Date: 2017-12-04 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Greece

Olive Virgins

Katerina Nikolas

Book 3 in The Greek Meze Series

Published by Amazon

Copyright ©  2017
by

Katerina Nikolas

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.

Cover based on an original sketch
by Roy Brittan

Many thanks to Brenda and George for edits

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1: A Bundle Of Joy
- Chapter 2: Soula Is A Sweetie
- Chapter 3: Silicone Fame
- Chapter 4: Keeping Secrets
- Chapter 5: Toothless Tasos Loses His Teeth
- Chapter 6: Deirdre Puts Her Foot In It
- Chapter 7: Tourist Complaints
- Chapter 8: Fig Cake and Onions
- Chapter 9: Eureka!
- Chapter 10: Stupid Superstitions
- Chapter 11: Parrot Beater
- Chapter 12: Saved At Sea
- Chapter 13: Egg On The Pappas’ Face
- Chapter 14: The Body In The Deep Freeze
- Chapter 15: Stormy Weather Forecast

- Chapter 16: Thea’s Cat Suffers An Unwanted Bath

- Chapter 17: Fake Soup
- Chapter 18: It’s Raining Men
- Chapter 19: Brawling Fishermen
- Chapter 20: Scared Of A Dark Puddle
- Chapter 21: Herring Under A Fur Coat

- Chapter 22: Lashing Waves And Paddling Paths

- Chapter 23: Trapped In The Twilight Zone
- Chapter 24: Nitsa Bags A Suitor
- Chapter 25: A Stapled Stub
- Chapter 26: Crumbs In The Wax
- Chapter 27: Cackles And Curses
- Chapter 28: Moustakos
- Chapter 29: A Butt Full Of Pellets
- Chapter 30: I Loves Yous Quentin
- Chapter 31: Eavesdropping
- Chapter 32: Soaking The Olives
- Chapter 33: Price That Junk
- Chapter 34: Bras Full Of Olives
- Chapter 35: Shooting Blanks
- Chapter 36: Stinking Rubbish
- Chapter 37: Old Crone Hanging
- Chapter 38: A Delicate Operation
- Chapter 39: Pressing The Olives
- Chapter 40: Cupid’s Arrow
- Chapter 41: Olive Virgins
- Chapter 42: Plucking The Parrot
- Chapter 43: Oiling The Cat
- Chapter 44: Dunking In Oil
- Chapter 45: A Sinful Obsession
- Chapter 46: Soula Is Broody
- Chapter 47: Pick Yous Own Olives
- Chapter 48: Hob-Nobbing With Custard Creams
- Chapter 49: A November Christmas Dinner
- I Hope You Enjoyed Olive Virgins

Chapter 1: A Bundle Of Joy

“Great bowls of borscht, the baby ‘as bushy sideburns, yous best shave ‘em off quick before yous mother-in-law spots ‘em,” mail order Masha urged, handing Tassia her newly delivered bundle of joy.

There was no denying the sideburns imbued the baby with a definite resemblance to Slick Socrates, a most unfortunate look for an infant girl.

“Fat Christos wants me to name ‘er after his mother,” Tassia told Masha, wrapping the baby in one of her mother-in-law’s knitted goat jackets for warmth.

“What’s ‘er name?” Masha enquired.

“Mrs Kolokotronis,” Tassia replied, contorting her face into a grimace.

“It’s a bit of a mouthful for something so small,” Masha pondered “and don’t Greek tradition dictate the baby should be called after yous ‘usband’s yiayia?”

“His yiayia was named Andromeda,” Tassia recalled.

“That’s ‘andy as we can calls ‘er Andy for short,” mail order Masha pronounced. “Quite appropriate as she looks like a boy.”

“She might improve with age,” Tassia said hopefully, looking down at the wrinkled little bundle. “I’m so grateful you was ‘ere to deliver the baby Masha, I don’t know what I’d ‘ave done without yous.”

“Are you sures yous dont’s want to get to the ‘ospital now?” Masha questioned, looking round the supermarket stockroom, crammed full of tourist tat, where Tassia had just delivered her baby in less than ten minutes flat.

“I don’t think I’ll bother now, but will go ‘ome and ‘ave the rest of day off,” Tassia answered.

“Why’s nobody minding the shop?” Fat Christos called out, returning from a quick coffee at the kafenion.

“Yous could ‘ardly expect yous wife to give birth to the baby on full display behind the cheese counter while serving customers,” Masha replied, adding, “comes and meets yous new baby daughter.”

“Good grief that was quick,” Fat Christos said, rushing to Tassia’s side.

“What a beautiful baby,” he gushed, oblivious to her bushy sideburns. “Tassia you ‘ave made me so ‘appy,” he said, showering sloppy kisses on his wife and new baby.

“I’d best get to the television studio or I’ll be late with my weather report. Thank goodness winter is coming; I’m getting sick of announcing it is sunny, day after day. Christo can I ‘elps myself to some washing up liquid as the baby ‘as sicked up all over my dress?” mail order Masha asked, making a dash to the chauffeur driven car waiting for her outside the supermarket.

“Yous took your time,” the smitten young doctor complained as Masha climbed into the car. “I thought you were only popping in for some vodka.”

“I ‘ad to deliver a baby,” Masha replied.

“But surely if there was a baby to be delivered you should have called me,” the smitten young doctor protested.

“Po po, yous ‘ave been struck off for poisoning peoples with them dodgy botched Botox injections and forgets yous is only a lowly chauffeur now,” Masha reminded him. “Yous can ‘elps when Onos ‘as ‘er foal, I think a donkey birth would be too messy for me. Now get yous foot down as I can’t keep my admiring public waiting.”

Chapter 2: Soula Is A Sweetie

As the chauffeur driven car sped past Bald Yannis’ house, mail order Masha waved to Soula who was busy pegging her smalls out on the washing line. Recognising her distinctive silk thongs Masha mused, “I must have left some of my underwear in the bag of second hand dresses I gave to the new bride.”

Soula was singing to herself as she hung out the washing. Her life had improved beyond recognition since she married Bald Yannis and came to live in the beautiful village of Astakos. The pair of them rubbed along nicely and she considered her workload of keeping house, helping out in the hardware shop and tending the dowry herd of goats to be an absolute doddle compared to the endless drudgery she had been subjected to in the high mountain village of Osta. A smile often lit up her plain face and she was making friends among the villagers. There was time to relax at the end of the day with Mrs Kolokotronis’ knitting while watching her glamorous new friend mail order Masha deliver the weather report on the new fangled television.

Soula witnessed first-hand how Bald Yannis openly mocked his customers, calling them malakas and morons to their faces while delivering scathing one liners. She saw through his bluster, defending him to the hilt in appreciation of his rescuing her from her tyrannical father, and hoped one day Bald Yannis would realise they were truly soul mates. Her very loyal streak made her an excellent wife and friend, yet she suffered no fools and had taken an instant loathing to the Pappas with his smarmy God-bothering ways.

Soula prepared a simple lunch of homemade bread, cheese, raw garlic cloves and olives, wrapping it up in greaseproof paper to take along to the hardware shop. She hoped she could persuade Bald Yannis to eat a late lunch with her on the harbour wall as she loved to relax there and watch the fishermen repair their nets. Strolling along to the hardware shop her eyes feasted on the wonderful sights of the crystal clear sea, the lovely stone houses with their painted shutters and the trees laden with lushly ripe purple figs and crimson pomegranates.

Her contemplative mood was interrupted by the sight of her husband physically ejecting Fotini from the hardware shop, shouting “I wont’s tell yous again, that parrot is banned.”

“Buts I can’t get it off my ‘ead,” Fotini screeched in response.

“Then yous is banned too. Not only does yous parrot ‘ave a foul mouth an’ ‘as insulted me, but it ‘as been shoplifting.”

“The parrot is not a thief yous eejit malaka, it couldn’t ‘elp swallowing them screws; it thought they were food,” Fotini protested.

“I dont’s care if it intended to eat the screws or not, if I let yous parrot get away with it I’ll ‘ave ‘alf the village in ‘ere eating stock ‘an claiming it was accident so theys dont’s ‘ave to pay.”

Soula rushed over to calm the situation, saying “Kyria Fotini my ‘usband doesn’t mean to shout at yous. If yous can get the parrot to sick up or pass the screws brings ‘em back and we will says no more about it. Now let me see if I can coax the parrot off yous ‘ead an’ then yous can go back inside an’ finish yous shopping.”

Soula spoke soothingly to the parrot, easily coaxing it from Fotini’s head onto her own shoulder where it sat contentedly nuzzling her neck, squawking “Soula is a sweetie.”

Fotini emerged with her new purchase of a hideous old lady dress. “We ‘ave the same dress!” Soula exclaimed delightedly, adding “my ‘usband ‘as great taste when it comes to stocking women’s clothing.”

“Yous ‘usband is a malaka and everythin’ the parrot said about ‘im was true,” Fotini retorted, straining her eyes to see where Nitsa had got to with the taxi. “I suppose I’d better takes the parrot back ‘ome before yous ‘usband cuts it open with ‘is chainsaw to get ‘is screws back,” grudgingly adding, “I must say yous do ‘ave a way with birds.”

Beaming with pleasure at the compliment Soula helped Fotini, who once again had the parrot perched firmly on her head, into the taxi driven by a scowling Nitsa, whose nose was still put out of joint that Soula had snared her man.

Chapter 3: Silicone Fame

The local television station in Paraliakos was inordinately pleased with the viewer response to their new weather girl, mail order Masha. Her silicone attractions drew a vast new audience and her weather reports uploaded on YouTube had legions of international fans who had fallen for Masha from the first moment she shot to fame at the prison protest. Although Masha was not particularly skilled in her actual reportage, tending to point at the wrong spots on the map with her pointer after being a bit free with the vodka, her on-screen antics were doing wonders for the television stations ratings.

So popular was she her salary had already been doubled; her bosses provided her with a generous wardrobe allowance and a chauffeur driven car to take her between Astakos and Paraliakos, as it was too long a trip to endure on the back of the donkey. The chauffeur was also tasked with replying to mail order Masha’s vast pile of fan mail by sending out glossy photographs of the silicone icon, on which he forged her signature.

That old fool Vasilis had initially been enraged to discover the smitten young doctor was spending so much time with his wife but her sneering comments asking “does you really thinks an international television star would be interested in a lowly chauffeur?” reassured him she was faithful and considered the smitten young struck-off doctor nothing more than her dogsbody. He never suspected his wife was actually carrying on behind his back with the smitten young reporter, the latest admirer she had attracted at the prison protest.

Masha’s work schedule meant less time to spend with her husband, so that old fool Vasilis was spending lots of time with his new found daughter Stavroula. She had given him a job washing up in her taverna kitchen and persuaded her new found father to invest extra cash in her tourist tat extension. Achilles the borrowed builder was due to recommence work on it any day, having finally finished the renovation work on the ‘Lemoni Spiti.’

Quentin and Deirdre were packing the last of their things from their room over Yiota’s taverna in excited anticipation of moving into the newly renovated house. “I can’t believe mother is refusing to move in with us,” Quentin complained, feeling insulted she preferred the company of the two awful old crones next door.

“She will only be next door and it will be lovely to have the new place all to ourselves,” Deirdre responded, struggling to shove a glow-in-the-dark Acropolis into her suitcase.

“What on earth possessed you to buy that tacky ornament?” Quentin asked, only to be reminded how persuasive Fat Christos could be.

“Well I suppose we can hide it out of the way in the guest toilet.”

“What a good idea,” Deirdre replied, wondering where on earth she could display the other load of tat she had impulsively purchased and so far managed to keep hidden from Quentin.

“Have you bought a gift for the new baby yet?” Quentin asked, reminding his wife they needed to call in to coo over the new arrival before they headed over to Rapanaki.

“Yes, we have bought her the most adorable stuffed goat,” Deirdre told him. “Stavroula was saying she had never seen such an ugly baby, but I suspect she was just in one of her moods.”

Deirdre quickly realised Stavroula had not been exaggerating when she and Quentin arrived to greet the new arrival who was bawling at an ear-piercing level. “Oh she’s so cute,” Deirdre lied, peering at the purple wailing baby with a nasty case of stubble rash where Tassia had shaved off the tell-tale sideburns.

“Perhaps the stuffed goat will calm ‘er down,” Tassia said hopefully. “Truth is my little darling never stops screaming unless Fat Christos picks ‘er up. I’m thinking I will ‘ave to run the supermarket and Christos will ‘ave to look after the baby and become one of them new fangled ‘ouse ‘usbands.”

“Nonsense,” Fat Christos declared sweeping into the room, grabbing the baby and smothering her with kisses. Christos was a natural with the baby and her silence was instant. “Business will suffer if I’m not there to run things, but I can take Andy with me in the baby sling. ‘Ave yous ever seen such a beauty K-Went-In and Did-Rees?”

“She’s certainly one of a kind,” the American pair diplomatically hedged.

“She just loves the stuffed goat,” Tassia said, thanking the Americans for their thoughtful gift. “Perhaps she will be a shepherdess Christo.”

“Nonsense,” the doting father shouted “my little cutie pie will be a bank manager or a politician, won’t you my beauty?”

“’Ave yous ever seen anyone make such a fool of themselves over a baby?” Mrs Kolokotronis questioned, barging into the room. Much as she loved her son she thought he was getting a bit too carried away with his doting new father performance, especially as she still suspected he wasn’t actually the father.

“I think it is admirable Christos is so devoted to Andromeda and he will be an excellent father,” Quentin said. His ear drums were nearly shattered when Mrs Kolokotronis made a grab for the baby who instantly started screaming again. Fat Christos protested, yanking the baby out of his mother’s clutches.

“Andy wants ‘er Baba, don’t yous my cherub. I will tuck ‘er into the baby sling and take ‘er out for a walk. Now yous lot get out, Tassia needs to catch up on ‘er sleep,” Fat Christos said, ushering everyone out of the room. Tossing Tassia a packet of wax ear plugs he added, “’ere my dear, put these in for a bit of peace.”

Tassia, grateful her husband was so thoughtful, followed his advice. She could put up with the baby screaming but she had no appetite for Mrs Kolokotronis’ spiteful digs about the baby’s passing resemblance to Slick Socrates.

Chapter 4: Keeping Secrets

The Pappas had been keeping a low profile since his live-in housekeeper, the amorous widow Mrs Christeas, had been exposed as the rooster thief. Unceremoniously thrown out of the Pappas’ house, the widow left the village in abject humiliation. The Pappas managed to keep the lid on the scandal of his carrying on with the widow by threatening to reveal the intimate secrets of the few villagers who knew about the affair if they didn’t keep their mouths shut.

Stavroula had been hard to convince, but he promised if she blabbed about his disastrous liaison he would in turn spread the word her mother Melina had been a floozy. Stavroula seethed with resentment over the Pappas’ threat to reveal Melina had been seduced in an olive grove by that old fool Vasilis. Even though it was now quietly accepted the old fool was indeed her father the details of her conception remained secret.

Mail order Masha agreed to keep the Pappas’ secret as she didn’t want people gossiping maliciously about her old fool of a husband. Soula had simply responded to the Pappas’ plea for silence by giving him a withering look, stating “I ‘ave never been a gossip, I never even revealed yous sordid secret to my ‘usband.” That just left Gorgeous Yiorgos and Petula in on the secret and they agreed to keep it in exchange for the Pappas agreeing to give up visitation rights to the pet goat Nero.

The offending photograph was duly destroyed by Gorgeous Yiorgos. The Pappas, now confident the Bishop would never find out about his indiscretion, went into full God-bothering grovelling mode. He was optimistic when Fat Christos and Tassia had the baby baptised it would be a good opportunity to fill up the church pews.

Keeping house was proving a problem as the Pappas considered menial housework beneath him. His clerical dresses were soon as grubby as his knee-length underpants and a layer of dust settled over the muddy footprints he left in the house. The constant diet of spinach and cheese pies from the bakery made him long for Mrs Christeas’ rooster dishes even though he had maligned them at the time.

The Pappas stuck up a sign in the supermarket window advertising for a cleaner and tried to persuade the village women to take the job. Impressed with Soula’s hard-working ways he attempted to lure her into taking the position. She flatly refused his offer, telling him “yous can stew in yous pigsty yous nasty man, I dont’s ‘ave the time of day for the god squad an’ will never forgives yous for trying to ruin my wedding.”

Even Mrs Kolokotronis turned him down, stating “yous thinks I ‘ave times to cleans up after yous when I ‘ave a knitting empire to run and a new grandchild to look after?”

When the Bishop openly gagged at the fusty smell emanating from the Pappas’ grimy clerical dress he told him to get a grip on his domestic arrangements, reminding him “cleanliness is next to Godliness.” The Bishops’ scathing remarks resulted in the Pappas pulling himself together and finally fathoming out how to use the newfangled washing machine. He invested in a new mop and bucket from the hardware shop, mastered the tin opener, purchased a copy of ‘The Idiot’s Guide to Cooking’ and resigned himself to a celibate life.

At least now the villagers need not stand down wind of him when he flapped past them on the harbour.

Chapter 5: Toothless Tasos Loses His Teeth

Toothless Tasos was busy mending his nets after a fruitless morning’s fishing. His heart had not been in it as he was feeling guilty for shouting at his beloved goddess Thea about the messy state of their house. Opening the package of food Thea had thoughtfully prepared for him he bit down on a piece of crusty bread, only to exclaim “malaka, I forgot to put my false teeth in.” Feeding the bread to the fish it occurred to him instead of nagging Thea to keep the house tidy he could perhaps give her a helping hand as in addition to washing clothes and cooking she was knitting from dawn to dusk to pay off her debts.

As Toothless Tasos mused on his shortcomings the object of his affection was muttering colourful expletives as she cursed him. “The malaka ‘as no idea ‘ow ‘ard I work, what with keeping ‘ouse, washing, cooking and knitting, while all he does is a bit of fishin’.” Sweeping the house in a temper she threw anything that looked out of place into black bags and was just in time to dump them in the bins before the rubbish truck arrived and drove off to the landfill site.

Toothless Tasos strolled home, immediately launching into an abject apology for his failings and for shouting at Thea. She was not easily calmed down as his earlier words had cut her to the quick. “Why yous mumbling like that?” she fired at him, not willing to readily forgive him for taking her for granted and treating her like a skivvy.

“I forgot to put my teeth in this morning. ‘Appen I left ‘em in a glass of water by our bed,” Tasos replied, heading up the stairs to the bedroom to retrieve them.

Scratching his head Toothless Tasos was perplexed to discover the glass and his teeth were missing. Calling down to Thea he asked “agape mou, ’ave yous seen my teeth, I could ‘ave sworn I left ‘em by the bed?”

A wave of shame struck Thea as she recalled her bout of feverish cleaning that morning, tossing anything looking vaguely untidy into rubbish bags. She had been so cross she may have inadvertently thrown Toothless Tasos’ false teeth away like yesterday’s garbage.

“Dont’s start shoutin’ again but I think I may ‘ave chucked yous teeth away when I was busy cleaning. Maybe if we jump on the motorbike ‘an side-car we could follow the garbage truck and ‘opefully find ‘em.”

Toothless Tasos sighed in despair at the thought his teeth may be lost. They had cost a small fortune to purchase and he had been forced to eat liquidised food for years as he saved up to pay for them. Seeing Thea’s crestfallen face he understood her massive clean-up was the result of his earlier chastisement and he immediately forgave her. Taking her into his arms he said “I knows it was accident an’ not done out of malice my little bougatsa. Quick lets follow the garbage truck and tries to get ‘em back.”

Chapter 6: Deirdre Puts Her Foot In It

Bald Yannis was sitting behind the hardware shop counter studying his ledgers. They were far more boring than his favourite underwear catalogues, but much more lucrative. His ‘sponsor a goat and olive tree scams’ were bringing in such a tidy income he had been able to reinvest some funds into enlarging his herd of goats. The Japanese craze for goats in clothes showed no sign of abating and he had many eager suckers signing up to have a cutely dressed goat named after them. Unfortunately he had been forced to knock his ‘catfisher’ scam on the head when Moronic Mitsos’ wife discovered his atrocious love letters to the retired ex-chief of police and threatened to divorce him.

Married life was suiting Bald Yannis. He considered Soula an excellent wife; she was such a hard worker. She had added some homely touches to his now clean house, cooked good plain vegetarian food and was an asset in the shop. The huge log pile was a testament to Soula’s expertise with the chainsaw and the goats she tended were the picture of rude health. Surprisingly she was not as subservient as he’d imagined, demonstrating a nature that brooked no nonsense, but she was loyal to a fault and her straight talking tongue always rushed to his defence most diplomatically.

His musings were interrupted by the arrival of Quentin and Deirdre. “We are after a perch for Fotini’s blasted parrot,” Quentin said. “Every time the foul mouthed bird spots me it thinks my scalp is a perch and refuses to relinquish its painful hold, so I want a real perch to distract it.”

“Does I looks like a pet shop?” Bald Yannis queried, demonstrating his unique brand of customer service.

“We presumed you are a man of many talents who can craft one from your hardware shop supplies,” Deirdre said flatteringly, neglecting to mention they had already been turned down by Achilles the borrowed builder who was far too busy with Stavroula’s tourist tat annex.

“I suppose I could knock yous one up,” Bald Yannis agreed.

“We would also like to purchase one of your hideous old lady dresses,” Deirdre said, taking Bald Yannis by surprise.

“So yous ‘ave finally decided to dress Greek style Did-Rees,” the hardware shop man chuckled.

“Certainly not, I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of your ghastly rags,” Deirdre declared in her most affronted manner. “They are just the thing to dress the scarecrow to scare the birds away from our almond trees.”

Deirdre blushed to the roots of her hair when she noticed Soula had entered the shop wearing what she had just described as a ghastly rag. She hoped Bald Yannis’ new wife had not overheard her remark, but was out of luck.

“Did-Rees I may not be as fashionable as yous but it is ‘ardly practical to see to the goats in twin set and pearls,” Soula blurted. “I loves my new dress an’ knows what real rags is.”

Bald Yannis smirked with pride at the way Soula put the American woman in her place. He was amazed by the graceful way Soula offered to share her recipe for almond kourabiedes biscuits with Deirdre, adding “I am sure you can tempts the parrot off K-Went-In’s ‘ead with a few bits of tasty kourabiedes.”

“Well you certainly put your foot in it there,” Quentin scolded his wife as the two of them rushed from the hardware shop clutching a hideous old lady dress and promising to return for the parrot perch. In their haste to exit they almost knocked Adonis over.

“Oh dear, have you managed to offend Adonis too?” Quentin asked his wife when their Greek friend declined their offer of coffee, saying he had urgent business to attend to. “Adonis always has time for coffee.”

Chapter 7: Tourist Complaints

Adonis had more urgent matters on his mind than drinking coffee with Quentin and Deirdre. He burst into Slick Socrates’ office demanding he use all his lawyerly guile to quell the scheming ruse of a disgruntled German tourist who had stayed in his hotel over the summer and was now threatening to sue for a ruined holiday. Slick Socrates scanned the letter, giving Adonis the opportunity to refute the complaints.

“He says you misled him as you advertised every bathroom had a patriotic shower curtain, but instead of the Greek flag he was expecting to salute he only had a lobster on his shower curtain. Everyone knows lobster is the patriotic emblem of the village of Astakos, so he starts off by writing nonsense Adoni. Let’s see what else he wants to whine about. He claims he got attacked by a mosquito.”

“He could ‘ave been bitten anywhere, no proofs it was in my ‘otel,” Adonis said. “I told ‘im he reeked of perfume and should wash it off and use vinegar as a mosquito deterrent.”

“Then you exercised every precaution which he chose to ignore,” Socrates staunchly agreed.

“He says he suffered trauma when he got stuck in the lift. He might well have a case with that one,” Slick Socrates suggested.

“Well he was so fat he got wedged in the lift door trying to get in. The lift wasn’t strong enough to cart ‘is fat carcass between floors. I pointed out the maximum weight sign to ‘im and told ‘im if he ate ‘ealthy Greek salad he might shift some of ‘is lard.”

“So you did the responsible thing,” Socrates concurred, adding, “He claims he got food poisoning and was too sick to get out of bed.”

“We dont’s serve food at ‘otel so ‘ow coulds we poison ‘im?”

“Good point,” Slick Socrates agreed. “There have been lots of cases of tourists complaining about being poisoned to get money refunded from hotels, but they often fake it. Let me telephone Vangelis the chemist and see if he remembers a fat German tourist buying lots of food poisoning remedies,” he said, dialling the pharmacy.

“Condoms, you say he was buying condoms?” Socrates questioned into the phone. “Po po, he was supposed to be too sick to be having use of such things, thank you Vangeli.”

“Now I think of it Bald Yannis told me he ‘ad a fat German customer making indecent propositions to ‘is new wife Soula,” Adonis recollected.

“Well that could account for his next complaint that he was chased out of the hardware shop by a bald lunatic waving a chainsaw. Yannis was obviously just protecting his wife’s honour. We could get Soula to sue him for sexual harassment. Are we nearly done with this nonsense?” Socrates asked, reading the rest of the letter.

“He complains a duck went for him in the sea and that the beach was too sandy; he moans it rained and Greece is supposed to be sunny; and he got locked in a taxi by a mad old woman extorting extortionate fares.”

“Bravo for Nitsa, I will buy ‘er a drink next times I sees er,” Adonis proclaimed. “So he ‘asn’t a leg to stand on if he sues the ‘otel?”

“Not a chance,” Slick Socrates reassured Adonis before laughing, “Oh this is a classic Adoni, he only wants a free holiday in your hotel in recompense for all his sufferings. I will write and tell the malaka he has no chance. Apart from this nutter’s complaint is business doing goodly?”

“We ‘ad a busy summer and the goat obsessed Japanese ‘ave already started booking for next year. We ‘ave some out of season guests due soon as foreigners seem intrigued by olive picking an’ ‘ave this deluded notion it is romantic.”

“Po po, romantic my bad back. I feel twinges coming on as soon as anyone mentions gathering olives. I’m already planning to be laid up to avoid all that hard physical labour,” Slick Socrates confessed.

“Wells Stavroula is a capable woman an’ can hoist full sacks of olives like a man while yous is laid up,” Adonis agreed, remembering he would also need to develop signs of a bad back well before the harvest.

“I ‘ave persuaded K-Went-In and Did-Rees to ‘elp me with the olive ‘arvest, they is so deluded I ‘ave convinced ‘em it is romantic work.”

“They’ll learn,” Socrates laughed, reminding himself he must start exaggerating the pain of his non-existent bad back before Stavroula got any ridiculous ideas he might be useful.

Chapter 8: Fig Cake and Onions

“Be more careful yous old fool,” Stavroula screamed at her newly found father as Vasilis dropped yet another dish on the tiled kitchen floor where it smashed into hundreds of pieces. “I’ll ‘ave to take that out of yous wages.”

“Well yous could if yous was actually paying me,” that old fool Vasilis replied.

“I pays you goodly in ‘ome cooked food and yous should be grateful because it tastes delicious compared to yous wife’s ‘orrible bosch.”

“It is borscht,” Vasilis corrected her for the thousandth time. “’Ow many times yous ‘ave to be told Bosch is a German washing machine, not Russian soup.”

“’Owever yous pronounce it dont’s make it edible. That news reader ‘ad to ‘ave ‘is stomach pumped after eatin’ it. ‘Ere taste this sykomaitha before I wrap it in fig leaves,” she said, passing Vasilis a freshly baked piece of rich fig cake.

“It coulds do with a drop more ouzo,” Vasilis recommended.

“Yous tastes buds are sozzled,” Stavroula concluded. “I thinks this cake will impress ‘em at the television studio, along with my snail and olive stew.”

Ever since her new step-mother had made a name for herself on television Stavroula had been badgering Masha to put her name forward as a culinary contender for her own live cooking show. She had been perfecting her favourite dishes to impress the producers even though mail order Masha professed they were not interested in hiring any new talent, being quite happy with their current cooking star.

“Kyria Papadopoulos is past it,” Stavroula argued. “She must be near to eighty and wears that ‘orrid old cardie an’ nasty pop socks. All she does is stir pans of brown stuff, twittering ‘poli nostimo’ endlessly. Everyone knows it was nepotism what got ‘er the job.”

“’Er show is so dull and she never cooks anything tasty. Yous would be much better. I’ll ‘ave another word with Masha and sees if she can use her influence, but it might ‘elp matters if yous was a bit nicer to ‘er,” Vasilis flattered his daughter.

“Yous could be rights,” Stavroula reluctantly agreed, making a mental note to start sucking up to her step-mother as a means to realise her culinary stardom ambitions through a touch of the despised nepotism she had just deplored when practiced by Kyria Papadopoulos.

“Po po, what is Fat Christos doing on that strange contraption?”

Christos waved cheerily as he cycled by on a tricycle, pulling along a cargo box with the baby happily ensconced on a nest of pillows. “Ere watch out,” he screeched as Nitsa, swerving to avoid him in the old Mercedes taxi, collided head-on with Petros the postman in his postal delivery car. Petros staggered from the car, staring vacantly at the steam hissing angrily from the now crumpled bonnet.

“I calls my cousin Adonis the mechanic as yous car will need towing,” Adonis offered cheerfully.

“Are you hurt Aunty Nitsa?” Tall Thomas called out in concern.

“I’m fine but yous best gets me a brandy to be on the safe side,” Nitsa told him. “I ‘opes that idiot postman ‘asn’t damaged the taxi. I cant’s afford to be losing any extorted extortionate fares as they ‘elps out with my meagre pension.”

“The taxi is fine Aunty Nitsa, it’s yous I is worried about. Yous know ‘ow fond I am of yous,” grovelled Tall Thomas, exaggerating his concern to ensure the old crone wrote him into her will.

Petros the postman stood in confused despair watching his car being towed away. “’Ows I supposed to deliver mail now?” he wailed.

