitsa hadn’t seen Fotis since she left for Idaho and was brimming with excitement at the prospect of their reunion.

Fotis’ horn disturbed the goat grazing in Quentin’s garden. It hated loud noises and set off a litany of plaintive bleats. Quentin was yet to convince Deirdre the goat was a necessity. She’d spent the morning complaining the smelly creature had chewed up her best blouse and he’d only just managed to calm her down when the goat devoured the contents of their vegetable patch, eating its way through the broccoli and spinach plants Deirdre had so tenderly nurtured.

“There, I told you it would be a great asset as a guard goat,” Quentin gloated at the sound of the goat bleating. “You won’t need to worry about squatters sneaking into the house now Deirdre. The goat will alert us.”

“I suppose so,” Deirdre reluctantly conceded, voicing her concern the goat had been disturbed by the pathetic squatter she had turned out of the house, perhaps looking for somewhere warm to spend the night.

“No, the goat was unnerved by a car pulling up next door,” Quentin said, peering through the window. “I can’t tell who it is because its windows are all steamed up.”

Nitsa and Fotis’ passionate reunion was the cause of the car’s steamed up windows. “I ‘aven’t ‘alf missed yous Nitsa,” Fotis confessed between sloppy kisses, unravelling her beehive with his wandering hands.

The frigid February night air soon pervaded the car. “Ooh that draught is a bit of a passion killer. All the ‘airs on my chest are standing on end.” Nitsa complained. “We’d better hurry up and go, we dont’s wants to keep your mother waiting when I want to make a good first impression.”

“She will love yous as much as I do,” Fotis assured Nitsa as the car hurtled towards Gavros. He fervently hoped Nitsa and his mother Kyria Moustakos got along well. If they hit it off he planned to propose to Nitsa and move her in so she could take over the burdensome task of looking after the decrepit one hundred and eight year-old biddy. It would be Nitsa’s wifely duty to tend her mother-in-laws every need, freeing Fotis up for more manly pursuits such as hanging about the kafenion drinking coffee and playing tavli. Having flirted his way through every woman in Gavros without finding anyone willing to take on his mother he was now quietly desperate.

“Mother I’ve brought someone special ‘ome to meet yous,” Fotis called out, leading Nitsa into the house he shared with his mother. “This is my girlfriend Nitsa, Nitsa this is Kyria Moustakos.”

“What’s that yous say?” a shallow voice croaked.

“This is my girlfriend Nitsa,” Fotis bellowed.

“There’s no need to shout, I ‘ave my ‘earing aid in now.”

Nitsa peered through the candlelit gloom at the black clad skeletal figure sitting upright in a hard backed chair by the flickering fire. Only the old lady’s hairy moustache prevented her grimacing toothless head with a hairless scalp from looking like an exhumed skull. Nitsa immediately wondered if she could get the nylon toupee back from Soula as Fotis’ mother was a much more deserving case for the second-hand wig than the hardware shop’s dusty shelves.

It was so dark in the overheated room Nitsa tripped over an assorted collection of discarded bottles and fish bones. “’Ave yous ‘ad the power cut off,” she asked.

“No, mother is extremely sensitive to bright lights,” Fotis explained, gently propping his sunglasses on his mother’s nose when he saw her wincing at the neon glare emanating from Nitsa. “She likes it kept dark at all times.”

“’Ave yous forgot yous manners Foti? Pour yous girlfriend a glass of raki,” the skeletal figure instructed, waving a grimy glass in a claw like hand under her son’s nose.  Downing in one the raki he poured she said, “Fancy yous bringing a girlfriend ‘ome, I was getting worried yous was a bit past it and no one would ‘ave yous.”

Peering closely at Nitsa, Kyria Moustakos whispered to her son “that’s a fine moustache she ‘as, does yous think she could be related to us?”

Without waiting for an answer she started rummaging round in a musty mildewed handbag.  Producing a packet of painkillers, under the mistaken impression they were condoms, she presented them to Fotis, advising, “Now dont’s go gettin’ ‘er pregnant unless yous plan to marry ‘er, we dont’s want the neighbours talkin.”

“I’ll be careful mother, no babies until we make it legal,” Fotis assured her, pouring them each another generous measure of raki.

“Is yous mad? Does yous seriously think I want more babies at my age?” Nitsa hissed at Fotis, trying to remember just how many years she’d sneakily discarded when she’d lied to him about her age. Even if he thought she was twenty years younger than she actually was it would still put her well over sixty.

“I’m just humouring mother, I know yous is old,” Fotis assured, not sparing her feelings with his cack-handed insult.

“’Ere Foti, give me a light,” Kyria Moustakos demanded, shoving a cigarette into her toothless mouth. “I bet yous cant’s believe I am one hundred and nine,” she said to Nitsa before being nearly floored with a hacking cough.

“Now mother, don’t exaggerate, you know full well you aren’t one hundred and nine until your next birthday.”

“Can we ‘ave a big party Foti, yous knows how much I loves a good shindig.”

“Well if Nitsa says yes to my wedding proposal there’ll be a big party before your birthday mother,” Fotis said, throwing himself down on one knee. “Nitsa, you would make me an ‘appy man if yous marry me and move in with me and mother.”

“Foti, get up off the floor. I need a hand gettin’ to the outside toilet,” Kyria Moustakos commanded, ruining the less than romantic moment with her interruption.

“’Old your horses, I’m still waiting for Nitsa’s answer,” Fotis shouted, wishing Nitsa would hurry up and answer before he seized up on one knee. With no concern for niceties Nitsa grabbed the raki, taking a generous slug straight from the bottle to mask her confusion.

Much as Nitsa had fantasised Fotis would propose marriage, she hadn’t thought beyond the moment she could flaunt a flashy diamond engagement ring on her finger. Fotis’s proposal not only lacked an ostentatious ring but came with the horrifying assumption she would move into this gloomy house in Gavros to live with him and his skeletal mother. The prospect of moving away from Rapanaki held little appeal as she was having the time of her life living with her second cousin Fotini and their American houseguest Hattie. She revelled in being close enough to torment Bald Yannis and embarrass the hapless Americans next door.

Nitsa’s reverie was interrupted by Fotis putting his foot in his mouth, saying “I can see yous and mother will get on like an ‘ouse on fire. When you moves in yous can give up driving yous taxi an’ we can sell it to supplement our three meagre pensions. We can save a bit too ‘cos yous can look after mother while I’m out fishing, meaning I wont’s ‘ave to pay the woman what comes in and does for us.”

“She’d be daft to turn down an offer like that,” Kyria Moustakos beamed toothlessly. Extending a withered claw like hand towards Nitsa’s shoulder Kyria Moustakos leant forward, hissing “He’s a bit of a catch, always ‘as been, I’ve had to look out for gold diggers.”

Nitsa moved out of reach of the bony hand, repulsed by her foul fetid breath, rank with fish, raki and stale cigarettes, emanating from the old woman’s toothless mouth. Her sudden movement left Kyria Moustakos with nothing to grab onto and she toppled from the chair, wailing “Foti, ‘elp me.”

“’Ow many times ‘ave I told yous to put a bit more padding round yous? Yous knows ‘ow brittle yous old bones is,” Fotis yelled over the distinctive crack of yet another of his mother’s old bones breaking. “Ere Nitsa give me an ‘and to get ‘er up, we’ll ‘ave to take ‘er to ‘ospital. I think she’s gone and broken ‘er arm. Nitsa. Nitsa?”

Nitsa stood frozen in shock, horrified by the tableau of her future life unfolding before her eyes, running round after this living cadaver if she tied the knot with Fotis. She adored the freedom of driving her old Mercedes taxi and deplored the very notion of giving it up to be effectively housebound with Fotis’s corpse like mother.

Stepping wordlessly outside Nitsa retrieved her mobile phone from the depths of her bloomers and made an emergency call to her nephew. “Thoma, it’s yous Aunty Nitsa, come and get me. I am stranded in Gavros. Fotis ‘as deceived me, he ‘as only been courting me to get an unpaid nursemaid for his ancient mother.”

Chapter 26

A Matter Of Life And Death

Still smarting from his taverna humiliation the Pappas was determined to get hold of Iraklis’ mother to persuade the young defector to come to his senses and return to his churchly duties. As she didn’t have a new-fangled telephone he finally had the bright idea of telephoning the Pappas in Iraklis’ home village of Aprositos, named for its inaccessibility, persuading him to carry a message to Kyria Sisyphean saying she must travel urgently to Astakos as a matter of life and death. He craftily hung up before his fellow priest could extract any extraneous details about Iraklis’ supposedly dire situation.

Kyria Sisyphean immediately jumped to the erroneous conclusion her son Iraklis must be at death’s door if she was so urgently summoned. “My only child, we must pray for him,” she implored, hastily making the sign of the cross.

“The Pappas in Astakos stressed there isn’t a moment to lose, you must pack a bag and leave at once,” the local Pappas advised. The colour drained from Kyria Sisyphean’s face at the challenge of leaving the remote village of Aprositos. She hadn’t set foot beyond the confines of the village since her husband abandoned her with a mewling baby more than twenty years ago, escaping from a life of pious misery by running off with a loose floozy who had turned his head.  Kyria Sisyphean considered the land beyond Aprositos to be a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah full of godless heathens whom she had sent her only son to save from their wicked and shameless ways.

Witnessing her consternation the Pappas offered her a drink from his hip flask of whisky watered down with holy water. Kyria Sisyphean declined his offer with a shrivelling look, telling him “the bible warns against carbuncling in drunkenness.”

“I think you mean carousing,” he automatically corrected, being used to her frequent malapropisms. “I was merely trying to calm your nerves, not lead you into debauchery.” This unbending woman could indeed try the patience of a saint with her inflexibly rigid moral codes and her proclivity for suspecting sin lurked behind every olive tree.

Throwing her knitting into a suitcase Kyria Sisyphean suddenly asked, “How am I supposed to get to Astakos? There’s only one bus a week out of the village and it went yesterday.”

“There are more regular buses from Prositos, I believe one leaves every day,” the Pappas said, referring to a more accessible village seven kilometres away.

“It’s a long walk to get to Prositos with a suitcase.”

“Indeed,” the Pappas replied, thinking if she hadn’t alienated everyone in the village with her piety and moral judgements someone might have been prepared to offer her a ride. As it was the best she could hope for was cadging a ride to the bus stop in Prositos on the donkey belonging to the old farmer she paid to chop wood.

“It’s not dignified,” she grumbled as the Pappas gave her a leg up onto the donkey. Waving her off with a sigh of relief he muttered “if a donkey was good enough for Christ it should be good enough for an insufferable old bag like you.”

He hoped young Iraklis made a full recovery from whatever was presumably ailing him and then asked heavenly forgiveness for sinfully wishing his recovery would take long enough to prevent Kyria Sisyphean returning to the village anytime soon.

Chapter 27

Deirdre Flashes A Randy Old Goat Herder

“I don’t believe it,” Quentin exclaimed, pouring over the statement from his American bank. “Just look at the size of the long distance telephone bill run up by those gabbling Greeks. And what’s this? The shipping costs for those one hundred Christmas tinners is three times higher than the cost of the tins. Deirdre, we will have to start cutting back on our expenses. You can forget all about that long weekend break in Athens at a five star hotel you’ve been hankering after.”

“But Quentin, you promised me a city mini break, I was so looking forward to it,” Deirdre pouted.

“There’s no need to get upset Deirdre, we just need to cut back temporarily. After all we do have two houses to run.”

“You’re the one being extravagant, running round buying a goat and an old banger.”

“Come now, the goat is an excellent guard dog and we needed a car. We couldn’t keep relying on Adonis to ferry us around and you flatly refused to ever set foot in Nitsa’s taxi again.”

“She held me hostage with her central locking for hours if you remember,” Deirdre reminded him with a shudder. Quentin well recalled the incident when Nitsa had refused to let Deirdre out of her old Mercedes taxi until Quentin returned from the cash point with the readies to cover the exorbitant fare. Whilst he had sprinted between cash machines trying to find one that hadn’t been completely emptied and actually had some notes left, Nitsa had gone off for a boozy lunch with Fotis, completely forgetting Deirdre was locked in the taxi in a heat wave. Quentin had ended up handing over all the notes the cash machine had reluctantly spewed to Bald Yannis who had rescued a sweating Deirdre by smashing the window of the old Mercedes taxi with a mallet, landing Quentin with another exorbitant repair bill at the garage.

When Adonis had suggested his cousin Adonis the mechanic had the perfect run-around to suit the Americans, Quentin had been a gullible buyer for the old banger that now spent most of its time back at the garage undergoing repairs.

“Well to make up for forgoing our mini break to Athens I will take you out for a scenic drive in the car today, my dear,” Quentin offered. “Melecretes recommended the most authentically traditional Greek coffee place in the village of Ankinara, quaintly named for an artichoke. He was positively raving about it and you know what high standards he has.”

“Oh I know how you love to visit every village named for a vegetable darling. I’ll just get my handbag,” Deirdre enthused.

As they drove out of the driveway Fotini appeared from the neighbouring house with the parrot clamped on her head, desperately trying to flag the pair down.

“Just ignore the old bag,” Quentin instructed, tooting his horn. The goat reared up at the sound of the loud noise, causing Fotini to scuttle back indoors in terror.

“It’s no good, I cant’s live next door to that disgusting creature any longer,” Fotini complained to Nitsa and Hattie.

“Now Fotini, that’s my son you’re insulting,” Hattie admonished.

“I was talkin’ about the malaka goat,” Fotini clarified.

“Oh, that disgusting creature. It does stink to high heaven,” Hattie agreed.

“It’s not right that yous is frightened to step outside yous own front door, all on account of them foreigners,” Nitsa sympathised.

“I’m sure they didn’t realise you have a fear of goats,” Melecretes volunteered, joining them.

“Everyone knows about Fotini’s goat phobia,” Nitsa said. “I cant’s believe Bald Yannis would pander to ‘em.”

“That bald malaka will do anything for money,” Fotini observed.

“Well not quite anything,” Nitsa argued, remembering how Bald Yannis had turned down her body. “Still, the point is, the goat ‘as to go or else Fotini is going to be a virtual prisoner in ‘er own ‘ome.”

Nitsa winced at the memory of how Fotis had plotted to keep her practically a prisoner in his home by scheming to marry her in order to gain an unpaid nursemaid for his skeletal old mother. She had put paid to his dastardly intentions and was not prepared to stand by and see Fotini imprisoned by the deliberately callous actions of Quentin.

Grabbing the axe Nitsa rushed outside. Paying no heed to the prickly pear plant she virtually vaulted over the neighbouring wall and set to severing the rope tethering the goat to the washing pole. Slapping the creature heartily on its rump she encouraged it to make a speedy escape from Quentin’s garden.

Quentin was blissfully unaware his prize goat costing one hundred Christmas tinners had been freed, as he drove up the steep winding road towards Ankinara. “Are you sure this old banger will make it?” Deirdre questioned as the engine coughed and gurgled.

“It just needs a drop of water,” Quentin guessed, pulling to a halt next to a natural spring water tap. The pair climbed out of the car to admire the spectacular view and waited for the engine to cool down. Pointing towards the crystal clear sea Deirdre observed, “Oh look, isn’t that Gorgeous Yiorgos’ fishing boat? It’s quite a way out from shore.”

“Perhaps he’ll bring fresh fish to be cooked in a lemon dress to the taverna this evening.”

“So your economy drive won’t prevent us from eating out,” Deirdre sighed in relief.

“Well we have to be sociable,” Quentin quipped.

“I hear Soula is having a dinner party, but we haven’t been invited,” Deirdre told him.

“Well that’s a relief. Would you really want to spend an evening stuck in the company of Bald Yannis? He’d probably carve the meat with his chainsaw.”

“Don’t be silly dear, Bald Yannis is a vegetarian.”

“Not since he developed a phantom pregnancy in sympathy with Soula,” Quentin laughed.

“Good grief Quentin, how long have you been keeping that bit of juicy gossip to yourself? I had no idea.”