“I suppose I coulds hire out Onos the donkey to yous,” that old fool Vasilis offered “you’ve ‘ad ‘er before. But dont’s put too much weight on ‘er as donkey is pregnant. Masha can picks me up in the chauffeur driven car an’ I can rub the smitten young struck-off doctor’s nose in ‘is come down in the world.”

“He should ‘ave been strung up instead of struck off,” Nitsa lamented, glugging her brandy. “I’ve not been able to move one ‘alf of my face since he gave me that shot of dodgy Botox.”

“I wondered why yous face suddenly had that scary fixated grimace,” Tall Thomas told his aunty.

“Slick Socrates ‘as promised he will get me compensation for this botched Botox job,” Nitsa said.

“Yous not finished paying off his lawyerly fee for getting yous out of prison yet,” Stavroula reminded Nitsa.

“Po po, it was public opinion what freed me on account of me being so popular in fifty-seven countries, not to mention them useful eejits at Amnesty International falling for my tall tales of torture,” Nitsa laughed.

“I’d best be off now Aunty as I wants to try and flog these gavros off in the village of Gavros. If I’ve any left over at the end of the day I wills drop ‘em round for yous dinner,” Tall Thomas promised, ambling over to the mobile refrigerated fish van.

“Touting gavros in Gavros is like selling pork souvlaki to pig farmers,” Stavroula pointed out.

“After they tried to sell us lobsters for ours lobster festival they deserves their comeuppance,” Tall Thomas called out, revving up the van which was full of anchovies caught by Prosperous Pedros poaching in the sea off Gavros.

“Quick Stavroula,” that old fool Vasilis hollered. “Kyria Papadopoulos’ cooking show ‘as just started.”

“Po po, there she goes again stirring something bland and brown, and trying to convince the audience it is tasty,” Stavroula complained, glued to the television screen and watching Kyria Papadopoulos endlessly drone “poli poli nostimo.” “It wouldn’t be so bad if she ‘ad one of them dishes she’d made earlier to shows off, but no, we ‘ave to sit and watch ‘er stir them malaka onions for the next ‘alf ‘our. Where’s sense in that? Poli nostimo indeed, more like poli ‘orrible rather than poli tasty.”

Father and daughter watched the cookery programme in utter disgust while getting on with essential tasks in the taverna kitchen. “’Ang on she don’t usually set ‘erself on fire,” Stavroula piped up gleefully, watching one arm of Kyria Papadopoulos’ cardie catch light as it brushed against the gas flame. The television cook was overcome with panic, desperately pulling off her trademark brown cardigan and attempting to douse the fast growing flames by pouring the contents of the nearest bottle over them. Unfortunately the flammable olive oil she grabbed furiously fed the flames. Attempting to get out of range of the fire she skidded in the pan full of onions she’d knocked on the floor. The screen went suddenly black to be replaced with a pre-recorded advertisement for haemorrhoid cream.

“Phones Masha and see what’s ‘appening,” Stavroula instructed her father.

“Masha says Kyria Papadopoulos ‘as burnt down the television cooking studio and is being frogmarched out of the building by security men,” Vasilis duly reported.

“This could be just the opening I’ve been waiting for,” Stavroula crowed. “Tells Masha to stops by for ‘ome cooked dinner on ‘er way ‘ome.”

Chapter 9: Eureka!

“Dont’s you recognise the black bags yous threw out?” Toothless Tasos asked Thea as the pair of them stood waist deep in overflowing rubbish bags dumped at the landfill site.

“One black bin bag looks much like another,” Thea replied, bewildered by the enormous task they faced in sifting through the stinking garbage pile to find Toothless Tasos’ false teeth. Pulling a can of air freshener from her pocket Thea liberally sprayed the nearest bags, a futile gesture against the overpowering stench.

“Ave you thrown any celery out lately?” Toothless Tasos asked, waving a wilted slimy green stick in the air.

“Of course not, I use leftover vegetables in soup now. Yous knows ‘ow ‘ard I am trying to be frugal,” Thea reminded him.

“Then we can discount this bag,” Tasos declared, throwing it to one side. “This should be a process of elimination if we tackles job with logic.”

“Cant’s you just get some new teeth?” Thea begged him. “We could be ‘ere for days sifting through this revolting mess.”

“Just keep at it woman, new teeth cost a fortune an’ the creepy new dentist ‘as a terrible reputation. Yous can ‘ear people screaming from ‘is surgery even outs at sea.”

“But at least he doesn’t insist on giving receipts so it’s worth a bit of pain. Oh look, someone ‘as tossed a perfectly good glow-in-the-dark Parthenon out!” Thea exclaimed. “We coulds take it ‘ome.”

“I thoughts you ‘ad mended yous ways an’ no longer collected tat impulsively,” Tasos scolded while wiping the residue of squashed tomatoes off his pullover. “Just keeps at it an’ stops complaining, it was yous that got us into this fine mess by chucking out my teeth.”

“Wells if you ‘adn’t forgot to put yous teeth in and left ‘em lying about the ‘ouse making a mess I wouldn’t ‘ave thrown ‘em out,” Thea argued rationally.

Squabbling over the rubbish the pair grew increasingly filthy and smelly. Coming across a discarded old bedstead Thea had the sudden idea of using serviceable items of old rubbish to re-furnish the harbour-side house, since the debt collectors had snatched everything that made it habitable.

“It would be easier to rent out thee ‘ouse again if it ‘ad a few sticks of furniture Taso. Some of this old rubbish will scrub up nicely,” Thea said, appealing to Toothless Tasos’ tight-wad nature.

“Ave yous turned into a scavenging gypsy woman?” Tasos questioned, quietly admitting to himself her idea had merit. They could not afford to buy furniture for the house and desperately needed the rent money to reduce Thea’s debts.

“Yous see what else ‘as been chucked out but could be useful,” Tasos told Thea “an’ I’ll keeps looking for my teeth.”

As Toothless Tasos burrowed through gross bags full of repulsive refuse Thea concentrated on identifying anything which could be used in the rental house. In addition to the bedstead she made claim to an old door she thought would serve as a kitchen table when propped up on bricks; a framed photograph of Evzones in full ceremonial uniform complete with pompom shoes and tasselled socks; and a set of cheap plastic patio chairs only missing one leg. Ignoring Tasos’ complaints she insisted on adding the glow-in-the-dark Parthenon to her pile of old junk, insisting “it will add a homely touch to the ‘ouse.”

“Eureka!” Thea suddenly screamed in delight.

“’Ave yous found my teeth then?” Tasos asked with a sigh of relief.

“No but this old ceramic pot mights be an ancient antiquity and worth a fortune. Yous could ‘ave a new set of teeth out of the profits instead of grubbing round for yous old ones,” Thea cried in excitement.

“Dont’s be so stupid woman, yous knows there is strict penalties for looting antiquities. Yous could end up with ten years in prison for stealing that old pot from the Greek state. Yous must ‘and it over to Pancratius the village policeman to give to the authorities,” Tasos shouted, worried his beloved goddess was about to commit an appalling crime. Ever since he had faked his own death at sea Toothless Tasos ensured he never broke any laws that would draw the attention of the police. He never failed to wear his crash helmet on his head, rather than following the Greek tradition of wearing it looped over an arm, and he was assiduous in always filing his tax return early.

“Trust yous to be so honest when I am holding the answer to all our money worries,” Thea yelled in dismay, while acknowledging the penalty for looting was indeed severe. Kicking a black bin bag in frustration Thea spotted a pair of yellowed false teeth glimmering through the rip. Holding them aloft she said “at least we can go ‘ome now Taso an’ shower this muck off, I’ve found yous teeth at last.”

“Bravo my little bougatsa,” Tasos cried, spinning his beloved around in his tomato smeared arms. Snatching the teeth from Thea he groaned in disappointment, “These false teeth aren’t mine.”

“Oh dont’s be so fussy Taso, just shove ‘em in your mouth so we can go ‘ome. If yous think I am searching any longer when yous ‘ave a perfectly respectable set of teeth in yous ‘ands then yous is deluded.”

Knowing when he was defeated Toothless Tasos popped the ill-fitting teeth in his mouth and started to load Thea’s pile of salvaged junk into the motorbike sidecar. He may not be married to Thea yet but he was admittedly under her thumb.

Chapter 10: Stupid Superstitions

“What on earth is she doing ‘ere in Astakos?” Stavroula exclaimed, hastily ducking out of sight below the taverna counter in a desperate measure to avoid a middle-aged woman she had hoped never to clap eyes on again.

“Shush, dont’s let on I am ‘ere,” she instructed her old fool of a father, trying to make herself invisible as a drably dressed woman adorned with multiple blue eyed amulets and reeking of garlic, entered the taverna.

“What kind of backward place is this, I ‘ave just been attacked by a parrot attached to an old crone’s ‘ead?” the woman enquired, before demanding, “Where is Stavroula?”

“She said to tell you she’s not ‘ere,” that old fool Vasilis replied.

“Po po, she takes me for a fool; you can come out Stavroula as I knows you is ‘iding.”

“Of course I’m not ‘iding,” Stavroula declared, jumping up from the floor and painfully thwacking her head on the counter. “I was simply looking for the cat Boukali. What brings you to these parts Katerina?” she enquired, disgustedly wiping the glob of spit off her bosom that the unwelcome woman had fired at her.

“Why yous spitting on my daughter?” that old fool Vasilis demanded to know.

“To ward the evil eye away of course,” Katerina responded huffily, edging away in horror from the black taverna cat and turning her full attention on Stavroula.

“So this is what you wasted my poor missing brother’s money on,” Katerina stated, giving the taverna a derisory appraisal. The new arrival was indeed the interfering sister of Stavroula’s second husband Kostas, presumed missing by the police but actually lying dead at the murderous hand of Stavroula and buried beneath the chicken coop in the northern village of Pouthena.

“I ‘ave to say you dont’s seem unduly worried that yous ‘usband is missing, but I am determined to find ‘im,” Katerina proclaimed.

“Why shoulds I be concerned about a useless ‘usband what ran off with a floozy, leaving me broken ‘earted?” Stavroula said, sticking firmly to the bogus story she had invented and painting herself as the wronged party.

“I knows my brother wanted to divorce yous but he never mentioned another woman, he’s certainly no Casanova,” Katerina pronounced adamantly in her brother’s defence.

“’Appen he ‘as a different floozy in every town, travelling salesmen gets around,” Stavroula claimed, continuing to besmirch her murdered spouse’s name while shrewdly referring to him in the present tense. Stiffening suddenly as her live-in-lover Slick Socrates entered the taverna Stavroula rushed over to him and led him to a table. Winking at him with a bizarre movement resembling an out of control twitch she loudly told him to take a seat and she would bring him his usual ouzo, while rolling her eyes and mouthing to him “dead Kostas’ sister.” Being quick on the up-take Slick Socrates immediately pretended to be a completely uninterested customer.

“Yous was quick to sell Kostas’ ‘ouse an’ do a runner with all his money,” Katerina accused Stavroula.

“Po po, ‘ouse was in my name and when yous cheating brother ran off with a harlot I solds up and came ‘ome to open this taverna. Peoples were cold and unfriendly up in Pouthena,” Stavroula insisted. “Anyways yous wont’s find Kostas ‘ere so yous ‘ave ‘ad a wasted journey.”

“I knows there is more to my brother’s disappearance than yous is letting on and I’m not goings anywhere till I finds out more. If something ‘as ‘appened to Kostas I knows he would want me to ‘ave ‘is money, he would not want a gold-digger like yous to ‘ave it. I will be staying in a room over the other taverna,” Katerina announced ominously, preparing to flounce out.

Taking her leave she suddenly uttered “skorda skorda,” the traditional superstitious repetition of the word garlic, at the sight of the Pappas walking along the harbour, a bad omen in Katerina’s credulous mind. Her sudden jerky step backwards caused her to drop the bat bones she had furtively been clinging onto as an extra protection against the ill omens she was convinced Stavroula possessed.

“Yous not ‘aving any of my ‘usbands money yous mad woman, get out ’an’ takes yous disgusting old bat bones with yous, this is an hygienic establishment,” Stavroula shrieked, oblivious to the layer of grime coating every surface from the building work.

Scooping the bones back into her pocket Katerina stormed out, determined not to let matters rest until either she had a more solid lead regarding her brother’s missing status or some of his cash in her hands. Slick Socrates, rushing to take his beloved in his arms and quell her anxiety, offered Stavroula a solution.

“I’m guessing with eye amulets pinned to her frock, bat bones in her pocket and smelly garlic cloves stashed down her bra, that your sister-in-law is an uneducated superstitious peasant. I suspect the best way to be rid of her is to have a wicked old woman put a curse on her. If she is steeped in stupid superstitions happen a curse will scare her off.”

“Where will we find an old woman willing to put a curse on ‘er?” Stavroula questioned sceptically. Lacking a single superstitious bone herself she thought Socrates had lost his marbles until he reassured her Katerina was the gullible type and his plan could work, especially when he added “Nitsa still owes me money for the lawyerly work I did to release her from prison and I’m sure she’ll put a curse on your sister-in-law if I write off her bill.”

“Better still, persuade ‘er to ‘ave Fotini do it, everyone knows she is evil,” Stavroula decreed, now fully convinced of the wisdom of Socrates’ plan. “With a bit of luck the parrot will parrot the curse, turning Katerina demented an’ sending ‘er on ‘er way.”

Chapter 11: Parrot Beater

“I really don’t want that odious little man coming along to give the house a blessing, even if it is a traditional Greek custom,” Deirdre told Quentin. “He makes my skin crawl.”

“I’m not fond of the Pappas myself but can we really risk offending our neighbours by ignoring this traditional ceremony?” Quentin queried.

“Considering our neighbours are Fotini, Nitsa and your mother I think we can count on their disapproval whatever we do,” Deirdre pointed out. “I’d much rather just buy a basil plant to stick by the door than have the foot groping Pappas pontificating pompously and wafting his sprig all over the place. I’m sure it would be more of a curse than a blessing in his hands.”

“Ah, here’s our chance to test out Bald Yannis’ new parrot perch,” Quentin said excitedly, watching Fotini emerge from the house next door with the parrot clamped tightly to her head. Catching sight of her new neighbours Fotini made a dash for the three-legged olive tree ladder propped against the garden wall, before suddenly remembering her usual handy shortcut now led directly into the path of the problematic prickly pear plants. Having no wish to repeat the agonising impalement she had previously suffered on the spiky plant she was forced to take the long way round to intrude on Quentin and Deirdre’s privacy.

Fotini hobbled up the path scowling and muttering under her breath. The parrot flew off her head and ignoring the newly erected parrot perch it landed directly on Quentin’s scalp, causing him to yelp in pain as its sharp claws gained fast traction. Cackling away to herself Fotini retreated back to her own garden at a remarkable pace, pleased to be rid of the burdensome bird.

Sighing in exasperation Deirdre told Quentin “we will look ridiculous strolling into the village with the parrot stuck on your head, really it is nothing short of an embarrassment.” With that she picked up the lobster adorned shower curtain used as an outdoor tablecloth and threw it over the parrot, hoping to disguise Quentin’s predicament. The parrot instantly complained, demanding “disrobe me this instant.”

“I wonder where the parrot picked up that phrase to mimic,” Quentin wondered aloud. “I do hope mother has not been encouraging that scam catfisher Randolph with provocative photographs again.”

“She hasn’t mentioned him for ages. More likely Nitsa has been attempting to lure Bald Yannis with her brazen ways,” Deirdre suggested. “She always was deluded where the hardware shop man is concerned but he seems to have settled down happily into married life with Soula.”

“It’s a wonder the poor dear can put up with him,” Quentin observed, competing to be heard over the parrot repetitively squawking “Soula is a sweetie.” Ripping the shower curtain off his head Quentin observed his mother and Nitsa climbing into the old Mercedes taxi and beckoning frantically in his direction.

“I suppose Nitsa wants to extort an extortionate fare from us,” he calculated.

“We may as well go to the village in the taxi,” Deirdre decided “at least that way fewer people will laugh at you, dear. With any luck the parrot will feel an instant attraction to the Pappas and swap heads when we meet to tell him we don’t require his house blessing rituals.”

“The Pappas is a drunken wife beater,” the parrot squawked gleefully as the American couple reluctantly clambered into the taxi. Unfortunately Quentin failed to duck and the parrot, knocked unconscious as it smashed into the car roof, was finally dislodged from his head. Quentin pressed a five Euro note into Nitsa’s grasping hand as a bribe to drive away quickly to escape Fotini’s accusatory cries of “malaka parrot beater.”

Chapter 12: Saved At Sea

Left alone at the house with the unconscious parrot, Fotini telephoned her son Prosperous Pedros in a terrible flap, demanding he come round at once to give the parrot the kiss of life.

“Mother, I am out in the boat, why on earth cant’s you give the parrot the kiss of life yourself?” Pedros replied irritability.

“I’m a married woman, I cant’s go round kissing anything but yous father,” Fotini reminded him, still convinced her decade dead husband was visiting Athens.

“It is impossible; I have my lines to attend to. I will call by this evening,” Prosperous Pedros insisted, hanging up on Fotini in exasperation. He was busy experimenting with new bait for his lines, unconcerned the luxury prawns he was using cost far more to purchase than he could raise from the sale of his fish. He was only interested in returning with a bigger haul than his competitors so he could brag of his superior fishing skills in the taverna. Suddenly his eyes were drawn to the figure of a man thrashing around in the water, desperately clutching an old tyre.

“I ‘opes that’s not one of them terrorists,” he muttered under his breath, determined not to be drawn into a political storm in the village. Saving the life of the drowning Pappas had done him no favours with the villagers and he did not want to repeat his mistake by rescuing what could be an unwanted or dangerous interloper. His mobile phone ringing again interrupted his dithering. “What is it now mother?” he yelled into the phone, only to hear, “Help, it’s me Thomas. Cant’s yous see me waving at yous?”

Squinting across the sea Prosperous Pedros spotted the floundering figure was indeed waving. “Is that yous Thoma, ‘olding onto the tyre?” he questioned down the mobile phone. “What on earth is yous doing in the sea miles from shore?”

“Never minds that, just brings the boat over and rescues me,” Tall Thomas screamed, dropping his hold on his mobile phone and taking in a mouthful of seaweed laced salty water.

Prosperous Pedros sped over to the drowning figure and heaved his dripping body into the boat. Gasping for air Thomas vomited up a copious amount of sea water and several small fish, rewarding Pedros for his efforts.

“Malaka, I dropped my phone,” he complained, persuading Pedros to use his newfangled computerised guidance system to locate the phone in the water. The two men argued over which button to press to activate the guidance system’s ‘peer at the seabed feature’, with Pedros convinced if the wrong button was pressed the fishing boat might explode.

“’Ow comes you is out ‘ere drowning?” Pedros questioned, holding tightly onto Tall Thomas’ legs as he balanced precariously over the side of the boat attempting to retrieve the mobile phone with a long handled fishing net.

“It was them malakas down in Gavros,” Tall Thomas explained. “They went ballistic when I tried to sell ‘em gavros. They tooks me out to sea in a boat and threw me in the water with nothin’ but that tyre to keeps me afloat. I tells yous Pedro, I was on the point of dying of ‘unger and sunstroke when yous come along and saves me.”

“’Ere, ‘ave a prawn,” Pedros offered, proffering his bait to the starving man.

Tall Thomas immediately regretted snacking on Pedros’ expensive bait as he had forgotten all about his propensity for sea sickness until it was too late. Refusing to reveal the embarrassing condition that had caused him to stop fishing Thomas accused Pedros of buying dodgy prawns, to which Pedros argued “well none of the fish is complaining.”

“Well they is dead like this phone,” Thomas reasoned, going green and losing the prawns. He was very impressed by Pedros’ superior knowledge that placing his telephones battery in the deep freeze may revive it, but he had another more pressing matter on his mind.

“What if they ‘ave another go when I goes back to retrieve my mobile refrigerated fish van what is still in their village?” Thomas shuddered, reluctant to brave his adversaries in Gavros again in case they meted out a similar brutal treatment.

“I expects we can rounds up enough of us in Astakos to go down and gets it,” Prosperous Pedros proposed, thinking if they went to Gavros mob-handed that evening he would have a readymade excuse not to visit his parrot obsessed mother.

Chapter 13: Egg On The Pappas’ Face

The Pappas was having a bad day. The gormless American pair had turned up at the church to flatly turn down his offer to bless their newly renovated house. Then he had nearly blown the chance to officiate over the christening of Andromeda by insulting the proposed godmother, calling her an unsuitable gold-digging floozy.

“You aren’t the only church around and we can take our business elsewhere,” Fat Christos threatened. “Masha is not only Tassia’s dearest friend but she personally delivered the baby, making her the perfect choice to be Andy’s nona.”

It had taken a lot of grovelling to appease Fat Christos before he had agreed to let the Pappas officiate. He had been forced to coo over the ugly baby, declaring her a beauty. The news that Gorgeous Yiorgos was the chosen godfather further enraged him as he wished only ill-luck on the fisherman now living with his estranged wife Petula, but he knew better than to voice his objections to the philandering fornicator taking the role of nonos.

Locking the church the Pappas prepared to head home and try out his new recipe for soft boiled eggs from the ‘Idiot’s Guide to Cooking.’ Fotini had left some eggs, pilfered from her neighbours’ chicken coop, in the church collection plate. He thought the eggs made a nice change from the usual useless offerings of grubby condoms, suspicious bits of toffee and foreign coins.

Calling out a greeting to Prosperous Pedros, as the fisherman parked his boat in the harbour, the Pappas was shocked to be on the receiving end of a mouthful of expletives. He had no idea Pedros now considered himself the unfortunate victim of the Pappas’ fishing curse, convinced his current excellent fishing luck would now be reversed.

The phone call he received from the Bishop upon returning home left him conflicted. The Bishop’s request that he take on an apprentice Pappas, straight from his stint in a monastery for a spot of on-the-job training, seemed rather ambiguous as it could mean his experience was valued, or it could mean the young upstart was after his job. Mulling over the implications of sharing his church and his home with a wet behind the ears eager trainee the Pappas was oblivious to over boiling his lunch until it exploded, leaving him with egg all over his face.

The sight of a new parishioner huddled in the church doorway lifted his spirits as he liked to welcome new members to his congregation who were oblivious of his terrible reputation. Averting his nose from the rank garlic smell seeping from the woman’s amulet embellished bosom, the Pappas asked if he could be of any assistance.

“I ‘ave come to say a prayer for my missing brother Kostas what was driven from ‘is ‘ome by ‘is bossy and domineering wife Stavroula, who ‘as the taverna round the corner,” Katerina announced, adding “yous is a bit messy for a priest, yous ‘ave yolk all over yous collar.”

“Indeed she is a dreadful woman,” the Pappas agreed, still smarting from his ban from Stavroula’s taverna and pulling bits of egg shell out of his ear. “Come inside and light a candle,” he invited, hoping the woman would divulge some dirt on his hated neighbour. He hadn’t ruled out the hope of future blackmail attempts if he could garner some new incriminating gossip. Unfortunately Katerina was the type to drone on endlessly with nothing interesting to reveal. The Pappas was left none the wiser about the fate of Stavroula’s missing husband after three hours of listening to Katerina’s complaints, leaving him seriously tempted to slip back into his old habits and break open a bottle of holy wine. If Kostas was anything like his sister he could understand Stavroula doing a runner from Pouthena.

The Pappas finally got rid of Katerina by convincing her everyone in Yiota’s taverna would be riveted by her tales. Shooing her on her way he suddenly remembered he had intended to dine at Yiota’s that evening. Unable to face yet another minute in Katerina’s company he resigned himself to yet another disastrous meal concocted from the ‘Idiot’s Guide to Cooking.’ Perhaps if he hurried he may just catch Kyria Papadopoulos’ cooking show on television and learn some new culinary techniques to prevent his food exploding.

Chapter 14: The Body In The Deep Freeze

Bald Yannis was convinced the repulsive old bag Fotini had only demanded he deliver a pile of new olive sacks ready for the upcoming harvest to give her repugnant and foul mouthed parrot a chance to attack him. Cycling back to the hardware shop he cursed the old woman and her parrot as it had viciously uprooted a large chunk of his hair transplant, leaving him completely bald on one side of his scalp. Mulling over possible macabre plans, his revenge on the parrot involved a vision of a pair of pliers and a large cooking pot.

With Soula helping out in the shop Bald Yannis had been able to expand his home delivery service. Takings were up as Soula had a winning way with the customers, nicely compensating for his own bluff rudeness and his natural inclination to hurl insults at anyone attempting to shop in the hardware store.

Back at the hardware shop Bald Yannis was astounded to discover his new wife collapsed in floods of tears. The sight of the sobbing woman left him floundering out of his depth. He was inexperienced in offering comfort. “’As something ‘appened, ‘as the shop been robbed?” he asked, thinking of his profits rather than his wife.

“Oh Yanni, I wish it ‘ad, it would be preferable to what ‘as ‘appened,” Soula wept, attempting to throw herself into his wooden arms. “Yanni I am sorry to say yous marriage to me is about to disgrace yous good name.”

Dreadful thoughts flashed through Bald Yannis’ mind. Looking at his wife he asked her, “Was yous lying to me an’ not really a virgin bride?”

“Of course I was virgin,” Soula stuttered, appalled he could think such a thing. “Father ‘as been arrested. A body ‘as been found in his deep freeze.”

“An ‘uman body?” Bald Yannis questioned.

“Yes, they says it is decomposed ‘uman remains,” Soula shuddered.

“I always suspicioned yous father wasn’t right in the ‘ead, but keeping a body in the freezer is positively grotesque,” Bald Yannis proclaimed, disgusted to think of dead meat possibly being stored next to frozen vegetables. “Soula did yous ever suspect there was a body in the freezer?”

“Of course not Yanni, I didnt’s even know father ‘ad a freezer, he always said it was a needless luxury. They found it in the old barn what father always kept padlocked. He told us girls he would beat us black an’ blue if we ever entered the barn an’ we always thought it was where he brewed ‘is illicit ‘ome made tsipouro.”

“Whose body could it be?” Bald Yannis asked.

“They thinks it mights be father’s spinster sister. They say he ‘as been claiming her unmarried woman pension for years.”

“Are you thinkin’ he done ‘er in then?” Yannis questioned.

“Father does ‘ave the most terrible temper an’ the two of them was always at each other’s throats, but he swears he is innocent of murder,” Soula revealed. “I ‘ate to speak ills of the dead Yanni but my aunt was an ‘orrible strict woman. She disappeared on the night I was caught in the bear trap. I always suspected she just ‘adn’t the ‘eart to nurse my gammy leg, but father insisted she’d run off with the man who set up the bear trap.”

Bald Yannis pondered Soula’s words before asking, “So yous ‘ad no affection for this dead aunt and yous lived in mortal fear of yous dastardly father?”

“That’s right, they was nasty ghastly people, but I cant’s just see father locked up. Please Yanni, yous must ‘elp father.”

Bald Yannis was naturally inclined to leave Soula’s nasty father to rot but the sight of her tears stirred something protective within him. He promised to drive up to the high mountain village of Osta, ironically named for bones, and see what he could find out. He was also determined to discover more about the dreadful tale Soula had recounted in explanation of her lameness.

He knew poor Soula had been trapped overnight in the vice-like jaws of a steel bear trap, with her screams of agony seemingly unheard. This latest news concerning the body of her dead aunt in the deep freeze led Yannis to suspect Soula’s cries had been deliberately ignored, giving her father time to dispose of the body. He did not wish to voice his suspicions in case they brought on a fresh onslaught of tears.

Soula wept in relief at her kind husbands understanding nature. Wiping her nose on his sleeve she gazed up at him through red rimmed eyes. “Oh Yanni, what ‘as ‘appened to yous ‘air, it looks ‘orrible?”

“That malaka parrot attacked me,” Bald Yannis declared. His visit to Osta would mean he must delay his plans to take revenge on the foul-mouthed bird.

Chapter 15: Stormy Weather Forecast

“Tell step-daughter I am too tired to go round for dinner, all I wants is to go ‘ome and ‘ave a big bowl of borscht and a bottle of vodka,” mail order Masha instructed that old fool Vasilis, flicking through a pile of glossy magazines as the television studio make-up artist contoured her cheekbones with a flattering crimson blusher.

“But Masha, Stavroula ‘as gone to a lot of effort,” Vasilis pleaded, watching his daughter brandishing a rolling pin in his direction while eavesdropping his phone call. “She ‘as cooked all yous favourite foods so yous can tell everyone at the television station she is a better cook than Kyria Papadopoulos.”

“Stavroula ‘as cooked borscht?” Masha questioned suspiciously, “She always calls it foreign muck.”

“Tell ‘er yes,” Stavroula hissed at her father. Grabbing a beetroot she scratching her head, perplexed as to how exactly she could turn it into the infamous soup.

“Yous knows she never stops boasting ‘er glamorous step-mother is a famous weather girl,” Vasilis grovelled, wishing he wasn’t stuck in the middle of two such demanding women.

“Oh all right then,” Masha reluctantly agreed, beckoning over the smitten young reporter to cancel their secret assignation.

“Masha ‘as agreed to come for dinner but yous best not say anything to rile ‘er up. Now I need to borrow yous shovel. Petros the postman is getting lots of complaints Onos is delivering something extra on the doorsteps with the mail. I needs to follow ‘im round an’ clean it up,” Vasilis said. He didn’t bother to mention he hoped to make a nice profit from Onos’ steaming deposits as he had duped the gullible American pair into paying top dollar for organic garden fertiliser.

Mail order Masha slammed the phone down in exasperation. She would now be forced to endure an evening in the company of her ancient husband, her step-daughter Stavroula, and Stavroula’s lecherous live-in-lover Slick Socrates, instead of her planned frolic with the smitten young reporter.