“Well next time you see him have a good look at his baby bump and swollen ankles.”

“I will have to think of an excuse to go in the hardware shop,” Deirdre mused.

“You can always buy one of his hideous old lady dresses.”

“Are you suggesting I am completely tasteless, dear?” Deirdre asked, smoothing imaginary creases out of her twin set. “Has the engine cooled down enough to carry on yet, Quentin? I really do need to stop for a bathroom.”

“That reminds me, I won’t be a jiffy,” Quentin said, making a quick dash towards the nearest olive tree.

“It’s all right for you, I can’t just pop behind an olive tree with all those goats watching,” Deirdre complained as Quentin re-emerged, zipping his flies.

“Cross your legs dear, we must be very near to the coffee place Melecretes raved about,” Quentin advised, starting the car.

Five minutes later the American pair pulled into the tiny village of Ankinara. “Are you sure this is the place? There’s no sign at all of any tavernas or coffee places,” Deirdre asked.

“Mel said it was just set back from the road and was very traditional looking. This must be it,” Quentin said spying the house Melecretes and Nitsa had gate-crashed.

Deirdre wasn’t convinced the scruffy looking stone house was actually open for coffee but her bursting bladder made the decision for them and they rushed inside.

“Kalimera, two of your finest coffees please,” Quentin said to the scowling peasant woman dressed in an odd assortment of homemade rags whose neck was encased in an unyielding grubby surgical collar.”

“And which way to the toilet?” Deirdre asked, rushing off in the direction the woman pointed. Deirdre groped her way down a dimly lit corridor ending abruptly in a door that led outside. Picking her way across a muddy yard full of hens and roosters she arrived at an outside toilet with a rather dubious door only opening outwards. With no sign of a light switch Deirdre was forced to leave the door ajar. As she sat down a gust of wind blew the door wide open, leaving her embarrassingly exposed to an audience of goats and an old goat herder who chuckled as he handed her a roll of toilet paper, saying “yous will be needin’ this.”

“I need a large brandy to go with this coffee,” Deirdre demanded on her return, looking like a reject from a horror movie as she dabbed blood from her face and neck. “That was the most primitive toilet I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter.”

She blushed scarlet as the old goat herder entered the room, pulling up a seat beside her, slapping a hand on her thigh and winking lasciviously. Announcing he’d pay for her brandy, he said “it’s the least I can do after yous flashed me so delectably.”

Removing his hand from her thigh Deirdre smiled nervously and knocked back the brandy. Not only had she inadvertently flashed her glow-in-the dark silk panties at this randy old goat herd but she had also been attacked by a swarm of blood sucking mosquitoes breeding in the leaking toilet cistern.

The old goat herd was not so easily deterred and turning to Quentin he asked, “Are yous ‘ere on holiday?”

“Yes, we have a holiday house down in Rapanaki,” Quentin told him.

“Ah, a lovely village, I used to bring the goats down before my knees got all arthritic,” the goat herder reminisced.

The glum peasant woman grabbed the goat herder by the collar and pulled him to one side, hissing, “Father, ‘ow many times ‘ave I told you not to chat up the tourists I’m trying to rip off. ‘Ow am I supposed to come out with my line ‘does I looks like a taverna’ if yous is treating it like one?”

“Yous knows ‘ow I like to be sociable, bein’ a goat herder is a lonely business,” the old man snapped. “Now stops yous moanin’ an’ go an’ fetch some more brandies for my guests.”

Quentin launched into a description of the sturdy looking goat he had just acquired. “Yous is a lucky man. A fine lookin’ woman on yous arm an’ an horny goat in yous garden. Years back, before I met ‘er mother,” the goat herder said, tilting his head towards his scowling daughter, “I ‘ad designs on a fine lookin’ woman down in Rapanaki, but it wasn’t to be ‘cos she had a mortal fear of goats.”

“Fotini,” Quentin and Deirdre declared in unison.

“Aye Fotini, that were ‘er name. I ‘aven’t seen ‘er in many a long year. Is she still alive then?”

“Alive and kicking, next door to us,” Quentin revealed.

“Well blow me, what a small old world it is. Yous will ‘ave to remember me to ‘er, the name is Pedros,” he said as Quentin and Deirdre raised their eyebrows at the coincidence of Fotini naming her only son after this thigh groping old goat herder.

Chapter 28

Goat To The Boat

“’Ere pass up that stuffed gonorrhoea,” Fat Christos called down to Iraklis. “I cant’s believe mother is insisting we put all these stuffed microbes up on the top shelf with the naked statues.”

“Perhaps we should just market them as cuddly toys and dispense with their actual diseased names,” Iraklis suggested.

“Yous could be onto something there, but they is meant to be educational,” Fat Christos praised his new helper. “Ere Masha, would yous be more inclined to buy this yellow stuffed toy if it wasn’t called ‘herpes’?”

Mail order Masha was only half-listening and told Fat Christos, “If yous ‘ave picked up something nasty yous ‘ad better go to the ‘ospital. I’ve been telling Vasilis he should go an’ get himself checked out; he’s not been looking too healthy these last few days.” Masha was worried about that old fool Vasilis; he’d been too exhausted to climb on the donkey earlier. She’d sent him back to bed with a bowl of borscht, telling him to conserve his energy for Soula’s dinner party that evening.

Soula, all in a flutter about hosting her first ever dinner, was getting on Bald Yannis’ nerves. He decided to cycle over to Quentin’s house to see if the Christmas tinners had arrived for his apocalypse kits and to breathe in some fresh sea air to counter his all day morning sickness. He was just approaching the house when he spotted the goat he had taken so much trouble to deliver to Quentin wandering down the lane. Grabbing the end of the severed rope still dangling from the goat’s neck he tied it to his handlebars and redelivered the creature to Quentin’s garden, tethering it to the washing pole and sticking a bill for his trouble under the door when he realised no one was home.

“I dont’s believe it,” Fotini cried in horror when she spotted the goat once again in residence next door. “That disgustin’ creature ‘as back in K-Went-In’s garden.”

“Leave it to me,” Nitsa shouted, once again grabbing the axe and scaling the garden wall. Despite her gallant effort in once again freeing the goat, the creature refused to budge, settling down to hungrily devour the rest of Deirdre’s vegetable plot. “We’ll ‘ave to get Pedros to come and shift it quick in his pick-up before the Americans get ‘ome,” Fotini shouted over the wall.

“What is it now mother?” Prosperous Pedros snapped down the phone.

“There’s no need to take that tone,” Fotini reprimanded her son.

“Sorry mother, but the phone has been going all afternoon. Every time I answer it there is nothing but heavy breathing.”

“Well, never mind that, get yourself over ‘ere now, it’s an emergency,” Fotini commanded.

Grumbling to himself Prosperous Pedros climbed in the pick-up, wondering if his mother’s emergency involved blowing up the deflated air bed or driving to the shop for chocolate supplies to satisfy her insatiably sweet tooth. “I must remember to tell ‘er to stop letting herself into my ‘ouse, I’m perfectly capable of doin’ my own housework an’ darning,” he muttered. He could not imagine why his mother had suddenly taken it upon herself to become motherly but was determined to put a stop to it. It seemed that every time he went out his mother must have popped round, no doubt in Nitsa’s taxi, to scrub and polish, and rummage through his belongings.

“’Ave yous lost yous marbles, why on earth would I be coming round to clean yous ‘ouse Pedro? Dont’s stand there accusing me of such nonsense,” Fotini screeched when Pedros told her to stop. “Fancy thinkin’ I’m breaking into yous ‘ouse to do yous laundry when I’ve got enough on my plate keeping on top of this place at my advanced years.”

“Well the ‘ouse ain’t cleanin’ itself,” said a truly perplexed Pedros. He could think of no other explanation for the sudden transformation of his cottage into a germ free zone.

“Never mind that now Pedro, yous ‘ave to do somethin’ about that malaka goat of K-Went-Ins,” Nitsa cried. “He couldn’t even be bothered to tether it up properly an’ now look, it’s in our garden chomping down all the best horta.”

“I could take it back next door,” Pedros offered.

“That wont’s do at all Pedro, K-Went-In’s not responsible enough to ‘ave charge of a living creature an’ yous mother is nearly deranged with terror.”

“What does yous suggest I do with it then?” Pedros asked, desperate to escape to the kafenion for a peaceful coffee.

“Cant’s yous stick it in yous boat for now? Just ‘urry up and get rid of it before them gormless twits gets back.”

“Just for one night, an’ then yous had better think of something else. I cant’s be ‘aving a floating goat leavin’ droppings in my boat, it will put the fish off,” Pedros gave in, driving away with the goat. He failed to notice the strange looking woman furtively hiding behind an olive tree who had arrived just in time to eavesdrop the last part of his conversation.

“Ooh my husband, I must help you out of this unwanted dilemma. If you don’t want that goat in your boat I will get rid of it for you, sweet Pedro,” crazy Koula exclaimed to herself. Now on a mission she turned towards Astakos and quickened her pace. Introducing herself to her new mother-in-law could wait for another day, the deluded woman decided.

Chapter 29

Glamping For The Gullible

“There was no need to go to so much trouble,” Bald Yannis pronounced, surveying the sumptuous spread of home-made bread, olives and Greek salad Soula had laid out in readiness for their guests and calculating how much of his hard earned cash it had cost him.

“Oh Yanni, dont’s be such a grump, it will be fun. You can pick their brains for ideas of what vital things to put in yous precious apocalypse kits,” Soula chided, skilfully flipping a large batch of kolokythokefthedes in the frying pan to brown the courgettes patties and checking the progress of the feta baking inside the oven.

“As long as yous dont’s spend all night talking about babies,” Yannis reminded her. “’Ave yous done some skordalia?” he added.

“Of course, I knows ‘ow yous phantom pregnancy is makin’ yous crave garlic,” Soula told him. “Ooh, that will be them now, can yous let ‘em in Yanni? ‘Ow does I look?”

“Very nice,” Bald Yannis complimented his wife, thinking she’d scrubbed up quite nicely.

Fat Christos and Tassia entered, explaining they’d left baby Andromeda with Mrs Kolokotronis and Iraklis.

“Aren’t yous worried the young lad will drop ‘er on ‘er ‘ead again?” Bald Yannis asked, remembering how the trainee Pappas had dropped the baby at her christening.

“Mother will keep a watchful eye. I think it was bein’ round the Pappas that made Iraklis a tad clumsy, he’s provin’ to be a dab hand with the cheese grater,” Fat Christos said. “Ah, here’s Masha,” he added as mail order Masha entered wearing a ‘Bun in the Oven’ tee-shirt straining to contain her voluptuous silicone bosom.

“What ‘appened to that old fool Vasilis, ‘as he ‘ad a better offer?” Bald Yannis asked.

“No, he’s still trying to get up the steps to the front door,” Masha explained. “He’s a bit winded.”

Fat Christos disappeared to give Vasilis a push up the stairs. The old fool finally made it; looking a sickly shade of grey he collapsed onto a chair, wheezing, “I’ll be all right after an ouzo.”

“Yous ‘ave made it nice in ‘ere Soula,” Tassia said looking round. “’Ave you found out yet if the twins are girls or boys.”

“Boys, I am ‘avin’ two miniature Bald Yannis,’” Soula said joyfully. “Do yous know what yous is ‘avin.”

“A boy this time, a brother for Andromeda.”

“An’ we all know Masha is ‘avin a silicone chip,” Bald Yannis laughed, having no idea his idea of an original joke was well past its sell-by-date.

“Did yous all hear that funny business about a squatter moving into K-Went-In and Did-Ree’s ‘ouse whilst they were back in Idaho?” Masha asked. “Stavroula said it was some crazy woman who had gone gaga over Socrates and fancied he was ‘er ‘usband.”

“Well he does ‘ave a bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man,” Bald Yannis boomed, not sparing Tassia’s blushes.

“It must be a terrible thing to suffer unrequited love, and how terrible that the poor woman had nowhere to call home and had to resort to squatting,” Soula said, having no idea the squatter in question was her sister Koula.

“We must all lock our houses and shops very securely,” Fat Christos observed, not liking the sound of squatting strangers.

Bald Yannis soon steered the dinner chatter to his end of the world scam and was relieved to hear Masha had arranged for the smitten young reporter to do a televised segment on the unique benefits of Astakos as the place to survive the impending apocalypse.

“Does you think people will fall for it?” Fat Christos asked hopefully.

“All we’ve got to do is get the word out that Astakos is the only place on earth to avoid being exterminated in this galactic god bothering event and we can cash in. I’ve been busy puttin’ the word out on social media too,” Bald Yannis said.

“Excellent. Adonis told me he’s ‘ad his wife Penelope doin’ the same thing too,” Fat Christos said. “His ‘otel is already fully booked so we’ll ‘ave to start thinkin’ of where we can put up all the others we can con into comin’ ‘ere.”

“I’ve come up with an idea for that. Naturally we can rent out our ‘ouses to ‘em. Soula an’ I will be sleeping in the goat pen,” Bald Yannis revealed to Soula’s surprise. “But I’ve been reading up on this new fashion for glamping an’ think we can make some money out of it.”

“Glamping?” the others all questioned in unison. “What on earth is that?”

“It’s posh camping,” Bald Yannis explained.

“’Ow are we supposed to making camping posh? Surely that’s like saying’ bedding down in the goat pen is more upmarket than sleeping in the pig sty,” Fat Christos queried, being rather partial to his home comforts.

“I was thinking we could put shower curtains inside tents for ‘em to sleep on, it will add a luxuriant touch. If we put the tents on the beach they can sluice ‘emselves down in the sea and we can get Takis to deliver ‘em gyros in bed.”

“Ooh Yanni, yous is so clever, gyros in bed does sound upmarket,” Soula gushed with pride.

“I’ve told yous before, I feel it in my guts that the end of the world is nigh,” that old fool Vasilis said. “Yous should be takin’ this Doomsday prophecy seriously.”

“I never ‘ad yous down as that gullible,” Yannis snorted, “but yous did get taken in by a gold digger.”

As Masha glared at Yannis with dagger drawn looks he continued, “I’ll fill my apocalypse kits with all the extras they’ll need to survive. I was ‘oping to pick yous brains on ideas for what to put in ‘em. So far I’ve come up with raincoats, torches an’ ouzo.”

“I can supply the ouzo and they’ll be needin’ olive oil too, nobody could survive Doomsday without a dash of extra virgin,” Fat Christos volunteered.

“I couldn’t survive the end of the world without lipstick and nail polish,” Masha offered.

“I dont’s think you really get the idea about essential end of the world supplies,” Bald Yannis sneered, rolling his eyes at Masha’s inanity.

“There’s no need to act so superior,” Tassia butted in to defend her friend.

“Tassia’s right, some of these Doomsday believers might well be vain women,” Fat Christos.

“Hair dryers, they’ll definitely need hairdryers,” Masha suggested, nonchalantly fingering her hair extensions.

“Now yous is just bein’ daft, where’s they goin’ to plug in hairdryers if they is stopping in tents on the beach,” Fat Christos mocked.

“But Yannis said they was glamorous tents,” Masha said defensively.

“Look, if you really want end of the world supplies you need to think of practical things,” Tassia piped up. “Flint to start fire, cast iron skillets to cook in, bottled water, first aid kits and hunting knives.”

The others stared at Tassia, ashamed they had not realised the apocalypse kits must contain such practical essentials.

“That’s all well and good,” Bald Yannis harrumphed, “but we cant’s ‘ave ‘em lighting fires, the next thing yous know all the olive groves would be set alight an’ the village burned down. An’ I dont’s think we should let a bunch of Doomsday nutters loose with huntin’ knives, not with all my goats to consider. Perhaps we’d better stick to bottled water and toilet paper.”

As the rest of them continued to argue over suitable items, that old fool Vasilis slowly slumped over, landing face first in his plate of beefteki.

“’As he croaked it?” Bald Yannis shouted, hoping his wife’s cooking hadn’t killed the old codger.