Masha checked her outfit in the mirror before stepping onto the studio stage to deliver the weather forecast. She was wearing a perky pink sou’wester and a translucent raincoat Soula had fashioned from a lobster adorned shower curtain, over a sequin bikini. If she could sneakily drop in the name of Bald Yannis’ hardware shop as the supplier of her unique raincoat she stood to make a nice back handed commission from her endorsement.

“There will be bigly storms ‘ere and ‘ere tonight,” she announced, pivoting seductively and using an umbrella as a pointer. “Ladies the rain will play ‘avoc with your ‘air an’ make yous mascara run, an’ the strong winds will blow up your skirts,” she warned. “If you’ve no need to go out in wet windy weather best stay at home unless you needs the titillation of being struck with lightening,” she advised with a wink.

“You were just marvellous Masha,” the producer gushed. “The switchboard is jammed with admiring fans who want a photograph of you in that novel raincoat.”

“Where’s the smitten young struck-off doctor with ‘is camera then?” Masha asked, annoyed he was not instantly on hand to photograph her for posterity. The ridiculous shower curtain raincoat was making her sweat in a most unladylike manner. She just hoped Bald Yannis would sell enough to justify her dressing up in non-porous polyester.

The smitten young struck-off doctor rushed over, snapping away with his camera as Masha remembered to tell the producer about Stavroula’s determination to become a television cook. The producer was open to persuasion, presuming any relative of Masha’s would be equally as glamorous and good for the ratings. “My only reservation is employing your step-daughter could be considered nepotism and we’ve only just aired that discussion panel about corruption in the work place,” the producer worried.

“It’s no more nespotic than when yous employed your mother Kyria Papadopoulos to do the cooking show,” Masha pointed out. “At least Stavroula isn’t a blood relative of mine.”

The producer had the grace to blush while arguing his mother had made his life hell until he had agreed to let her host the cooking show. “She threatened to go on strike and stop doing my washing,” he said.

“I will never understand the bizarre Greek habit of fifty-years-old men living at ‘ome with their mothers,” Masha replied contemptuously, remembering how Fat Christos had refused to leave his mother’s house until he married Tassia.

“It would break my mother’s heart if I moved out,” the producer said defensively, “she loves to have me to cook and clean for.”

“More like yous is just bone idle and cant’s even fathom out how to work a washing machine,” Masha sussed, getting to the heart of the matter. “Just come along to dinner and make up yous own mind about Stavroula, I am washing my ‘ands of the matter.”

The producer sighed in agreement, knowing when he was defeated. Mail order Masha’s ratings were so high he dare not defy her. On the plus side he could expect some good old fashioned home-cooked Greek food which would make a nice change from his mother’s endless offerings of overcooked onions.

Chapter 16: Thea’s Cat Suffers An Unwanted Bath

“Malaka, Thea will kill me,” Toothless Tasos groaned at the sight of Thea’s cat rotating vigorously in soapy bubbles in the washing machine. His efforts to help more around the house had resulted in this feline disaster when he threw their filthy clothes from the landfill site into the machine without first checking it was empty, oblivious to the loathsome cat’s habit of often taking a nap in there.

Running into the street he flagged down Gorgeous Yiorgos who was driving by. He demanded the crowbar from his boot, explaining he had a trapped cat emergency. The two men rushed into the bathroom to prise the washing machine door open. Yiorgos had the bright idea of turning the electric supply off at the fuse box to spare the soaking wet cat any further soapy rotations.

“Thea will skin me alive if we can’t get the cat out and revive it,” Toothless Tasos shouted as the two men heaved on the crow bar. The door suddenly sprang open, releasing a gush of soapy water in which the bedraggled and half-drowned cat was floating in confusion. Tasos grabbed the cat by its hind legs, holding it upside down until it had expelled the foaming contents of its stomach.

“Not a word of this to Thea,” Tasos commanded, watching the cat violently shake its head in an effort to dislodge water from its ears.

“How will yous explain the broken washing machine to Thea then?” Yiorgos queried.

“I will tell ‘er I left a ten euro note in the pocket of my trousers what needed washing,” Tasos improvised.

“Better make it an ‘undred as it will take at least that much to have the machine fixed,” Yiorgos reasoned. “Still the cat looks nice and clean now,” he added, watching it spring up to violently claw Tasos’ face. In its still confused state the cat struggled to escape from Tasos’ grasp, leapt out of his hands and landed head first in the toilet.

“I’m very tempted to flush,” Tasos said.

“Do yous think we should take it to the vet?” Yiorgos asked, pulling the by now enraged and deranged cat out of the toilet.

“I suppose we better ‘ad,” Tasos agreed while mentally calculating how much this unfortunate cat business was going to cost him. “We’d best ‘urry before Thea gets back from the police station and suspicions I tried to kill ‘er cat.”

Blissfully unaware her adored cat had only escaped a watery death by the skin of its teeth Thea was arguing with Pancratius the village policeman, convinced of the authenticity of the priceless antiquity she was clutching. “Yous can’t just dismiss it as a broken old pot when it might date back to ancient times and be worth a fortune,” she insisted.

“Well it looks like a bit of old junk to me,” Pancratius observed, annoyed his time was being taken up with this nonsense which potentially involved sheaves of pointless paperwork.

“Yous is ‘ardly an expert and ‘ave a duty to bring it to the attention of the Department of Antiquities and Cultural Heritage,” Thea stressed, certain by now this bit of old pot was a priceless find. “For alls yous know the landfill site might be worth excavating.”

Pancratius hoped it wasn’t. If he was forced to quarantine the rubbish dump with rolls of police tape he was certain the stench would cause his pancreatitis to flare up again. He finally agreed to report Thea’s find to the Antiquities Department in a desperate effort to be rid of her. Ushering her out of the police station he promised to attend to the matter as soon as he had dealt with the request from the producers of a new television show to film an up-coming episode in the village.

“What television show is that then?” Thea asked with piqued interest, desperately hoping her favourite soap opera ‘Seven Deadly Mothers-in-Law’ was being revived as she was sick of watching old re-runs. If they filmed in the village she might even be able to land a role as an extra.

“I cannot discuss details of police business with yous,” the policeman sniffed.

“That pathetic Pancratius is so puffed up with ‘is own self-importance,” Thea complained, stopping off to spread this juicy bit of gossip at Stavroulas.

“Perhaps Masha ‘as persuaded the television station to film an episode of the cooking show in my taverna kitchen,” Stavroula said hopefully.

“You’d be much better than the awful Kyria Papadopoulos,” Thea opined, “Did yous see ‘er setting fire to ‘er ‘orrible cardie?”

Their gossiping was interrupted by a tall, painfully thin young man dressed in a clerical dress, suffering from a most unfortunate case of erupting acne. “Can you please direct me to the Pappas’ house,” the young stranger requested “as the church is locked.”

“What do you want with that god bothering fraud?” Stavroula questioned.

“Well I am here to have him oversee my training,” the young man replied looking worried. He had not expected to hear his new mentor described in such disrespectful terms. “I am Pappas Iraklis, pleased to make your acquaintance,” he introduced himself while listening to their directions.

“Po po, that lanky piece of string with a sorry excuse for a beard doesn’t look like any Hercules,” Stavroula laughed as the trainee Pappas took his leave.

“Is it me or is priests getting younger?” Thea remarked “that one didn’t look old enough to be out of short pants.”

“Appen he’ll soon get worldly wise living with the conniving Pappas,” Stavroula said. “Now Thea, comes and taste this bosch I am cookings up to impress Masha, it seems to be missing something. It doesn’t taste anything like the infamous muck she serves.”

The two women dipped their spoons into the bubbling pan of surprisingly palatable red soup, agreeing it definitely needed an elusive something extra, not listed in the recipe, to give it Masha’s distinctive revolting touch. Unfortunately that old fool Vasilis was still out scraping up donkey droppings and was not at hand to advise the soup required copious amounts of vodka to replicate Masha’s infamous version.

Chapter 17: Fake Soup

“Masha certainly knows her weather, she was bang on forecasting this storm,” Yiota said to a wet and bedraggled Prosperous Pedros as he entered ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima.’ “’Appen yous should ‘ave listened to ‘er Pedro.”

“I did listen to ‘er which is why I am soaking wet. Yous try shifting a boat out of the ‘arbour to save it from being smashed up in choppy waters while ‘olding an umbrella,” Prosperous Pedros grumbled, adding, “Thoma I appreciate yous elp moving the boat, it was an ‘ard task for sure in this awful weather.”

“Least I coulds do Pedro after yous saved my life this morning. Who else is coming down to Gavros tonight to ‘elp reclaim my mobile refrigerated fishing van?”

“All the fishermen are coming,” Pedros confirmed, asking “’ows about yous K-Went-In, do yous fancy coming along to Gavros in case the fishermen down there get nasty with Thomas again?”

“Count me in,” Quentin eagerly agreed, pleased to be so readily accepted as one of the village men.

“Do you think that is wise dear?” Deirdre questioned. “I heard the fishermen in Gavros resorted to violence this morning.”

“I’m sure there is safety in numbers,” Quentin said in an effort to reassure his wife “and it may well be dangerous for Thomas if he goes without back up.”

“I’ve some freshly made fakes soupa to warm yous all up,” Yiota announced to her customers, carrying out steaming bowls of aromatic soup.

“What do you suppose she puts in fake soup?” Quentin hissed, to the amusement of Vangelis the chemist who laughed “fakes are lentils K-Went-In, not a fake ingredient.”

“It is most excellent vegetarian fare,” Pedros declared, heartily tucking in.

“I also ‘ave a lovely prawn saganaki tonight,” Yiota said, hoping to tempt her customers.

“I thinks I’ll give anything with prawns a miss,” Tall Thomas shuddered, correctly suspecting Yiota may have purchased Pedros’ surplus fish bait.

“Did yous manage to get yous boat out of the sea ‘fore the storm set in?” Takis asked Toothless Tasos as he dripped into the taverna.

“I ‘ad no time to get it out, but ‘ave secured it with a rope,” Tasos complained, hoping the improvised safety measure would hold fast. “I’ve been all afternoon at the vets with Thea’s malaka cat. It cost me a bigly fortune.”

“At least it survived,” Fat Christos reminded him “an’ ‘opefully Thea will be none the wiser about its near drowning.”

“We’d best be setting off soon to Gavros,” Tall Thomas reminded the others. “’Ow many are coming in Pedros’ pick-up? There’s plenty of room in the back.”

“I refuse to go in the back of the pick-up in this storm,” Fat Christos whined, “I could get pneumonia and pass it on to the baby.”

The others all agreed this was no night to travel in the uncovered back of the pick-up truck in such atrocious weather. Toothless Tasos’ motorbike and sidecar were equally uninviting, as was Fat Christos’ tricycle.

“I’lls telephone Aunty Nitsa and gets ‘er to drive some of us in ‘er taxi,” Tall Thomas announced, leaving the others desperately vying for first claim on the two passenger seats in Pedros’ pick-up to avoid being stuck with Nitsa.

Hurriedly finishing their food the men rushed out of the taverna as the taxi pulled up.

“Was it something I said?” Katerina asked, offended to the quick everyone was dashing out the moment she arrived. Spying Deirdre as the only remaining customer she plumped herself down at her table without waiting for an invitation, intent on spreading her slanderous statements about Stavroula to a captive audience. One look at the bat bones and one sniff of the overpowering garlic convinced Deirdre it was time to leg it.

Using the excuse “I promised Tassia a hand with the baby,” Deirdre grabbed her brolly and rushed headlong into the storm.

Chapter 18: It’s Raining Men

“Come on in out of the rain,” Mrs Kolokotronis invited Deirdre, fussily stripping the dripping raincoat from her shoulders.

“I hear the baby is still awake,” Deirdre noted, nearly deafened by Andy’s piercing wails.

“She’s missing Fat Christos,” Tassia explained, “she’s all coos and gurgles when he’s around but the minute he leaves she screams the ‘ouse down.”

“Let me try a trick I used when my grandson John was a baby, it always stopped his crying,” Deirdre offered.

“Oh please do try, anything would be a relief from this wailing,” Tassia implored. The last thing she expected was to hear Deirdre burst into a loud and tone deaf rendition of ‘It’s Raining Men’ while mimicking the dance moves of the Weather Girls.

“Stop that caterwauling, it’s worse than the baby screaming,” Mrs Kolokotronis shouted over Deirdre’s mangled lyrics.

“But it’s working, Andy loves it,” Tassia clapped joyfully. Andromeda was indeed suddenly quiet, staring in entranced fascination as Deirdre made a ridiculous spectacle of herself. Clutching her tiny fists to her ears the baby quickly realised the only way to shut out the appalling cacophony was to promptly fall asleep.

With peace finally restored Mrs Kolokotronis insisted on making their guest a cup of horta tea. Deirdre winced, disgusted at the bitter green brew steeped from weeds, but Mrs Kolokotonis insisted it was the healthiest of beverages. “Drink it all up; it will put ‘airs on yous chest Did-Rees. Yous looks like a gust of wind woulds blow yous over. Yous must build up yous strength before the olive picking season.”

“Quentin and I are so excited at the prospect of our very first olive harvest,” Deirdre declared. “Adonis has promised to show us the ropes.”

“Dont’s you make your own olive oil back at ‘ome then?” Mrs Kolokotronis queried, finding it quite amazing a middle-aged couple could be so clueless about olives when everyone in Greece routinely produced their own olive oil as a matter of course.

“We don’t have olive groves back in Idaho, but I am an expert in digging up potatoes,” Deirdre said, determined not to appear ignorant.

“Where do yous get yous olive oil from then?” Mrs Kolokotronis wanted to know, unable to fathom a culinary culture not revolving round the acclaimed green elixir.

“Well we occasionally buy a small bottle from a specialist delicatessen, but it is frightfully expensive. In America people don’t pour olive oil over everything as they do here.”

“What do you put on yous veggies then?” Mrs Kolokotronis asked, turning up her nose when Deirdre replied “ketchup.”

“I remember Stavroula told me yous all had strange eating ‘abits. She said yous eat cheese sprayed from a can and the men there thinks salad is for wimps.”

“Quentin loves Greek salad,” Deirdre said, doing nothing to dispel Mrs Kolokotronis’ opinion he was a wimp. “We did start to cook Greek food in Idaho after our first visit here and Adonis very generously gave us a huge tin of his olive oil.”

Deirdre neglected to mention the baggage handlers had been a bit rough with their luggage and the giant tin of oil had spewed its contents over all their clothes. Some of it had seeped into the plug on the glow-in-the-dark Acropolis they had carted back to Idaho as a souvenir, causing an electrical fire when they plugged it in.

“There was a very strange woman reeking of garlic and rattling bat bones in ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima’ this evening,” Deirdre confided.

“If she was covered in evil eye amulets it would be the wicked gossip Katerina determined to spread trouble for Stavroula by smearing ‘er good name,” Mrs Kolokotronis surmised. “Best if yous can avoid ‘er Did-Rees.”

Their chatter was interrupted by the piercing ring of the doorbell, instantly waking Andromeda up. Masha sashayed in, wringing her hair extensions out and emptying rain water out of her stilettos. She made a beeline for the now screaming baby, smothering her in wet kisses. “It’s rainin’ goats and roosters out there. I cant’s stop long as I promised Vasilis I would ‘ave dinner at Stavroulas an’ the producer is sat outside in the limousine, but I ‘ad to pop in with a present for my little cherub.”

“Oh Masha yous do spoil Andy,” Tassia exclaimed, ripping the wrapping paper off a set of Russian stacking dolls which had each been personalised with a different image of mail order Masha.

“Every girl needs ‘er own matryoshka doll,” Masha insisted “an’ these could well be a collector’s item when Andy is bigger, now I’m so famous.”

“Yous ‘ave time for a quick cup of horta tea?” Mrs Kolokotronis suggested, rushing off to heat up some more of her noxious brew. In her absence Tassia and Masha furtively whispered about Tassia’s worry that Bald Yannis had been overheard remarking Andromeda had a more than passing resemblance to Slick Socrates. Masha attempted to reassure her worried friend, saying “no one takes any notice of that malaka but I’lls ‘ave a word with Soula and see if she cant’s get ‘im to stop ‘is gossiping, he’s worse than an old woman.”

“Appen there’s something new to gossip about that might distract ‘im,” Tassia said, pointing at the television where the smitten young reporter had a breaking news story about a body discovered in a freezer in Osta. “Isn’t Osta the high mountain village Soula hails from? Oh shush baby, Did-Rees can yous try that song again to soothe Andy to sleep?”

“Oh I must try that routine out on my weather show,” mail order Masha exclaimed at the sight of Deirdre’s ridiculous dance routine as she once again burst into off key lyrics, belting out “I’m gonna let myself get soaking wet.”

“Yous will if yous goes back out in that storm,” Masha agreed, “shall I gets the smitten young struck-off doctor to drops yous ‘ome in the limousine?”

Masha took one incredulous look at the cup of green horta tea Mrs Kolokotronis offered and used it to water the nearest plant. Rushing after Deirdre she hissed “tell me yous didn’t drink that ‘orrible muck. Yous is welcome to stop at Stavroulas, we is ‘aving vodka and borscht.”

“Probably in the same bowl if I remember,” Deirdre speculated, recalling her one and only unfortunate encounter with Masha’s infamous borscht at the village lobster festival. “I think I’ll just head home in your chauffeur driven car as I’m a little worried the roof may not be keeping the rain out.” The continuing storm was preying on Deirdre’s mind as she remembered the haphazard way Achilles the borrowed builder had patched up the roof, assuring her it never rained in Greece.

The two women ventured back out into the torrential rain, slamming the door against the gale force wind. “Oh not again, now ‘ow did that song of Deirdre’s go?” Mrs Kolokotronis asked in despair as Andy once again started wailing.

Chapter 19: Brawling Fishermen

Thea was delighted to receive an invitation to dine at Stavroulas. She was a tad concerned about leaving the cat home alone as it was acting very oddly, though she speculated it could be down to a fear of thunder. When Toothless Tasos had popped in for a dry pair of wellies before heading off to Gavros the cat had dashed away from him in obvious terror, diving into one of his waterproof boots. No amount of coaxing could draw it out, forcing Tasos to leave the house in his already sodden shoes, grumbling about his teeth and ignoring Thea’s demand to know what he had done to wreck the washing machine.

Fortunately for Tasos he had managed to secure a seat in Prosperous Pedros’ pick-up alongside Moronic Mitsos, leaving Tall Thomas, Quentin, Fat Christos, Gorgeous Yiorgos and Achilles the borrowed builder all squashed into the old Mercedes taxi driven by Nitsa. Fotini had persuaded Nitsa to take the parrot along for an outing and it had zoomed straight onto the top of Quentin’s head.

“If yous is expecting trouble yous should ‘ave brought Bald Yannis along,” Nitsa advised. “Yous may need a fine looking man what is not afraid of ‘is own shadow like yous useless lot.”

“Cant’s you go any faster?” Fat Christos complained “I dont’s want to be away from the baby too long.”

“Well if yous want me to ‘ave an accident I could speed up, but these slippery wet roads are treacherous,” Nitsa said, pressing her foot down hard on the accelerator. The resultant skid threw Quentin into Tall Thomas’ lap and the parrot objected by taking a piece out of Thomas’ ear. Whelping in pain Thomas advised his aunty “slow down an’ takes yous time, better we get there in one piece.”

Nitsa’s view over the edge of the mountain was obscured by the sheeting rain, but the occasional flash of lightening brought the dangerous hair-pin bends into sharp relief. “You’lls ‘ave to pay extra for dragging me out on a night like this,” Nitsa slurred, taking a furtive gulp from a hip flask of brandy to steady her nerves as she peered through the windscreen, its wipers barely coping with deluge.

“Aunty, yous cant’s be drinkin’ and driving, you’ll get arrested,” Tall Thomas admonished, snatching the hip flask and knocking back the rest of the contents to ease his fear.

“Po po, yous thinks I am afraid of spending more time in prison, with my connections?” Nitsa cackled. “Anyway yous can stop yous fussing, we are almost in Gavros,” she added as the close proximity of the fishing village was revealed in another bright flash of lightening.

The taxi groaned to a halt next to Prosperous Pedros’ pick-up and the men piled out. Tall Thomas’ mobile refrigerated fishing van was parked directly outside the popular taverna frequented by the local fisherman. They muttered there was no chance they could move the van without being spotted, especially when they saw a lookout had been posted in expectation of the men from Astakos arriving. The lookout whistled sharply to attract the attention of his fellow fishermen who came pouring out of the taverna into the pelting rain.

The two rival clans faced off against one another, each huddling under their umbrellas. “It’s times like this I wish you ‘adn’t lost all yous weight Christo,” Toothless Tasos observed, remembering how the supermarket entrepreneur’s previous bulk would have acted as a deterrence to violence.

“But I’m fitter without the flab,” the now scrawny Fat Christos hissed.

“Keep out of Gavros if yous know what is good for yous,” one of the Gavronians warned.

“We ‘ave only come for the van,” Moronic Mitsos shouted, relieved to see the rival gang were all approaching pensionable years.

“Yous ‘ave been poaching gavros from our waters,” the other group shouted threateningly.

“Well yous started it by poaching our lobsters and dumping Thomas out at sea,” Prosperous Pedros countered.

Glowering looks were exchanged across the village square by both sets of men. Hands were formed into threatening fists, yet both groups seemed strangely reluctant to make a move that would actually involve leaving the protective cover of their brollies. It looked as though the stand-off would remain a damp squib of inaction until the parrot released its hold on Quentin’s head and viciously attacked one of the Gavronians.

The parrot attack was the cue both groups needed to descend into an amateurish brawl. Fists went flying and umbrellas were used as makeshift weapons. Decades of animosity between the two sets of village men were unleashed in an undignified fight, sending Prosperous Pedros sprawling on the cobbles and poor Quentin receiving a shiner of a black eye. The ham-fisted fight was only brought to a halt when an elderly resident of Gavros arrived in her dressing gown and slippers to give them all a sound dressing down.

“Grown men brawling in the street, yous should be ashamed,” Kyria Eirinopoios screamed. “Stop it at once else I will bang all yous ‘eads together.”

“She’s quite right,” Quentin implored, desperately hoping to avoid another thumping, “this fighting is most undignified. Can’t we settle our differences over a glass of wine like civilised people?”

“K-Went-In is right, let’s all goes and ‘ave a glass of wine together in the taverna,” Achilles the borrowed builder pleaded. He had no appetite for fighting. The brawl had triggered horrid memories of the violence he’d received in Albania when he had pursued Blerta over the border. He had been cowering at the back of the crowd in a cowardly attempt to avoid becoming embroiled.

The Gavronians were pressured into agreement by Kyria Eirinopoios shooing them into the taverna with the pointy tip of her umbrella. As the two rival groups took their seats and raised their glasses Kryia Eirinopoios lectured them on their unseemly behaviour.

“This rivalry ‘as gone on far too long and ‘as to stop. It’s gettin’ as bad as in the olden days when rival ‘eads would be nailed up over doorways. Yous is all past yous prime an’ if we dont’s stop this now in a few years you’lls all be at each other with yous walking sticks.”

The men held their heads in shame at this chastisement, realising their antics had flared up centuries old hostilities kept in abeyance in recent years.

“We shoulds be stickin’ together as fishermen. Our real fight is with them eejits in the European Union what is determined to kill our fishing trade off by offering bribes to destroy our boats,” one of the Gavronians suggested. Fat Christos felt a stab of shame as he had been only too willing to take the bribe when it was convenient. He should have held onto his fishing boat and taught Andromeda how to fish in the traditional way. Luckily he still had Tassia’s dead uncle’s boat and would use it as soon as he taught Andy to swim.

“Yous youngsters is so thoughtless leaving me sitting around in the taxi. Thoma get me a brandy,” Nitsa ordered, entering the taverna. Looking round she flew into a panic when she realised there was no sign of Fotini’s blasted parrot.

“K-Went-In yous best get out in the rain and looks for the parrot, Fotini will kill yous if it ‘as gone missing.”

“The parrot is not my responsibility,” Quentin complained, “You’re the one who brought it along.”

“That’s as may be, but its yous the parrot is so attached to.”

“Not at this moment thank goodness,” Quentin sighed, refusing to budge if only to spare his scalp from more parrot claw incisions.

“I’m a bit of a bird lover an’ will be ‘appy to go and look for yous parrot Kyria,” volunteered an aging Gavronian fishermen with a bushy bit of lip upholstery and a lascivious twinkle in his eye.

“Oh what a hero,” Nitsa exclaimed, giving the fisherman a saucy wink.

“Yous want to watch out for that Fotis,” one of the other fishermen warned Nitsa. “He’s a bit of a ladies’ man.”

Slugging her brandy back and hastily opening the top button of her hideous old lady dress Nitsa leapt to her feet saying “in that case I’d better go an’ give ‘im an ‘and.”

Chapter 20: Scared Of A Dark Puddle

The smitten young struck-off doctor dropped Deirdre off at the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ where she discovered a bedraggled collection of hens and roosters sheltering in the porch from the torrential rain. The dripping livestock practically knocked her over in their haste to rush through the door, fully intent on causing havoc in the kitchen.

“Why aren’t you all in your luxuriant chicken coop?” Deirdre pointlessly asked them, adding threateningly, “If you can’t behave I will follow the widow’s example and boil you up in the cooking pot.”

Entering the kitchen Deirdre was alarmed to find the light wasn’t working. Fumbling round in the dark she pulled the sodden shoes from her feet and stepped immediately into an unseen deep puddle of water, causing her to screech like a banshee as her toes came into contact with the icy water. The hens and roosters, scared by her screams, flapped around wildly, resulting in loud splashes as they knocked all the contents off the kitchen table into the puddle.

Shocked by Deirdre’s caterwauling in the neighbouring house Fotini and Hattie sprang into action. “’Appen the murdering rapist what was never caught is ‘aving ‘is way with yous daughter-in-law,” Fotini conjectured. “Grab an axe ‘Attie, this could be our chance to get ‘im.”

Armed with an axe and a newfangled torch the two old crones dashed next door. “Where is the pervert?” Hattie demanded to know, narrowly avoiding decapitating a rooster with the axe she was waving.

“You mean there’s a pervert on the loose,” Deirdre cried in terror, jumping onto the kitchen table. “Do you suppose it is the elusive underwear thief?”

“Well why else is yous screaming like a deranged lunatic if yous isn’t being attacked by a madman?” Fotini questioned.

“I came home to find the house dark and flooded,” Deirdre explained.

“Yous mean you carries on like that over a bit of water and a power cut?” Fotini asked in derision. “Did-Rees yous is a drip.”

“Where is Quentin?” Hattie asked.

“He went down to Gavros with the fishermen in case there was any trouble claiming Tall Thomas’ van.”

“Well a lot of good that gormless ‘usband of yours would be in a fight,” Fotini cackled, adding “no offence to yous ‘Attie.”

“No offence taken,” Hattie told her, “Quentin is certainly as much use as a chocolate teapot if a fight is brewing. Deirdre make yourself useful and find some candles, the power isn’t likely to come back on tonight in this dreadful weather. With a bit of light we can survey the extent of this puddle while Fotini rounds up the hens and gets them back in the chicken coop.”

Deirdre’s weakness for oversized scented candles meant the house was soon brightly illuminated, revealing the botched job Achilles the borrowed builder had done on the now leaking roof. With the livestock locked up for the night and an array of buckets catching the leaky downpour Deirdre set to with a mop while Fotini helped herself to a bottle of brandy and settled down to recite a list of “Did-Rees shortcomings.”

Deirdre was wounded to learn her neighbour thought she lacked gumption and led a pampered life. She was comforted when Hattie sprang to her defence, saying “Did-Rees hasn’t experienced your hardships Fotini and has led a sheltered existence in Idaho. Quentin’s job as a tax inspector afforded her a comfortable life and she is an excellent wife and mother.”

“K-Went-In was a tax inspector?” Fotini gawped in shock, spilling the brandy down her hideous old lady dress. “Yous best keep that quiet Did-Rees or else K-Went-In will be the most unpopular malaka in the village.”

“Don’t stir your pot Fotini,” Hattie warned her, “my son is obviously well liked.”

Fotini scowled, realising Hattie was right and her new neighbours had been welcomed by the villagers. Changing the subject she said, “talkin’ of stirring the pot I ‘ad a strange phone call from Stavroula earlier. She only wants me to put a curse on ‘er meddling superstitious sister-in-law.”

Her ridiculous assertion broke the tension in the room. Soon the three women were laughing heartily, cooking up curses, knocking back the brandy and emptying the odd bucket as they waited for Quentin, Nitsa and the parrot to come home.

Meanwhile the smitten young struck off-doctor had no liquid refreshment to help him while the tedious hours away. Having dropped Deirdre off at the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ he had driven back to Astakos and parked the limousine at the top of the harbour, waiting to drive Masha and her fool of a husband home. He was in for a long night as he also had to drive the producer back to Paraliakos, a journey he was dreading in this atrocious weather. He was beginning to go off mail order Masha as she treated him no better than a lowly flunkey. Selfishly it hadn’t crossed her mind to invite him to share the meal at Stavroula’s taverna and his stomach rumbled as he settled down in the driving seat to forge Masha’s signature on a pile of glossy photographs.

The boredom of his task coupled with the hypnotic lull of the rain soon sent him to sleep. He was snoring obliviously when a sudden flash flood turned the road into a roaring river, lifted the limousine up and carried it out to sea.

Chapter 21: Herring Under A Fur Coat

“Yous is in for a real treat tonight,” that old fool Vasilis promised the local television producer, welcoming him into the taverna. “My daughter ‘as been slaving over an ‘ot stove all day to show yous what real good ‘ome cooking is. She thought yous would like a change from all that ‘orrible stuff the boring Kyria Papadopoulos cooks up on ‘er dismal show.”