Yanking her husband’s head upright Masha screamed “someone ‘ad better give ‘im the kiss of life.”

“Dont’s look at me,” Fat Christos and Bald Yannis said in unison as Soula pushed them out of the way, demanding, “Give him some air. He doesn’t look good at all. With ‘is advanced years we cant’s be too careful. We must get ‘im to ‘ospital at once. Yanni, phone for a taxi, it will be quicker than waiting for an ambulance.”

Between them Bald Yannis and Fat Christos hauled Vasilis downstairs, propping him upright until the taxi arrived. The three women hovered over him, despairing he looked at death’s door. Mail order Masha fretted her husband had been poisoned by Soula’s cooking, wondering if she had used any ingredients that had been stashed in the Osta deep freeze next to her aunt’s decomposing body.

When Nitsa pulled up in the old Mercedes taxi Fat Christos took charge of the situation, insisting “yous three pregnant women should stay away from the ‘ospital, it’s flu season and yous could pick up anything. Yannis and I will go along with Vasilis in the taxi.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Bald Yannis argued. “Yous is forgettin’ there’s my phantom pregnancy to consider.”

“The clue is in the word phantom, yous big lummox,” Fat Christos shouted, “now man up and ‘elp me. Yous cant’s expect Nitsa to carry ‘im from the taxi into the ‘ospital.”

“Ooh, I don’t mind givin’ Yannis a hand when we get there,” Nitsa declared, delighted to have the hardware shop man captive in her taxi.

Mail order Masha, relieved she wasn’t expected to go along as she loathed hospitals, waved the taxi away, saying “Someone ‘as to stay ‘ome to feed the donkey and check the old fool has updated his will.”

Chapter 30

Frightful Bed Companions

Propped up in the back of Nitsa’s old Mercedes taxi between Bald Yannis and Fat Christos, that old fool Vasilis looked distinctly corpse-like. “I ‘ope he’s not dead,” Fat Christos said, “it wouldn’t be right ‘aving to bury ‘im again, so soon after the last time. Cant’s you speed up a bit Nitsa? At this pace rigor mortis could set in.”

“I’ll ‘ave to charge extra if yous want me to go any faster in the dark,” Nitsa complained, accelerating to a risky twenty kilometres an hour and hitting a pot hole.

The resultant bump jerked Vasilis who fell forward, violently bashing his head hard against Nitsa’s handbrake. “What ‘appened? Who ate my beefteki?” he groaned before passing out in another dead faint.

“He’s alive, it’s a miracle,” Fat Christos cried in relief.

“Yous can turn round Nitsa, he ain’t dead,” Bald Yannis shouted, eager to avoid the hospital and return to the homemade rizogalo Soula had prepared for dessert.

“Dont’s be so daft, he’s been out of it for ages, we ‘ave to get ‘im checked out,” Fat Christos argued as Nitsa pulled into the hospital, stopping the taxi by driving smack into the emergency barrier.

After handing over Nitsa’s exorbitant fare Bald Yannis and Fat Christos dragged Vasilis’ still inanimate body out of the taxi and into the hospital, hotly pursued by Nitsa who was desperate to get up close and personal with her favourite hardware shop man. She was still modelling the frumpy night dress and curlers she’d been wearing when the emergency call for a taxi came through.  There hadn’t been time to scrub the avocado face mask off, leaving her with a ghastly green complexion made all the more garish against her neon orange moustache.

The examining doctor demanded to know if the old fool was taking any medication, but as Vasilis was too out of it to answer the doctor resorted to rummaging through his pockets.

“I think you’ll find the old fool has overdosed on these,” the doctor sneered disapprovingly, waving an empty bottle of Viagra aloft. “He has fainted and is showing other classic symptoms,” he added, pointedly gesturing towards Vasilis’ obviously tumescent groin. “Send the timewaster home. I just can’t understand why these old codgers are so bent on carrying on as if they are still forty years younger.”

“You would if you saw his wife,” Fat Christos countered. “He’s married to Masha what does the weather on telly.”

“This old relic is married to that ravishing beauty?” the doctor gasped in amazement. “On second thoughts the old man must be observed for the night in case he develops palpitations. His wife must be told about his condition and summoned immediately. Nurse, prepare a bed.”

The doctor was a devoted fan of Masha’s weather show, skilfully scheduling operations to never miss one of her television appearances. He wasn’t about to waste this wonderful opportunity to meet her in the flesh. Wandering over to reception he stole a single carnation from a vase of flowers to plump up his buttonhole, then grabbed the rest of the blooms to stash in the doctor’s lounge and present to Masha when she arrived.

“His bedside manner certainly improved when yous mentioned the mail order floozy,” Nitsa grumbled.

“It’s shocking. Vasilis could have dropped down dead in the taxi going home, he still looks a funny colour,” Fat Christos commented, helping Bald Yannis drag the old man to the bed the nurse had prepared.

Vasilis was unceremoniously dumped on the bed. The movement revived him and looking around he screamed in terror when he caught sight of the skeletal horror with a bald skull, a toothless grimace and a broken arm occupying the adjoining bed. “’Ere, ‘ave a drop of my raki, yous dont’s look too hot,” the old woman gasped, proffering a bottle in her claw like hand.

“Is this a nightmare? ‘Ave I woken up in the graveyard? I knew that end of the world prophecy would come true,” Vasilis moaned.

“Nitsa, I knew yous would come, ‘ave yous decided to marry me?” the familiar voice of Fotis piped up from the chair he’d been dozing in next to Kyria Moustakos’ bed.

“Foti, what are yous doin’ ‘ere?” Nitsa exclaimed, desperately trying to peel the green gunk off her face.

“I tried to tell yous, mother broke ‘er arm, but yous just disappeared into the night,” Fotis said, clueless Nitsa had been driven away by the prospect of playing nursemaid to his mother. He was still waiting for her answer to his marriage proposal and harboured the deluded presumption his unromantic offer of marriage had simply scared her with its suddenness.

“I understand if yous need more time to think it over my cherub, but face facts, we ain’t gettin’ any younger,” Fotis pleaded with a twirl of his moustache.

“Foti, I cant’s marry yous, I ‘ave promised myself to Bald Yannis,” Nitsa spluttered, kicking Yannis in the shins and hissing “if yous play along, I’ll make it worth yous while.”

“Dont’s try and entangle me in some sordid love triangle, you mad old bag,” Bald Yannis retorted, refusing to humour the deluded old hag.

“Ooh Foti, I warned yous she was a loose type, she’s been stringin’ yous along with another man on the side,” Kyria Moustakos piped up.

Pulling himself out of his chair Fotis squared up to Bald Yannis, saying “Does yous want to take this outside?”

“Dont’s be so ridiculous, do you imagine yous is any challenge to me and my chainsaw,” Bald Yannis scoffed, revving the engine of the chainsaw that accompanied him everywhere since being caught out without it when he’d transported Quentin’s goat on his bicycle.

“What is this rowdy disturbance about? Don’t you realise there are sick people in here,” the doctor shouted, entering the room to see if Masha had turned up yet. Fotis slumped meekly back into his chair, confused by Nitsa’s professed devotion to another man.

Turning to Bald Yannis the doctor enthused over the chain saw. “That is a fine looking machine; I’ve been meaning to invest in one.”

“I presume with his bedside manner he uses one when he operates,” Fat Christos muttered, less than impressed with the doctor.

“I can give yous a good price in my ‘ardware shop if yous can just ‘ave a quick look at my chest,” Bald Yannis blurted. “I keep ‘aving a tightness when I’ve eaten.”

“That’ll be heartburn on account of your phantom pregnancy, Tassia suffers from it all the time,” Fat Christos diagnosed.

“Oh, it that all it is?” Yannis sighed in relief.

“How much of a discount can you offer,” the doctor asked Yannis, still thinking of the chainsaw.

“Nowt, now Fat Christos ‘as done yous job for yous,” Yannis sniffed.

“Nurse, tell me when the old fool’s wife turns up,” the doctor barked, rushing out to find some aftershave before Masha arrived. “I’ve had quite enough of this peasant rabble.”

Chapter 31

Quentin And Deirdre Get Lumbered

“I could swear I just saw a goat in a boat,” Deirdre remarked as they were towed past the harbour in their broken down car by Adonis the mechanic.

“You must be seeing things, dear, perhaps the moonlight is casting odd shadows and making you see floating goats,” Quentin replied. “It’s been a long day and I expect your eyes could be playing tricks on you.”

“To say it has been a long day is putting it mildly,” Deirdre groaned. Following coffee and brandies as the guest of Pedros the old goat herder in his daughter’s house, the one Melecretes had mislead them into thinking was a taverna, the American pair had planned a leisurely afternoon drive. Their plans were thwarted when the old banger refused to start.

After a lot of tinkering under the bonnet the old goat herder pronounced “yous is right, the old banger won’t start, yous ‘ad better come back inside whiles yous wait for the tow truck. My daughter will be ‘appy to rustle yous up some lunch.”

“We couldn’t dream of imposing,” Deirdre insisted, desperate to be rid of the malodorous groping goat herder and his scowling daughter. “I’m sure Adonis the mechanic will be along any minute. We can amuse ourselves with a bracing walk.”

“I couldn’t let yous do that, it ain’t safe. Old Kostas’ guard dog ‘as chewed through its chain an’ is on the rampage. It’s already feasted on Maria’s roosters and it ‘as a preference for a shapely ankle,” Pedros the goat herder told them, eyeing up Deirdre’s legs and dribbling slightly.

The look of panic on Deirdre’s face, magnified at the sound of wild barking, prompted Quentin to declare “A spot of lunch sounds wonderful.”

The goat herder’s warm welcome was not mirrored by his daughter’s sulky scowl. She set to preparing lunch in surly silence, finally slamming down a basket of crusty bread, a plate of feta cheese doused in olive oil, salad and some freshly fried chips.

“Dont’s forget the garlic,” her father shouted, telling the Americans “yous ‘aven’t lived till yous ‘ave tasted raw garlic cloves on top of oily bread. It’ll put ‘airs on yous chest Did-Rees.”

Quentin and Deirdre were much impressed with the simple peasant fare and had to admit the raw garlic was a bit of a hit and the chips were the best they’d ever tasted. “Apart from the bread, I grew everything yous is eating. Yous will ‘ave to come back for Easter, she does a delicious roast goat an’ perhaps yous could bring Fotini with yous,” the old goat herder invited, asking “Is she still a looker?”

Fortunately Quentin and Deirdre minded their manners to not speak with their mouths full so evaded the question by just nodding blankly. “Oh well a lot of years ‘ave gone by,” the goat herder said wistfully, misinterpreting their reluctant nods as the Greek way of saying no.

Quentin didn’t need to feign interest in some of the interesting tales about life in the olden days Pedros regaled them with, but Deirdre was less enamoured by the experience as she fought a constant battle to remove his gnarled groping hand from her knee. Her second visit to the toilet resulted in a fresh batch of bleeding mosquito bites which Pedros insisted on treating with a bottle of vinegar. By the time Deirdre needed the bathroom a third time she was reduced to scoping out the nearest olive tree.

The sun set over the sea long before Adonis the mechanic finally showed up and towed their banger back down the mountain. “Can you imagine Fotini’s face when we tell her we spent the afternoon in the company of her old admirer?” Quentin laughed.

“Oh, does that mean you plan on speaking to her again?” Deirdre asked in relief, hating Quentin’s ongoing feud with the neighbours. They had just passed the goat standing in Prosperous Pedros’ boat when Quentin said, “Isn’t that Masha waving frantically? I wonder what the matter is,” just as the silicone bride leapt in front of Adonis’ truck.

After a frantic conversation with Adonis involving lots of gesticulations, Masha climbed into the back seat of the broken down old banger, exclaiming, “Thank goodness Adonis stopped. This is an emergency; Adonis has agreed to tow us to the hospital.”

“Are you having the baby already?” Quentin panicked.

“Of course not, it’s not due for six months. Vasilis is dying. I should have gone with ‘im in the taxi, but Fat Christos and Bald Yannis took charge. Then the doctor phoned and said I needed to be there, but I couldn’t get a ride anywhere. I hope you don’t mind the detour.”

“You can rely on us in an emergency,” Quentin assured her, having been given no choice in the matter.

“Maybe I should ‘ave climbed in the tow truck with Adonis,” Masha said as her olfactory senses were assaulted by the pungent stench of raw garlic, vinegar and old goat herder reeking from the Americans. Winding the window down she stuck her head out, complaining “this is the first time I’ve ‘ad any morning sickness.”

As the car was towed into the hospital car park Masha rushed out after telling Quentin and Deirdre, “If yous is comin’ inside to see Vasilis yous might want to stop at the pharmacy first for some soap and toothpaste.”

The doctor was hovering in anticipation as Masha burst into Vasilis’ hospital room with her silicone bosom still straining against her ‘Bun in the Oven’ tee-shirt, crying “Is he dead then?”

Rushing to her husband’s bedside Masha proclaimed “what ‘ave yous done to ‘im, he didn’t have a bleeding ‘ead when he left Soula’s?”

“That would be Nitsa’s driving,” Fat Christos explained. “The doctor says he will live, but he’s still a bit faint.”

“What’s wrong with ‘im doctor?” Masha demanded.

“Well it’s a very delicate matter,” the doctor began, slipping an arm round Masha’s waist to steer her out of the room and nearly asphyxiating her with his newly applied aftershave. “Did I mention I’m a huge fan? Could I have your autograph?”

“There’s nothing delicate about it,” boomed Bald Yannis, “yous said the old fool overdosed on Viagra.”

“Don’t be daft, he gave up Viagra when I got pregnant, the chemist recommended he swap to horny goat weed if he was feeling a bit down in the bedroom department,” Masha scoffed, visibly paling when the smitten old doctor waved the empty pill bottle under her nose. “Why ‘ave yous been taking Viagra Vasili, ‘ave yous got another woman?” Masha angrily accused.

“I swear I ‘aven’t touched any Viagra Masha, the only pills I swallowed were some painkillers for a bit of a headache I ‘ad.”

“The evidence says otherwise,” the doctor pronounced, nodding his head towards Vasilis’ rampant manhood.

“I ‘ave to admit I ‘ad a bit of trouble seeing the label on account of my blinding headache,” Vasilis confessed. “Perhaps I grabbed the wrong bottle.”

“Yous stupid old fool, I told yous you needed reading glasses but yous was too vain to wear ‘em,” Masha shouted.

“You mustn’t excite yourself my dear, not in your condition,” the smitten old doctor advised with a lecherous look, handing her the dripping bunch of reception flowers. “If you ever need a personal physician I’ll be more than happy to be on call.”

“Does that offer stand for all the pregnant women in the village or just the famous ones?” Bald Yannis demanded to the doctor’s embarrassment. “I’ve ‘ad enough of this, can we leave now? Do we ‘ave to drag Vasilis back to the taxi or are you keepin’ ‘im in overnight?”

“The old man should stay in case he develops palpitations,” the smitten old doctor said, jumping to the erroneous presumption Masha would stay at her husband’s bedside.

“I hope yous don’t expect me to stop and look after ‘im, I ‘ave to get ‘ome to feed the donkey,” Masha shouted, using the donkey as an excuse because she loathed hospitals.

“Well someone really should stay by his bedside, you know it is the custom,” the doctor said, hoping to shame Masha into spending the night, during which time she would no doubt fall for his superior charms.

“It wouldn’t look right if we left him ‘ere all alone with no one to run after ‘im,” Fat Christos said, hastily adding “but don’t look at me, I ‘ave to get back to Tassia an’ the baby. Andy won’t sleep till I’ve made all the faces an’ done the dance from ‘Mariza the Stubborn Donkey.’ Tassia can’t waggle ‘er ears just right.”

“Well dont’s look at me,” Bald Yannis said. “Agapimeni wont’s settle unless I tuck ‘er into bed.”

“Well dont’s look at me,” Nitsa joined in “I ‘ave to drive Fat Christos back to ‘is baby and Bald Yannis back to ‘is goat.”

“But someone ought to stay,” Fat Christos persisted, “It ain’t right to leave ‘im ‘ere without no one. It’s just not done.”

“Is this the right room?” Quentin and Deirdre asked, tentatively entering. They were completely taken by surprise at the rapturous welcome they received as the others pushed them into the chairs surrounding Vasilis’ bed.

“It is so good of yous to volunteer. I always say K-Went-In and Did-Rees is so kind,” Masha gushed, backing out of the door in hot pursuit of Nitsa, Bald Yannis and Fat Christos.

“Volunteer for what?” the hapless Americans asked, perplexed to discover the room was now empty apart from Vasilis and an apparently living corpse in the adjoining bed.

“I think yous ‘ave been volunteered for the Greek custom of spending the night by the hospital bedside of yous loved ones,” Fotis explained, returning from the bathroom. “Now yous are ‘ere I dont’s suppose you’d mind an extra one. Can yous keep an eye on mother? I’ll be back in the morning.” With that Fotis legged it from the hospital room, screeching “Nitsa wait up, yous knows I love you.”

“What just happened?” Deirdre asked, flummoxed by the strange turn of events. “Do they really expect us to spend the whole night in this hospital room?”

“I rather think they do,” Quentin groaned, peering out of the window and seeing his old banger being towed out of the car park closely followed by Nitsa’s taxi and Fotis’ car. They were startled from their reverie by Kyria Moustakos croaking, “’Ere pass me the bedpan.”

The American pair turned in horror towards the spectacle of a speaking skeleton and declared “we’ve been well and truly lumbered.” Deirdre, treated to an unwanted eyeful of Vasilis’ unfortunate condition proclaimed “it’s positively indecent.”

Chapter 32

The Pious Malaproper Arrives

Koula was lurking furtively by the harbour as Nitsa’s taxi sped away to the hospital with its comatose cargo. Reluctant to tear herself away from the window of the taverna where she’d been ogling Prosperous Pedros, she reminded herself she had a mission to extricate him from the ‘goat on a boat’ dilemma she had eavesdropped upon. Creeping past the line of fishing boats gently bobbing in the harbour she spotted Pedros’ boat with the tethered goat standing upright in the moonlight, and unsteadily lowered herself into it. Tenderly petting the goat Koula whispered, “Now you can either hop onto shore or we’ll have to swim for it.”

Untying the floating goat she tossed a handful of carrots onto dry land to tempt it from the boat. The seasick goat was happy to gambol free and Koula reminded herself to return later to sweep up the droppings. As she attempted to mirror the goat’s leap onto dry land the boat lurched and Koula fell into the sea with a resounding splash. The goat waited patiently, hopeful she had more carrots in her pocket, as she hauled herself from the water.

Koula was leading the goat back to the harbour-side house when she spotted the Pappas approaching, his signature black robes flapping behind him. Keeping her head down she muttered “Kalispera,” hoping he wasn’t the type of priest who would want to question her dripping appearance on the pretext of converting her to his God-bothering ways. The Pappas had other things on his mind. He was on his way to the bus stop to meet Iraklis’ mother and the sight of a dripping wet woman walking a goat by moonlight barely registered with him.

Kyria Sisyphean climbed down from the bus, complaining she had been forced to endure the company of heathens throughout the long journey from Aprositos. “Now tell me Pappas, what was so urgent I had to rush to Astakos? Has Iraklis suffered an accident requiring a donation of one of my organs? I know how clumsy he can be.”

“No, nothing like that. The ungrateful boy has turned his back on the church, jacking it all in for a poxy job at the supermarket. I hope you can persuade him of the error of his ways. Personally I blame the corrupting influence of Mrs Kolokotronis.”

“Who’s she then?” Kyria Sisyphean asked suspiciously.

“The woman he’s living with,” the Pappas replied venomously, omitting to mention Mrs Kolokotronis was a respectable granny.

“My Iraklis is shacking up with some trollop? Take me there at once Pappas; words will have to be posted. This is most intolerant.”

Getting the gist of the woman’s malapropisms the Pappas hoisted her suitcase onto his shoulder, saying “Allow me to lead the way.”

“What’s all this banging in aid of? You’ll wake the baby,” Mrs Kolokotronis hissed angrily, opening the door to the Pappas and his companion. Andromeda started wailing at the top of her lungs, prompting Mrs Kolokotronis to cry out “Irakli, give Andy that cuddly syphilis love, it will calm her down.”

“Babies and syphilis, you have been busy corrupting my son,” Kyria Sisyphean sneered accusingly, rudely pushing her way into the house. “Irakli, show yourself at once, you have some expletives to do.”

“I think you mean explaining mother,” Iraklis corrected, daring to stand up his mother. “Did you even open the dictionary I bought for your Name Day?”

“How dare you speak to me like that after all I endured bringing you up single handed after your father ran off with a flummox.”

“Does she mean floozy?” Mrs Kolokotronis asked the Pappas.

“She appears to have a rather loose grasp of language,” he replied. “But nevertheless she is here on a mission to persuade Iraklis he has erred and has a duty to return to the church.”

“It looks like it is too late Pappas. If Iraklis has been living in sin with this woman then the church won’t want him back. Being a filthy proglifate isn’t pious and churchly,” Kyria Sisyphean said, making the sign of the cross over her bosom as Iraklis started openly weeping.

“Is yous accusing me of being profligate with yous son, you deluded woman? Cant’s you see I am old enough to be his granny,” Mrs Kolokotronis shouted, wiping up Iraklis’ tears with the edge of her pinny. “There, there,” she comforted him “I knows yous said yous mother was an ‘ard woman, but she appears to be devoid of any ‘uman kindness. How can our innocent friendship be so misconstrued?”

Pointing a finger at the Pappas, Mrs Kolokotronis continued, “It was yous puttin’ filthy ideas in ‘er ‘ead yous wicked man. Yous is never ‘appy unless yous is meddling in other peoples affairs.”

“So it’s true you are having an affair,” Kyria Sisyphean yelled, determined to see sin everywhere.

“It is not true, and keep your voice down,” Mrs Kolokotronis commanded, “Do you think the baby needs to ‘ear all yous carrying on?”

“Irakli, I demand to know just how long you have been keeping this baby of yours a secret from me. Your behaviour is an utter dislocation.”

“Can you explain how Iraklis helping me babysit my granddaughter is disgraceful? You have a mind like a sewer,” Mrs Kolokotronis pointed out, interpreting the other woman’s meaning.

“Po po, you won’t find a more pious woman than me in the whole of Hellas. I’ve never had a sinful thought in my life.”

“But you presume everyone else is steeped in sin mother, and now you think it of me? A good Christian woman wouldn’t see the worst in everyone. I’ve always done your bidding, but it was intolerable living with this fraud of a Pappas who only wanted a live-in dogsbody. Mrs Kolokotronis has shown me nothing but genuine warmth in her loving home and I honour her like a grandmother,” Iraklis declared.

“And I’d thank you to leave now, yous ‘ave upset the lad enough” Mrs Kolokotronis added, pushing her unwelcome visitors towards the door. Andromeda chose that moment to hurl her cuddly syphilis at the departing pair, achieving a bull’s eye on the back of Iraklis’ mother’s head. About to accuse the baby of sinful behaviour, Kyria Sisyphean bit her tongue, pondering if perhaps the Pappas had deliberately misled her and if she had over reacted by jumping to the wrong conclusion.

As the door slammed behind them Mrs Kolokotronis swept Iraklis into a grandmotherly embrace, saying “Yous is a good loyal boy Irakli, never once revealing the extent of how ghastly that woman is. Yous ‘ave a ‘ome here as long as you want it. Now come through to the kitchen an’ I’ll fry up some loukamades with honey.”

“They have a point about returning to the church. You feed me up so heartily the only clothes that still fit me are the loose clerical dresses I used to wear,” Iraklis joked.

Chapter 33

Goatly Goings On

“The coast is clear,” Koula whispered to Quentin’s stolen goat, watching the Pappas head off to the bus stop. She was careful to ensure no one saw her sneaking round the back of the harbour-side house where she gave the goat a leg up through the open kitchen window.

“Now don’t go bleating, we don’t want any goatly goings on to alert anyone we are here,” Koula warned the goat as she emptied the soggy pockets of Deirdre’s cast-off coat prior to turning it into a comfortable bed for her goatly guest.

“These photos of Pedros will need drying out by the oven,” she lamented, separating the dampest ones from the rest which she sellotaped all around the mirror Thea had rescued from the landfill site. “Ooh that’s handy,” she continued to herself, discovering Deirdre had left a lipstick in the coat pocket. “It’s a bit pink for my taste,” she chattered, drawing a rose coloured heart on the mirror and filling it with the word ‘Pedros’.

“Now you behave,” Koula instructed the goat, feeding it more carrots and frantically dusting the dressing table before placing Pedros’ neatly folded purloined pullover in the centre of a circle of lighted candles. “I have to get back and sweep up your droppings from Pedros’ boat. You know, seeing the Pappas gave me an idea, tomorrow I will stop by the church and book it for my wedding. It will be a lovely surprise for my sweet Pedros. I’ll just give him a quick call before I leave.”

Koula smiled manically as the object of her adoration answered his mobile phone, but instead of replying to his tetchy query of “who is this?” she satisfied herself with a bout of heavy breathing.

“Who was that then?” Tall Thomas asked as Prosperous Pedros hurled his mobile phone across ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima.’

“There was no one there. I have been plagued all day with these pesky calls from a heavy breather. I’m guessing it is a rival fisherman trying to wind me up,” Pedros said.

“Is that a new pullover, Pedro?” Yiota enquired, knowing how much Prosperous Pedros loathed going shopping.

“No, it’s an old holey one that ‘as been darned, but for the life of me I don’t remember doing it and mother swears she ‘ad no ‘and in it. It’s quiet in ‘ere tonight Yiota, where is everybody?”

“Some of ‘em are round ‘aving dinner at Bald Yannis’ house,” Yiota explained to rolled eyes. Bald Yannis was not known for entertaining and the idea amused them. “K-Went-In phoned and asked me to save ‘em some lamb chops as they’d be late gettin’ down on account of their car breaking down up in Ankinara, but I can’t think what’s holdin’ ‘em up. Adonis’ tow truck went up ages ago to get ‘em.”

“’Appen they ran into Pedros, that old rogue of a goat herder. There’s no gettin’ away once he starts chuntering on,” Takis suggested. “Now, the strangest thing ‘appened today. Yous will all ‘ave ‘eard of Bald Yannis’ scam plan to turn Astakos into a refuge for them daft enough to think the world will end soon, but not in Astakos.”

“Aye, there was even a segment on the news today about how some people are desperate to get ‘ere, they’ll be flying in from all sorts of places,” Prosperous Pedros acknowledged. “Adonis ‘as got hotel bookings from as far afield as Estonia and England; China and Kazakhstan.”

“Dont’s be daft, Kazakhstan is a made up place what that hilarious Borat character showing ‘is bits in a mankini came from,” Tall Thomas argued.

“Of course it exists, it is the largest landlocked country in the world,” Prosperous Pedros insisted, showing off his superior book learning.

“Fancy not ‘aving any sea to swim in. Well let’s hope Kazahks are partial to gyros. Bald Yannis reckons we can make ready cash from somethin’ called glamping, an’ he only wants me to deliver gyros to rich malakas in posh tents,” Takis said.

“I thought yous and Bald Yannis never spoke on account of yous ongoing feud about Yiota putting feathers in ‘er vegetarian pies.”

“That’s true, but he reckons there’s a lot of money in delivering gyros to glamping Doomsday trippers so I made an exception and we agreed to put our feud on hold till the world ‘as ended.”

“Well nobody makes gyros better than yous,” Tall Thomas said.

“That Melecretes malaka what is stopping with yous Aunty Nitsa would beg to differ, he thinks he’s the world expert on gyros.”

“Appen yous could rope ‘im in to give you a hand if demand gets too much from them Doomsday trippers,” Tall Thomas suggested. “An’ Iraklis could deliver ‘em on the supermarket tricycle now he’s finally got the ‘ang of it.”

“Humph, I’ll ‘ave to think on that,” Takis mused, wondering if he’d been a bit hasty in banning ‘call me Mel’ a day earlier in a fit of pique.

“It’s a bit dead in here tonight,” Vangelis the chemist declared entering the taverna. “No sign of Toothless Tasos. I just came by the harbour and noticed lights flickering upstairs in Thea’s house. I thought the place was still empty, but she must have managed to rent it out.”

“That’s odd,” Tall Thomas replied. “Only this morning Tasos was despairing they’d ever find anyone to rent it and they could do with the income on account of Thea’s extravagant spending on the ‘ome shopping channel.”

“Well someone must be in there now, I definitely saw lights in the upstairs window,” the chemist insisted.

“Yous should give the old tightwad a call to be sure, I ‘eard on the village gossip vine that a squatter moved into K-Went-In’s ‘ouse while they were back in Idaho,” Yiota said.

“Another missed call from the heavy breather,” Pedros groaned, retrieving his phone to call Toothless Tasos. “That makes seventy three today. ‘Ere Taso, Vangelis says there are lights on upstairs in Thea’s empty ‘ouse, ‘ave yous found someone to rent it?”

Two minutes later Pedros’ phone trilled again and Pedros shouted, “Tasos says it’s not lights, Thea’s ‘ouse is on fire. Hurry we must form a human bucket chain from the harbour to the house.”

Everyone rushed from the taverna to the harbour where Toothless Tasos was ineffectively attempting to douse the upper storey flames single-handed with a leaky hose pipe.

“’Ave yous called the fire brigade?” Vangelis shouted.

“Aye, but they wont’s be ‘ere for a good half-hour, they was parked up at the lookout spot on the mountain,” Tasos replied.

In no time at all a human bucket chain was formed, comprising Prosperous Pedros, Tall Thomas, Vangelis the chemist, Takis, Moronic Mitsos and Toothless Tasos. Socrates and Stavroula dashed out of the rival taverna to help after being alerted by Thea, and Iraklis was summoned to lend a hand by Yiota. “It’s lucky the kitchen window was open,” Socrates declared as the bucket line was extended inside the house and up the stairs.

“’Ere comes more ‘elp,” Tall Thomas shouted, flagging down Nitsa’s taxi returning from the hospital with Bald Yannis, Gorgeous Yiorgos and mail order Masha.

“Oh goodness, there is someone trapped inside, I can see a figure in the upstairs window,” Stavroula cried, recoiling in horror at the prospect of someone burning alive.

“We can’t reach ‘em from the staircase, there’s too much smoke,” Moronic Mitsos screamed, rushing out to refill his bucket.

“I’ll grab a ladder from the ‘ardware shop,” Bald Yannis boomed.

Everyone watched with bated breath as Bald Yannis positioned his ladder beneath the upstairs window and bravely ascended. “Stand back,” he shouted, breaking the window with his mallet.

“What a hero,” Nitsa called as Bald Yannis entered the burning room. An ominous silence descended as everyone waited for Bald Yannis to step back onto the ladder. A cheer broke out as he eventually put a tentative foot on the top rung, a dangerous and difficult manoeuvre considering he had hoisted Quentin’s ginormous horny goat over his shoulders.

“Ow on earth did a goat get into Thea’s ‘ouse?” Toothless Tasos questioned. “Was there anyone else trapped upstairs Yanni?”

“No, just the poor goat,” a soot covered Bald Yannis assured them between hacking coughs. Everyone burst into spontaneous applause, slapping Yannis on the back as the village hero, just as the fire engine pulled into the village and the firemen took over, successfully stopping the fire from spreading beyond the upstairs bedroom.

“I cant’s understand what K-Went-In’s goat was doing in there,” Bald Yannis told his captive audience. “Only this afternoon I found it wandering and tethered it back up in his garden.”

“Well if truth be told it was wandering loose earlier, terrifying my mother and eating its way through the horta in her garden. I promised ‘er I’d put it on the boat overnight till we could decide what to do with it as obviously K-Went-In isn’t capable of being in charge of a living creature,” Prosperous Pedros revealed, clueless it was actually Nitsa that had axed through the goat’s rope with his mother’s encouragement.