Vasilis paused mid-flow, distracted by mail order Masha making ‘cut-throat’ gesticulations over the producer’s head.

“Are you that desperate for a vodka Masha?” he asked, just as the producer announced “Kyria Papadopoulos happens to be my mother.”

“Glad to see yous is in favour of a bit of nepotism then,” Slick Socrates said, yelping painfully as mail order Masha’s stiletto ground down on his toes.

The producer took a good look around at the gathering. Knowing mail order Masha was married to an older man he erroneously jumped to the wrong conclusion that Slick Socrates was Masha’s husband. When the octogenarian Vasilis was actually introduced as Masha’s husband he could hardly hide his astonishment such a glamorous sassy woman could have saddled herself with this weedy old relic. Presuming the elegant Thea was Stavroula he rushed to tell her she would look a picture in front of the cameras, giving her visions of soap opera stardom as she fluffed up her hair and simpered in the most unbecoming manner.

Stavroula rushed out from the kitchen wearing a borscht stained apron, smiling obsequiously in an attempt to make a good impression on their important guest.

“Welcome, welcome,” she gushed, adopting a preposterously posh accent, “take a seat. I have a culinary treat for you this evening. I’m sure after watching the dire Kyria Papadopoulos do nothing more than stir dreary pans of onions you will be most impressed by the feast I have cooked.”

Stavroula was so carried away with her grovelling she failed to notice Slick Socrates attempts to shut her up until she felt him stabbing her shin with the sharp prongs of a fork.

“Ow, whys yous stabbing me yous malaka?” she screeched, reverting back to her usual peasant speak. Slick Socrates whispered to his beloved the producer was the son of the woman she was so freely maligning. Blushing to her roots Stavroula attempted to backtrack, saying, “Of course I never miss a show and felt terrible when Kyria Papadopoulos set herself on fire.”

“It is true that mother’s cooking show has been slipping in the ratings and she is considering retiring,” the producer confirmed. “We are thinking of trying out a different format. We plan to audition new hosts for the show by giving several cooks the opportunity to create their best dishes in front of the cameras and let the audience decide who should become the new regular host through a phone-in vote.”

The idea had been brainstormed in the television studios with some producers arguing they should opt for a glamorous presenter, while others argued the vital component of a successful cooking show was a host with excellent culinary skills. The producer himself was firmly in the glamour camp and Stavroula certainly failed at that hurdle. Nevertheless the unanimous decision had been to let the public decide, though a few well placed brown envelopes could still influence the outcome.

“We are looking for a host who stands out and has something new to offer,” the producer expanded.

“Perhaps someone who could introduce foreign foods to your audience,” Slick Socrates said. His suggestion earned him a return stabbing from Stavroula’s fork as she was clueless when it came to cooking foreign fare. Her one and only attempt to cook up something not traditionally Greek had been her miserably failed effort to woo Quentin and Deirdre with her botched version of a McDonalds, consisting of frozen chicken nuggets swimming in a sea of olive oil garnished with oregano. Ignoring Stavroula’s warning glare, as his attention was fixated on mail order Masha’s silicone chest, Socrates expanded his point:

“Stavroula has cooked up a delicious pan of Russian borscht this evening and I’m sure Masha would be happy to share her tips for other Russian delicacies.”

“I only cooks borscht,” mail order Masha said, emphatically refusing to be drawn into Stavroula’s kitchen.

“Yes, but you can advise Stavroula on other popular Russian dishes,” that old fool Vasilis jumped in.

“And I’m sure Quentin and Deirdre would be happy to share their American recipes with you Stavroula,” Thea chimed in.

“I certainly like the idea,” the producer declared. “Stavroula I have decided to give you a trial slot in the new cooking show if you roll with the idea of cooking up foreign food, but the final decision will be down to the public vote.”

Stavroula managed to beam and grimace simultaneously. Whilst she was delighted to have secured a slot on the televised cooking audition show she was not at all happy to be landed with cooking foreign food which she considered to be inferior muck. Her heart sank even more when the producer suggested she base her audition show on a foreign Christmas dinner.

“I’m starving, where’s the borscht Stavroula?” mail order Masha demanded, determined to eat and run.

“I will bring the tureen of borscht out now, ladies come and give me a hand,” Stavroula said, once again adopting a contrived posh accent and finally mastering the correct pronunciation of the soup.

Thea and Masha followed Stavroula into the kitchen where she immediately reverted to peasant speak. “Them idiot malakas couldn’t keep their stupid ideas to ‘emselves. ‘Ows I supposed to cook up a foreign Christmas dinner when anyone in their rights mind eats pork and potatoes, or pork and celery?”

“I never understood why I can’t have both celery and potatoes with my pork,” Masha complained.

“It’s not done, it’s one or the other,” Stavroula insisted.

“Yous can keeps it,” Masha muttered. “Greek Christmas dinner isn’t a patch on a Russian one.”

“I suppose you eat borscht,” Stavroula sneered.

“No, at Russian Christmas we drink vzvar and eats kutya.”

“What are they,” Thea asked.

“Vzvar is a festive drink made from dried prunes and kutya is a type of tasty porridge,” Masha explained.

“Po po, I can see me winning the cooking show audition with a bowl of malaka porridge,” Stavroula despaired.

“We also eat herring under a fur coat,” Masha volunteered.

“’Ow long do I ‘ave to cooks a fur coat for to make it edible?”

“It isn’t a literal fur coat; it is a grated mix of boiled vegetables laced with pickled herring.”

“It sounds as disgustin’ as yous ‘orrid borsct,” Stavroula sneered contemptuously.

“Sometimes a stuffed pig’s head is served,” Masha enthused. “When I was little father sometimes let me scrape the jelly from the pig’s head with a spoon, as a special treat.”

Stavroula shuddered at the thought, opining “Masha that sounds disgusting. I wouldnt’s even serve a stuffed goat’s ‘ead at my table.”

“But yous is ‘appy enough to eat revolting goat’s innards at Easter,” Masha countered, recalling the ubiquitous Greek favourite of kokoretsi. “An’ that ‘orrid magiritsa soup is even worse than Yiota’s tripe stew.”

“My Easter magiritsa is a work of art,” Stavroula declared.

“Yous can keep your lambs bowels and lungs, it’s not civilised,” Masha argued, recalling with horror her first experience of bits of offal floating in greasy lemon soup.

“Remember yous doesn’t ‘ave to cook a Russian dinner, yous ‘ave the ‘ole world to choose from,” Thea reminded her. “I’d ‘ave a word with Quentin and Deirdre if I was yous, as they’ve travelled bigly.”

Thea’s argument convinced Stavroula who was certain it was impossible to make prune juice, porridge and herring enticing to a Greek audience, even if it was all wrapped up in a fur coat. The ladies returned to the table carrying the soup tureen, baskets of crusty bread and bowls of olives.

Everyone tucked into the steaming red soup which bore no resemblance at all to mail order Masha’s infamous vodka sozzled version. That old fool Vasilis’ gushing praise that Stavroula’s borscht was far superior to Masha’s almost earned him a night in the spare bedroom until Masha tasted the soup and grudgingly admitted it was exceptionally good. She wondered if she would lose face if she asked Stavroula for her superior recipe.

“See yous can cooks up foreign muck, my love dove,” Slick Socrates cooed.

“Well I’d still rather be eating a bowl of avgolemono,” Stavroula sighed, convinced her signature dish of egg and lemon soup would have made a better impression on the producer. However his pronouncement that the borscht displayed culinary talent went some way to placate her. She had a smile on her face as she served up the main course of spanakorizo, a traditional Greek dish of spinach and rice cooked in a sauce of lemon and olive oil.

The ouzo and vodka flowed enough to loosen Thea’s inhibitions and she shamelessly flirted with the producer, attempting to find out if he knew which television show was planning to film in the village.

“I think they are planning a pilot of a British television programme called ‘The Antiques Roadshow,’” the producer revealed. As he explained the show’s concept of having old vases retrieved from the attic valued, Thea became giddy with excitement.

“I must get that old pot back from Pancratius the village policeman, I just knows it coulds be worth a small fortune,” Thea declared.

“Well if it is it would belong to the state, otherwise it’s looting,” Slick Socrates pragmatically advised.

“There is a lot of debate about piloting the programme,” the producer explained, “as there is a valid argument the show is only being suggested to ferret out antiquities people may have squirreled away that rightly belong to the state.”

“Malaka state wants to get its hands on everything, I dont’s know why they dont’s just tax the air we breathe,” Masha complained, still in shock at the size of the tax bill she had received.

Disappointed the antiques show may not even materialise Thea got maudlin and told the producer she had always dreamed of being a presenter on the home shopping channel.

“You’d be a natural Thea,” Stavroula said, “no one knows more than yous about buying a bunch of old tat.”

Conversation was interrupted by the sudden loss of electricity, a frequent occurrence in such stormy weather. As Slick Socrates scrambled around in search of candles the producer announced he really must be going. He had to get back to Paraliakos as his mother always went into a hyper-ventilated state of panic in a power cut. The chauffeur driven car was supposedly waiting outside by the harbour to drop mail order Masha and her husband home before heading back to town with the producer, and so the threesome took their leave.

Chapter 22: Lashing Waves And Paddling Paths

Prosperous Pedros’ pick-up truck struggled to gain any momentum on the steep incline of the dark mountain road heading back to Astakos from Gavros. The pick-up was weighted down with the combined bulk of all the fishermen, the ex-chief of police, the borrowed builder and Quentin. Not only were they all squashed into the open back but they were at the mercy of the elements.

Nitsa had last been seen heading off in hot pursuit of the twinkly eyed Fotis, leaving the parrot to relay the message she was too tipsy to drive and refused to hand over the taxi keys. The others had strenuously objected to riding back in Tall Thomas’ mobile refrigerated fish van as the refrigeration had failed and the van stunk vilely of rotting fish. The parrot, now firmly clamped to Toothless Tasos’ scalp, had opted for the dryness of the passenger seat over its usual preference for Quentin’s head.

Toothless Tasos was getting worried about his boat as he could hear the crashing of the waves below, despite the thunder and the combined complaints of the others. He feared the rope securing the boat would not hold it steady against the storm’s battering, even though the anchor was down.

“Put yous foot down Pedro,” Toothless Tasos implored, grateful to have the parrot mimic his words to stop him repeating himself.

Pulling into Astakos, Prosperous Pedros slammed the brakes on, just in time to avoid driving into the surging river now engulfing the road by the harbour. The men climbed out and watched in horror as mail order Masha’s chauffeur driven limousine was swept out to sea, colliding with Toothless Tasos’ fishing boat before promptly sinking.

“Oh horrors, suppose Masha is in the car,” Fat Christos screamed, prompting the fishermen to jump en masse into the sea to save the possibly drowning woman. It was no easy task to stay afloat in the turbulent sea, but luckily the fishermen had years of experience in choppy waters. The car door was prised open under water and the smitten young struck-off doctor hauled to safety, spluttering up copious amounts of sea water.

“Look, Masha is over there,” called a relieved Quentin, pointing his flashlight across the road to where mail order Masha, that old fool Vasilis and the television producer were huddled in the doorway of Stavroula’s taverna, blankly fixated on the newly sprung up river that had swept the limousine out to sea.

“Go back inside, yous cant’s cross that river safely,” Moronic Mitsos bellowed above the roar of the fast flowing water.

With the smitten young doctor safely on land the fishermen concentrated all their efforts on securing the ropes on Toothless Tasos’ newly dented fishing boat, assembling themselves into what looked like a formidable tug-of-war team. “We’ll be ‘ere all night,” Prosperous Pedros shouted to Quentin as the waves lashing the harbour wall washed over him and the others as they heaved on the rope. “Yous best takes my pick-up and go and check up on my mother, else she’ll be ringing me all night.”

Happy to use Fotini as an excuse to get out of the storm Quentin drove home in the pick-up, pointlessly fighting the parrot waiting in the dryness which immediately attached itself to his head.

After paddling up the path he was relieved no one answered Fotini’s front door. Presuming his mother and Fotini were sleeping through the storm he headed next door and waded into the flooded house, expecting to be comforted by Deirdre for the awful night he had endured.

Quentin’s black eye looked rather macabre in the candlelight but instead of eliciting sympathy from his wife it provoked a bout of nagging. “Oh Quentin, I can’t believe you have been brawling, it’s so uncouth and you have always been so law abiding. What on earth will the neighbours’ think?”

“Well as the neighbours are here why don’t we just ask them?” Quentin retorted, snatching the brandy bottle from Fotini’s hand and pouring himself a generous measure.

“I ‘opes the parrot ‘asn’t been fighting K-Went-In, yous is meant to set it a good example,” Fotini blurted.

“Why am I in any way responsible for your blasted parrot?” Quentin demanded. “That bird is a menace. Deirdre has it been raining in?” he added, suddenly noticing the buckets lined up to catch the drips.

“Yes it has been raining in Quentin,” his wife agreed. “If you had been a gentleman you wouldn’t have rushed off to go brawling in Gavros, leaving me to come home alone to a flooded house in a power cut.”

“You were the one who refused to let the Pappas bless the house,” Quentin accused; hurt to the quick his loving wife thought he had acted in an ungentlemanly manner.

“Oh Quentin, you don’t believe any more than I do that the Pappas’ blessing would have prevented the rain coming through Achilles’ shoddy work on our roof,” Deirdre chided.

“I’m sorry you had to come home from Astakos alone darling,” Quentin apologised.

“She didn’t,” Hattie interrupted, “the smitten young doctor drove her home in Masha’s limousine.”

Quentin shared the news the limousine had last been seen sinking to the bottom of the harbour, having been swept out to sea by a previously non-existent tumultuous river, and the smitten young doctor had been spared a watery death by the heroic life-saving actions of the fisherman. Fotini piped up, “That’s just as well, Nitsa would ‘ave been furious if he were dead as she’s planning to sue ‘im for ‘er botched Botox job.”

Turning on Quentin Fotini demanded to know, “’Ow come yous ‘aven’t brought Nitsa ‘ome with yous?”

“I am no more responsible for Nitsa than I am for your parrot,” Quentin replied “but it seems she was rather taken with a fisherman called Fotis down in Gavros and refused to drive home.”

“How exciting,” Deirdre exclaimed. “Did this Fotis fellow seem like Nitsa’s type?”

“If he ‘as a pulse he’ll be Nitsa’s type,” Fotini chortled.

“About time she had a new love interest,” Hattie exclaimed “she is wasting her time pining over that horrible Bald Yannis. A bit of romance is just what Nitsa needs to spice up her life.”

Chapter 23: Trapped In The Twilight Zone

Bald Yannis’ plan to drive straight to his father-in-law’s farmhouse was derailed by his rumbling stomach. Driving into the high mountain village of Osta he looked for a taverna to satiate his hunger, but found only one run-down establishment. Warily he entered the rough looking place that hadn’t had a close encounter with a mop and bucket in the best part of twenty years. Pushing through the soot stained cobwebs he was instantly given a suspicious once over by the motley group of pensioned-off men who were its only clientele. Slamming a jug of spitiko wine down on Bald Yannis’ table the ancient owner announced, “If yous want food I only ‘ave souvlaki.”

“Surely yous must ave some bread and cheese, I’m a vegetarian and cant’s eat souvlaki,” Bald Yannis complained to contemptuous laughter from his audience.

“We’ve ‘eard about them vegetarians but never clapped eyes on one,” the owner proclaimed, eyeing the new customer apprehensively and wondering if he could get away with serving cheese from the mousetrap. “’Appen I can finds yous some bread an’ olives.”

“What brings yous to Osta on a foul night like this, is yous one of them nosy reporters?” asked one of the ancient customers chewing a clove of raw garlic.

“I’m ‘ere to find out if there’s any truth in the claims my wife’s father murdered ‘is sister,” Bald Yannis revealed.

“Yous is the rich businessman what married lame Soula then,” the owner remarked, introducing himself as Poulios and pulling out a chair to join his new customer.

“Soula is weeping a river about ‘er father bein’ arrested an’ worries the stigma will shame ‘er,” Bald Yannis elaborated.

“It’s a bad business; village secrets getting out what were better off buried,” Poulios complained. “It was all so long ago, must be more than twenty years back, and times was ‘ard.”

“So it was no secret Soula’s father kept the dead body of ‘is spinster sister in a deep freezer then and claimed ‘er unmarried pension?” Bald Yannis questioned.

“Well a few of us were in the know as it were. There were nasty ‘appenings all round but Soula’s father made the best of a bad business. He’s guilty of claiming the pension but he ain’t no murderer,” Poulios defended his now imprisoned neighbour.

“Aye, and that unmarried pension came in ‘andy for ‘im struggling single ‘anded to put food on the table for four daughters after the bear caused so much damage,” one of the old men volunteered.

A most peculiar story was slowly recounted to a sceptical Bald Yannis who gawped open-mouthed at such preposterous goings-on. Over the years the old men had pieced together the events of the night resulting in Soula’s aunt’s demise, convincing themselves it was an accidental death by freezing.

More than two decades earlier Soula’s already cash strapped father suffered a dreadful financial blow when his previously profitable beehive boxes had been destroyed by a starving brown bear, putting paid to any potential income from his sales of thyme scented honey. The hungry bear had emerged from a winter of hibernation, attracted to the outskirts of the village to forage for food. Crops had been haphazardly uprooted, fruit trampled and most of the women folk had barricaded themselves indoors, terrified to go out.

Following protests by conservationists, measures had been taken to protect brown bears from hunters. Fearing punishment the villagers had ceased hunting and secretly paid an outsider to set bear traps.

The aunt had wandered away from the farm, ostensibly to collect wild horta but possibly to stalk the man setting the bear traps as rumour had it they had been seen canoodling in the forest. It was a reckless decision with a bear on the loose in the vicinity, but she wouldn’t be told. The men presumed the woman, laden down with bear tempting horta, had become its tasty target when she disturbed it, fleeing into the barn in terror and throwing herself into the deep freezer for safety.

Determined to drive the destructive bear from the area Soula’s father grabbed his gun from the barn, securing the padlocks on the deep freeze and the barn door to make sure no one discovered the illicit still he used to cook up his black market tsipouro. Gathering a posse of the villagers now telling the story to Bald Yannis he went off in pursuit of the bear, having no idea his sister was now facing death by freezing. Meanwhile when her aunt failed to return home for dinner a concerned Soula bravely went out to search for her in the darkness and was caught in the bear trap.

“We was all with ‘im that night,” Poulios remembered. “We found some bear tracks and followed ‘em uphill, scared to death the brute of a bear would scent us out an’ attack.”

“Aye it was scary, out all night in the pitch black before them newfangled torches ‘ad been invented,” one of the other old men interjected, “but we was determined to drive the bear from the village so ours womenfolk could goes out safely again.”

“We ‘ad guns but was frightened of shooting each other in the dark,” Poulios continued the tale. “We made plenty of noise banging pan lids until eventually we drove the brute out.”

“Remember ‘ow we laughed about ‘ow it would ‘ave a sore ‘ead?” another old man recalled.

“It was nearly dawn when we turned ‘ome an’ we was dreadful tired from bein’ out all night. Then, at first light we ‘eard it, blood curdling screams comin’ from the bear trap. We ran towards ‘em as quick as we could an’ discovered it were stunted Soula stuck in the steel jaws of the trap, with ‘er poor leg all mangled. We got ‘er out, but ‘er skinflint of a father refused to pay any doctor to fix up ‘er gammy leg. He reckoned she’d be just fine resting up at ‘ome with an oily compress of onions and garlic.”

“Aye, there was no arguing with ‘im,” one of the old men guiltily said. “He were wrong an’ should ‘ave made ‘im get the doctor. Now poor Soula still hobbles to this day.”

“Treated ‘er like dirt he did, it’s amazing she turned out with such a pleasant disposition,” Poulios reflected.

Bald Yannis listened to this far-fetched tale with a perplexed look on his face, as though he was trapped in an alternate reality of the twilight zone. “So when did yous all realise Soula’s aunt was missing?” he eventually asked.

“Well she was missed at once, but we all presumed she’d run off with the chap what ‘ad fixed the bear traps. She’d been reckoning he was goodly marriage material. It wasn’t till days later ‘er frozen carcass was found in the freezer, still clutching armfuls of horta. It were too late to defrost ‘er and the horta weren’t fit for eatin’. There were no question that ‘er unmarried pension would be useful.”

“Well that explains why ‘er death was never reported, but why on earth wasn’t ‘er body moved out of the deep freezer and buried?” Bald Yannis queried.

“Ah well, Soula’s father reckoned the sight of ‘er lying there was enough to make ‘im go cold turkey. He were an awful drunk but he’s been tee-total since that night. An’ he gave us all ‘is stash of tsipouro to buy our silence,” Poulios explained.

“So he ‘ad no hand in ‘er death then, making ‘is arrest for ‘er murder a travesty of justice,” Bald Yannis summarised.

“But they is bound to keep ‘im locked up for keepin’ ‘er body ‘idden in the freezer all this time and making fraudulent claims on ‘er unmarried woman’s pension,” Poulios stated.

“I thinks Soula would be ‘appy to see ‘im cleared of murder so ‘er reputation wont’s be tarnished. I knows a slick lawyer what might be able to ‘elp ‘im, but apart from that I’m washing my ‘ands of the matter. Yous all knows he didnt’s treat Soula well,” Bald Yannis said.

“Well times was ‘ard,” Poulios muttered, hoping the slick lawyer would not implicate him and his old cronies in the matter. They knew they should have reported the body in the freezer but had allowed their silence to be purchased with the ill-gotten tsipouro. Hoping to butter Bald Yannis up he said;

“Are yous sure I cant’s tempt yous with some chicken souvlaki? It’s practically a vegetable.”

Chapter 24: Nitsa Bags A Suitor

A damp and bedraggled Nitsa was rudely awoken by the twinkly eyed fisherman Fotis banging on the taxi window. Too drunk to drive home, she had spent the night snoring in the old Mercedes. The dazzling sunshine made her wince, feeling like a knife searing into her hung-over head. Wiping the drool from her mouth Nitsa fluffed up her hair and finger combed her moustache before winding the window down.

“Kalimera Kyria Nitsa, I ‘ave brought yous an Elliniko cafe,” Fotis chirped, twitching his moustache seductively. “If I’d known yous was sleeping out ‘ere in the taxi I woulds ‘ave offered yous my bed for the night.”

“Ooo, yous is fresh, I likes a man what is not backwards about coming forwards,” Nitsa simpered, giving him a risqué wink.

“So yous wouldnt’s be averse to me coming courting yous with olive oil then?” Fotis suggested, emboldened by Nitsa’s wink.

“As long as yous dont’s expect me to cook yous a malaka rooster,” Nitsa replied. “I ‘ate cooking. My talents lie in other directions.”

“Then allows me to call and take yous out for a meal in a taverna,” Fotis gallantly offered.

“I’m free tonight,” Nitsa eagerly suggested, hoping Evangelia could squeeze her in at the beauty parlour. “I ‘ave to drives back now as I promised Fotini I’d give ‘er an ‘and puttin’ a curse on a stupid superstitious peasant woman.”

Impressed by her sassy attitude Fotis exclaimed “What a woman,” as Nitsa drove away.

The prospect of a date with a willing man excited Nitsa. Much as she liked to think of herself as a femme fatale it was years since she actually had a suitor, though she had spent many hours pursuing horrified men.

Driving back Nitsa forced herself to concentrate on the road as the storm had washed several boulders down from the mountain. The boulders and mud slicks were the only visible evidence of the previous night’s atrocious weather, now replaced with brilliant sunshine.

Slick Socrates flagged down the old Mercedes taxi as Nitsa drove into Astakos. He wanted her to drive mail order Masha and the television producer up to town. “But I promised to ‘elp Fotini put a curse on Katerina and then I ‘ave to go to the beauty parlour befores my date with twinkly Fotis.”

“The producer has been stranded here overnight and Masha has to get up there to do her weather report,” Slick Socrates cajoled, promising to make it worth Nitsa’s while by offering an extortionate fare. “The limousine is at the bottom of the harbour and you could get a regular fare as Masha’s taxi driven chauffeur.”

Mail order Masha had been so incensed by the incompetence of the smitten young struck-off doctor falling asleep on the job she had summarily sacked him with no thought to the watery trauma he had suffered.

“I suppose if I put my foot down I could be back ‘ere in plenty of time to cooks up Katerina’s curse with Fotini in the beauty parlour whiles I ‘ave my ‘air done,” Nitsa relented, as Slick Socrates hurriedly bundled her passengers into the backseat before she could change her mind.

“Please hurry,” the producer pleaded “I need to check on mother before I go to the television studio. She locked herself in a cupboard and has been phoning all night in a dreadful panic as the power was off.”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Nitsa replied, accelerating to a heady twenty kilometres an hour. Wanting to boast about her upcoming date Nitsa tried to impress Masha by saying “I’m expectin’ a gentleman caller later and he is younger than yous ‘usband.”

“But is he as rich?” Masha sneered.

Distracted by her mobile phone vibrating inside her bloomers Nitsa swerved dangerously across the road, narrowly avoiding knocking Petros the postman off his borrowed donkey. “I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for this phone,” Nitsa cried, contorting her body to reach it while giving the producer an unwanted flash of her bloomers.

“Yassou Fotini,” Nitsa screeched down the phone. “I ‘aven’t forgotten about cursing Katerina but I ‘ave to drive paying passengers up to Paraliakos first. Meet me in the beauty parlour later. Did the parrot get ‘ome okay?”

Skidding to a halt Nitsa announced, “I just ‘ave to stop and pick some wild stifno.” Fotini had reminded her they needed some of the black nightshade growing wild on the mountainside, as a vital ingredient for their spell.

“We are in a hurry and don’t have time to waste while you go picking weeds for your dinner,” the producer complained.

“I ‘ave other plans for the stifno,” Nitsa insisted haughtily, adding “and a fine gentleman is taking me out for dinner I’ll ‘ave yous know.”

“There’s no point in complaining,” Masha assured the producer as Nitsa scurried about by the roadside. “The old crone does whatever she pleases.”

“Well her driving is erratic, she reeks of brandy and she has no sense of urgency,” the producer moaned. “I really think you were too hasty Masha in sacking the smitten young doctor.”

Nitsa threw a clump of stifno into the back of the cab, interrupting the producer as it landed in his open mouth. He spent the rest of the journey pulling sprigs of green stuff out of his teeth and clutching Masha’s thigh with a clammy hand, using the excuse he was sure they were bound to crash.

Chapter 25: A Stapled Stub

“We is goin’ to ‘ave to tighten our belts even more,” Toothless Tasos announced to Thea, returning home from a wet night spent clutching the rope. “The boat ‘as a leak after bein’ bashed in the storm, so there’ll be no more fishin’ until it’s mended.”

Thea wasn’t really paying attention. She was distracted by the cat almost giving itself concussion as it hurled itself at the kitchen window in a futile attempt to flee Tasos. “The cat is acting in a most peculiar manner,” she sighed, having no clue it was traumatised by the sight of her fiancé following his accidental attempts to murder it.

“Appen yous should let the cat out of the ‘ouse. With our precarious finances it oughts to learn to hunt its own food,” Toothless Tasos suggested.

“But yous knows it is an ‘ouse cat with no killer instinct. ‘Appen it would get run over if I let it outdoors,” Thea pointed out. Toothless Tasos smiled at the prospect, thinking the pampered creature would not require feeding and wouldn’t be able to reveal the secrets of its close encounter with the washing machine if it met a squashed fate.

“If yous cant’s go fishin’ appen yous could do a bit of knitting for Mrs Kolokotronis,” Thea suggested.

“Dont’s be so ridiculous woman, ‘ow cans I knit with these calloused ‘ands an’ my back to front finger?” Tasos scoffed, opening his palms to reveal a row of suppurating blisters and his ineptly sewn back on glowing green finger. “All my time will be taken up repairin’ the boat to make it seaworthy again.”

With that Toothless Tasos slammed out of the house and headed across the road to the hardware shop to purchase essential boat repair supplies.

“I ‘eard the dreadful news about yous boat, I ‘opes yous will soon ‘ave it repaired,” Soula said, instantly expressing more sympathy to Toothless Tasos’ sad plight than Thea had demonstrated.

“I needs some wood cutting to fill up the ‘ole,” Tasos requested.

“I’m sorry,” Soula apologised “but my ‘usband will know the right wood for the job an’ he seems to ‘ave been delayed. Takes the weight off whiles yous wait.”

Toothless Tasos was glad of the chance to relax after his difficult night. Taking a seat on top of an empty olive oil tin he chatted with Soula as she deftly fashioned raincoats out of lobster adorned shower curtains. She had spent the whole night sewing to distract her thoughts from her father’s arrest, but had been relieved when Bald Yannis had telephoned to assure her no actual murder had been committed.

“Ere he is now,” Soula announced.

Bald Yannis burst into the hardware shop in a terrible temper, asking his wife “did yous know that old fool Vasilis is makin’ a fortune selling ‘is donkey droppings as organic fertiliser? I just caught ‘im following the postman round with a shovel. Soula yous best get out to the goats with a bucket and collect all their droppings. I can sell it to them gormless Americans as superior manure.”

Bald Yannis’ outburst cheered up Toothless Tasos who declared “first you ‘ad the tourist tat wars with Fat Christos and now yous is going to war with that old fool Vasilis for a few cents over muck.”

Grabbing a bucket Soula was quick to defend her husband, saying “bills dont’s pay ‘emselves.” She was feeling guilty Bald Yannis risked being stuck with the costs of Slick Socrates representing her father and was happy to scoop up malodorous goats droppings if it helped him out.

“Yous got a good woman there,” Toothless Tasos mused as Soula left. His attempt to buy the correct wood to mend his boat was interrupted by the arrival of Fotini and the parrot elbowing him out of the way and demanding, “’ere Bald Yanni, I needs something to use as a spell jar.”