“But ‘ow did it get from yous boat into the upstairs of Thea’s house?” Toothless Tasos asked, still puzzled.

“Someone ‘ad left the kitchen window open, perhaps it just climbed in,” Socrates said, even though his suggestion didn’t explain how the goat got off the boat.

Fortunately for crazy Koula none of the villagers considered exploring Pedros’s boat for clues and thus failed to discover her hiding there. As she watched the flickering flames spread she cursed the goat for knocking over the candles and starting the fire, sobbing quietly over the loss of her precious photographs of Prosperous Pedros, engulfed in the fire. As the crowd began to head to ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima’ to toast Bald Yannis, Koula muttered “I’ve just time to pop by and plump up Pedros’ pillows.” It hadn’t dawned on her yet that the fire had left her with nowhere to squat.

Chapter 34

Goat Is Off The Menu

Hoisted aloft on the villagers’ shoulders, Bald Yannis was carried to ‘Mono Ellinka Trofima’ to be toasted for his heroic bravery and made welcome for the first time in years.

“The very thought of that poor creature nearly being burnt alive ‘as put me right off cooking goat in future,” Yiota lamented. “I know we all appreciate a bit of road-kill goat now and again, but no one would want to see a goat go up in flames.”

“That’s all right, we can ‘ave lamb this Easter,” Takis assured his wife. “’Ere Yanni, tuck into this plate of vegetarian chicken, yous must be famished after scaling that ladder an’ rescuing that ginormous goat from that fearsome inferno.”

“It certainly gave me an appetite,” Bald Yannis said, wiping his soot stained brow.

“I still cant’s fathom ‘ow the goat managed to get into Thea’s ‘ouse,” Toothless Tasos said.

“It’s a mystery ‘ow it got off my boat,” Prosperous Pedros mused. “I left it securely tied up.”

“Goatly goings on is often a mystery. I’ll ‘ave to ‘ave words with K-Went-In tomorrow, I dont’s think he’s taking his goat responsibilities seriously,” Bald Yannis told them, patting the rescued goat busily licking a saucer of ouzo to help with the trauma. Yannis was quite prepared to hold onto the goat if he suspected Quentin was incompetent, but he had no intention of returning the Christmas tinner payment.

“Yous will ‘ave to wait till he gets ‘ome from the hospital,” Fat Christos reminded him.

“Oh goodness, what ‘as ‘appened, ‘as K-Went-In had an accident?” Yiota asked in genuine concern.

“No, ‘im and Did-Rees is stopping there to look after that old fool Vasilis. He flopped face first into his dinner after overdosing on Viagra,” Fat Christos explained.

“’Ow come yous isn’t at the ‘ospital with yous ‘usband, Masha?” Takis enquired.

“Well someone ‘as to be at ‘ome to feed the pregnant donkey. An’ there was a right old pervert of a doctor who was a bit free with his hands an’ who knows what diseased place he’d just ‘ad ‘em,” Masha shuddered in disgust, having failed to see any charm at all in her latest admirer.

“He was a big fan of yours. He couldn’t wait to be rid of Vasilis until he knew he was married to yous,” Fat Christos said. “Still I does feel a bit guilty lumbering K-Went-In and Did-Rees with ‘ospital duties after their hospitality in Idaho.”

“I’ll go and collect ‘em in the morning,” Prosperous Pedros volunteered, thinking it was the least he could do, suspecting Nitsa and his mother had conned him into kidnapping the goat.

Takis and Bald Yannis sealed their tentative fledgling friendship over a glass of ouzo and their gyros delivery plan, deciding they would case out the caves along the coastline the next morning. As the caves were being promoted as the unique spot to survive the impending Armageddon, they decided they would erect some signposts as handy pointers to salvation for the impending Doomsday trippers to follow.

Thea, attempting to be stoical about the fire which had ravaged the upper storey of the harbour-side house, lamented the loss of the potential rental income she had planned to extract from the end of the worlders.

“Dont’s worry about it my little bougatsa, the insurance payment will more than make up for it,” Toothless Tasos comforted her. Thea burst into tears, confessing to her fiancé she had splashed out the money for the insurance premium on new underwear to replace the frillies that had disappeared from the washing line. Her confession sent Bald Yannis into his first ever guilt trip as he realised his innocent pastime of stealing underwear could have dire repercussions.

“I’m sure if we all muck in to repair yous ‘ouse we can ‘ave it ready before the end of the world arrives,” Bald Yannis magnanimously  suggested. His words were so out of character the others immediately felt obliged to offer their help too in sorting out the fire damaged house.

“Yous is all so kind, such good neighbours,” Thea gushed.

Yawning with exhaustion after all the excitement of the evening, the villagers started to make their way home. “Where’s Nitsa got to with ‘er taxi?” mail order Masha asked. “She was supposed to be dropping me ‘ome but I ‘aven’t seen ‘er since we stopped at the fire.”

“I think Aunty might have been distracted by all them ‘andsome beefy firemen in uniform,” Tall Thomas suggested. “She needs a bit of light relief after the way that malaka Fotis Moustakos was using her.”

Fat Christos offered Masha a lift home on the supermarket tricycle, but her leather trousers proved too tight for her to get her leg over. “I can drop you off in the pick-up Masha,” Prosperous Pedros offered, clueless his innocent act would incite raging jealousy in the bosom of the stalker whose existence he never even suspected.

Koula was lurking outside Pedros’ stone cottage as he drove by with the silicone beauty in the passenger seat. “Pedro, how could you be unfaithful when we are about to be married,” crazy Koula howled at the moon. Pulling herself together she cried, “Pedro I know you are innocent, after all we are soul mates destined to be joined as one. I will save you from the clutches of that blonde trollop.”

Prosperous Pedros was relieved to drop Masha off as her vampish ways always made him nervous. Arriving back at his simple stone cottage he was surprised to discover a grotesque knitted bride covering his roll of kitchen paper and a solitary clementine sitting atop his pillow. “Mother was adamant she hasn’t been in, I wonder if it could be Nitsa. First thing tomorrow I am changing the locks,” he said to himself, peeling the fruit. Climbing into bed he failed to notice crazy Koula ogling him through the bars of his window with a glazed look of ecstatic adoration on her face.

“Sleep tight, sweet Pedro,” she whispered, blowing him a kiss. “Don’t worry, I will get rid of that other woman and I promise we will be together forever.”

Koula stepped away from the window, shivering in the cold night air. Her clothes were still damp from her earlier dip in the sea and Deirdre’s cast-off coat had been burned to a crisp in the fire. She hadn’t dared steal another of Pedros’ pullovers, settling instead for one of his old white sheets. Her teeth began to chatter. Her jealous rage had drained the last of her energy and she succumbed to a bout of violent sneezing. Cursing the goat for starting the fire and depriving her of a place to sleep, she stalked wearily away, desperately hoping the lock on the church would be easy to pick.

Chapter 35

Gloria Gets Deflated

The Pappas was cursing the overly pious Kyria Sisyphean who he appeared to be lumbered with. She had made no attempt to persuade her son to return to the church, being more intent on creating a scene and accusing Iraklis of nefarious goings on with Mrs Kolokotronis. The Pappas was hopeful she would adopt a more conciliatory tone the next day and in the meantime his best hope was in offloading her for the night at Adonis’ hotel.

“What do you mean you are full? It isn’t the tourist season yet,” the Pappas argued with a pyjama clad Adonis who insisted there were no available rooms. “This poor woman has endured an arduous bus journey to reach Astakos and is in need of a bed for the night.”

“What’s wrong with yous own bed? Yous is supposed to be a Christian man, but that’s open to interpretation the way you knocked my cousin Petula round,” Adonis shouted.

“It wouldn’t be seemly for me to sleep under a strange man’s roof, which is why the Pappas suggested your hotel,” Kyria Sisyphean said sternly.

“Well this place is full of strange men. There’s religious nut jobs arrived from all corners of the globe convinced Astakos will survive this Doomsday charade,” Adonis said, slamming the door in their faces.

“Doomsday; what sacrificant talk. I hope you intend to give that man a stern talking to in church, Pappas,” Kyria Sisyphean declared. “He’s obviously a heathen attempting to malignancy your good character by implicating you were harsh with his cousin.”

“I was married to ‘is cousin Petula, but she left me for another man,” the Pappas confided, pulling at his straggly grey beard as he contemplated what to do with the overbearing woman.

“How unfortunate, it wouldn’t have been unseemly to stay at your house if the presvytera was there,” Kyria Sisyphean said, using the formal term for a priest’s wife. “However, now both your wife and Iraklis are no longer living there I will have to take your bed while you make altercations arrangements. Perhaps you have a chicken coop or goat pen you could bed down in?”

“I can sleep on the sofa,” the Pappas said.

“Don’t be so ridiculous, I have my reputate to consider. The goat pen is more than adequate for a strong man with your consternation.”

“As you can’t even say reputation properly I think you are overly bothered about preserving it,” the Pappas hissed under his breath.

“Preserves. Yes indeed a dish of olives would be most welcome,” Kyria Sisyphean said, barging into the Pappas’ kitchen. She was shocked into silence at the sight of such squalor, taking in the kitchen sink overflowing with filthy pots and the floor slick with spilt olive oil and feathers. The Pappas’ success in finally catching the recalcitrant rooster was apparent as the evidence of its decapitated head was lying discarded on the kitchen table, emitting a pungent stench.

“You need a woman that does,” Kyria Sisyphean decreed, rolling up her sleeves and preparing to set to. “I daren’t unpack my bible until this place has had a good scrub, I couldn’t bear to desiccate it.”

“I’ll just pop along and tidy the bedroom for you,” the Pappas said rushing out of the kitchen, thinking if he had to endure one more of the woman’s mutton-headed malapropisms he wouldn’t be able to control his temper. He couldn’t afford to offend her as she’d implied she was on close terms with the bishop. She was obviously a tittle-tattle, so he was forced to humour her.

“Goodness Gloria, I’m going to have to deflate you before that harridan claps eyes on you,” the Pappas apologised to the blow up sex doll sprawled on top of his grubby sheets. “I can’t risk leaving you here for her to find,” he muttered, desperately trying to squash its slowly deflating body into a suitcase, but only managing to let the air out of its lower limbs. Securing the lock with relief, he tossed the suitcase out of the window and surveyed the mess in the bedroom.

“Kyria Sisyphean is right about one thing, if I can’t guilt trick Iraklis back to perform his dogsbody duties, I will have to get in a woman what does,” he sighed. After sniffing the malodorous sheets he straightened them because he didn’t have any clean ones to offer his unwanted guest. He kicked his smelly socks under the bed, cursing the lack of holy incense on hand to waft about the room to disguise the fetid stench.

“This room is disgustful, I will have to sleep on the sofa,” Kyria Sisyphean complained, entering the Pappas’ bedroom and immediately polishing the icon above his bed.

“Whatever you think is best,” the Pappas concurred. “I really must be off now, it wouldn’t be good for your reputation Kyria if the villagers found out we’d been alone under the same roof; they are such dreadful gossips. I will see you in church in the morning.”

With that the Pappas legged it, his long black clerical dress flapping behind him, only stopping to retrieve the suitcase he’d tossed in the garden. He had no intention of sleeping in the goat pen; he hadn’t even expected his pet goat Nero to sleep in it. He decided to bed down in the church until morning.

“I could have sworn I locked the door,” he muttered, before passing out cold on the church floor with only the semi-deflated Gloria for warmth.

Chapter 36

Quentin Quivers

“Thank goodness you are here to rescue us Pedro, we’ve endured the night from hell stuck in this awful hospital room with that constantly carping carcass demanding endless bedpans,” Quentin said, tilting his head towards a now snoring Kyria Moustakos. “We had no idea hospitalised patients were reliant on the kind ministrations of strangers.”

“Well strictly speakin’ yous was ‘ere to look after me. Masha couldn’t do it as she’s pregnant and ‘as the donkey to see to, an’ it was obvious that smitten old doctor had designs on ‘er body,” that old fool Vasilis piped up. “It’s just bad luck yous got lumbered with someone else’s relative too and there was no transport to get yous ‘ome.”

“There were more relatives sleeping here than patients,” Deirdre observed, thinking it odd that Vasilis seemed to consider them relatives. She’d been surprised to learn whole families set up camp for the night in the hospital, being used to the concept of visiting hours which Greeks apparently took no notice of. “Anyway the doctor has signed Vasilis’ discharge papers so we can leave. Fotis will have to find some other mugs to stay with his mother.”

Deirdre had just finished speaking when Fotis arrived; weighted down with a colossal octopus he thrust into Quentin’s hands.

“K-Went-In, Did-Rees, please accept this octopus in grateful thanks for spending the night with mother. Yous is so kind hearted I knew yous wouldn’t desert ‘er.”

“Foti, leaving your mother, who we had never even met before, and expecting us to spend all night running round after her, is completely unacceptable behaviour,” Quentin sternly admonished the twinkly fisherman.

“But it were a romantic emergency,” Fotis pleaded in his defence. “I ‘ad to find out what Nitsa’s answer was to my proposal of marriage.”

“Did she say yes?” Deirdre asked, mellowing a little at the thought of this senior romance.

“Well it was a bit difficult to get a straight answer out of Nitsa on account of I couldn’t prise her away from all them ‘andsome firemen,” Fotis admitted. “Still I got a good night’s fishin’ in an’ I’m sure yous will appreciate the octopus, they ain’t cheap if you ‘ave to buy ‘em. I’d recommend you do it in a bit of vinegar, Did-Rees.”

“I can’t cope with that thing in my kitchen,” Deirdre said, horrified by its bulbous head and bulging eyes, and having no clue how to gut it.

“Now Deirdre, it’s a fine looking specimen, I’m sure if we take it to the taverna Yiota will turn it into a delicious meal,” Quentin said, struggling to keep hold of the slippery eight-legged creature. “Now what’s this about firemen, Foti? Has there been an incident.”

“Aye, there was a bit of a fire, but no one was hurt,” Fotis began, only to be interrupted by Prosperous Pedros insisting they must leave at once. He was eager to be gone before Fotis could blab about Quentin’s horny goat being rescued from the inferno and his own part in removing it from the vicinity of Quentin’s garden.

“Are you fit to walk or should I give you a fireman’s lift?” Pedros asked Vasilis.

“I’m fit to walk, though I am surprised to be walkin’ out of ‘ere alive. I really thought the end of the world had come,” Vasilis replied.

“That’s not due to ‘appen till next week,” Pedros laughed, as Vasilis strode into the reception area and warned the smitten old doctor, “Keep away from my wife.”

After dropping that old fool Vasilis back home Prosperous Pedros declined Deirdre’s offer to stop by for coffee, pleading a pressing engagement with the locksmith.

Quentin, annoyed to find Fotini picking horta in his garden, looked round for the guard goat but couldn’t spot it anywhere. “There’s a note here from Bald Yannis,” Deirdre called out to him. “He says he found the goat wandering loose on the lane and brought it back and tied it to washing pole. He says you owe him ten Euros for his trouble.”

“But it isn’t here,” Quentin said, grabbing the end of the severed rope and realising the goat must be well and truly gone if Fotini was bold enough to venture over the wall again.

“Have you seen the goat?” he asked Fotini.

“I don’t know what yous is talkin’ about,” Fotini cackled, looking anything but innocent. Scuttling back over the wall she let the parrot out of her kitchen and slammed the door. The parrot took aim, landing directly on Quentin’s scalp, where it clung on with sharp talons squawking “bomba.”

“I didn’t know the parrot could speak Spanish,” Deirdre said, quite impressed by its linguistic ability.

“It could be Italian. I think it’s going to squawk its way through its full repertoire,” Quentin said as the parrot proceeded to impress Deirdre with its mastery of fifteen languages. “I just want to be rid of it, I’m desperate for some sleep; I didn’t manage a wink in that hospital.”