“’Ow many times do I ‘ave to tell yous that blasted parrot is banned, get it out of ‘ere now,” Bald Yannis bellowed. The parrot was silent for once, its mouth chock full of screws it was greedily devouring from the shop display. Bald Yannis lurched at it with his broom, attempting to brush it out of the hardware shop. As the parrot was clamped to Fotini’s head the bristles became entangled in her head scarf and Yannis’ broom knocked her over. She landed in an ungainly heap on top of Toothless Tasos.

Tasos raised his hands to steady Fotini, resulting in a tirade of abuse as she screamed “keep yous ‘ands to youself yous malaka pervert and yous eyes off my bloomers.”

“Keep yous ‘ands to youself yous malaka pervert,” the parrot mimicked, swallowing the screws before biting Toothless Tasos’ green fingertip clean off.

“Oh not again,” Tasos screamed, desperately forcing the parrot’s beak open in a futile effort to retrieve the severed digit which had never really recovered from its close encounter with the fan. He was out of luck as the parrot swiftly swallowed, finding the digit more appetising than Bald Yannis’ stock of screws and nails.

“Dont’s get blood all over the shop yous malaka,” Bald Yannis instructed, scooping up screws smeared in slimy saliva from the parrot’s mouth.

Fotini shot Toothless Tasos a withering glare, warning him “if yous finger makes the parrot sick yous can pay its vets bill.” Tasos blanched at the thought of yet another vet’s bill and hardly yelped at all when Bald Yannis produced an industrial stapler and stapled the ragged ends of his finger together. He quickly resigned himself to the resultant stub, realising it could be days before the parrot passed his finger tip.

“It’s a neater job than the smitten young doctor did last time. Now if yous spend enough on the wood I wont’s charge yous for the staple,” Bald Yannis pronounced, pleased with his inspired handiwork. Suddenly realising Fotini was still in the shop he shouted “’ow many times does I ‘ave to tell yous to get that malaka parrot out of ‘ere.”

Fotini had no intention of leaving the hardware shop without a spell jar but the parrot had other ideas. Catching sight of the probationary Pappas passing by it launched itself into the air, sweeping down to steal his new clerical hat and promptly dropping it in the sea.

Chapter 26: Crumbs In The Wax

Pappas Iraklis was almost knocked off his feet by the old woman rudely pushing him aside. Grabbing the thieving parrot by the scruff of its neck Fotini darted across the road into Stavroula’s taverna without so much as a word of apology. Unaccustomed to such brusque treatment the young Pappas was greatly relieved when Prosperous Pedros calmly fished his hat out of the water. “Thank you for such a thoughtful act, it is hard to believe an old woman could be so ill mannered.”

“Yous obviously dont’s know my mother,” Prosperous Pedros responded.

Blushing bright red beneath his abundant acne the probationary Pappas muttered, “Oh I’m so sorry, I had no idea she was your mother; I seem to have put my foot in it.” Fixing his wet hat back in place he scurried off hastily on his latest dogsbody errand for his mentor.

The Pappas was unexpectedly delighted with his new apprentice who was gullible enough to take over all the housework in addition to cleaning the church. The pews were gleaming with polish and the font was newly scrubbed. However, as the young man’s attempts at cooking were no better than his own dire efforts the Pappas decided to forgo ‘The Idiot’s Guide To Cooking’ for lunch and had dispatched him to the bakery for spinach pies. Pappas Iraklis had planned to stop for a sneaky coffee but was now in no mood for a further confrontation with the nasty old woman and her aggressive hat stealing parrot.

Fotini was unusually animated as she cooked up ideas with Stavroula for putting a curse on Katerina. They decided Stavoula would invite her sister-in-law for afternoon coffee, and then Fotini and Nitsa would arrive and work their black magic. “I ‘opes it works,” Stavroula said, “I cant’s be ‘aving the miserable Katerina ‘anging round an’ maligning my goodly reputation.”

“If she’s as superstitious as yous says she will be stupid enough to fall for our machinations an’ then yous will be rid of ‘er. Now I needs a spell jar, what ‘ave yous got? That malaka Bald Yannis threw me out of ‘is shop before I could find anything.”

“’Will this old vinegar bottle do?” Stavroula asked.

“It’s just the thing,” Fotini declared, spitting into the musty glass bottle. “I’ll be back with Nitsa when she’s done tarting ‘erself up in the beauty parlour.”

As Fotini took her leave the parrot swept down once again, snatching the bag of spinach pies from the hand of Pappas Iraklis who was far too intimidated to protest the theft. Pushing her way into the beauty parlour Fotini announced to Nitsa “I’ve got us a free lunch from the church.”

“Be careful yous don’t get pie crumbs in yous moustache wax,” Evangelia instructed as Nitsa started slobbering over the spinach pie. Eager to share the details of her upcoming tryst Nitsa announced with a mouthful of pie, “Fotis the fisherman is a real dish. I think he could be the one.”

“Dont’s go being too forward on yous first date,” Fotini advised “yous need to play ‘ard to get.”

“Not much point of that at our advanced age,” Nitsa argued.

“Fotini’s right, you don’t want to be too loose too soon,” Hattie agreed, emerging from behind the curtain to reveal her new blue rinse. “I think we should come with you to make sure he behaves like a gentleman.”

“I dont’s want ‘im to behave,” Nitsa protested to no avail. Her two companions agreed they would act as discreet chaperones at a nearby table, whether she liked it or not, even though the very concept of them ever managing to be discreet was patently ludicrous.

“Did yous get the stifno?” Fotini questioned Nitsa, eager to get on with the business of cooking up a spell.

“I did. Did yous get the beetles?” Nitsa replied.

“They is ‘ere in my ‘andbag somewhere,” Fotini said, opening her bag and peering inside. “I knows I put ‘em in,” she added, tipping the bag upside to find the elusive insects.

“You can’t let beetles loose in my beauty parlour,” Evangelia remonstrated, looking down in horror at the shiny black creatures scuttling round on the floor.

“Pick ‘em up an’ drown ‘em in this vinegar,” Fotini shouted, holding out her musty spell jar. “Later we can chuck in the stifno then crush it all up together with a pestle and mortar.”

“Ere yous can add my moustache ‘air to it,” Nitsa volunteered, scraping the waxed clump full of spinach pie crumbs into the Fotini’s jar.”

“What will you do with it?” Hattie asked. She was intrigued by the thought the ridiculous curse could possibly be effective.

“Yous can come over to Stavroula’s taverna to see us in action,” Fotini invited.

“It’s certainly exciting, we’ll be like the three old witches in Macbeth,” Hattie exclaimed.

“Po po, it’s just stuff an’ nonsense,” Nitsa insisted “but Katerina is stupid enough to believe it. Now Evangelia, dont’s forget I wants them false eyelashes sticking on an’ these long black ‘airs plucking out of my chin when yous ‘ave finished getting rid of my nostril ‘air.”

Chapter 27: Cackles And Curses

“You told us it never rained in Greece,” Quentin shouted to Achilles the borrowed builder who was perched up a ladder in Stavroula’s taverna, hammering away at the tourist tat annex.

“’Ave yous not ‘eard of climate change?” Achilles defended. “I am not responsible for Greek weather. Yous should ‘ave watched Masha’s forecast an’ bought an umbrella.”

“An umbrella would not have stopped it from raining in the house. That occurred due to your shoddy workmanship,” Deirdre pointed out. “Now, when do you intend to repair the roof properly?”

“Well I dont’s knows if Stavroula can spare me,” Achilles procrastinated. “She’ll skin me alive if she’s nowhere to flog ‘er tourist tat. ‘Appen I can pop round tonight an’ nail up a shower curtain as a waterproof cover. Masha’s latest forecast is dry an’ sunny.”

Stavroula came rushing out of the kitchen, smiling obsequiously at the Americans and insisting they sample generous portions of her homemade fig cake on the house. Quentin and Deirdre failed to suspect she had an ulterior motive until Stavroula pulled up a chair and demanded to know what they ate for Christmas dinner back in Idaho.

“Quentin insists on cooking Christmas dinner,” Deirdre winced, “it is the one day of the year when he has free rein in the kitchen.”

To Stavroula’s delight Quentin boasted “I’ve acquired quite a name for my traditional stuffed turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberry jelly.” She hoped he would share his recipes in order to re-create this exotic festive foreign fare on her cooking show audition. As Quentin jumped up to steady Achilles’ ladder Deirdre confided,

“I dread Christmas dinner. Quentin is completely clueless in the kitchen. His skills only stretch as far as cooking a Walmart frozen turkey with packet stuffing, opening a can of cranberry jelly and adding hot water to a packet of instant mashed potatoes. We don’t like to hurt his feelings, but the name he is famous for is ‘the Christmas ghost of salmonella.’ One year his half-thawed turkey nearly finished Hattie off.”

“I cant’s go putting my audience in ‘ospital,” Stavroula sighed, snatching away the complimentary sykomaitha in disgust. “I need recipes for foreign Christmas dinners using only the freshest of ingredients, not ghastly stuff out of freezers and packets.”

“Back in my navy days we once had a traditional Greenlandic Christmas dinner of whale blubber,” Gorgeous Yiorgos declared.

“Well unless yous plans to catch me a whale when yous go fishin’ it’s not much use to me,” Stavroula complained.

“Po po, I wouldn’t recommend whale blubber, it was so tough I broke a tooth.”

“Did yous eat any other foreign Christmas dinners on yous travels Yiorgo? I ‘ave to come up with somethin’ original and tasty,” Stavroula explained.

“We ad’ some very tasty roast goat an’ peppered gizzards in Nigeria.”

“Goat and gizzards sounds goodly for sure,” Stavroula smiled; confident she could give these familiar foreign ingredients a cheeky Greek twist if she omitted all the unfamiliar spices and replaced them with oregano.

“I could cook yous up some curried goat at ‘ome for yous to sample,” Gorgeous Yiorgos generously offered, adding, “Worst Christmas dinner I ever ‘eard of is the Japanese craze for eatin’ bucketfuls of take-out Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

Everyone except the Americans grimaced at the thought of this processed offering, even as Deirdre said “I’ve been trying to persuade Quentin to eat the Colonel’s Christmas bucket for years. It would have been much tastier than the self-heating ‘Christmas Tinner’ Quentin dished up the year the cooker exploded during the festivities. Parsnips, pudding and potatoes were all compressed into a can topped squashed minced pies and turkey.”

Stavroula shuddered with horror at this culinary abomination and then pointedly ignored Deirdre’s suggestion, “Perhaps Hattie could help you out with her recipe for Idaho potato ice-cream. She usually keeps a big stash of it in the freezer and serves it up after Quentin’s botulised turkey.”

“Did yous ‘ear about the body they found in a deep freeze in Osta?” Achilles piped up, reminded of the grisly find by the chatter about frozen food. “Frozen stiff it was. I ‘eard some nutter kept it on iced horta for over twenty years.”

“Most likely nothin’ but exaggerated gossip,” the usually quick to spread rumours Stavroula huffed, rushing back to the kitchen. The subject hit a sensitive nerve. It reminded her of murdering her second husband Kostas with weed killer laced homemade chicken soup and disposing of his remains under the chicken coop in Pouthena.

Katerina’s constant carping about the whereabouts of her brother Kostas unnerved Stavroula. She would feel more secure if the plan to scare her sister-in-law away with the old lady curse worked, leaving her free to devote all her energies to concentrating on the cooking competition.

Katerina had been taken aback to receive a call from Stavroula inviting her to partake of afternoon coffee in the taverna. She decided to amuse herself at her sister-in-law’s expense by grassing her up to the taxman for failing to issue VAT receipts. The tax inspector assured her he would arrive shortly and Katerina planned to be ensconced in the taverna, thus affording her a front row seat for any fireworks.

She had only just settled in with her coffee when Fotini, Nitsa and Hattie arrived, suitably plucked and sporting garish make-up from the beauty parlour. Their arrival prompted Quentin to declare “if it would get rid of that blasted bird I’d be happy to sample roast parrot for Christmas dinner.”

Hattie promptly told her son off, saying “you can’t go round threatening to eat Fotini’s beloved pet. It’s not natural.”

“Yous want to gets that seen too Kyria,” Achilles the borrowed builder told Fotini, mistaking her exaggerated winking at Stavroula for a nasty facial twitch.

“I thoughts yous wanted to chat about Kostas,” Katerina said to Stavroula.

“I do, but yous can see ‘ow busy I am nows so ‘old yous ‘orses,” Stavroula replied, serving the three old crones coffee with a sly wink. The glacial stares the three old women sent in Katerina’s direction ruffled her composure, but she had no intention of leaving when the tax inspector was due to arrive and put on a free show.

Katerina was mesmerized as Fotini transferred the black nightshade, beetles and crumb infested moustache wax from the old vinegar bottle into a pestle. She watched Fotini mortaring the mixture with a grinding motion, turning it into a rancid pulp while muttering nonsensical words. The icy looks discomfited Katerina so much she shattered the bat’s bones gripped tightly between her tense fingers.

“Yous looks likes yous is up to no good. Stop staring at me with yous evil eye,” she cried.

“What makes yous think yous is interesting enough for our attention?” Fotini sneered without lifting her deliberately malevolent gaze. Marching past Katerina with another coffee Stavroula intentionally knocked into her, spilling the hot beverage all over her amulet laden bosom.

“Yous is so clumsy Stavroula,” Katerina screamed, rushing off to the toilet to clean herself up.

Right on cue Fotini dashed across the taverna and poured some of the noxious mortared brew into Katerina’s coffee. Returning from the toilet Katerina took a greedy gulp of the doctored drink. The three old crones burst into manic cackles just as Katerina simultaneously swallowed the foul tasting liquid and noticed the rancid scum suspended suspiciously on its surface.

“Yous ‘ave cursed me yous evil old women,” Katerina screeched in horror. Her accusations were met with yet more wild cackles, reducing her to gibbering hysterics just as the tax inspector walked in. His intention was to sit discreetly and observe if Stavroula handed out receipts to her customers.

Ignoring Katerina’s hysterics Stavroula answered the ringing telephone, saying “Socrate this ‘ad better be important as Katerina is about to self-combust from that curse.”

Stavroula visibly paled as Socrates informed her he had just received advance warning from one of his contacts that a tax inspector was loose in the village and the gossip vine had it he was there due to Katerina’s malicious handiwork. Hanging up the phone Stavroula rushed over to Quentin and Deirdre, presenting them with an enormous bill for the free sykomaitha. She followed up by climbing the first few rungs of Achilles’ ladder to hand him a bill for the coffee she had given him earlier. The third bill she presented to Katerina who doubled up on her hysterics when she saw she had been charged for two coffees. “Yous money grabbing hussy, yous knows full well I only ‘ad one coffee,” she complained “an’ Fotini will be paying for that as she put ‘er scum in it.”

“Yous is forgettin’ yous ‘ad another coffee all over yous bosom,” Stavroula stated, fixing her with a glassy stare of contempt.

“Yous ‘ave set me up,” Katerina bellowed “yous ad no intention of discussing my missing brother, yous just wanted me ‘ere so yous evil sidekicks coulds curse me.”

“What superstitious twaddle yous comes up with,” Stavroula retorted.

The tax inspector was enjoying all the commotion immensely. It was quite obvious to him that Stavroula ran an honest business and was exceptionally diligent in proffering receipts to all her customers. It was a great relief to him as he hated confrontation which often evolved into violence. Only last week the villagers in Gavros had turned on him when he attempted to issue a fine to a taverna owner whose idea of legal receipts was to scrawl a random figure on the paper tablecloths. That particular episode had resulted in the villagers tossing him into the sea. He had been forced to spend a miserable wet night barricaded into the police station for his own protection.

“Dont’s drink ‘er coffee, it is nothing but a poisoned chalice,” Katerina rushed to warn Mrs Kolokotronis who had popped in for a break from the supermarket.

Mrs Kolokotronis was in no mood for Katerina’s over the top hysterics as she had spent the last hour babysitting the bawling baby Andromeda and needed a bit of peace and quiet to recuperate. “Watch yous slander,” she told Katerina, “no one makes a more goodly cup of coffee than Stavroula.”

“Well them old crones ‘ave cursed it,” Katerina insisted, showing her the cup with its scummy covering of moustache hair, ground up beetles and black nightshade. “Please I implores yous. Yous is a Granny, yous could lift the curse in the traditional way.”

“I never ‘eard such nonsense,” Mrs Kolokotronis declared, “but if it will shut yous up I will ‘ave a go at lifting the curse. Stavroula, bring me a glass of water and a bottle of olive oil.”

Mrs Kolokotronis was only attempting to humour the hysterical mad woman, having no idea Stavroula had indeed cooked up the curse idea. Everyone knew the way to have a curse lifted was to have an old granny put a drop of olive oil into a glass of water and if the oil floats the curse is lifted. Everyone watched in fascination as the drop of oil sunk to the bottom of the glass, causing Katerina to fall to the floor in a dead faint.

Fotini jumped up and threw the contents of the glass of oily water over Katerina’s face to revive her, crowing, “the curse will be lifted as soon as yous is fifty kilometres from the village. Now pack yous bags and be gone you interfering old biddy.”

As Katerina fled the taverna the tax inspector volunteered “you could have her arrested for failing to pay her legal receipt.”

Chapter 28: Moustakos

News of a tax inspector loose in the village spread like wild fire on the gossip vine, sending all the local business owners into a panic, rustling round digging out dusty till rolls and making frantic phone calls to warn all their friends. “Dont’s forget your tax receipt,” became the siren call of Astakos, vying with Katerina’s name being cursed by all and sundry. Her unpopularity as the snitch who had invited this unwanted interloper into the village was cemented.

Suspicious any stranger could be the tax inspector Takis greeted the Gavronian fisherman Fotis in a cold and unwelcoming manner when he walked into ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima’ that evening, clutching a bottle of olive oil and requesting romantic candles on his table in preparation for his date with Nitsa.

“I ‘ave to say I’m glad to see the back of Katerina,” Yiota announced to her husband, wiping her hands on her apron. “I ‘ad to scrub ‘er room out with bleach an’ it still stinks of garlic what she hung over the door. I’ve been sweeping up bits of old bat bone for ‘ours and the stupid woman ‘ad scattered salt everywhere in one of ‘er superstitious rituals.”

“She wont’s be back,” Takis reassured his wife. “I ‘eard on the gossip vine Fotini’s curse sent ‘er hysterical. She was so overwrought she begged the Pappas to exorcise ‘er, but he told ‘er she should be ashamed of ‘aving such ungodly thoughts.”

“Well he would think exercise is ungodly, ‘ave you seen the way he’s running to fat since Petula left ‘im?” Yiota concurred.

“Not exercise woman, exorcise, like in that ‘orror film where the girl’s ‘ead swivelled,” Takis corrected his wife. “The Pappas was so desperate to get ‘er off the church doorstep he even carried ‘er bags to the bus stop. Good riddance I says, did yous ‘ear it was ‘er who invited the bloomin’ taxman to the village?”

Takis’ last words were whispered to his wife while he sent a scathing look in the direction of the bewildered fisherman. “That could be ‘im, none of our customers except Slick Socrates wears a suit. Best make sure all is above board tonight.”

“He doesn’t look like a tax inspector. His suit looks like a relic left over from the war,” Yiota sighed, giving the unknown customer the once over. She thought his weatherworn skin and leathered hands indicated he worked outdoors, though his suit and tie were uncharacteristic of their usual peasant clientele. She had no idea Fotis had suited up to make a good impression on Nitsa and didn’t detect the distinctive stench of mothballs until she went over to take his order.

“I’ll wait until my lady friend arrives,” Fotis announced nervously, wiping his sweaty hands on his suit and eyeing the door for any sign of Nitsa’s arrival.

“He says he’s meetin’ a woman,” Yiota hissed to her husband who suspiciously replied, “That could just be ‘is cover. Perhaps there’s two of ‘em.”

Their speculations were interrupted by the arrival of Prosperous Pedros, Tall Thomas and Toothless Tasos, who instantly recognised the fisherman as one of their brawling partners from Gavros.

“What brings you up this way?” Tall Thomas asked him, hoping there would be no more violence.

“The wonderful lady from the taxi accepted my invitation to court ‘er,” Fotis said with a blush.

“Yous best watch yous step, that’s my Aunty Nitsa,” Tall Thomas warned.

“She’s a fine lookin’ woman, I ain’t seen such an ‘andsome specimen for many a year,” Fotis gushed.

“So yous not the taxman then?” Takis sighed with relief.

“Is yous insane? Does I look like one of ‘em deplorable creatures? We knows ‘ow to deal with that sort down in Gavros,” Fotis responded, launching into the tale of how they had tossed the last tax inspector to come snooping around his village into the sea.

Taverna chatter was interrupted by the sound of squealing brakes and the crunch of metal as Nitsa brought the old Mercedes taxi to a halt by driving into Tall Thomas’ mobile refrigerated fish van. Fortunately the parking spot was not visible from the taverna windows and Nitsa had no intention of spoiling her evening by owning up to the minor collision.

“What on earth is she wearing?” Yiota muttered under her breath as Nitsa swept ungraciously into the room in a gold velvet evening dress far too long for her short body. The shiny sophistication of the strapless dress was completely ruined by Nitsa’s insistence on wearing a thermal vest beneath it, covering her meant to be exposed shoulders with grubby grey fabric. Her moustache had been replaced with a painful patch of raw red skin, resulting from a belated allergic reaction to the waxing she had endured in the beauty parlour. Tripping over her trailing hem Nitsa landed in an ungainly heap on Fotis’ lap, nearly asphyxiating him with her cheap perfume.

“Ooh yous looks grand,” Fotis complimented Nitsa. “What a woman.”

“I dont’s knows them, they is nothin’ to do with me,” Nitsa declared as Fotini and Hattie followed her into the taverna, pointedly plonking themselves down at the next table.

“What are yous doing out at this time of night mother?” Prosperous Pedros questioned. “Shouldn’t yous be at ‘ome with the parrot.”

“I managed to give it the slip,” Fotini cackled manically.

“Yous cant’s bring that parrot in ‘ere, it’s unhygienic,” Takis protested as Quentin and Deirdre walked in with the bird clamped on Quentin’s head.

“Dont’s yous worry about it K-Went-In,” Yiota overruled her husband, throwing a tea towel over the parrot and announcing the evenings specials. It had seemed a shame to waste all the garlic pinned up around Katerina’s door so Yiota had knocked up a batch of tasty skordalia she heartily recommended to her hungry customers. “I also cooked some lovely lemon chicken with oven potatoes as I knows ‘ow keen yous is to eat vegetarian dishes Pedro,” she added.

“Chickens are not vegetables,” Deirdre started to argue until Quentin kicked her under the table, advising “you may as well let it drop dear, you’ll never convince them.”

“I’ll ‘ave the skordalia if yous ‘ave it too,” Nitsa winked at Fotis, “wouldn’t do for only one of us to ‘ave garlic breath.”

Fotis’ twinkly eyes twinkled even more at this blatant invitation and remembering his manners he proffered his bottle of olive oil, prompting Deirdre to whisper to Quentin, “I expect Nitsa will be wanting to cook him one of our roosters in traditional reciprocation of his courtship gesture.”

“’Ows the olives doin’ down in Gavros?” Prosperous Pedros asked Fotis. “Is yous likely to get a goodly ‘arvest?”

“Appen it will be a bumper crop this year,” Fotis confirmed while winking saucily at Nitsa.

“We’ll ‘ave to get crackin with the pickin’ soon,” Pedros declared, starting a familiar argument amongst the others. Everyone thought Prosperous Pedros started his olive harvest much too early but he insisted it was prudent in case bad weather came along and damaged the crop. The others considered he was far too free with his pruning; leaving his trees practically nothing more than naked trunks by the time he had finished. Still he swore by his methods and his olive oil had such an enviable reputation that Takis exclusively served it in the taverna. Prosperous Pedros refused to eat anywhere else as his standards were so high he refused to imbibe inferior oil.

“Dont’s bother with the pruning mother, I’ll do that for yous after yous ‘ave picked the olives,” Pedros offered.

Quentin and Deirdre exchanged alarmed glances that their neighbour’s son expected his octogenarian mother to collect her own olives. Quentin piped up, “surely you are joking Pedro, your mother is no spring chicken.”

“Minds yous own business,” Fotini blurted, “there’s nowt to pickin’ olives as yous will soon find out if yous is man enough for manual labour.”

The argument was interrupted by the pungent smell of singed eyelashes as one of Nitsa’s falsies dropped into the lighted candle. Fotis gallantly risked burning his fingers by rescuing the flaming false eyelash and plunging it into his glass of wine. Nitsa hastily grabbed it, sticking it back in place, completely oblivious to the dregs of red wine dribbling down her face and smearing her outlandish make-up.

The fishermen all suddenly sat to attention, sucking their stomachs in and finger combing their hair as mail order Masha entered, sashaying sexily in a skin tight pink plastic jumpsuit. That old fool Vasilis trailed behind her; happy Stavroula had given him a night off from scrubbing pans.

“Ere yous is that famous weather girl off the telly, can I ‘aves yous autograph?” Fotis yelled in a star struck manner. His cry drew Masha’s attention to the courting couple and she instantly demanded of Nitsa, “what is yous doin’ wearing one of my dresses?”

“Bald Yannis’ new wife Soula borrowed it to me,” Nitsa said defensively.

“Well it looks orrible on yous,” Masha insulted her. “Yous should stick to them hideous old lady dresses from the ‘ardware shop. I’ll ‘ave to ‘ave words with Soula, borrowing out my cast offs without askin’ me first.”

Noticing Fotis was fixated on mail order Masha’s ample assets and appeared to be imagining them, rather than Nitsa’s, encased in the gold velvet dress, Hattie rushed to her friend’s defence, saying “well I think you look lovely in that elegant evening gown.”

“Ere, I’ll strip it off now if yous begrudges an old woman a bit of glamour,” Nitsa fired at Masha.

“Yous will do no such thing Aunty,” Tall Thomas insisted, horrified at the thought of her stripping down to her thermal vest and bloomers.

Nitsa’s offer had at least resulted in Fotis turning his attention back to his date, with Tall Thomas’ objection leaving him spluttering “spoil sport” under his breath.

Just then Gorgeous Yiorgos burst into the taverna, complaining loudly “I ‘ave never met such an ungrateful woman as Stavroula.”

“What’s she gone an’ done now?” Yiota asked.

“Only turned ‘er nose up at my delicious goat curry,” Gorgeous Yiorgos explained. “She said she wanted tips on foreign Christmas dinners an’ so I slaved over a hot pan of Nigerian curry like what I ate in the navy. I took it round and she sneered at it, refusing to taste it till it was stone cold. I asks yous, what normal person eats cold curry and then has the cheek to pronounce it disgustin’?”

The other customers looked totally bemused by his tale. Not one of them had ever been adventurous enough to try spicy foreign food and considered Stavroula had demonstrated remarkable common sense in being rightfully wary. Gorgeous Yiorgos was not only angry at Stavroula’s disdain for his culinary efforts, he also felt guilty he had been so thoughtless to cook goat in the house. Petula had accused him of ignoring the feelings of her precious pet goat Nero who could have been turned cannibalistic if it had licked out the pan he had left lying round in the kitchen. Petula was now weeping at home and comforting the traumatised goat. The only bright spot to emerge from his efforts was the tax inspector had greedily scoffed two full plates of spicy goat curry and was at this moment barricaded in Stavroula’s lavatory, suffering the painful after effects.

“So this is where you ‘ave been ‘iding,” Thea shouted at Toothless Tasos as she entered the taverna. “I dont’s knows why I bothered cooking yous dinner if yous can’t be bothered to come ‘ome and eat it. Why cant’s yous answer yous phone like a normal person?”

“Yous knows why,” Toothless Tasos replied, desperately hoping Thea would not let slip his secret. He was convinced the government were spying on his every movement through the newfangled technology of his mobile phone but preferred not to make it public knowledge in case he became a laughing stock. He had been unable to convince Thea he was interesting enough to attract the full attention of any government spies, a ridiculous notion he had harboured after watching a conspiracy documentary on television. Ever since he had got away with faking his own death at sea, inadvertently turning his first wife Stavroula into a bigamist, he had been convinced the long arm of the law would discover his illegal secret by spying on him through mobile technology and insisted on keeping his phone turned off.

Hoping to appease his fiancée Toothless Tasos threw his usual monetary caution to the wind and invited her to sit down and order a plate of lemon chicken. She was absolutely delighted when mail order Masha told her, “I asked around at the television studio and they is definitely going to be piloting a new show called ‘Price That Junk’ an’ they plan to film the first episode ‘ere in the village.”

“I must get that potentially priceless old pot back from Pancratius the policeman an’ ‘ave it valued on television,” Thea said in excitement.

“’Ow many times does I ‘ave to tell yous the looted pot will belong to the government if it’s worth any money,” Toothless Tasos reminded her.

“We must ‘ave somethin’ in the attic that coulds be worth a small fortune,” Thea insisted, convinced some of her unlooted stored hoarded junk could improve their finances.

Mrs Kolokotronis suddenly burst into the taverna, making a full speed dash for the toilet. “Does we looks like a public convenience?” Takis complained in annoyance at her lack of manners.

“Sorry I couldn’t wait any longer for the tax inspector to vacate the toilet in Stavroula’s. He’s been in there for ‘ours,” Mrs Kolokotronis explained, eagerly taking a seat with Fotini and Hattie in order to get a good look at the man courting Nitsa.

“Well I never, if it isn’t Fotis Moustakos,” Mrs Kolokotronis hissed to Fotini. “It must be more than thirty years since I clapped eyes on that malaka.” Turning her beady eyes on the twinkly fisherman she called out to him, “still playing the ladies man then, eh Foti?”

“Dont’s yous go insulting my gentleman friend,” Nitsa warned her.

“I wouldnt’s dream of it,” Mrs Kolokotronis huffed before playing her ace and adding, “Nitsa does yous not knows Fotis is yous first cousin? If yous carries on playin’ footsie with ‘im yous could ends up with inbred idiot children.”

“We’s is ‘ardly likely to be breeding at our age,” Nitsa protested, while inwardly cringing at the possibility of being actually related to her first ardent suitor.

“Are yous sure we is related?” Nitsa asked, acknowledging she wasn’t exactly well up on the local branches of her family tree. Nitsa had moved away from Astakos many years ago, at the time of her marriage, and settled in the up ‘north village’ of Pirouni, named for a fork. It was understandable if she no longer recognised her blood relatives after more than sixty years.

“Everyone in the Moustakos family ‘as the same moustache Nitsa, yous ‘ad one youself before yous ‘ad it waxed off in the beauty parlour. It is a family trait yous cant’s deny, it’s like bein’ branded with an identifying marker,” Mrs Kolokotronis told her.

“Yous means like yous new granddaughter ‘as the identifying trait of Slick Socrates bushy sideburns, clearly showin’ yous fat son was cuckolded?” Fotini blurted out.

A stunned silence descended over the taverna at Fotini’s revelation, only broken by the sound of the stinging slap mail order Masha inflicted on the malicious old crone.

Chapter 29: A Butt Full Of Pellets

“Soula quick, come an’ ‘elp me, I ‘ave a butt full of pellets. Some maniac fired pot shots at me as I cycled back down the hill,” Bald Yannis shouted, painfully dismounting from the bicycle’s saddle.

“Yanni yous knows it is the season for hunters to shoot birds so ‘appen it was just an accident,” Soula suggested, yanking his trousers down to survey the damage. Bald Yannis was most relieved he wasn’t wearing any of his secret stolen stash of women’s silk underwear.

“Oooh what a voluptuous bottom you ‘ave,” Nitsa exclaimed. She had only popped into the hardware shop to buy a handheld vibrating olive shaker. She was most delighted to feast her eyes on this unexpected display of naked flesh, though somewhat surprised Bald Yannis managed to cultivate more hair on his rear end than his head.

“My ‘usband needs medical attention. Can yous runs an’ see if the smitten young doctor is anywhere near?” Soula asked Nitsa.

“Yous run and looks for ‘im, ‘appen yous will move quicker being younger,” Nitsa replied, taking no account of Soula’s gammy lame leg. “I can stay ‘ere’ to tend to yous ‘usband’s lusciously plump bottom.”

“I’m not letting yous or that struck-off fraud of a useless doctor anywhere near my posterior,” Bald Yannis thundered. “Soula, telephone Vangelis the chemist an’ see if he can come over ‘ere, then get ‘old of Moronic Mitsos and ask ‘im if he can detect who the trigger ‘appy lunatic is. He’s got more sense than that sickly village policeman Pancratius. This was no accident; someone was trying to kill me I tell yous.”

Bald Yannis’ bullet ridden bottom provided hours of amusement to the other villagers as he prostrated himself over the hardware shop counter while Vangelis the chemist attempted to tweeze out the pellets without the benefit of any topical anaesthetic. At least his bottom was proving good for business with a queue of bemused villagers’ eager to mock his predicament. The ex-chief of police Moronic Mitsos was excited to have a case to mull over and was quick to articulate his initial thoughts.

“Can yous think of anyone that doesn’t like yous Yanni?” he questioned.

“It would be quicker to rule out anyone who does like the malaka,” the Pappas opined, handing over the cash for a new light bulb.

“That’s rich coming from Mr Popularity,” Bald Yannis fired back.

“’Ave yous any enemies yous can think of?” Moronic Mitsos persisted. “Anyone yous ‘ave ‘ad cross words with.”

“Well Toothless Tasos still ‘olds a grudge about his chopped off finger an’ Fat Christos never got over me undercutting the price of his goats’ postcards. That old fool Vasilis is still seething I sold my goat droppings to K-Went-In ‘an ‘is silicone wife mights still be mad I botched up ‘er cheeks with concrete filler. Fotini is furious I banned ‘er parrot an’ Yiota still wont’s let me in the taverna after I insulted her cookin.”

“Hmm, I see what the Pappas means about yous not being too popular,” Moronic Mitsos said. “I will investigate if any of these enemies of yous ‘ave an alibi.”

“Yanni, yous can’t possibly think the lovely Masha would try to kills yous when she ‘as been so good to me. An’ can yous really see Fotini or Yiota wielding a shotgun?” Soula interrupted.

“I wouldnt’s put anything past that venomous old crone Fotini,” Petula interjected, still smarting over the nasty woman’s outing of Slick Socrates possible paternity of her good friend’s Tassia’s baby.

It had been several weeks since Fotini had dropped her bombshell in the taverna. No one in the village had seen Fotini since the night Prosperous Pedros had thrown her over his shoulder like a sack of olives and carried her kicking, screaming and spitting out of the taverna.

Almost everyone in the village had heard the gossip, and while condemning it as cruel and malicious, they secretly admitted the baby bore more than a passing resemblance to the slick lawyer. Mail order Masha had rushed straight round to Tassia’s house to gently break the news her secret was out. “Of course peoples might not believe Fotini because everyone knows she’s a spiteful old hag, but I thought I should warn yous she blurted out Fat Christos was cuckolded and the baby ‘as Socrates’ sideburns, an’ everyone ‘eard er.”

“I suppose I must tell my ‘usband the truth, though I suspicions he already knows I was pregnant long before we ‘ad our first fumble in the garden shed. It didnt’s puts ‘im off marrying me because he married for money, an’ he never ‘ad any interest in the bedroom side of things anyway,” Tassia confided.

Masha reassured her friend, saying “yous knows ‘ow much Christos dotes on Andromeda. He’s besotted with the baby.”

“But will he still stand by us if the word is out that ‘er real father is Socrates?” Tassia sobbed.

“Of course I will, yous and Andy are everything to me,” Fat Christos burst out, having overheard their conversation. Taking his wife in his arms he told her, “It was pretty obvious to me I ‘adn’t actually spawned the baby else it would ‘ave been the shortest pregnancy in ‘istory. Yous wanted a baby so much an’ I was too fat to perform in the bedroom so I overlooked yous indiscretion. I’d ‘ave preferred not to know who it was yous did the deed with, but now word is out I says we just flatly deny it. Last thing we want is that slimy lawyer making a claim on our darling baby.”

“Christos is right Tassia,” Masha urged. “Deny, deny and deny some more.”

“Better if we dont’s even deny it but just old our ‘eads up and face down the rumours, perhaps even bring the christening forward,” Tassia suggested, drawing inner strength from her husband’s loyalty.

“An’ it might ‘elp if yous was to cultivate some bushy sideburns Christo so Andromeda will look more like you,” Masha suggested, adding, “There’s only one fly in the ointment. What if Stavroula gets wind of the gossip ‘er lover is the baby’s father?”

Chapter 30: I Loves Yous Quentin

“I can’t believe Adonis has let us down after promising to help with our first olive harvest,” Deirdre lamented, surveying their trees laden with ripe olives in the olive grove.

“Bad backs can be very temperamental and poor Adonis claims he is in excruciating agony this morning,” Quentin said

“He looked the picture of health dancing the syrtos last night,” Deirdre reminded her husband.

“Perhaps his wild contortions exacerbated his condition,” Quentin mulled.

Bald Yannis, dragging olive nets over from his bicycle, burst into laughter at the pathetic excuses the Americans were making for the workshy Adonis. “He ‘as a bad back every olive season, he ‘ates to get ‘is ‘ands dirty.”

“But we don’t know the first thing about gathering olives, this is our very first olive harvest,” Deirdre explained.

“It’s not rocket science Did-Rees,” Bald Yannis sneered. “Yous ‘ave to get all the olives off the trees and into them sacks. I’ve delivered all the equipment yous needs to get on with it.”

“Can I tempt you with a coffee,” Deirdre offered, hoping if the hardware man stuck around for a drink he may be inclined to share some of his technical expertise.

“I aven’t got time to be sittin’ round drinkin’ coffee, I’ve a shop to run,” Bald Yannis huffed. Although the hardware shop was in Soula’s capable hands it was still too painful for him to sit down unless he used the inflatable ‘doughnut cushion’ designed for haemorrhoid sufferers sold to him by Vangelis the chemist.

Striding back to his bicycle Bald Yannis adjusted his new bullet proof vest, hiked up the bullet proof long johns Soula had fashioned and pulled a protective motorcycle crash helmet onto his head. He was convinced the nutter with the shotgun was still out there, determined to kill him. So far Moronic Mitsos’ informal investigation had failed to uncover the guilty party. His detective skills were clearly inept, as evidenced by his lack of success in exposing Bald Yannis as the elusive underwear thief, not to mention his failure to fathom he had been a victim of Yannis’ fake dating scam.

The previous evening the former chief of police had been tucking into souvlaki in ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima’ when that old fool Vasilis’ ancient sparring partner Sotiris had walked in and requested Yiota cook the couple of thrush, known colloquially as ‘chewing gum’, he had bagged while out hunting with his shotgun. Sotiris’ advanced years and deteriorating eyesight made him a dangerous liability with the shotgun. He had mistaken the tufts of Bald Yannis’ hair transplant whizzing by on the bike for the plumage of an exotic bird, and fired randomly in that direction. Fortunately for Bald Yannis, Sotiris was a poor shot; otherwise his head would have been blown off. Even as Moronic Mitsos congratulated Sotiris on his catch he still hadn’t managed to put two and two together and surmise the old man was the guilty gunman.

Bald Yannis cycled back to the shop, leaving Quentin and Deirdre totally flummoxed over what to do with all their new olive picking equipment. “Perhaps we should wait until Fotini makes a start on her olives and see how she does it,” Deirdre suggested.

Quentin mulled this suggestion over but decided if they waited for Fotini to show them how to do the job they would never hear the end of it. He could imagine her cackling how unmanly he was and refused to subject himself to her ridicule.

“Let’s approach it logically,” he suggested. “First we need to lay these olive nets on the ground under the trees and then I suppose we hit the olives with this smacker thing.”

“What do you suppose this comb is for,” Deirdre asked. “Do you think we need to tidy up the trees with it afterwards?”

“Or we could just book them into the beauty parlour,” Quentin joked; running his fingers along the pruning saw to test its sharpness. “This three-legged olive ladder looks a bit wobbly. I can’t believe Bald Yannis cycled all the way here with his head stuck between the rungs.”

“Well at least we were able to extricate his head without decapitating him due to our speedy intervention of oiling the ladder.”

“Not that he appreciated it,” Quentin pointed out, ruminating Bald Yannis hadn’t even offered a discount on his wares as a thank you.

“I don’t think you should be climbing the greasy ladder until we know what we’re doing,” Deirdre cautioned. “Let’s leave the ladder until later. Why don’t we just pick the olives from the low hanging branches to start with, until we get a feel for what we are doing?”

“Or we could just lay the nets and then wander into the village for a leisurely lunch. We could take a look how the locals do it and learn from their expertise,” Quentin suggested.

Pleased with their prevaricating decision to put off the inevitable the pair ineptly laid the olive nets beneath the trees. It was an exhausting task as Bald Yannis had conned them into buying his unsellable stock of the old style heavy oilskin sheets rather than the lighter green nets favoured by experienced pickers. Panting with exhaustion from their exertions they strolled slowly towards Astakos, with Quentin heartily relieved he had for once managed to evade the parrot.

They exchanged greetings with many of the local olive pickers and exclaimed with delight to see Gorgeous Yiorgos overtake them on the back of an olive branch laden donkey. “What a quintessentially Greek sight,” Quentin noted “it is like something out of a time warp postcard.”

The Americans hardly recognised Petula trailing after the donkey on foot as she was weighted down under an enormous pile of olive cuttings. Gorgeous Yiorgos overheard Deidre expressing her surprise it was ungentlemanly of him to expect Petula to walk while he lorded it up on the donkey and reprimanded her by saying “Did-Rees yous knows Petula ‘asn’t passed ‘er driving test yet.”

Spying a familiar figure in the distance Deirdre said “Isn’t that Adonis drinking coffee in the kafenion? I thought he said his back was so painful he couldn’t get out of bed.”

“He seems to have enjoyed a miraculous recovery,” Quentin quipped.

The fake hypochondriac Adonis was indeed holding court in the kafenion, boasting how he had managed to sell an olive picking experience holiday to a couple of gullible English tourists. “Can yous believe they is paying me to pick my olives?” he chortled.

“’Ow did yous manage to sell ‘em that?” Tall Thomas asked, impressed with Adonis’ business acumen.

“I told ‘em it was a romantic and authentically Greek experience,” Adonis laughed.

“So they ‘ave no idea it is backbreaking work then?” Petros the postman piped up.

“Not a clue,” Adonis agreed. Catching sight of Quentin and Deirdre approaching Adonis suddenly clutched his back and started groaning. “Kalimera K-Went-In and Did-Rees, I thoughts yous would be ‘ard at work picking yous olives. Oh, oh, my back, my back, I shouldn’t ‘ave made that sudden movement.”

“I thought you were in too much pain to get out of bed,” a sceptical Quentin observed.

“I am in agony it is true K-Went-In. I only got out of bed to buy this medicinal tiger palm plaster from Vangelis the chemist.” As he spoke Adonis lifted his shirt up to show off an enormous sticking plaster stuck on his back, unleashing the most potent eye-watering odour. “I ‘ave the traditional remedy of grated onions and ouzo under the plaster.”

“So ‘ave yous two finished yous olives already?” Tall Thomas enquired.

“No, we decided to start tomorrow,” Quentin replied, reluctant to reveal the simple act of spreading the nets had worn them out.

Crossing the road to Stavroula’s taverna, the American pair looked forward to a delicious lunch of prawn saganaki but were immediately disappointed when that old fool Vasilis announced only a very limited menu. “Stavroula is out doing ‘er olives an’ she’s left me in charge. Only thing I can cook is Greek coffee or I can ladle yous out a bowl of Masha’s borscht.”

The mention of mail order Masha’s infamous borscht prompted their hasty departure and they decided to settle for a lunch of shop bought chocolate bars from the supermarket. Entering the store their eardrums were nearly shattered by the piercing wails of the baby. “Sorry about this, I cant’s get ‘er to settle,” Tassia apologised. “Fat Christos is out doing the olives and poor little Andy misses ‘im something dreadful.”

“Oh, she is just so adorable,” Deirdre lied, cooing over the ugly baby and thinking how unfortunate it was she so closely resembled Slick Socrates.

“Now dont’s forget we are ‘aving Andy christened this weekend and we wants yous to come,” Tassia invited.

“Oh we wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Deirdre promised. “This will be our first Greek christening.”

Ambling back to the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ the American pair passed the new novice priest, Pappas Iraklis, precariously perched up a three-legged olive tree ladder with a pruning saw. Stopping to admire his technique they attracted the wrath of the elder Pappas who screeched “dont’s distract ‘im. We ‘ave to ‘ave a full font of oil for the christening.”

“I do feel sorry for that young boy being under the thumb of the nasty Pappas,” Deirdre said.

“He must have a calling, but it beggar’s belief the Orthodox Church considers the bothersome Pappas a good influence on him,” Quentin supposed.

Arriving home the parrot spied Quentin and immediately perfected a neat dive bomb onto his head. “Oh no, is there no getting away from that blasted bird?” Quentin lamented. “Fotini, get your parrot off me now,” he bellowed.

Hattie came rushing over, assuring her son, “You will just have to accept the parrot is attracted to you, I think it really loves you Quentin.”

“Loves yous Quentin,” the parrot shrilled in obvious agreement with Hattie.

“Sticking its sharp claws in my scalp is a strange gesture of affection,” Quentin moaned

“Did you have a pleasant lunch?” Hattie asked.

“There was not a morsel of food to be had. Stavroula was out gathering her olives and left her incompetent father in charge. We couldn’t even get a cup of tea,” Deirdre complained.

“Well come on in then,” Hattie invited, “Fotini has just brewed the most unique tea you will ever sample.”

As they entered Fotini’s kitchen the old crone furtively finished wrapping a fusty and foul smelling object. “It’s a gift for the baby’s baptism,” she reluctantly explained.

Quentin and Deirdre exchanged perplexed glances; most surprised Fotini had been invited to the christening after her unforgivable outburst regarding the paternity of the baby. Of course Fotini had not actually received an invitation, but that wouldn’t stop her from gate crashing the important event.

“This frapelia drink is quite an acquired taste,” Hattie gushed, presenting Quentin and Deirdre with steaming mugs of rank smelling olive leaf tea. “Fotini swears it keeps her regular.”

“Aren’t you meant to strain the leaves and twigs out,” Quentin asked, wincing in horror as he sipped the bitter liquid.

“Oh it’s fine as long as you sweeten it up,” Hattie insisted, spooning copious amounts of sugar into his mug. “It’s the natural oleuropein making it so bitter.”

“This is even more disgusting than Mrs Kolokotronis’ xorta tea,” Deirdre hissed at Quentin, desperately looking round for a plant to surreptitiously pour it into and fortunately spotting a miniature indoor lemon tree.

“Disgusting, disgusting, I loves Quentin,” the parrot squawked.

“Try the frapelia,” Quentin encouraged the parrot. The bird stuck its beak into the mug, swallowed the contents in a gulping motion and keeled over, landing in a wooden heap on the floor with a resounding thud.

“I seriously worry the old crone was trying to poison us,” Deirdre opined as the two of them fled home to the neighbouring house with Fotini’s cries of “malaka parrot beater” reverberating in their ears.

Chapter 31: Eavesdropping

“Ave yous lost your marbles?” mail order Masha accused her husband. He had suggested she spend her day off from forecasting the weather by picking olives. “I could break a nail,” she said in horror, contemplating her perfectly manicured fake extensions. “Yous is the man of the ‘ouse, or so yous is always telling me, so yous should be the one pickin’ the olives.”

“But Stavroula ‘as left me in charge ‘ere,” that old fool Vasilis complained.

“Then yous must get Slick Socrates to relieve yous or simply close up shop. Yous ‘ave scared off all the customers anyway with yous atrocious attempts at making coffee,” Masha sensibly pointed out. “There’s Petros the postman, I will rush over an’ tell ‘im yous need the donkey back for the rest of the olive season as yous needs to get started.”

At that precise moment mail order Masha was the most unpopular person in Astakos in the eyes of the generally easy-going postman. The amount of fan mail Masha generated from her adoring fans was making his job near impossible and her blunt demand to instantly return the donkey was the final straw. Throwing a bulging bag of fan letters at Masha’s feet he declared, “That’s it, I am goin’ on strike unless the post office gives me a new car.”

“Yous cant’s do that,” Masha moaned, “think of all my fans from all over the world yous will be disappointing.”

“I dont’s care, I am saddle sore an’ ‘ave nothing but chafed skin left on my inner thighs. The weight of yous mail is too much for the poor downtrodden donkey. I ‘ave to drag ‘er uphill as it is an’ ‘alf the time she is sozzled from drinkin’ ouzo with yous stupid ‘usband.”

Mail order Masha was flabbergasted when Petros the Postman stormed off. “I cant’s believe my feminine charms didnt’s win ‘im round,” she muttered, instantly deciding to spend the day in the beauty parlour to ensure she looked her beautiful best so no other man would be immune to her stunning charms. A few hours under the sun bed would top up her tan nicely as it was getting a tad too chilly to indulge in her favourite pastime of topless sunbathing.

Returning to the taverna Masha called out to her husband, “’ere, I’ve got yous precious donkey back.”

That old fool Vasilis was so delighted to be reunited with his darling Onos he immediately closed up shop and rushed outside to embrace the donkey.

“Evangelia ‘asn’t got an appointment until later so I will ride ‘ome with yous on the donkey if yous can stop slobbering over ‘er,” Masha announced.

The donkey was already exhausted after enduring a morning weighted down with all Masha’s sacks of fan mail, so the ride was a slow one, with frequent stops. The mismatched couple were gossiping about Tassia and Fat Christos’ paternity predicament, with Vasilis for once agreeing with his wife it would be a disaster if his new found daughter heard the rumours.

“It would break Stavroula’s ‘eart if she ‘eard Slick Socrates ‘ad cheated on ‘er,” Vasilis said. “We must shield ‘er from the awful gossip.”

“I am more worried she would make Tassia’s life hell and bring shame on the baby,” Masha voiced.

Unfortunately the gossiping pair failed to notice the Pappas lurking behind an olive tree, avariciously eavesdropping their every word. As they rode away on the donkey the Pappas could hardly contain his excitement that he finally had something to hold over the loathsome Stavroula. Clapping his hands in an ungodly display of glee he let go of the precariously balanced three-legged olive ladder Pappas Iraklis was perilously perched on, letting the ladder crash to the ground and leaving the novice Pappas dangling dangerously from a capriciously wobbling branch.

Screeching “I ‘ave urgent church business to attend to,” the Pappas hurriedly legged it with his long clerical dress flapping behind him. “Po po, he’s young an’ ‘ealthy,” he muttered as Pappas Iraklis lost his precarious balance with a blood curdling scream. The Pappas had more pressing matters on his mind than the odd broken bone of his young charge: should he break the joyous news to Stavroula of Socrates’ infidelity immediately, or wait until the christening to disclose it?

Chapter 32: Soaking The Olives

Thea was neglecting her knitting, convinced there must be something worth a small fortune stored in the attic which she could take to have valued when ‘Price That Junk’ filmed in the village later that evening. She was hugely excited at the prospect of meeting Pericles the presenter and impressing him with her tasteful tat.

She had endured a frustrating morning arguing with Pancratius the village policeman, insisting he ought to return the doubtless priceless pot she had discovered whilst rummaging around on the land fill site. The policeman had refused to budge from his position and assured her he was anticipating a visit from someone important in the Department of Antiquities and Cultural Heritage later that day who would give his learned opinion on the authenticity of the ancient disputed pot.

“Do yous think this old olive jar coulds be valuable?” she asked Toothless Tasos, unearthing a large earthenware container and passing it to him.

“Dont’s be daft, I bought it from the bargain bins in Lidl,” Tasos scoffed. “’Ow on earth did yous cat get inside it?” he questioned; ignorant the cat had judged it a suitable hiding place when it saw the ‘cat-hating’ fisherman enter the attic. Pulling the cat out by the scruff of its neck he said, “I ‘ave been lookin’ for this jar everywhere, what’s it doin’ in the attic instead of the kitchen. I need it to store the olives when they is out of the sea. Now I’ll ‘ave to fumigate it to get rid of cat ‘airs.”

“Well I thought it was ugly so put it up ‘ere where I didn’t ‘ave to look at it,” Thea told him, revealing her latent snobbery.

“I needs to go and shakes the olives in the net now my little loukoumade, do I really ‘ave to come with yous later?”

“Yes yous do, an’ makes sure you wear yous best clothes, I dont’s want yous showing me up on the telly,” Thea instructed.

Toothless Tasos was glad of the peace and quiet as he checked on the fishing net full of eating olives soaking in a salt water inlet at the edge of the sea. He believed his unique method of preparing eating olives was a stroke of genius. The seawater marinated the olives perfectly and saved him the bother of the usual method of changing salted water every day for forty days. Instead he just ambled by twice a week to give the net a nifty shake.

“That’s an added bonus,” he muttered, spotting a crab lurking amid the olives, “comes ‘ere my lovely, Thea can cooks yous up for dinner.”

“What a novel way of preparing olives, I would never ‘ave thought of it as there wasn’t any sea up in Osta,” Soula remarked, strolling by. She was taking the pampered pet goat Agapimeni for a walk. It was sporting an orange silk bow and a knitted jacket that was a credit to Mrs Kolokotronis’ collection of home-made goats’ clothes.

“’Ow is Thea?” Soula enquired.

“She’s driving me mad sortin’ out old piles of tat to shows off on telly.”

“I’d best tell Yannis about it. The ‘ardware shop is full of junk an’ he ‘as some lovely old knobs.”

“Speakin’ of knobs, ‘ow is yous ‘usbands bottom,” Toothless Tasos asked politely.

“It’ll be a good while yet ‘fores he can sit down comfortably,” Soula replied, jumping out of the way to avoid being run over by the old Mercedes taxi.

“It looks like Fotis is still courting Nitsa,” she observed, having spotted the twinkly eyed fisherman drooling over Nitsa.

“It will come to no good ‘er carrying on with ‘er first cousin,” Toothless Tasos opined.

“Well at least it ‘as stopped ‘er lusting after my ‘usband,” Soula sighed with relief. “I’d best be on my way now, I promised Petula Agapimeni could ‘ave a play date with Nero.”

Bidding Soula good day Tasos muttered under his breath, “Best place for them pampered malaka goats is in a hot oven.”

Chapter 33: Price That Junk

Evangelia was totally absorbed in plucking Mrs Kolokotronis’ nasal hair. The sound of rasping snoring suddenly emanating from the curtained off sun-bed room threw her into a panic and she accidentally tweezed her client’s nostril sharply.

“Oh malaka, I forgot all about mail order Masha topping up her suntan.”

Dashing behind the curtain Evangelia was horrified to discover the famous weather girl had turned a bright fluorescent orange. “There must be somethin’ amiss the electrical wiring,” she muttered, trying to rouse mail order Masha from a deep sleep. “Wake up Masha, wake up.”

The sound of Evangelia’s voice finally woke Masha who jumped up to admire herself in the full-length mirror. Delighted with her reflection Masha exclaimed, “This glorious tan will look stunning with my new red mini dress and six inch heels.”

Hardly believing her luck that Masha was oblivious to her new garish colour a relieved Evangelia hastily changed the topic, asking, “Are you taking any old relics along to ‘Price That Junk?’”

“Only my ‘usband,” Masha replied.

“I like that presenter Pericles; he’s a bit of a dish. I ‘ope I ‘ave the chance to get up close to ‘im,” Evangelia said excitedly.

“Po po, he’s nothin’ but a phoney poseur and a nasty narcissist. Even ‘is name is fake. His real name is Pedros but he fancied a posh name for ‘imself.”

“But he always looks so stately on telly. I never missed an episode of the fashion show he presented,” Evangelia gushed.

“He was no good with fashion; a sack of olives ‘as more style than ‘im. He got booted from the show because his ratings were terrible an’ this pilot for the antiques programme is Pericles’ last chance with the television station. I tells yous he is nothin’ but a jumped up peasant with pretensions above ‘is station,” Masha declared.

This rivalry between Masha and Pericles had been evident since their first encounter after he had exploded in a hysterical rant over being ousted from his dressing room to make way for her all-weather wardrobe. The hatred between them was sealed when Masha discovered him parading around in her fabulous fuchsia faille frock and a pair of her heels, shamelessly imitating her distinctively sexy walk and mimicking her heavily accented Greek. Masha had never forgiven him and was determined to upstage him this evening.

“He’s madly jealous of me. He gets ‘ardly any fan mail whiles my adoring fans thinks I am a sex goddess,” Masha threw out as a final comment.

Arriving home Masha frantically started raiding the cupboards, looking for anything of value she could take along to have appraised on the antiques show. She couldn’t expect a place in the spotlight to outshine Pericles unless she turned up with something of value.

“Yous ‘ave that gold brooch in the shape of a donkey with diamonds for eyes, I paid a small fortune for it,” that old fool Vasilis suggested.

“Perhaps that picture yous ‘ad painted of me sitting naked on the donkey is worth somethin’ now I am so famous,” Masha mused.

“Yous is not showin’ that off on the telly Masha, yous ‘ave no clothes on. It is stayin’ in the bedroom for my eyes only,” Vasilis insisted, putting his foot down.

“Yous is such a prude. An yous needn’t think yous is wearing those scruffy old trousers, go and put the suit on what yous was buried in,” Masha bossed him. Her reminder of his awful experience of being buried alive when his sozzled body was mistaken for a corpse sent a chill down Vasilis’ spine.

Ignoring her husband’s discomfort Masha implored, “We must ‘ave somethin’ else of great value,” as she tottered out of the house in her impossibly high heels.

“Yous ‘as spent most of my money on yous silicone bits,” Vasilis told her. “Yous body must be worth its weight in gold, perhaps yous can ‘ave it valued.”

“Why are yous wearing those ridiculous sunglasses?” Masha quizzed her husband. “It’s already gone dark.”

“Well I ‘ate to says it but yous suntan is so bright it is hurtin’ my eyes,” Vasilis said, nearly blinded by her neon orange glow clashing hideously with her bright red dress.

Quibbling non-stop the mismatched pair climbed onto the donkey and rode into the village where ‘Price That Junk’ was being filmed outdoors by the harbour. The villagers formed a long disorderly queue, each hoping to hit the jackpot and discover their personal tat was priceless.

Playing it up for the camera Pericles pronounced Prosperous Pedros’ prize bouzouki practically worthless but unexpectedly decreed one of his rusty old fish hooks would fetch more than one hundred Euros. A ripple of excitement went through the crowd when Achilles the borrowed builder presented a small bronze bull for appraisal.

“Now this is a most interesting model of a Brazen Bull, it even boasts a hollow compartment. It is an excellent miniature replica of the ancient Greek torture instrument where the victim would be installed in the hollow chamber before being roasted alive over a fire. Unfortunately it is a mass produced imitation, made in China, and not worth anything,” Pericles pontificated.

Pericles went on to sneer at Fat Christos’ plaster of paris bust of Aristotle. Deirdre was next in line to bear the full brunt of Pericles’ condescension. He contemptuously smirked “I wouldn’t expect an American with no sense of history to know any better,” when she offered up a model of the Parthenon. “Any fool can see this is nothing but plastic junk. If it wasn’t missing its electric plug I expect it would be one of those glow-in-the-dark monstrosities.”

“There’s no need to be so insulting,” Deirdre cried. “I only brought it along so I could be on television. If someone loads this programme on YouTube all my friends at home will see it,” she explained, waving frantically at the camera and shouting “Hello Idaho, it’s me, Deirdre.”