“Just try and ignore it dear and go to bed,” Deirdre advised, throwing a tea towel over the parrot. “You can worry about the missing goat later.”

Half-an-hour later Quentin was roused from a deep sleep by the persistent hammering of Bald Yannis on the front door. As a bleary eyed pyjama clad Quentin opened the door, Bald Yannis questioned, “What is that stupid contraption doin’ on yous head, K-Went-In?”

“It’s Fotini’s blasted parrot,” Quentin explained as the parrot squawked “bomba” through the tea towel.

“Does Fotini know yous ain’t fit to be in charge of a living creature? I let yous ‘ave that goat in good faith and look what ‘appened to it. Nearly burned to a crisp in Thea’s ‘ouse fire. If I ‘adn’t come along to rescue the poor thing it would ‘ave been incinerated.”

“What on earth are you talking about? When we left for a drive to Ankinara yesterday the goat was tethered securely to the washing pole. We only got back from that old fool Vasilis’ hospital bed an hour ago to discover the goat was gone. How on earth did it end up in Thea’s house?”

“Well no one’s quite sure ‘ow it got from Pedros’ boat into Thea’s house, but the point is yous should ‘ave been looking after it better.”

“I tell you it was tethered securely when we went out,” Quentin insisted, trying to get his parrot adorned head round this nightmare of Bald Yannis standing in his doorway revving his chainsaw and accusing him of mistreating the goat that had apparently hot footed it from a boat into a burning building. It was all too confusing for Quentin’s sleep deprived brain to cope with.

“Just give me them one hundred Christmas tinners and we’ll say no more about it,” Bald Yannis relented, pushing the quivering Quentin aside as he marched inside to claim his tinned payment.

“So where is the goat now, have you brought it back?” Quentin asked.

“Oh finally yous bothers to show some concern for the goat. It’s safe now, no thanks to you. Yous isn’t fit to be in charge of it. It’s a very sensitive creature and will need Soula’s tender care to ‘elp it overcome the trauma of ‘aving to be rescued from a second storey window down a ladder.”

“Gosh, I heard the firemen had been in the village but I’d no idea they performed such a heroic act,” Quentin gushed.

“They didn’t. I rescued yous goat single-handed,” Bald Yannis boasted. “Now it’s stopping at ‘ome with Soula for a bit of tender nurturing, an’ yous needn’t bother pestering me for another one. If yous want to keep Fotini away try rat poison.”

With that Bald Yannis stomped off, cycling precariously away whilst trying to balance one hundred Christmas tinners and his chainsaw.

Chapter 37

Handcuffed To The Altar

Even before he opened his eyes in the early morning gloom the Pappas sensed a sinister presence hovering in the church. He tried to ignore it, but the cold slab floor offered no comfort so he reluctantly shook himself awake, screaming in shock to be confronted with a strange woman standing over him with a manic glint in her eyes, wearing a frumpy white wedding dress that appeared to have been fashioned from a bed sheet embellished with fishy embroidery. “How did you get in?” he demanded to know, confident he had locked the door behind him the previous evening.

“I came to book my wedding in your church,” crazy Koula said, ignoring his question.

“Ah, you are to be married, my child,” the Pappas said, perking up at the prospect of finally getting some bums on pews. “When would you like this auspicious event to take place?”

“Tomorrow,” Koula told him. “Tomorrow I will wed my true love Pedros. I have spent the whole night sewing this wedding dress from one of his bed sheets and embroidering it with fish.”

“That’s very short notice. I will need your paperwork to ensure it is all above board and legal,” the Pappas said, wondering if the suddenness was a sign of a shotgun wedding. “I haven’t seen you in this parish before, is this Pedros you speak of local?”

“I am to marry Pedros the fisherman,” Koula announced with an ecstatic smile.

“Pedros, Fotini’s son? Surely not, the man is a confirmed bachelor with an avowed loathing of matrimony,” the Pappas said.

His words incensed Koula who was already hyper-frenzied with fever from her dip in the sea the previous evening. “Well my darling Pedros will marry me tomorrow whether he likes it or not. The only problem is that blonde woman with the enormous plastic chest is trying to steal him away from me.”

The Pappas began to glean there was something not quite right about this manic woman, even as he attempted to humour her by saying, “You mean the Russian floozy? She’s married to that old fool Vasilis. I’ve never heard of her carrying on with Pedros and you know how gossip is rife in a small village.”

“Po po, an adulterous is she? I will not allow her to besmirch my perfect Pedros with her loose ways. Tell me where she lives Pappas, I need to take her out of the picture,” Koula demanded menacingly.

“I don’t think that would be the proper thing to do at all. I have a duty to my parishioners, even if they rarely bother to come to church. I am sure you don’t really want to involve the Russian in your deluded fantasies,” the Pappas prevaricated, certain this raving woman was unhinged.

“How dare you say our love is a fantasy,” Koula screamed, wielding a heavy gold candlestick over her head. “Tell me where I can find the Russian, or you get it with this.”

No one had ever accused the Pappas of being a man of honour, yet he sensed the very real danger in providing directions to Masha’s house and staunchly refused to divulge them. He soon had a change of heart when Koula smashed the heavy gold candlestick into his temple, following it up with a second heavy blow. Gibbering in fear the cowardly Pappas broke down, telling her where she could find the mail order bride. As the blood dripped down his face and stained his beard, Koula pulled the kinky furry handcuffs she had stolen from Slick Socrates out of her pocket and handcuffed the Pappas to the altar, adjusting the position of the semi-deflated sex doll beneath him so his bleeding head was cushioned on its still inflated plastic bosom.

“I will see you tomorrow at my wedding,” Koula promised, leaving the church, determined to sort out Masha.

Chapter 38

A Bag Of Cheese And Onion In A Damp Tent

“Are you sure it is wise to take Andromeda out in this weather, dear?” Tassia asked, watching Fat Christos bundle their daughter into multiple padded layers.

“It’s tradition to go out flying kites on Clean Monday,” Fat Christos insisted.

“But there’s not a whiff of wind and those black clouds forecast pelting rain,” Tassia observed, peering from the window. “Everyone else has cancelled their kite flying plans to give Toothless Tasos a hand to clear up the mess from the fire in Thea’s house.”

“Well I ‘ardly think Andy is going to be a hit with a hammer,” Christos laughed. Picking up the pathetic looking kite Bald Yannis had bodged together at the hardware shop he tried to persuade the baby to leave her cuddly syphilis at home, but she insisted on taking it everywhere.

Stepping outside he was surprised to spot a strange looking woman with a manic glint in her eye. She was wearing a frumpy wedding dress and scuttling away from the church, holding a candlestick aloft as though on a pilgrimage. Before he’d made up his mind to approach her to ask if she needed help he was distracted by Andy demanding they go back inside to retrieve her bridal Barbie.

The men who were helping renovate Thea’s house were gradually leaving the kafenion, making room at the outdoor seats for glum looking Doomsday trippers who had started to arrive in the village to secure early accommodation. The first arrivals appeared to be a motley assortment of long-haired new-age hippies, fanatical looking bearded cultists, and cash rich preppy style ‘Ya Hoo Henry’s’ wearing camouflage gear and gas masks. Foreign accents pervaded the drizzled air as they waited for the hardware shop to open, having heard on the village gossip vine that the bald owner stocked essential Apocalypse kits.

“Bloody hell man, those black clouds look a bit apocalyptic, are you sure this is the right place to avoid Doomsday?” an aging Welsh hippy clutching a large bunch of leeks asked his companion.

“You’re the one who insisted on coming to Greece, Hywel. I’m telling you now if the world doesn’t end this month then you’re on your own next time. I’ve been traipsing round after you since you listened to that American televangelist in 1982 and it’s been nothing but one failed end of the world flop after another. Can’t we just have a normal holiday like regular folk for once?”

“Lots of people come to Greece for their holidays, it’s very fashionable, Blodwyn.”

“Yes, but normal people come in summer when it’s hot enough to get a bit of a tan. They come to lie on a sunny beach and explore Greece’s great ruins, not to pitch a tent on a damp beach in bloody February. It wasn’t easy getting time off work at the sea salt factory, not on such short notice” Blodwyn snapped.

“Can’t you get it through your thick head that if the world ends next week there won’t be a sea salt factory to go back to? You’ll be unemployed and then there’ll be no money for fancy vacations and you’ll be glad of a bloody cave.”

Melecretes, sitting at the next table, couldn’t help overhearing the Welsh pair. He interrupted their sniping to advise them, “You know Bald Yannis at the ‘ardware shop has a lovely line in lobster adorned shower curtains that serve as excellent waterproof ground sheets for tents. By the way, just call me Mel.”

“Thanks mate, that’s good to know,” Hywel said with a friendly grin. “We have to get a few food supplies in too; we haven’t got enough money to be flashing it around in fancy restaurants.”

“That’s right, sell it to me as an adventurous Doomsday holiday and then expect me to sit in a damp tent eating a bag of bloody cheese and onion washed down with half a bloody lager,” Blodwyn complained.

“There’s no need for that,” Mel told them “the local taverna is organising a gyros delivery service to any campers. I think you’ll find it most excellent value.”

“What’s a gyros then mate,” Hywel asked.

“You’ve never heard of Greek gyros?” Mel asked in amazement. “It is deliciously tender souvlaki meat served with potatoes, sandwiched in a hot pita dressed with tzatziki and salad. Back in Idaho I have my own gyros shop.”

“So you’ve come all the way from the States for this bloody Doomsday malarkey?” Blodwyn asked.

“Oh no, that’s a load of old rubbish, you’d have to be pretty dense to believe the world is going to end next week. I’m over here visiting friends.”

“Who are you calling dense? You’ll have egg on the other side of your face if the world really does end,” Hywel taunted Mel.

“But as you believe Astakos will be the only place to survive, I’m in the right place,” Mel smirked, adding, “And at least I had the sense to stay in a warm house with cooking facilities and an inside toilet, rather than being stuck in a damp tent in a thunderstorm.”

Mel’s last words were almost drowned out by the rumble of thunder which closely followed a lightning strike, creating a dramatic display in the darkening sky. Bolts of lightning appeared to sweep down into the grey sea and torrential rain fell, soaking all the Doomsday trippers.

Mel dashed into Thea’s harbour-side house for shelter. Everyone was hard at it, sweeping away ash and scrubbing the smoke stained walls of the upstairs bedroom. “There’s something not quite right here,” Slick Socrates declared, preparing to carry the tarnished mirror Thea had salvaged from the landfill site outside. Inspecting the glass closely he noticed the charred edges of photographs held in place with melted sellotape and a smudged lipstick heart in the centre. “This looks oddly familiar,” Socrates said as the others gathered round. “It looks like that creepy shrine my crazed stalker set up in Did-Ree’s bedroom. Thea, it could be the stalker was squatting here and started the fire, perhaps in a fit of jealousy if she’s become fixated with Toothless Tasos.”

Thea stared closely at the mirror trying to make out the letters in the heart. “They’re too sooty from the fire,” she said “but it definitely looks like a P and an E. The rest is too smudged to make out clearly.”

“Who do we knows whose name starts with Pe?” Toothless Tasos asked.

“Let’s think, there’s Petula and Petros the postman,” Thea said, relieved Taso began with a T.

“And Pedros. Prosperous Pedros ‘as been bombarded with peculiar phone calls from a heavy breather,” Tall Thomas announced.

“Po po, that definitely sounds like the deluded harpy who stalked me,” Socrates said. “When I confronted her she promised me she would return to the high mountain village of Osta and I stupidly let her go as Did-Rees felt so sorry for her. Did-Rees reckoned she was harmless as she broke in and did all the housework.”

“Someone ‘as been cleaning Pedros’ place, but he was thinking it was Aunty Nitsa as Fotini denied it. Now I think about it Aunty Nitsa ‘ates doing housework and laundry,” Tall Thomas said. “I think I’d better go and warn Pedros. This woman could be a dangerous pyromaniac and is apparently obsessed with him. Are you comin’ Socrate?”

“No, I think there’s another avenue needs pursuing,” Socrates said, keeping his own counsel. “You go along and warn Pedros.”

Chapter 39

Kyria Sisyphean Suffers A Nasty Shock

Kyria Sisyphean spent a restless night on the Pappas’ sofa, trying not to breathe in the distinctive smell of old goat enveloping it. Waking early, she was forced to attack his bathroom with a bottle of bleach before she could even consider performing her personal ablutions. Her plan for the day was to meet the Pappas at the church as arranged, and then have another chat with Iraklis. If his relationship with Mrs Kolokotronis was indeed as innocent as the pair professed, it was not too late to persuade him to return to his celibate churchly calling.

She was hardly out the door when the heavens opened, threatening to drench her. She scurried back into the kitchen hoping the thunderstorm would soon pass, spending her time productively knitting toilet roll holders in the image of the Virgin Mary and listening to pre-recorded Bible verses on an ancient cassette player. She was pleasantly surprised when Iraklis arrived, appearing somewhat nervous.

“I must apologise for the harsh way I spoke to you mother. It was not my intention to disrespect you by speaking so brusquely, but I was hurt to the core you could think I would act in an immoral way,” Iraklis said.

“Well I didn’t bring you up to be immorally. I was flabbergasted when the Pappas told me the shocking news you were living with a woman. Remember Corinthians says ‘it is good for a man not to touch a woman.’ If you are still celibate you can return to the church.”

“Mother, I don’t want to. I am truly happy working at the supermarket and Fat Christos is going to send me on a management course. It was terrible living with the Pappas. I don’t think you’d really approve of him if you knew about some of his ungodly goings on.”

“Well I do have to say he lives like a filthy pig, having seemingly forgotten cleanliness is next to godliness. I don’t think his kitchen was familial with bleach and there were some disgusting stains on his grubby bed sheets.”

“Mrs Kolokotronis keeps an exemplary clean kitchen and she always starches the bedding,” Iraklis boasted. “She asked me to invite you to lunch so you can see for yourself how well she looks after me.”

“Well if your mind is made up I suppose there’s nothing more to be said, you are a man now and are a respirator for your own mistakes. I may as well return home on the next bus, I just hope it’s not packed to the gills with heathens,” Kyria Sisyphean said. “I promised to meet the Pappas at the church; you may carry my suitcase Irakli.”

Watching her son hoist her suitcase on his shoulder she realised she would not see him again unless he came home for a visit. She had no intention of venturing out of her village again as the outside world was riddled with apostates. Mellowing slightly she told Iraklis, “I can stop by for a spot of lunch when I’ve drummed into the Pappas the importance of cleanliness.”

The thunderstorm had passed by the time mother and son set off towards the church. Iraklis kept up a running commentary on the things he loved about Astakos, carefully omitting all mention of mail order Masha. “There’s nothing quite like being out on the tricycle, now I’ve got the hang of it. The scenery along the coastal road is breath taking and the olive groves are abundant with wild flowers and poppies. The people are so kind. Gorgeous Yiorgos has promised to teach me how to fish and Mrs Kolokotronis says my knitting has come along no nicely she’ll let me have a go at knitted goats clothes.”

Passing a woman feverishly striding along in an unstylish wedding dress, the pair politely wished her a good morning, but the woman’s lack of response prompted Kyria Sisyphean to comment, “The place is full of ill-mannered heathens. I have to say Irakli I am more comfortable in our little hamlet than in these big city places, but I suppose you have to spread your wings. Even if you’ve given up on the church you can still do a few conversions in your spare time.”

“Certainly mother,” Iraklis replied with a smile, pleased she was finally acknowledging it was time for him to choose his own path in life.

Unable to trust the Pappas not to bad mouth him, Iraklis decided to accompany his mother into the church. “He doesn’t appear to be here mother,” Iraklis said, failing at first to see the Pappas in the gloomy building. A burst of sunlight coursing through the stained glass windows suddenly illuminated the interior of the church, provoking a blood curdling scream from Kyria Sisyphean at the sight of the Pappas, still handcuffed to the altar. His body was sprawled on top of the semi-inflated blow up sex doll, with his head cushioned against its vinyl bosom.