“Never mind ‘im Did-Rees, he’s just an upstart stuffed full of ‘is own importance,” Fat Christos comforted her, still smarting from the abuse Pericles had heaped on his statue.

The pretentious presenter persisted with his protracted insults. He rubbished Fotini’s old spice grinder, completely failing to recognise it was actually a centuries old piece worth a great deal of money. He openly mocked mail order Masha’s expensive donkey shaped gold brooch, opining it was completely tasteless and Vasilis had been conned. His scathing opinion of the brooch resulted in Mr Mandelis from the jewellery shop openly jeering at Pericles, accusing him of being a clueless fraud.

Next up was the Pappas with an illicit box of old exhumed bones he had dragged out of the ossuary. Pericles appeared to win back the favour of the crowd by denouncing the Pappas as a despicable little man for trying to make money from the bones of someone’s old granny. Pericles only managed to rein in his contemptuous condescension towards Bald Yannis’ collection of old door knobs because he was intimidated by the menacing presence of the big bald brute waving a chainsaw.

Pericles proved to be a master at alienating his audience, scoffing at Soula’s worthless soup ladle. Evangelia spat in his face when he ridiculed her heirloom comb, telling him, “I cant’s believe I thoughts yous was dishy, Masha was right, yous is nothing but a pretentious toad.”

Blatantly ignoring Evangelia’s insult Pericles then dared to comment to Tassia, “What a frightfully ugly baby. Have you considered shaving it?” Even though his remark echoed the thoughts of all the villagers they nearly lynched him for insulting one of their own with such open derision.

Only the arrival of Thea saved him from suffering a similar fate to that meted out to the tax inspector in Gavros. She was determined nothing would interfere with this opportunity to have her boxes of tat appraised, convinced their contents held the key to a fortuitous change in her fortunes. Toothless Tasos, dutifully carrying her boxes, was in a foul mood. He had managed to once again mislay his false teeth and knew their disappearance meant Thea would need to liquidise the crab he had caught in the olive net for their dinner.

Unfortunately Pericles dismissed item after item of Thea’s tat as completely valueless. “How much old rubbish have you brought, did it not occur to you to sort through it first?” he asked. “This vase is clearly marked ‘property of the home shopping channel’, this is a complete waste of my important time.”

“What about these?” Thea demanded, thrusting Toothless Tasos’ false teeth she had discovered at the landfill site under Pericles nose. Adjusting his glasses Pericles peered closely at the dentures, proclaiming “finally something worthy of my attention. Kyria, these teeth have palladium hinges, which as I’m sure you know is a precious metal worth far more than gold.”

The villagers gasped; greatly impressed that Toothless Tasos’ ill-fitting false teeth were so valuable. “Never mind that, I want my teeth back,” Tasos shouted.

“Dont’s be so stupid, if these is really worth a lot of money yous can ‘ave a new pair whats ‘aven’t been in someone elses mouth and what fits yous properly, made by the dentist,” Thea told him, refusing to hand his now precious teeth back over.

Just then a pushy little man in a shiny suit and hat elbowed his way through the crowd accompanied by Pancratius the village policeman. “Excuse me, I am from the Department of Antiquities and Cultural Heritage and would like a second opinion on this old pot,” he requested of Pericles.

“That’s the old pot I discovered,” Thea cried.

“This is definitely a priceless antiquity, were you attempting to loot it Kyria,” Pericles interrupted Thea.

“Of course not, such a thing would never cross my mind,” Thea lied. “I handed it in at the police station as soon as I found it.”

“Only because I made yous,” Toothless Tasos hissed, still desperate to reclaim the teeth and restore a semblance of dignity to his gums.

The man from the Antiquities Department turned to Thea, telling her, “I must insist you immediately show me where you found it in case there are other priceless antiquities in the vicinity.”

“Po po, yous cans whistle if yous think I am going to the rubbish dump at this time of night. I ‘ave better things to do with my time, I ‘ave to go ‘ome and liquidise my fiance’s crab.”

Chapter 34: Bras Full Of Olives

“Oh I say Quentin, do you suppose he stayed there all night?” Deirdre speculated, grabbing her husband’s arm and gesticulating to twinkly Fotis sneaking out of the neighbouring house.

“Deirdre, lift your mind out of the sewer. I expect he has simply made an early morning delivery of fish. After all, he is Nitsa’s first cousin,” Quentin gently reprimanded his wife.

“Well that doesn’t look very cousinly,” Deirdre said, spying Nitsa squeezing the old fisherman’s bottom.

“Oh dear, I hope such antics don’t go giving mother any ridiculous ideas about finding a new boyfriend. We really should persuade her to move in with us; her stay next door was only meant to be temporary,” Quentin said.

“Ah, the dulcet tones of Fotini,” he continued, watching the old crone racing down the path to pile into the old Mercedes taxi with Nitsa and Fotis.

“At least the parrot appears to have recovered from the poisonous frapelia,” Deirdre noted with relief.

“That blasted bird must have a stronger constitution than I have,” Quentin said. He hadn’t dared stray too far from the close proximity of the bathroom since imbibing Fotini’s foul ‘leaf and twig’ brew.

The American couple decided to enjoy an al fresco breakfast of newly laid boiled eggs and soldiers. It was a rare opportunity to dine outdoors without the worry of Fotini or the parrot popping up to disturb their peace. Deirdre filled Quentin in on the previous evening’s filming of ‘Price That Junk’ as his need to be close to the lavatory had prevented him from attending. She heaped praise on the way Fat Christos had comforted her when the pretentious presenter had passed judgement on her lack of culture.

“We may not have ancient amphitheatres in Idaho, but we can boast a proud potato history with the first planting dating back more than two-hundred years,” Quentin assured her.

“You were right darling; I should have taken a potato to be appraised. It is a pity I couldn’t have taken along an old sluice box from the gold rush days of Idaho, rather than showing myself up with a plug-less plastic Parthenon,” Deirdre whined. “I have to say it was the first time ever I was happy to see Bald Yannis flaunting his chain saw so menacingly.”

“Let’s get started with smacking the olives,” Quentin suggested, “it will be such a relief to work in peace without Fotini’s bothersome interference.”

Armed with a vibrating olive shaker, comb, rake and pruning saw, the intrepid pair attacked the olives with an obvious thirst for their new adventure. They were soon worn out with their inept attempts to smack and comb the olives, and the constant interruptions of the roosters wandering onto the nets to peck at the olives. Quentin found it difficult to balance the three-legged ladder on the uneven ground. Deirdre dutifully steadied it for him and ended up being showered with the olives he was smacking from the branches.

“At least the olives aren’t sticky,” she said, groping around to extricate the fruit from her ample bra and shaking them out of her hair.

Deirdre was proving to be neither use nor ornament, constantly criticising Quentin’s methods and calling out, “Oh look you’ve missed one,” and “don’t smack them so hard, they are flying wide from the net.”

While experienced olive pickers expect to lose a random number of olives as they gather at speed, Deirdre was distraught over the loss of a single olive. She decided they should pick more thoroughly by tackling each olive on an individual basis.

“This is a foolproof method to ensure we don’t lose a single precious olive,” she declared, insisting they pluck the olives off the branches and deposit them immediately into plastic carrier bags slung over their arms. “We are just making more work for ourselves if we smack them onto the nets and then have to transfer them from the nets into the sacks.”

Quentin wasn’t convinced. “We didn’t see anyone else collecting olives this way when we observed their experienced methods,” he said. However he was soon won over when he realised Deirdre’s idea expended much less energy than whacking the olives with a heavy vibrating shaker.

Their smugness soon evaporated when Fotini returned and started cackling manically from her position atop the garden wall. “In all my eighty-odd years I ‘ave never seen anyone pickin’ olives in such a ridiculous way. Yous ‘ave to smack ‘em ‘ard, yous gormless pair. It’s obvious yous is couple of ‘opeless olive virgins.”

“You must have been a virgin once too,” Quentin countered.

“What I got up to with ‘usband is none of yous business young man,” Fotini fired back.

Heaping yet more humiliation on the hapless couple, the parrot flew over and attacked Quentin’s plastic carrier bag, ripping it to shreds with its beak and spilling the individually picked olives onto the net. “I loves yous Quentin,” it squawked before making a beeline for the rest of the olives still trapped in Deirdre’s bra. Deirdre fled towards the house pursued by the olive scavenging parrot, scattering the contents of the carrier bag in her wake. Tripping over a rooster she landed in an ungainly heap on the doorstep.

Refusing to acknowledge Fotini’s criticism Quentin pointedly ignored her. He climbed back up the ladder and began wildly bashing the olives with the smacker, sending them flying all over the place. “Ere, watch whats you doin.’ I dont’s want a bra full of olives yous malaka,” Fotini screeched.

Chapter 35: Shooting Blanks

Stavroula had no idea why Slick Socrates was acting so shiftily. Something was obviously amiss, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. His claim of a bad back was no surprise; it was a regular complaint every olive picking season.

That old fool of her father Vasilis had let her down by shutting up shop while she was out olive picking. She had returned to discover Achilles the borrowed builder making a mess in her kitchen. He had downed his building tools only to replace them with a spatula and wooden spoon, and was attempting to force a half-plucked chicken, marinated in a layer of sawdust, into the oven. Achilles tried to calm her down, explaining she had hungry customers who wanted feeding and he hated to turn away business.

“Can you even cook?” Stavroula quizzed the obliging builder, recognising the chicken as one that had been laying eggs that very morning.

“’Ow ‘ard can it be?” Achilles retorted, always eager to embrace new challenges.

“Well I suppose now that old fool Vasilis ‘as done a runner there’ll be no ‘arm in yous ‘olding the fort as long as yous dont’s poison the customers,” Stavroula conceded, knowing the alternative meant neglecting the olives. “Now, ‘ave yous seen Socrates?”

“I ‘aven’t,” the borrowed builder lied, despite having spotted the slick lawyer heading into the supermarket not five minutes earlier.

The rumours he had fathered Tassia’s baby had finally reached Slick Socrates’ ears. His immediate reaction was to cover his tracks because life wouldn’t be worth living if Stavroula got wind of this juicy morsel of malicious gossip. Having no interest in babies he hadn’t actually taken a close look at his purported offspring and was thus blissfully ignorant Andromeda was a dead ringer for him. Now he was determined to confront Tassia and squash the slanderous rumours.

Tassia had been expecting this confrontation ever since Masha had told her of Fotini’s outburst. Ushering Socrates into the storeroom she considered it an ironic touch the discussion pertaining to Andy’s paternity would take place in the very spot where the baby was born. Tassia was relieved Socrates had not summoned her to his lawyerly office as she couldn’t bear to step foot in the place where the baby had been so clumsily conceived.

Socrates initiated the awkward conversation, saying, “There are some awful gossips saying the baby is mine. Can I take a look at it?”

Tassia reluctantly held the baby aloft and Socrates stared back at his mirror image. “Stavroula will kill me if she finds out it is mine.”

“It, is a she, and Fat Christos is her father. Andy is nothin’ to do with yous,” Tassia insisted.

“I don’t want anything to do with your baby, but face facts Tassia, we have a problem here. She’s the spitting image of me so how are we going to convince Stavroula otherwise. If you hadn’t come on all weepy over your Uncle’s will I’d never have a laid a finger on you.”

“Well I thought afterwards Andy must ‘ave been immaculately conceived as yous was so adamant when we’d done the deed in tellin’ me you’d ‘ad a vasectomy.”

“Oopa! That is it. I lied about the vasectomy to Stavroula too when I met her, so if she hears the rumours I can just deny them as stuff and nonsense. It’s not as though you and I were having an affair or anything, it was just one brief squib of a moment of damp passion.”

“Which I regret every day except it gave me my gorgeous Andy. So we both flatly deny it and yous will keep away from the baby.”

“I told you I don’t want anything to do with it,” Socrates reiterated, greatly relieved Tassia was not attempting to extort any money from him for its upkeep.

“So it is to be our secret then. Thanks goodness no one but you and I know the truth, it makes it easier to deny.”

“Well just yous and I, an’ my ‘usband and Masha.”

“Good grief woman, what a blabber mouth you are. I’m not happy about so many people knowing, loose tongues could lead to Stavroula finding out.”

“I’ve got an idea. Yous could go ahead an’ ‘ave a real vasectomy and then ‘ave a test to prove to Stavroula yous is incapable of fathering a baby.”

Socrates admitted her idea had merit, even as he winced at the painful prospect of letting anyone with a knife near his delicate nether regions. He realised there was no time to lose. Once Stavroula heard the gossip and got a bee in her bonnet she would enact a far worse revenge on him than the small matter of a vasectomy. Pulling out his mobile phone he dialled the smitten young struck-off doctor to discuss this most delicate of matters.

“I needs a stiff ouzo,” he told Tassia, having confirmed the struck-off doctor would perform the delicate surgery in the curtained-off back area of the beauty parlour once Evangelia had locked up for the evening. All he needed to do now was avoid Stavroula until he could provide the proof he was firing blanks, thus proving it impossible for him to have fathered Tassia’s baby.

Chapter 36: Stinking Rubbish

“What a stink, why ‘aven’t the rubbish bins been emptied?” Gorgeous Yiorgos complained, holding a handkerchief over his nose to mask the fetid stench of decomposing feculent matter wafting into the kafenion.

“The bin men ‘ave gone on strike because that eejit from the Department of Antiquities ‘as cordoned off the landfill site as a possible place of valuable architectural interest,” Toothless Tasos replied, wondering if he could persuade the cat to change its diet to incorporate eggs shells, old bits of mouldy bread and other choice delights lurking in his household rubbish

“That’s down to Thea’s meddling I take it,” Gorgeous Yiorgos guessed.

“Well she did the right thing by ‘anding the pot in so she wasn’t accused of looting,” Toothless Tasos defended her. “’Ow was she to know Pericles and the other moron would decide the rubbish dump might ‘ave been built on top of an ancient village that now might ‘ave to be excavated?”

“All because of a bit of old pot, it’s a bit over the top,” Prosperous Pedros piped up. “I see Thea still ‘asn’t given yous your teeth back.”

“No, she got a ride up to Paraliakos with Masha and she’s ‘oping to flog ‘em up there for a good price. Apparently they ‘ave really expensive palladium hinges. If she gets ‘ome with some money I’m straight off to the dentist for a set of new dentures.”

“Appen they’ll find yous original set as they sort through the landfill site. Mind yous, they won’t be very fresh,” Tall Thomas said.

“Neither were the last set but it didnt’s stop Thea insisting I shove ‘em in my mouth as long as it suited ‘er,” the toothless fisherman replied.

Spotting Nitsa approaching arm in arm with her new incestuous boyfriend Tall Thomas called out, “Ere Aunty Nitsa, yous cant’s just go dumping yous rubbish on the side of the road, it’s unhygienic.”

“What’s I’m supposed to do with it when all the bins are overflowing?” Nitsa shot back.

“Yous could feed it to that blasted parrot,” Pedro suggested, ruing the day he had bought the belligerent bird for his mother.

“Give it to me, I’ll dump it back in Gavros,” Fotis offered with a saucy wink.

“Ooh yous is such a gentleman,” Nitsa gushed. “Now Pedro, yous mother wants yous to bring yous green fingers round to the ‘ouse. ‘Er favourite indoor miniature lemon tree ‘as suddenly dropped dead an’ there’s no reviving it.”

“Tell ‘er I’ll be round later to take a look. I planned to stop by anyway to do ‘er olive pruning,” Prosperous Pedros agreed. “Where are yous two off to?”

“Fotis is taking me to lunch at Stavroula’s taverna,” Nitsa preened “an’ after that Fotis ‘as an appointment at the beauty parlour to ‘ave ‘is moustache waxed into an ‘ansome ‘andlebar.”

“Yous might want to re-think lunch Aunty. Stavroula is out doin’ ‘er olives an’ ‘as left Achilles the borrowed builder in charge of ‘er kitchen. He’s been serving up plates of charred feathers attached to burnt chicken I ‘ear.”

“Oooh, I dont’s fancy that, feathers is always ‘ard to chew an’ Achilles’ ‘ands is far too grubby for ‘im to be messing around in the kitchen,” Nitsa scoffed. “Come on Foti, Evangelia can make an early start on grooming yous tash.”

“But my stomach is rumbling,” Fotis objected.

“Nonsense, it wont’s ‘urt yous to lose a few kilos,” Nitsa insisted, patting his protruding belly.

“I thoughts yous said yous liked yous men with a bit of meat,” Fotis said in confusion.

“Yous need to get yous ‘earing aid sorted. I said I wouldn’t mind an ‘oliday in Crete,” Nitsa countered, dragging him off to the beauty parlour.

“That Pappas of yous as no manners at all,” Fotis observed when the Pappas totally ignored his greeting.

The Pappas hadn’t even registered Fotis’ greeting. He was lost in a world of his own malicious machinations. Ever since eavesdropping the gossip about Socrates’ infidelity he had been pondering the most precipitous time to divulge the news to Stavroula to ensure she suffered maximum public humiliation. He anguished if he waited too long she might get wind of it from another source, thus depriving him of the pleasure of being the one to drop the bombshell. He reasoned most of the villagers would be too scared of Stavroula to risk being shot as the messenger of such awful news and had almost convinced himself the optimum moment would most definitely be at the christening. With the matter almost sorted in his mind the Pappas headed off to the church, brusquely brushing into Toothless Tasos who was heading home with his bag of garbage.

“Maybe the strike isn’t such a bad thing after all,” Toothless Tasos muttered, filling the cat’s bowl with his household rubbish. “Thea pampers ‘er cat far too much an’ if it refuses to hunt its own food. It can get fat on these scraps an’ save me a fortune in shop bought food.”

The cat glared at Toothless Tasos suspiciously, turning its nose up at the disgusting mess in its bowl before scurrying off to search out a suitable hiding place. Thea, just then returning home with a wad of cash from the sale of the dentures, announced “I ‘ave made yous an appointment at the dentist.”

Spotting the disgusting slop in the cat’s bowl she made short shrift of her fiancés excuses, telling him “sometimes I seriously worries about the ways your warped mind works and yous obsession with saving a few cents.” Looking around she asked him, “Now what ‘ave yous done with the cat this time?”

The cat sprang out from its hiding place under the deckchair. Leaping into Thea’s arms with its hackles raised it proceeded to spit and snarl at Toothless Tasos in the vain hope Thea would get the message the fisherman was bent on felicide.

Emptying the contents of the cat’s bowl into a bin bag Thea scooped up the mess, announcing “I am off to visit Petula, ‘er goat isn’t fussy an’ will eat anything.”

Chapter 37: Old Crone Hanging

Quentin was not at all happy with Deirdre’s newly adopted habit of nagging him Greek style. “You can always climb up the ladder and see if you can do a better job yourself, rather than constantly criticising my pruning methods,” he exclaimed in exasperation.

“There’s no need to snap at me Quentin,” Deirdre objected. “I am simply trying to point out you have been sawing ineffectively at the same branch for the last fifteen minutes.”

“I think the pruning saw Bald Yannis sold me is a bit blunt,” Quentin said. “Maybe I should try lopping off the branches with an axe instead.”

“Oh what a wonderful idea, I’ve always fancied being a widow,” Deirdre said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Do you seriously think I am going to stand here holding the ladder while you balance on it making wild swings with an axe and most likely chopping your bits off?”

Their petty bickering was interrupted by a blood curdling scream emanating from the neighbouring olive grove, followed by the desperate cries of Fotini pleading “’Elp me, ‘elp me.”

“Shall we just ignore Fotini and pretend we haven’t heard her?” Quentin proposed, still smarting from the old crones derisory mocking of their amateur olive picking methods. “You know how the smallest thing sets her off like a drama queen.”

“Tempting though that it is, it wouldn’t be very neighbourly,” Deirdre shouted, attempting to make herself heard over Fotini’s now desperate wails.

Reluctantly the American pair sauntered over to Fotini’s olive grove. They were presented with the ridiculous view of their ancient neighbour hanging precariously from the branch of an olive tree, grasping on for dear life, her short stubby legs swinging high above the ground. Her hideous old lady dress was hitched up on a branch, leaving her garish bloomers festooned on full display. The three-legged olive ladder had been pushed over by the Americans’ wandering roosters and Fotini’s almost full olive sack was too far away to offer a soft landing.

“Do something Quentin, a fall from such a great height could kill a frail old woman,” Deirdre ordered.

“You know as well as I do the miserable old hag won’t welcome my interference,” Quentin pouted, reminding his wife, “She called me gormless.”

“Quentin is gormless, ‘elp the old hag,” the parrot squawked from the wooden perch it had previously ignored, jolting Quentin out of his reverie. “How amazing, the blasted bird is sitting on its perch creating its own sentences now, instead of simply mimicking.”

“You can be bowled over by the bird’s mastery of language later Quentin, you really must to do something now to help Fotini.”

Finally springing into action Quentin up-righted the olive ladder and climbed the rungs until he was high enough to put a firm hand on either side of Fotini’s hips. “Keep yous ‘ands off my bloomers yous pervert,” Fotini instructed.

Ignoring her ingratitude Quentin assured her “The last thing I want is to be anywhere near your bloomers. I’ve got you now Fotini, I’ll have you down in a jiffy.”

“What if yous drop me?” Fotini questioned, not convinced Quentin was man enough to pull off a successful rescue.

“Swing your legs towards the ladder and when you feel the rungs let go of the branch, I have a firm hold of your bottom,” Quentin commanded.

Feeling herself about to fall Fotini tentatively swung her legs until she had both feet firmly planted on a rung either side of Quentin’s shoulders, but she refused to loosen her hold on the branch. Quentin’s head disappeared up Fotini’s skirts, muffling his cries and blocking his vision. Deirdre swooned in panic, imagining both of them falling as their combined weight caused the ladder to wobble.

Fortunately at that moment Prosperous Pedros arrived and came to the rescue. Standing on the roof of his pick-up he hoisted his mother into his arms, depositing her on the ground before giving Quentin a hand down. The parrot flew over and landed on Quentin’s head, taking a congratulatory peck out of his ear.

“It’s a good job yous was ‘ere to ‘elp my mother K-Went-In,” Prosperous Pedros said, giving Quentin’s hand a firm shake of thanks. “Goodness knows ‘ow many broken bones she would of ‘ad if you ‘adn’t come to ‘er rescue.”

“Well he took ‘is time about it,” Fotini complained.

Turning on his mother Prosperous Pedros admonished her, saying “Mother was yous on the raki before yous went up the ladder?”

“Yous know it is an olive pickin’ tradition Pedro to ‘ave a snifter of raki to takes the chill off the morning,’” Fotini told him.

“A snifter yes, but not ‘alf a bottle.”

“You mean to say I risked life and limb to rescue your mother and she was half sozzled in charge of an olive ladder?” Quentin questioned, amazed a woman of Fotini’s advanced years could be so irresponsible.

Retrieving his blunt pruning saw Quentin said “well I must be getting back to the pruning.”

“It looks to me as though Bald Yannis ‘as ripped yous off with that puny tool,” Prosperous Pedros sneered. “Let me gives yous an ‘and K-Went-In, it’s the least I can do when yous ‘ave just saved mothers life.”

Reflecting if it hadn’t been for Quentin’s speedy intervention he would most likely have been at his mother beck and call in the hospital, Pedros grabbed his chainsaw from the pick-up and set to with gusto pruning Quentin’s trees, saying, “If yous dont’s let on I did the pruning, people will think you is a natural.”

Chapter 38: A Delicate Operation

Stavroula was gathering her olives, relieved to be out of the taverna and away from the villagers. Although no one had been crass enough to gossip in her presence she had still picked up the mortifying rumours her lover Socrates was the father of Tassia’s baby. She attempted to take a close look at the baby when she popped into the supermarket for some olive sacks, but Tassia had Andromeda swaddled up in layers of woollies and a cumbersome hat pulled down to cover up the incriminating bushy sideburns.

Stavroula was tempted to discount the rumours as nothing more than malicious gossip; desperately trying to convince herself her darling Socrates could not possibly have been unfaithful. She considered Tassia to be a dull mousey type, hardly capable of attracting the attention of her manly lover. She knew he had a roving eye but was more likely to be seduced by the silicone charms of her mother-in-law than the insipid Tassia. She decided to tread warily and ascertain all the facts before accusing her beloved of adultery. Of course if he had done the deed with dreary Tassia, Stavroula had her own unique way of dealing with him. A tear rolled down her cheek as she conjured up visions of burying the cold dead body of her beloved Socrates under the foundations of the chicken coop.

“Malaka,” she shouted aloud. It had suddenly occurred to her without a formal marriage certificate she would not be entitled to any of Slick Socrates assets. Even worse, his relatives could crawl out of the woodwork and lay claim to half of her taverna. There was no way round it, if Socrates had really been unfaithful she must extricate herself from her bigamous marriage to Toothless Tasos and marry Socrates before murdering him. Picking up the olive smacker she vented her frustration on the olives, smacking them forcefully. As olives galore rained down on her head she muttered “even with Tasos out of the marital picture I still can’t marry Socrates because I am still legally married to Kostas who although dead and buried is legally only presumed missing. I must get Socrates to sort this out once and for all; after all he is a slick lawyer. Bother, I could do without this distraction with the cooking show audition coming up.”

Aware of Stavroula’s murderous tendencies Socrates had followed through with his plan to prove he could not possibly have fathered Tassia’s baby if his beloved was to hear the rumours. He had gone through with the vasectomy, bribing the smitten young struck-off doctor to secrecy with an excruciatingly large brown envelope.

The delicately painful operation had been carried out in the curtained-off back area of the beauty parlour. Fortunately for Socrates the struck-off doctor was far more experienced in performing vasectomies than he was in re-attaching decapitated finger tips or ministering Botox injections. The vasectomy appeared to be a success and although Socrates was still guarding his tender appendage warily it was at least still attached.

Wielding a scalpel the smitten young doctor had confided to his patient, “I am done with Masha, she is nothing but a fame hungry gold-digging hussy who I suspect is carrying on with the smitten young reporter. I am an educated man, yet she led me on and treats me like a dogsbody. I will take this brown envelope and make a new start in a country where my medical credentials will be appreciated and not too closely examined.”

With the operation performed Socrates had taken the opportunity to drive up to Osta to represent Soula’s father. With distance between him and Stavroula he was able to conceal the swelling and bruising from her prying eyes and was confident he could lie convincingly were she ever to accuse him of the ill-fated dalliance with Tassia.

Chapter 39: Pressing The Olives

Quentin and Deidre were very impressed they had managed to collect almost a full sack of olives despite their inexperienced picking. They were waiting outside the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ for Prosperous Pedros to drive them to the olive press where they would enjoy their first experience of turning olives into liquid elixir. Unfortunately Pedros had failed to warn them Fotini would be coming along with her bulging sacks. The old crone ambled along to join them, sneering contemptuously at their single sack.

“Is that the best yous could do? Not surprisin’ considerin’ K-Went-In was more intent on gettin’ ‘is ‘ands on my bloomers than with any serious pickin.’ Yous two never really got the ‘ang of smacking the olives,” she crowed.

“You are an ungrateful old woman,” Deirdre blurted “if it hadn’t been for my husband you would most likely be lying in a hospital bed with broken bones.”

“And I can assure you your bloomers was the last place I ever wanted to put my hands, but it was the only way to prevent you from falling,” Quentin added, shuddering at the recollection of having his head buried inside Fotini’s hideous old lady dress.

“Rescue me did yous, po po?” Fotini taunted. “’Ow do I knows K-Went-In didnt’s push over my ladder in the first place? He’s already tried to kill the parrot and my miniature indoor lemon tree ‘as given up all signs of life since yous two came near it.”

Deirdre stared the old hag down, refusing to feel any guilt for killing the plant when she had poured Fotini’s poisonous brew into it. Instead she turned on her neighbour, saying, “We have heard about your witch like behaviour, putting a curse on Katerina. I am convinced you tried to poison Quentin and me with your disgusting frapelia tea. Just look what it did to the parrot and the plant.”

“Ah, so yous admits yous killed my miniature lemon tree,” Fotini exclaimed triumphantly, taking no responsibility for the potentially lethal brew she had concocted. “I expect yous to buy me a new one as even my green-fingered son couldn’t revive it.”

The arrival of Prosperous Pedros in his pick-up truck put paid to their arguing. He announced Quentin and Deirdre would have to sit on the olive sacks that were spilling over the back. His collection of eighty full sacks put their single bag to shame, particularly as Fotini boasted she had filled a dozen in the time it had taken them to fill one. However Pedros diplomatically praised the Americans first-time efforts, reminding his mother she had eighty years of experience while they were olive virgins.

The Americans settled themselves uncomfortably on top of the bulging olive sacks, watching in amazement as Fotini nimbly threw a sack full of olives in their direction. “How on earth did she do that, the heavy sack must weigh more than the scrawny old crone?” Quentin whispered to his wife.

Prosperous Pedros hoisted his mother into the passenger seat, leaving Quentin most relieved to see Fotini would not be joining them on top of the olives. “Don’t let Fotini spoil our exciting experience of visiting an olive press for the first time,” Deirdre instructed.

Pulling up at the press Quentin was delighted to spot his good friend Fat Christos directing operations. “Tassia inherited this olive press from ‘er rich dead uncle,” Fat Christos explained. “I am stretching myself a bit thin running this place an’ the supermarket.”

“It’s a good job being thin suits you,” Quentin quipped, remembering how much blubber his friend had shifted. “And your new sideburns definitely give you a look of refinement.”

“Po po, these old things, I’ve ‘ad ‘em for ages,” Fat Christos lied, wishing he could cultivate the itchy things to be more bushy.

“Have you brought the baby along?” Deirdre questioned, noticing the empty baby sling strapped to Fat Christos’ chest.