“Shield your eyes Irakli, the Pappas is formulating with a prostitute. The shame of it. How could a man of God dessicate the sanctity of the church in this wicked way,” Kyria Sisyphean cried, blind to the blood pooled on the vinyl breasts.

“Mother he isn’t fornicating, he appears to be dead. Someone has attacked him with a nasty blow to the head,” Iraklis shouted, rushing to the Pappas and taking deep breaths to avoid fainting at the sight of so much blood.

“Mother you must run to the kafenion and get help. Tell them it is an emergency,” Iraklis yelled, steeling himself to attempt to give the Pappas the kiss of life.

“Irakli, you know I can’t go into one of those wicked places, it isn’t seemly.”

“Just do it mother. You must bring help and call an ambulance,” Iraklis commanded assertively.

The next few minutes were the longest of Iraklis’ short life as he vigorously pumped the Pappas’ chest whilst blowing into his mouth and praying help would arrive. “What evil person could do this to another human being?” he questioned.

“Is the malaka dead then?” Bald Yannis shouted, rushing into the church closely followed by Moronic Mitsos and Takis.

“He’s just barely alive,” Iraklis said. “He’s lost a lot of blood. We need to remove these handcuffs so we can move him.”

“Leave it to me,” Bald Yannis told him, revving up the chainsaw.

“Can you tell me who attacked you,” Moronic Mitsos asked, reverting back into his former role as chief of police.

“Don’t be daft, he’s in no state to be answering questions, he’s out cold,” Takis said.

“But I need to ask him if he has any known enemies,” the moron argued.

“It would be quicker to compile a list of anyone who could actually stand him,” Bald Yannis said, smug in the knowledge that even more people loathed the Pappas than him. The chainsaw cut through the furry handcuffs and Bald Yannis held them aloft, saying ‘kinky.’

“I’ll take those for evidence,” Mitsos said, grabbing the handcuffs just as the ambulance arrived.

“An’ I’ll take this,” Bald Yannis muttered, furtively secreting the half-inflated blow up sex doll beneath his bullet proof vest when everyone else’s attention was focused on getting the Pappas into the ambulance.

Chapter 40

Furry Handcuffs Point The Finger Of Suspicion

Slick Socrates was kicking himself for allowing Deirdre’s misplaced sympathy for his deranged stalker to influence him. The woman was obviously certifiable, yet he had simply allowed her to walk free after declaring she no longer had any designs on him, accepting her word she would return to the high mountain village of Osta.

“I should have called the police on the crazy stalker,” he admitted to Stavroula.

“Well yous wasn’t to know she would still ‘ang around once she’d given up on yous. We ‘ad no more heavy breathing phone calls after you confronted her in Did-Ree’s house,” Stavroula sighed.

“I should have spotted her pyromaniac tendencies when she left all those candles burning around those photographs she’d snapped of me.”

“Aye, yous did drop the ball there,” Stavroula agreed, still fuming over Socrates’ stalker decapitating her in all the pictures.

“Now she’s transferred her deluded fantasies onto Prosperous Pedros and has taken to kidnapping goats. I must inform Soula what her crazy sister has been up to,” Socrates said with a heavy heart.

Socrates had been reluctant to bring shame on Soula by publicly outing her crazy sister as an obsessive squatting stalker because he was quite fond of the plain lame woman who had married Bald Yannis. He felt she carried enough of a burden by being the daughter of a tyrannical father now serving time for defrauding the Greek state of his unmarried sister’s pension by hiding her corpse in the freezer.

Soula was so level headed and always had a kind word for everyone when serving in the hardware shop, and Socrates had never seen anyone tend goats so fondly. When he’d developed a nasty rash after finally shaving off his sideburns Soula had rushed round with an herbal remedy proving far more effective than anything Vangelis the chemist could offer. Socrates now regretted not telling Soula her sister had been furtively squatting in the village and braced himself to break the shocking news to her.

“Yous should have told Soula before, she had a right to know,” Stavroula said. “I can understand yous was worried ‘ow Bald Yannis might react if she brought more shame on ‘im, but he acted decently enough over her father, accepting Soula was not responsible for having crazies in ‘er family. I mean look at me, I’m related to that old fool Vasilis, but no one ‘olds me accountable for ‘is actions.”

“I’ll go and tell Soula now,” Socrates said, kissing Stavroula tenderly.

Soula greeted Socrates with an enormous smile when he arrived at the hardware shop. She was grateful the lawyer had successfully defended her father against the charge of murder even though he was still imprisoned for fraud. The colour drained from her face as she listened to Socrates’ account of how her sister Koula had been furtively squatting in the village and obsessively stalking random men with heavy breathing phone calls and shrines, kidnapping goats and almost burning Thea’s house down.

“I hate to be the one to tell you Soula, but your sister Koula has seriously lost the plot.”

“But she was always so normal. Of course she wanted to be married, what woman doesn’t, but she wasn’t desperate,” Soula cried. “I should have realised how upset she was when Yannis chose me. Koula was expecting to be matched first as the eldest. And then there was the ghastly business of my aunt’s corpse being found in the deep freezer; did you know it was Koula who made the grisly discovery? She should have let me know how unhappy she was in Osta and she could have come for a visit with me and Yannis, but to hide away from me like this. My poor sister needs help.”

Socrates was consoling Soula with a clean handkerchief when Bald Yannis burst into the hardware shop wondering where he could hide the blow up sex doll. He was scheming up ways he could ridicule the villagers by leaving it in strategically compromising positions. He’d quite like to wipe the smug smile off Thea’s face by sneaking into the house she shared with Toothess Tasos and tucking it into their bed, or perhaps he could float it off the side of Gorgeous Yiorgos’ fishing boat and have him reel it in as the catch of the day.

“Yous will never guess what’s ‘appened now,” Bald Yannis teased. “Someone ‘as only gone and smashed the Pappas’ ‘ead in and left ‘im handcuffed to the church altar. He’s just been carted off to ‘ospital in an ambulance.”

“Were they furry handcuffs by any chance?” Socrates asked, correctly suspecting Koula must have pocketed the kinky restraints when he’d uncuffed her in the ‘Lemoni Spiti.’ Stavroula, in seductive mode, had been searching the bedroom for them only last night and had finally settled for tying him to the bed with a pair of his freshly ironed braces. Bald Yannis confirmed the handcuffs were indeed of the kinky variety.

“It must have been Koula who attacked the Pappas then,” Socrates said to Soula’s horror.

“But she’s never been violent, oh this is far too much to take in,” Soula cried, as Socrates enlightened Bald Yannis as to what his wife’s sister had been up to.

“Bashing the Pappas is a bit more serious than breaking in people’s ‘ouses to clean em,” Yannis stated.

“She needs help,” Soula wailed.

When he’d found the Pappas barely alive Bald Yannis had wished whoever was responsible had made a proper job of it and finished him off, but now he knew his wife’s sister was responsible he fervently hoped the Pappas would pull through as Soula would be devastated if her sister was branded a cold blooded murderess. He was almost tempted not to turn Koula in, but then remembered she was also responsible for nearly incinerating Quentin’s goat and his resolve hardened.

“She needs locking up, she’s dangerous,” Socrates said as Soula continued to sob.

“But they can get ‘er the help she needs,” Bald Yannis assured her. “Now Soula, I want yous to lock up the shop and go over and have a nice cup of tsai with Stavroula. We ‘ave to let the others know she is on the loose and dangerous. Socrates and I will go out and look for Koula. It might be better for her if we can persuade her to turn herself in before the police catch up with her for attempted murder.”

“Please be careful,” Soula pleaded. “Koula can’t be in her right mind.”

“We will be,” Socrates assured her, reminding Bald Yannis the obsessive stalker may still be armed with whatever weapon she had used on the Pappas.

Chapter 41

Imagined Affairs

Koula strode purposefully from the church, determined to find mail order Masha and warn her to keep away from her man. She paid no attention to the dark clouds foretelling rain and ignored the strange looks she attracted in her homemade wedding dress crafted from Pedros’ white bed sheet, embellished with embroidered fish. When torrential rain soaked her wedding dress she stopped to wring water from the skirt, cursing when she noticed a splash of the Pappas’ blood adorning the hemline, muttering “I will just have to embroider some more fish along the border to conceal it.”

As the rain continued to soak her, the exhausted woman became more feverish. Arriving at Masha’s house Koula sighed with relief, “I must sort this Russian trollop out and then get some rest. I have to look my best for my wedding to sweet Pedros tomorrow.”

Mail order Masha was in a foul temper. It was her day off from doing the weather, but instead of being able to enjoy the time topping up her fake tan and having her hair extensions extended, she was stuck at home running round after that old fool Vasilis who was still feeling a bit under the weather after his near brush with death. Stirring the ever present pan of borscht, she sighed with relief to finally hear Vasilis snoring. If her husband was sleeping he couldn’t make any more bothersome demands on her attention.

“Drat, who can that be,” Masha complained, disturbed by frantic banging on the kitchen door. Opening the door Masha was taken aback to be confronted by a drenched woman with a manic glint in her eye, wearing a frumpy wedding dress. Koula pushed her way into the kitchen, still clutching the blood soaked candlestick she had used to batter the Pappas.

“Keep away from my husband, he is mine. Our love will outlast your sordid affair, but I must have your promise you will leave the village and never tempt my husband again,” Koula demanded.

“Are you mad? I don’t even know who yous ‘usband is so ‘ow can I be having an affair with him,” Masha shouted, hoping this deranged harpy wasn’t married to the smitten young reporter who had sworn he was single.

“Don’t try and deny it, I saw yous with him with my own eyes. Yous was in his pick-up together,” Koula shrieked.

“No, I still don’t ‘ave a clue what yous is on about,” Masha argued, recalling the smitten young reporter drove a nifty sports car. “I think you must be mistaking me for someone else.”

“I tell you I saw you together, why deny it?” Koula said.

“Is yous ‘usband a fan of mine? I’m a famous weather girl so perhaps he saw me on television and yous got a bit jealous,” Masha suggested, growing impatient with this lunatic stranger’s feverish accusations.

Masha’s denial infuriated Koula who had never even seen a television as the depressing farmhouse in the high mountain village of Osta was devoid of such luxuries. Koula was already overwrought with fever and jealousy when Masha pushed her over the edge by taunting, “If yous ‘ave a ‘usband why ‘ave yous turned up at my door in a wedding dress? Did he jilt yous at the altar? He probably took one look at that hideous dress and did a runner. It’s not exactly stylish. It looks like it’s been cobbled together from an old sheet.”

As this final insult left Masha’s lips it suddenly occurred to her this was a taunt too far, provoking the other woman to froth at the mouth and demonically stab the air with the bloodied candlestick. Masha retreated, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling in fear, trying to distance herself from the clearly unbalanced woman who was screeching, “How can you insult my beautiful wedding dress or dare to say my darling Pedros would leave me at the altar. We will be married tomorrow and I will make sure you aren’t there to stop it.”

Koula lurched forward, threatening her imagined rival with the heavy gold candlestick raised above her head. The realisation hit Masha that this demented intruder, who seemingly drew demonic strength from her inner mania, intended to harm her. Tentatively stepping backwards she attempted to appease her, pleading, “No, please no, I didn’t mean it, yous wedding dress is beautiful.”

Masha’s back came up hard against the kitchen stove and she realised she was trapped. As Koula raised her arm to smash the heavy candlestick into her rival’s temple Masha let out a blood curdling scream.

Chapter 42

Prosperous Pedros To The Rescue

Tall Thomas dashed from the harbour-side house with a sense of urgency. He needed to warn his good friend Prosperous Pedros that a deranged stalker with pyromaniac tendencies and no compunction about kidnapping goats was obsessed with him. Pulling up at Pedros’ stone cottage he was frustrated to discover no one was home and drove off to Rapanaki to see if Pedros had been summoned by his demanding mother.

Prosperous Pedros had pulled into the harbour before first light. He’d had an excellent night’s fishing and planned to go along to help with the clean-up in Thea’s harbour-side house after a quick sluice down with the hosepipe over the outside toilet. The sound of the water rushing through the hosepipe drowned out the noise of Thomas hammering on his door as Pedros soaped himself down, oblivious to any potential danger from his obsessed stalker.

Sorting the fish to take along to Tall Thomas to flog from his mobile refrigerated fish van, Pedros had an altercation with the bucket of fish, necessitating a change of pullover. After washing his fishy pullover in the sink he was baffled to discover his only spare pullover was missing. Scratching his head he muttered “something is definitely amiss, I will ‘ave to get to the bottom of all these peculiar goings on.”

Climbing into the pick-up he spotted a foreign object wedged beneath the passenger seat. “Malaka, this ‘as to belong to mail order Masha,” he muttered, holding aloft a gold strappy shoe with a ridiculously impractical stiletto heel. “No other woman would be stupid enough to prance round the village in such a monstrosity. It must ‘ave fell off her foot when I dropped ‘er ‘ome after the fire.”

His first instinct was to pretend he hadn’t seen the shoe, and then he pondered if Masha would ever know he if simply tossed it out of the pick-up window into the sea. The thought of returning the shoe to Masha made him nervous, but recalling the unsettled feeling he’d experienced when he discovered his spare pullover was missing he elected to do the decent thing and take the stiletto shoe over to Masha.

Driving towards Masha’s house Prosperous Pedros pulled over to chat with Takis. “Yous will never guess what ‘as ‘appened,” Takis relayed excitedly. “Some madman ‘as only gone an’ bashed the Pappas’ ‘ead in, handcuffed ‘im to the altar and left ‘im for dead. Iraklis had to give ‘im the kiss of life, but it’s still touch an’ go if he will survive.”

“Who do you think wanted him dead?” Pedros asked.

“Could be anyone, he’s made lots of enemies. Then again it could be some random nutter. Any of us might be in danger if there’s an unknown madman on the loose. I’d best get back an’ make sure Yiota is safe,” Takis said, rushing off.

“There’s certainly some strange goings on in Astakos,” Pedros sighed, driving off. Pulling up at his destination he muttered “I ‘ope that old fool Vasilis is at ‘ome, Masha always makes me nervous with her vampish ways.” He’d heard about Masha’s reputation for topless sunbathing and desperately hoped she didn’t answer the door without her clothes on.

Grabbing the gold stiletto shoe, Pedros strode towards the open kitchen door, thinking he should warn Masha to keep it locked as there was a madman on the loose in the village.

Before Pedros had the chance to announce his presence his ears were assaulted by a blood curdling scream. Reacting instinctively he rushed into the kitchen to discover Masha cowering in terror, her back pressed against the cooker. A manic woman loomed over her, about to bash the Russian’s head in with a heavy gold candlestick.

“Masha,” Pedros screamed in alarm.

“Pedros,” Masha screamed, “Save me.”

“Pedro, my sweet darling you have come for me,” Koula shrieked, turning towards her imagined husband with a look of deranged ecstasy on her face.

For one endless second everything was suspended in a frozen tableau. Pedros stared in horror at the manic woman frothing at the mouth and wielding a deadly weapon. Then, as Pedros leapt forward to clout the crazy woman with Masha’s stiletto and grapple the candlestick out of her clutches, Masha took advantage of Koula’s distraction and hurled the lukewarm pan of borscht over her assailant’s head. Pedros knocked Koula facedown to the floor, jumping on top of her until she could be more suitably restrained.

“Pedro, yous ‘ave saved my life,” Masha cried in gratitude. “This deluded woman accused me of having an affair with her husband and tried to kill me.”

“Why is my husband Pedros here if the two of you aren’t having an affair?” Koula screeched, her body writhing as she tried to free herself from the weight of Pedros’ body.

“Pedro, do you know this crazy woman?” Masha asked in confusion. “Have you got a secret wife?”

“I’ve never seen ‘er before in my life,” Pedros stated emphatically.

“Pedro, how can you deny our love? Tomorrow we are to be married, I’ve made all the arrangements with the Pappas at the church,” Koula panted, still fighting against Pedros’ weight. “I made this beautiful wedding dress out of one of your bed sheets.”

“Did you seriously expect not to be jilted at the altar in that tacky rag,” Masha taunted, emboldened now her attacker was face down on the floor.

“My dress is beautiful,” Koula yelled, struggling frantically. Wriggling violently Koula suddenly remembered her dress was covered in bright red borscht and she screamed “you have ruined my wedding dress.” The realisation seemed to suddenly drain her of energy and she started sobbing hysterically.

Chapter 43

Blood and Borscht

Slick Socrates and Bald Yannis drove through the village in a desperate quest to find Koula. Driving past Masha’s house they noticed Prosperous Pedros’ pick-up parked outside and Socrates suggested. “We really ought to warn Pedros he could be in danger from Koula as she is obsessed with him, if her latest shrine is anything to go by.”

The pair walked into the kitchen to be confronted with the bizarre sight of Koula lying on the floor in a red wedding dress, with Pedros straddling her back.

Socrates, jumping to the erroneous conclusion Koula’s wedding dress was soaked with the Pappas’ blood, shouted “the Pappas is hardly likely to survive if he’s lost that much blood.”

“It’s borscht, not blood,” Masha enlightened him, adding “Pedros is a hero, he saved my life when this crazy woman tried to kill me.”

“Masha, it was a stroke of genius throwing the pan of soup over her,” Pedros replied. “She was acting so crazed I would ‘ave struggled to get ‘er down without yous quick thinking. Yanni, can yous find something to tie her up with?”

“Are you all right Masha?” Socrates asked, rushing to offer a comforting embrace. He was alarmed Stavroula’s pregnant step-mother had been the victim of a vicious attack.

“I am, thanks to Pedros. I think she would have killed me if he hadn’t turned up,” Masha shuddered.

“She attacked the Pappas in the church and bashed his head in” Socrates explained to Masha. “It’s touch and go if he will survive.”

Bald Yannis proffered the rope used to tether Onos the donkey. All the fight had gone out of Koula and she didn’t struggle when the men used the rope to restrain her, tying her hands behind her back. Her fever was raging and all the blood had drained from her face, creating a ghostly appearance as they stood her upright in the borscht covered wedding dress. Before they had the chance to lead Koula to the pick-up and persuade her to hand herself in to the police, she collapsed on the floor in a dead faint.

“We’d better get her to the hospital, she’s burning up,” Bald Yannis urged. “We can collect Soula on the way, she’ll want to be with ‘er sister.”

“We’d better all go together as the police will want to question everyone about this latest attack,” Socrates insisted. “I’ll telephone Pancratius the village policeman and have him meet us at the hospital.”

Everyone piled into the pick-up and drove off to the hospital, failing to notice Bald Yannis furtively stashing the blow up sex doll under the passenger seat.

That old fool Vasilis woke from his nap, frustrated to find no sign of Masha. “Is it too much to expect her to stop ‘ome for once to look after ‘er sick ‘usband instead of gadding about,” he complained. Walking into the kitchen he was surprised to see Onos the donkey licking borscht from the floor. “At least yous is loyal,” he said to the donkey, before slipping in the soupy mess and cracking his head open.

Chapter 44

Rappelling Away

Kyria Sisyphean was so overwrought from having been pressured into entering a kafenion full of heathen men, Iraklis felt duty bound to stay and calm her before the bus arrived, rather than accompany the Pappas to the hospital. As the word spread on the village gossip vine the Pappas had been brutally attacked by a madman, no one felt obliged to rush to his hospital bedside, so universally was he despised.

The Pappas was unceremoniously dumped on a hospital bed and attached to monitors to measure his vital signs. An emergency bleeping sent the smitten old doctor rushing in to electrically shock the Pappas back to life with defibrillator paddles. The charge temporarily revived the Pappas and he screamed in terror when he caught sight of the skeletal horror with a bald skull, a toothless grimace and a broken arm occupying the adjoining bed, before promptly passing out again.

“Nurse, prepare another bed in this room, another patient is being admitted,” the smitten old doctor instructed as Bald Yannis carried the still unconscious and rope-bound Koula into the room, closely followed by Soula, Slick Socrates, Masha and Prosperous Pedros.

“Masha, what a delight to see you again,” the smitten old doctor gushed, completely ignoring the needs of his patients. “Has your ancient husband suffered another Viagra overdose?”

“No, he’s ‘ome in bed,” Masha said, oblivious her husband was out cold, lying in a pool of borscht on the kitchen floor. “We are ‘ere to meet the police who are on their way to arrest this crazy woman,” she said, pointing at Koula.

“Oh Masha, don’t be so harsh, this is my sister and she’s obviously not in her right mind. Yous can see ‘ow sick she is,” Soula admonished, stroking Koula’s fevered brow.

“Soula, you cant’s expect me to be sympathetic to yous sister when she tried to kill me,” Masha said. Noticing the Pappas lying in the next bed she added, “That could ‘ave been me hovering between life and death, attached to all them monitors, if Pedros ‘adn’t come along in the nick of time to save my life.”

“Will he live doctor?” Slick Socrates asked, pointing at the Pappas.

“Only if we can find a suitable blood donor for him. He has lost so much blood he needs an emergency transfusion, but he has a rare blood type.”

“We must all be tested at once,” Soula volunteered, immediately annoying the others.

“That God-bothering fraud is not having one drop of my blood,” Slick Socrates declared, remembering how much upset the Pappas’ blackmailing scheme had caused Stavroula.

“But yous cant’s just stand there and watch him die,” Soula cried, finally shaming all the others except Masha into having their blood tested. As the blood tests were carried out, Koula was hooked to a drip. With vital nutrients being pumped into her body she was soon pronounced out of danger and appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

“The only one of you with the same rare blood type is Soula,” the smitten old doctor announced when the blood tests were completed.

“Soula, I refuse to let you give blood. Yous is pregnant with twins,” Bald Yannis commanded his wife.

“But I ‘ave to Yanni, I cant’s ‘ave ‘is death on my conscience.”

“Your husband is right Soula, we cannot transfuse blood from a pregnant woman. I wouldn’t have had you tested if you’d told me about your condition,” the doctor said.

“There must be some other way to save him, doctor,” Soula wept. Even her dislike of the Pappas could not trump her kind nature. Suddenly, a thought struck her. “Doctor, you must test my sister Koula, she probably has the same rare blood type as me.”

“It would be pretty ironic if the blood from the crazy woman that tried to kill him ended up saving his life,” Slick Socrates laughed.

The smitten old doctor agreed the crazed woman was stable enough to have her blood transfused into the Pappas, and various needles and tubes set the process in motion. As the Pappas’ lost blood was replenished he was temporarily revived. Glancing to his side he saw the crazy woman who had attacked him with the heavy gold candlestick in the church and he screamed in terror, shouting “Masha, I must warn Masha she is in danger,” before passing out again.

“That’s not like him to think of others before himself, it’s very much out of character,” Socrates observed.

Masha looked suitably shamed she had been prepared to watch the Pappas fade away in front of her when his first thought had been to warn her she was in danger. “I would ‘ave ‘ad my blood tested if I ‘adn’t been pregnant,” she lied brazenly.

The Pappas had just been pronounced out of danger when Pancratius the village policeman finally rolled up at the hospital to take everyone’s statements about the brutal attacks that had unfolded in Astakos.

“It’s shocking to think of this crime wave in the village,” Pancratius declared. He’d been laid up in bed with a bout of pancreatitis when the elusive underwear thief was on the rampage. The most exciting complaint he’d dealt with recently was customers talking too loudly in the taverna.

“Now, are we sure this woman didn’t attack the Pappas in self-defence? There were no witnesses to the attack and we all know how infuriating the Pappas can be,” the policemen said.

“If she acted in self-defence surely she would have alerted the authorities she had left him hand-cuffed to the altar, rather than leaving him to potentially bleed to death,” Socrates reasoned.

“And Pedros witnessed her about to attack me. It was completely unprovoked, I never set eyes on her before today,” Masha added.

“Then there’s all this business of her breaking into people’s houses and squatting, not to mention setting Thea’s house on fire and nearly incinerating a goat she had kidnapped,” Socrates continued.

“She told me yous was ‘er ‘usband Pedro, and she made that frightful wedding dress out of one of your sheets,” Masha said.

“I bet she stole my spare pullover too,” Pedros said in amazement. “All the time I believed my mother ‘ad come over all motherly an’ was doing all that cleaning when it must ‘ave been this crazy woman.”

“That’s right,” Socrates said, “She broke into Did-Ree’s house and did all her spring cleaning.”

“But you must understand, this isn’t like the Koula I love, something traumatic must have happened to cause her to lose her mind,” Soula insisted.

“Could it ‘ave been the shock of finding a dead body in the deep freezer, doctor?” Bald Yannis enquired.

“Well I’m no expert on psychotic triggers but it does sound plausible such a trauma may have temporarily unhinged her,” the doctor agreed. “Her feverish state may have resulted from an undiagnosed mania.”

“So yous is saying instead of locking ‘er up she needs help, doctor,” Pancratius asked.

“Oh most definitely,” the doctor agreed. “I fear when she comes round and reality hits her she is more likely to be a danger to herself than other people.”

“I will visit you Koula,” Soula promised as her sister was wheeled off to whatever fate awaited her.

“Well I don’t know about anyone else, but I could eat a horse,” mail order Masha declared.

They were just about to leave when Deirdre arrived. “Surely you haven’t come to visit the Pappas, Did-Rees?” Socrates questioned.

“Good grief no, he’s such an odious little weasel,” Deirdre declared, before belatedly faking concern and asking if the Pappas was ill. The others brought Deirdre up to date with crazy Koula’s antics, prompting Deirdre to say “if only we had got her help Socrate instead of turning her out. I’ve never come across anyone more adept with a feather duster and such an eye for rearranging furniture.”

“So what are you doing here Did-Rees? I hope you aren’t sick,” Prosperous Pedros asked.

“Oh no, nothing like that. If you must know I’m doing a bit of match making. Nitsa and Fotis are made for each other, but she turned down his marriage proposal. I thought if I could just get them together again Nitsa may have a change of heart, so I persuaded Nitsa to bring us to the hospital in her taxi on the pretext of visiting Kyria Moustakos.”

“That skeleton is Fotis’ mother?” Socrates asked, pointing to the ancient old crone who had been snoring nonstop since their arrival.

“Oh yes, we became quite fond of her when we spent the night here fetching her bedpans,” Deirdre lied.

“Well Fotis isn’t here and you appear to have lost Nitsa,” Masha pointed out.

“She’ll be along shortly, she’s trying to prise the parrot off Quentin’s head before he gets out of the taxi,” Deirdre explained. “He’s not been able to get it off for two days, it is unnaturally attached to him.”

“Ah, here is K-Went-In now,” Socrates announced as Quentin walked in with the parrot still stuck on his head, concealed beneath a patriotic lobster adorned shower curtain.

“There’s nothing else for it Deirdre, I am going to have to resort to asking the doctor to surgically remove the parrot,” Quentin complained. “It is beyond embarrassing to go out in public with this thing on my head, not to mention how painful it is having these talons permanently embedded in my scalp. I can’t even sleep, every time I close my eyes the blasted bird starts squawking bomb in my ear and insisting I’m a pervert.”

“No need for a doctor, I ‘ave my trusty chainsaw at your disposal K-Went-In,” Bald Yannis offered, revving the chainsaw.

Nitsa sidled in after Quentin, wary in case Fotis was lurking with another marriage proposal. Catching sight of Bald Yannis she desperately finger combed her neon orange moustache and opened the top buttons of her hideous old lady dress to reveal her grotesque wrinkled cleavage. “Ooh what a hero yous is, rescuing that goat from the burning building. Let me gives you a kiss.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your lips off my ‘usband,” Soula told her.

“The goat wouldn’t have needed rescuing if yous and mother hadn’t meddled with it,” Pedros accused Nitsa, correctly suspecting the pair of them had duped him into putting the goat in the boat.

“Ave yous been fiddling with one of my goats?” Bald Yannis accused Nitsa, waving the chainsaw menacingly and suspecting he had perhaps condemned Quentin too quickly.

Things were just about to get heated when the Pappas came out of his semi-comatose state. Looking fondly at the villagers he said, “How good of you all to come and visit me, it means so much to me that you care. What good parishioners I have, I must offer a prayer of thanks.”

“That blow to the ‘ead ‘as sent him peculiar,” Bald Yannis observed. “That’s the first time I’ve ever ‘eard him say a nice word.”

“It’s very odd,” Masha agreed, “he even sounds genuine.”

“Masha my child, your life is in danger, you need protection,” the Pappas warned as the details of his attack suddenly flooded back.

“The danger has passed and Masha is safe now. The crazy woman that attacked yous is caught,” Pedros explained.

“It was the blood donated from your attacker that saved your life,” Socrates told him.

“How magnanimous of her, she did appear to be a troubled soul, I will pray the good Lord forgives her,” the Pappas said. “Pedro, I believe congratulations are in order and you are about to be wed.”

“That blow to the ‘ead as really ‘addled yous brain. I have no intention of ever marrying. Women are nothing but a nuisance.”

“You shouldn’t be so hasty to judge Pedro, the love of a good woman is something to cherish,” the Pappas chided.

“It’s a pity he never cherished Petula when he had the chance,” Socrates scoffed. “I expect the malaka will be back to his usual self when the medication wears off.”

The chatter ceased when a formal announcement came over the hospital tannoy. “There is a bomb scare, would everyone please exit the building in a calm manner.  I repeat, please exit the building calmly before the hospital blows up.”

“As if we ‘aven’t been through enough today already without coping with a malaka bomb,” Bald Yannis shouted, watching as complete pandemonium broke out in the corridors with people fighting to get out of the emergency exits. Relatives were frantically trying to wheel hospital beds through too narrow doorways and people with broken limbs were using their crutches to beat a path to the exit. The bomb threat woke Kyria Moustakos and before anyone could attempt to stop her she leapt out of bed, tied her bed sheet to the window frame and rappelled rapidly to the car park.

“Fotis always did say she was sprightly,” Nitsa observed.

Suddenly the usually calm and collected Deirdre turned puce, practically exploding in anger as she yelled, “Quentin, I told you not to come inside the building wearing the parrot. Someone must have overheard it saying ‘bomb’ and it has caused this dreadful panic.”

Everyone turned to stare at Quentin in horror. Creating a bomb scare in a public hospital was a very serious offence, particularly when the panic it provoked resulted in such carnage.

“If you want my lawyerly advice K-Went-In,” Socrates advised “leg it quickly.”

“Come on, we’re all in this together,” Prosperous Pedros shouted in  a rush of village solidarity, holding the sheet steady as one by one all the villagers followed Kyria Moustakos and rappelled out of the hospital window.

As they sprinted across the car park desperate to whisk Quentin away from the scene of the bomb scare before he could implicated, they noticed a jeering crowd gathered around the pick-up.

“Ere Pedro, yous is a dark ‘orse, what is yous doin’ with a naked woman in yous van?” Nitsa cackled.

“I’ve never seen ‘er before in my life,” Prosperous Pedros shouted in angry denial as Bald Yannis grabbed the lobster adorned shower curtain off Quentin’s head and ran ahead to wrap it round the blow up sex doll holding court in the passenger seat.

“Malaka,’ow was I to know it would drift up from under the seat?” Bald Yannis muttered, grappling with the very flexible vinyl dummy. Turning to the onlookers he shouted, “Move along, nothin’ to see here, the poor woman was in such an ‘urry to get out of the ‘ospital before the bomb exploded she forgot to put ‘er clothes on.”

As the jeering onlookers dispersed Pedros’ mobile phone rang.

“What is it now mother?” he shouted wearily. Turning to the others he said, “We ‘ave to get back to the village, the Doomsday trippers are causin’ havoc.”

To discover what new antics the villagers get up to and to find out if the world really does end, the saga continues in Book 5 of the Greek Meze Series.

I Hope You Enjoyed ‘Goatly Goings On.’

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~ Katerina Nikolas