“No, it’s too deafening in ‘ere for ‘er delicate ears,” Fat Christos said mournfully, obviously missing the mewling baby. “Luckily Gorgeous Yiorgos ‘as pulled is boat out of the sea for the winter and is goin’ to step in an’ manage this place so I can be back in the supermarket with the baby. But come in, come in” he invited, “let me give yous the tour and see ‘ow we do things.”

“I’m afraid we have less than a full sack of olives,” Quentin apologised.

“It makes no difference, yous custom is still very welcomes,” Fat Christos assured him, ushering his guests inside and leaving Prosperous Pedros and his mother to unload the heavy sacks.

“Now sees ‘ere, after the olives are separated from all the twigs and leaves they go into this ‘ere olive crusher to be pulverised. Then it pours out through this funnel as the finest quality extra virgin olive oil. Come and taste it,” Christos shouted over the roar of the machines, proffering pieces of crusty bread for the Americans to hold under the gushing oil pouring into a huge stainless steel vat.

“It’s delicious,” the American pair effusively enthused in unison as the peppery taste of the bright green oil, subtly infused with the flavour of sage, hit the back of their throats. “This will taste wonderful on our Idaho potatoes,” Deirdre added.

“I tell yous what, I’ll do yous sack now so yous can see the whole process from start to finish,” Fat Christos invited. “Did yous bring a big tin to puts yous oil in? Never mind, I can sells yous one. ‘Ere let me pour yous some wine whiles yous watch.”

Quentin and Deidre sipped wine and watched with enthusiasm as their almost full sack of olives was duly weighed, sorted and squashed. Fat Christos was busy barking out orders to the workers and lugging sacks of olives around. “’Ere Michali, get yous mop, we’ve got a bit of a spillage,” he suddenly yelled, rushing to find the hazard warning sign.

Before Michalis had the chance to get his mop oily, Fotini, dragging a heavy sack of olives, skidded in the slippery mess and slid clean across the concrete floor. Only Quentin’s lightening response of throwing himself after Fotini and grabbing her skirt prevented her from being knocked out cold on the side of the cavernous sized vat. As Fotini lay sprawled on the greasy floor with her skirts all array and her knickers once again on display she screeched, “Let go of me yous malaka pervert, yous is obsessed with getting yous ands on my bloomers.”

“Mother, yous is impossible, K-Went-In was just trying to help yous,” Prosperous Pedros admonished, hoisting the ungrateful old crone to her feet.

“Po po, he’s a pervert I tells yous,” Fotini insisted before turning the full force of her ire on Fat Christos.

“My dress is ruined, what you goin’ to do about it?” she shouted, brushing the olive detritus from her now oily rag of a dress.

“I will pay for yous to get another hideous old lady dress from Bald Yannis’ ‘ardware shop an’ I wont’s charge yous any tax on yous olive pressing,” Fat Christos offered, desperately hoping the old bag would not sue him.

“An’ a bottle of yous best brandy from yous supermarket,” Fotini demanded.

“Yous strikes an ‘ard bargain Kyria,” Fat Christos smiled, pleasantly surprised he had been let off so lightly for so flagrantly flouting the health and safety laws, though secretly wishing he could have drowned her in the oil vat for so publicly blurting out Tassia’s secret.

Chapter 40: Cupid’s Arrow

The hardware shop was running low on sixteen kilo olive oil tins so Bald Yannis had come up with the ingenious idea of sending Soula out to collect scrap metal. He could barter its weight in exchange for new tins from the obliging manufacturer. Soula’s usual smile was replaced with a sulky expression at being sent out to scavenge like a gypsy, but Bald Yannis was too engrossed in his latest scam to notice Soula’s change of temperament.

He had heard from Takeshi, the unbending Japanese tourist who insisted on labelling Bald Yannis a friend, that a new craze of hiring-a-goat was catching on big time in Japan. Takeshi had confided that although the scheme was mainly aimed at gardeners wanting to keep their weeds under control, he wanted to branch into the market with goats as rented pets. Since he considered Greek goats made such adorable pets he could source his goats directly from Bald Yannis. Yannis’ inherited herd had been busy breeding plenty of young kids so he had plenty of spares he could ship off to Takeshi for a huge profit.

Barging into the hardware shop Fotini announced, “’Ere Bald Yannis, I want a new dress ‘cos Fat Christos got this one all oily.”

“What yous gets up to with Fat Christos is of no interest to me,” Bald Yannis replied, shuddering inwardly.

“An’ I want some varnish to put a nice finish on my boyfriends newly coiffed ‘andsome ‘andlebar moustache,” Nitsa chimed in. “Did yous ‘ear I ‘ad a new boyfriend?” she simpered, hoping to make Bald Yannis jealous.

“I ‘ad ‘eard yous was making a fool of youself, carrying on with yous cousin,” Bald Yannis answered. “Ere’s the varnish,” he chuckled, plonking down a bottle of industrial strength wood varnish guaranteed to turn Fotis’ moustache as stiff and crunchy as an unwieldy broom head.

“We just seen yous lame wife scavenging round the bins for old scrap. Didnt’s yous know yous was marrying a gypsy? Nitsa sneered.

“Soula is no such thing, she is simply environmentally concerned,” Bald Yannis countered, adding, “Of course you know nothin’ about being environmentally friendly, driving that petrol guzzling monstrosity of an old Mercedes.”

“Well we cant’s all be as fit as yous with that bike of yours. ‘Ere shows us yous muscles,” Nitsa said, fluttering her non-existent eyelashes.

“Yous should get that nervous tick seen to,” Bald Yannis advised.

Just then Mail order Masha hurried into the hardware shop asking, “Has yous pet goat got a spare knitted white bonnet Bald Yanni? I ‘ave to give one to the baby at her christening and Onos the donkey only went and chewed up the one I ‘ad sent over from ‘arrods.”

“I can’t ‘elp yous out there Masha. White isn’t Agapimeni’s colour. She favours somethin’ a bit brighter, it brings out ‘er eyes. I could sell yous a shower curtain as a modern alternative to the traditional lathopana to wrap the oily baby in when it’s been baptised.”

“An’ I suppose afterwards yous would ‘ave Soula fashion it into a miniature raincoat?” Masha scoffed. “Never mind, I will send the smitten young doctor shopping if I can ever find him.”

“’Aven’t yous ‘eard he’s left town then?” Nitsa mocked. “Word is he got sick of your highfalutin ways an’ did a runner.”

Masha visibly blanched; annoyed she was the last to hear she had lost her admirer. Storming out of the hardware shop she barged straight into the novice Pappas Iraklis who blushed to the roots of his hat at this unexpected encounter with such a vision of loveliness. Pappas Iraklis had led a sheltered life in a remote hamlet even more backwater than Astakos and had never before clapped eyes on such a remarkable specimen of silicone enhanced gorgeous womanliness.

“Oh I do beg your pardon, please excuse my clumsiness,” he stuttered in apology, wondrously breathing in Masha’s heady perfume.

“I dont’s suppose you ‘appen to ‘ave a spare icon?” Masha asked, eyeing up the gangly youth in his clerical dress. “I ‘ave to ‘ave one for the christening tomorrow.”

“Oh I have a suitcase full of them,” Pappas Iraklis gushed. “Mother insisted on gifting me one every name day.”

“She sounds like a barrel of laughs,” Masha muttered under her breath. “Now can yous slip me one of yous icons in church tomorrow?”

“It will be my absolute pleasure,” Pappas Iraklis stammered, pressing his hand to his chest to calm his palpitations. He stood transfixed, his eyes boring into mail order Masha’s voluptuous silicone bottom as she tottered away on impossibly high stilettos. Too naive to recognise the tight feeling in his chest as the first strike of Cupid’s arrow, the young Pappas hastened to the pharmacy to buy an indigestion remedy.

“Po po, the gold-digging hussy is stealin’ ‘er men from the church crib now,” Nitsa sneered having been glued to the hardware shop window. Giving Bald Yannis’ pellet ridden bottom a sneaky squeeze she added, “Some women just ‘ave no dignity.”

Chapter 41: Olive Virgins

Quentin and Deirdre were taken aback when Takis served glasses of olive oil rather than their usual tipple of wine in ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima’ that evening.

“Surely he doesn’t expect us to drink this: it isn’t as though we are constipated,” Deirdre whispered to her husband, amused to see Tall Thomas raising his own glass of luminescent green olive oil with a hearty “Yammas.”

“Come now Did-Rees,” Takis urged “it is tradition to appreciate the first fruits of our labours by raising a glass of oil.”

“Hot from the press it is Did-Rees, it’ll put ‘airs on yous chest,” Tall Thomas encouraged.

“It is an amazing shade of green,” Quentin observed, holding a glass of the emerald elixir up to the light before taking a tentative sip of the subtly peppery liquid.

“Yous wont’s see it that special colour after the first few days,” Prosperous Pedros told them. “Once it ‘as settle it will be golden. Not only is it the finest quality extra virgin olive oil in the ‘ole world but it ‘as many medicinal qualities.”

“Oh we’re convinced, we’ve even given up margarine in favour of oil and rub it in if we have any scaly bits of skin,” Deirdre said. “It did wonders for getting rid of Quentin’s dandruff.”

“We really must thank you for taking us to the olive press Pedro, it was a fascinating experience,” Quentin gushed.

“Think nothin’ of it and sorry my mother keeps calling yous a pervert,” Prosperous Pedros winked. “And whatever yous do, dont’s go giving ‘er a lift to the christening tomorrow, she ‘as been banned.”

“What’s yous beamin’ about?” Tall Thomas questioned Toothless Tasos as he entered the taverna sporting an enormous grin.

“I’m not smilin’, the malaka dentist as only gone an’ made my new false teeth too big for my mouth,” Tasos replied, desperately trying to conceal the huge toothy overhang threatening to leave incisor impressions in his chin. “He said if I don’t get used to ‘em to go back and he’ll file ‘em down.”

“Are yous sure he gave yous the right set, they looks like they’ve been made for a donkey? He-haw, is yous sure yous isn’t related to Onos?” Tall Thomas laughed, before adding on a serious note, “Yous ‘ave to stand up to that malaka dentist.”

“I knows I should, but I lose my nerve when I go in ‘is surgery an’ ‘ear all the screamin’. He only went and demanded I ‘old the Pappas’ ‘ead in place while he yanked out a rotten tooth with a pair of pliers from the ‘ardware shop.”

“That dont’s sound very professional,” Prosperous Pedros said.

“It were terrible. Yous never would ‘ave believed the Pappas was a god botherer the way he was cursing. After that I thoughts it was better to just keep my mouth shut,” Tasos said.

“Well if yous ‘ad kept it shut yous might ‘ave avoided those awful teeth. What on earth did Thea ‘ave to say about ‘em?” Vangelis the chemist enquired.

“She was too busy trying to extricate the cat from the chimney to notice. She sent me out sayin’ the cat appears to be traumatised whenever I’m in the ‘ouse.”

“Yous still not told ‘er about nearly drowin’ it in the washin’ machine then?” Takis asked.

“Po po, if she ‘ears about that the engagement will be off,” Toothless Tasos shuddered. He could imagine nothing worse than losing his goddess even if she appeared to be more besotted with the cat than him. Despite his inner gloom Tasos suddenly remembered his manners and presented Deirdre with a jar of his home prepared eating olives.

“I remembered ‘ow much yous loves olives Did-Rees. Yous wont’s taste better than these. I soak ‘em in nets in the sea.”

“Thank you so much Taso, it’s so very kind of you,” Deirdre said, peering at the jar and wondering if the crab squashed in amongst the olives would enhance their flavour.

Everyone was happily tucking into Yiota’s spinach and black-eyed peas when a frazzled looking middle-aged couple entered the taverna, sitting down wearily at the table next to Quentin and Deirdre.

“How can we decide what to eat when there is no menu?” the woman asked her husband in confusion.

“Yiota will come along and tell you what she has freshly cooked today,” Quentin told them, then surprised to hear English spoken he asked the couple “Are you here on vacation?”

“Yes indeed, my wife signed us up for a romantic olive picking holiday,” the man said sarcastically.

“We are Victor and Vera from Manchester in England, very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Vera said. “Victor has done nothing but complain since we got here I’m afraid.”

“Well I can’t believe you were gullible enough to fork out the best part of a thousand pounds for a holiday where we are treated like chattel,” Victor moaned. “That charlatan Adonis has had us doing back breaking labour in his olive groves from dawn to dusk, and we are paying him to do it. We paid good money to stay in his draughty hotel and he even charges us for the cheese pies he brings from the bakery at lunch time.”

“Yes dear, but he did promise to deduct the price of the pies from the cost of any house we buy from him,” Vera simpered. “Why can’t you just appreciate the authentic Greek experience of romantic olive picking? We are out in the sunshine with a view of the sea from the olive grove, not stuck in drizzly cold Manchester.”

“I like drizzle and you didn’t think it was so romantic when the only thing on offer after a hard day’s graft was a freezing cold shower. And we are not buying a house from Adonis; anyone with a brain can see he is a conman.”

“We bought a house from Adonis and are proud to count him as a good friend,” Deidre piped up in Adonis’ defence.

“Victor meant no offence I’m sure, he’s just a bit tired from all the olive picking. He’s more used to sitting round all day stuffing packets in the biscuit factory and isn’t accustomed to outdoor manual labour,” Vera volunteered, reluctant to alienate the nice American couple.

“We are olive virgins too,” Quentin admitted, deciding Fotini’s choice insult was actually quite apt. His remark elicited a sharp kick under the table from Deirdre who wanted to impress the English couple with her established Greek credentials and objected to Quentin describing them as olive virgins.

“Well I’d have been happy with a week in Blackpool, but Vera always has to go trying to impress the neighbours with her notions of something exotic,” voiced Victor.

“Do yous suppose he knows ‘is wife is named after a wedding ring?” Tall Thomas asked Yiota with a wink, eyeing up the English couple in amusement. They were looking very disheartened at the thought of a meal of peas and spinach.

“After all that hard graft I could murder a proper roast dinner rather than this Greek vegetarian nonsense,” Victor complained.

“Well yous could always ‘ave the chicken,” Yiota offered.

“He’s just said he doesn’t want vegetarian food so what’s the point of tellin’’im about the chicken,” Prosperous Pedros chimed in.

“Pedro, how many times do I have to tell you chicken isn’t a vegetable,” Deirdre called out, only to be yet again overruled by the Greek consensus that chicken was indeed a vegetable.

“If you like roast dinners perhaps you could advise Stavroula at the other taverna how to cook a traditional English Christmas dinner. She is desperate to perfect the dish for the televised cooking show she will be hosting soon, but has no clue how to cook it,” Deirdre suggested to Victor and Vera.

“If it would get us out of olive picking I’d be all for it, I’ve plenty of experience in sticking my hands up a turkey’s backside,” Victor volunteered. “I might have known these Greeks can’t cook a proper stuffed turkey and all the trimmings. The whole country seems to be full of old ruins and stinks to high heaven with uncollected rubbish. They haven’t even been able to invent a toilet that flushes paper.”

Quentin and Deirdre, mortified the other villagers may presume they shared these insulting sentiments just because they shared an almost common language, attempted to distance themselves from the English couple by clumsily sliding their table out of reach.

Suddenly all the men sat upright, sucking their stomachs in and flattening their hair with oily fingers as mail order Masha walked in, modelling a clinging strapless maroon mini dress and matching false nail extensions. She was too busy arguing with that old fool Vasilis to acknowledge the other customers or even notice the way Victor was visibly drooling over her silicone chest.

“Yous was supposed to buy Andy a hairbrush, it’s on the list of things I ‘ave to gift ‘er as ‘er Nona,” Masha shouted.

“I got ‘er the stavro,” Vasilis said, referring to the traditional gold cross the godmother must gift the baby, adding “But what’s the point in giving ‘er a hairbrush when she’s bald?”

“An’ now everyone will see she’s bald ‘cos yous malaka donkey ate ‘er new knitted bonnet from ‘arrrods,” Masha countered.

“Perhaps Tassia could comb Andy’s sideburns up to cover ‘er baldness,” Vasilis suggested.

“I’m surprised yous just don’t suggest the baby borrows Bald Yannis’ toupee an’ ‘ave done with it,” Masha yelled sarcastically.

“Don’t worry Masha, I knitted Andromeda a little white bonnet and matching booties. I’d be happy to give them to you,” Deirdre interjected.

“Did-Rees, yous is a life-saver,” Masha replied. “I never knew there was so many things I ‘ad to get the baby as ‘er godmother, but likely it will be the nearest I get to a baby with the way he performs in the bedroom,” she added, rolling her eyes and nodding her head disparagingly in her husband’s direction.

“That reminds me Vasili, I ‘ave yous Viagra ‘ere, save you popping into the pharmacy,” Vangelis the chemist announced at full volume, tossing a packet of pills across the taverna, to Vasilis’ mortification.

“I’m sure one day you’ll have a baby of your own,” Deirdre reassured Masha, squeezing her hand.

“I ‘opes so Did-Rees, there’s more to life than being a famous weather girl. I do despair sometimes though as Vasilis thinks he is getting a tad old to be a new father.”

“Nonsense he’s in his prime, he’s not even ninety yet,” Takis interrupted. “Remember old Kyrios Moltos? He ‘ad ‘is first set of twins at ninety-two.”

“Aye, but they sent ‘im round the bend,” Tall Thomas reminded Takis.

“Nonsense, it wasn’t the babies, he was already ‘alf senile ‘cos of his unnatural aversion to olive oil,” Takis insisted.

“I cant’s believe ‘ow he got to that ripe old age without ever touching oil,” Prosperous Pedros pondered aloud, convinced olive oil was the quintessential key to a long life.

“Ah, but he did drinks oil every day of his life, he just never knew it, ‘cos first ‘is mother and then all ‘is wives mixed it in with his wine,” Vangelis the chemist pronounced.

Secure in his superior decision to remain single Prosperous Pedros opined, “That proves it then, olive oil extends yous life an’ marriage an’ babies send yous senile,” earning him filthy looks from all the women present. Deirdre was about to unleash a scathing rejoinder in Pedros’ direction when the gruff Mancunian voice of Victor loudly blasphemed “these Greeks have put olive oil and lemon all over my chicken, it’s not normal I tell you Vera. Have they never heard of tomato ketchup?”

Chapter 42: Plucking The Parrot

“This is the life,” Quentin said to his wife, plucking the first enticingly fragrant fruit from their orange tree. “What a superb breakfast we are about to enjoy. We can dip bread into our very own olive oil, feast on newly laid eggs from our very own hens and wash it all down with freshly squeezed orange juice from our very own trees.”

“All to be savoured in idyllic peace as we drink in the wonderful views,” Deirdre enthused.

“It looks as though you spoke too soon darling,” Quentin groaned as the familiar cackle of the old crone from next door reached his ears. Fotini emerged from their chicken coop attempting to hide the last of her pilfered eggs in her bloomers.

“Get a move on, we ‘ave to be quick if we want the best pews for the baby’s baptism,” Fotini instructed them.

Quentin gawped open-mouthed at the sight of Fotini dressed in a purple flecked hideous old lady dress. The elastic in her pop socks had obviously seen better days, drooping in wrinkles round her ankles and leaving her hairy legs on full display. Her frumpish appearance was offset by an oversized hat garishly decorated with bright green and orange feathers. The bald patches on the newly plucked parrot perched on her shoulder hinted at the provenance of Fotini’s feathers.

“Pedros said you had been banned from the christening,” Quentin huffed; determined Fotini would not be joining them.

“Po po, the church is a public building, I ‘ave every right to go and spit on the baby,” Fotini argued, shuffling furtively to prevent an egg falling out of her bloomers. “Anyways I ‘ave a present for the ugly little side-burned sprog,” she added as the egg rolled down her leg, smashing at her feet and splashing her pop socks with yellow yolk.

“Well you are most definitely not driving there with us. We refuse to be held responsible for your antics,” Quentin brusquely proclaimed, putting his foot down as he recalled in horror how Fotini had relished disrupting the wedding of Fat Christos and Tassia.

“Po po, yous is poor neighbours,” Fotini sneered, sticking a hat pin in the parrot’s bottom. The parrot’s angry squawk of “ouch” was immediately replicated by Quentin as the belligerent bird flew from Fotini’s shoulder, flapping frantically due to its lack of a full body of feathers before embedding its claws in his scalp.

“Yous will ‘ave to take me along now or I will report yous to the police for kidnapping my parrot.”

“Report away, I refuse to take you to the christening and that is my final word,” Quentin roared.

“Malaka,” Fotini retorted, rushing back to her own house screeching “Nitsa hurry up, we’ll ‘ave to go in yous taxi.”

“I cant’s go any faster, Fotis’ moustache is glued to my forehead with industrial strength wood varnish,” Nitsa called out. “Yous will ‘ave to cut ‘is tash off to free me.”

“Yous is not cutting my ‘andsome ‘andlebar moutache off, it’s my pride and joy,” Fotis objected as Fotini menacingly approached with the garden shears, asking “’Ow on earth did yous two get stuck together?”

“I varnished my moustache to make it all shiny for the christening. I went in to give Nitsa a smacker on the forehead, but got stuck to ‘er,” Fotis explained.

“Well don’t be a wimp, it ‘as to be cut off,” Fotini insisted, waving the garden shears.

“I may have some hair removal cream that could do the trick,” Hattie volunteered, rummaging round in the breadbin and coming up with a scrunched up tube. “Oh drat, it’s empty.”

“I borrowed it to get the ‘air off my chest,” Nitsa owned up.

“Then there’s nothin’ for it but the shears,” Fotini gloated, snipping the two handlebars from Fotis’ face. The two elaborate ends of his moustache remained stiffly fixed in place on Nitsa’s forehead but none of them had a razor to shave them away.

“It is hardly noticeable at all if you comb your hair over it,” Hattie lied as the four of them piled into the taxi to head to the church.

Chapter 43: Oiling The Cat

Thea was furious with her fiancé for oiling the cat. “I’m sick of it leaving ‘air balls all over the place, yous know I’m allergic,” Tasos said in his defence, “an’ I ‘eard Vangelis the chemist swear olive oil is a proven remedy.”

“Well yous should ‘ave warned me it was all greasy, look at the mess it’s made of my dress,” Thea shouted, pointing at the cat shaped stain standing out in stark relief on the cream linen outfit she had donned for the christening.

“I think there’s still time to shove it in the washin’ machine, my little baklava,” Tasos suggested.

“Don’t be daft, there’s no time to dry it,” Thea admonished. She was at cross purposes though, not realising he intended putting the cat rather than her dress, through the spin cycle. “An’ take those teeth out, yous look like a donkey.”

“I’m gettin’ used to ‘em now,” Toothless Tasos protested. “If I take ‘em out I won’t be able to eat anything at the christening party.”

“Well at least pop over to the ‘ardware shop and see if Bald Yannis ‘as somethin’ to file ‘em down. It was most unfortunate the dentist did a runner before he could fix ‘em,” Thea lamented.

“He ‘ad no choice the way Bald Yannis went after ‘im with ‘is chainsaw,” Tassos shuddered.

“I never thought I’d feel sorry for ‘ardware shop man but I ‘eard the moronic dentist took ‘alf ‘is teeth out and it were the wrong ones,” Thea sighed.

“’Ow come Yanni didn’t stop ‘im at the time?” Tasos asked. “’Appen he left ‘is chainsaw in the shop.”

“Well the big lump is terrified of the dentist and asked to be knocked out with that newfangled gas stuff. He didn’t know till he came round the dentist ‘ad taken out all of ‘is top teeth instead of the rotten lower ones, leavin’ im with ‘oles in ‘is gums to match the bullet ‘oles in his bottom,” Thea explained.

“I dont’s blame ‘im for threatening to slice ‘im to pieces,” Tasos said. “I knows what it’s like to be missing yous teeth an’ eat nothin’ but liquidised food. To lose ‘em at the ‘ands an incompetent dentist is too much.”

“An’ it turns out it wasn’t the first time. The dentist ‘ad been struck off for ‘is dodgy dealings and was practicing without a licence. Looks like yous ‘ad a lucky escape Taso.”

“He’s still gone and left me with these massive donkey dentures,” Tasos groaned.

“But at least yous didn’t pay ‘im yet, so look on the bright side. Yous still ‘ave the money to get a new set an’ in the meantime yous can file those horrors down. Now get over to the ‘ardware shop for a file while I change my frock.”

Tales of Bald Yannis’ missing teeth had been exaggerated out of all reality on the village gossip vine; in fact the gossip was so embellished it was nothing more than a pack of lies conjured when Bald Yannis was spotted entering the dentist’s surgery. He had never so much as sat down in the dentist’s chair or been gassed to have his rotten teeth extracted, and his mouldering molars were still firmly in place.

He had taken Agapimeni to the dentist as his beloved goat had broken a tooth chewing down too hard on an olive comb. The dentist had flatly refused to let Agapimeni sit in his chair, snootily declaring “Do you think I trained all these years to put my specialist hands in the filthy mouth of a goat? Get the vile creature out of here at once.”

Insulted to the core on behalf of his darling pet goat Bald Yannis picked up the nearest instrument of torture and chased the dentist round his office with the drill. In an attempt to defend himself the dentist stalled Bald Yannis by stabbing him in the hand with a needle full of quick acting novocaine. Bald Yannis’ hand went immediately numb, causing him to drop the drill which instantly drilled a hole in his foot. Dragging the goat behind him Yannis left, screaming “yous ‘aven’t ‘eard the last of this yous malaka,” only to return five minutes later waving his trusty whirring chainsaw.

Only the presence of Pancratius the village policeman prevented the incensed Bald Yannis from slicing the dentist to pieces. The policeman had come to arrest the dentist for practicing illegally after being struck off in a different province for fraudulently carrying out unnecessary and incompetent work, and for failing to issue taxable receipts.

Toothless Tasos stared blankly at Bald Yannis’ full set of ropey old stained teeth before saying, “It’s ‘ard to believe ‘ow quickly yous got a new set of false teeth that looks so real.”

“I see that livin’ with Thea ‘as addled yous brain more than usual,” Bald Yannis mocked, having no clue about the latest baseless rumours. “Now what do yous want, I dont’s ‘ave all day to stand around gassing?”

“I want a sharp file,” Toothless Tasos requested and then thinking it might please Thea if he was able to degrease the cat he added, “I need somethin’ to get rid of oil too.”

“Yous could spray it with this oven cleaner and then rub it ‘ard with this abrasive brush,” Bald Yannis suggested, presuming Tasos was referring to oil stains from his motorbike.

“’Appen that will do nicely,” Tasos said, paying for his purchases and thinking he might just have time to spray the cat as his beloved goddess always took hours to get ready.

Wearing an expensive lemon silk dress from the home shopping channel Thea emerged from the bedroom to discover her fiancé chasing the cat round the house and attempting to spray it with oven cleaner. In his other hand he brandished an abrasive brush he was using to swipe randomly at the cat.

“’Ave yous lost yous marbles?” Thea screamed in horror, scooping the half-deranged cat into her arms.

“I was only trying to degrease it,” Tasos said.

“With oven cleaner, you cat-hating malaka,” Thea bellowed in disbelief. Struggling to get free, the cat shot out of Thea’s arms, scurrying to find a safe hiding place up the chimney. The corrosive effect of the oven cleaner left a cat shaped hole in Thea’s lemon silk dress as the fabric melted away.

Firing a stream of expletives in Tasos’ direction Thea ran to get changed yet again for the christening, warning him “If yous goes near the cat again yous will be eatin’ them stupid donkey teeth.”

Chapter 44: Dunking In Oil

“Yous sideburns are coming along nicely, they bring out a lucky resemblance to Andy,” Tassia told Fat Christos as the two of them dressed baby Andromeda in a pristine white robe for the christening.

“They are annoyingly itchy but ’opefully will stop any gossip about Slick Socrates bein’ er father,” Christos replied. “Now Andy’s ‘andlebar moustache ‘as grown in, lets ‘ope folks dont’s start saying she looks like Nitsa’s new boyfriend, Fotis.”

“They might as well gossip Bald Yannis is ‘er father ‘cos she’s bald like ‘im,” Tassia sniggered.

“Bald but beautiful, yes, yous is so gorgeous,” Christos cooed to the baby. “I ‘opes all goes off smoothly today.”

“Well at least Socrates won’t be there. Soula says he is still stuck up in Osta tryin’ to get ‘er father off for claiming the pension of a frozen corpse,” Tassia sighed in relief.

“’Appen he will get the malaka off. There isn’t room to lock everyone up what claimed their dead relatives’ pensions, they’d ‘ave to build new prisons,” Fat Christos reasoned.

“I likes Soula, we both ‘ad ‘orrible fathers but ‘ave turned things round with ‘appy marriages,” Tassia smiled fondly.

Going down on one knee and presenting his wife with a sapphire engagement ring Fat Christos declared “Yous an’ Andy mean the world to me. This is to make up for the Pappas snatching Petula’s engagement ring off yous finger at our wedding. Yous knows ‘ow much my feelings ‘ave grown for yous since we wed. ‘Appen we might even take a belated honeymoon if yous like.”

Tears of happiness dripped down Tassia’s face, soaking the baby. Their marriage may have been one of convenience on both sides, providing a father for her baby and a supermarket empire for her husband, but a true bond of love had grown between them, cemented by the happy addition to their little family.

A sudden chill of foreboding ran down Tassia’s spine, prompting her to say, “I ‘opes it isn’t a mistake ‘aving the Pappas officiate at the christening. I’d forgotten ‘ow he accused me of bein’ a thief at our wedding an’ what a nasty piece of work he can be.”

“Everythin’ will be all right my love, the Pappas ‘as turned over a new leaf since he gave up ‘is drunken wife beating ways,” the ever optimistic Christos assured his wife, pulling himself off the floor to answer the door to Quentin and Deirdre.

“We come bearing gifts for the baby on this joyous occasion,” Quentin enthused.

“We weren’t sure whether to bring them to the church or your home. Oh do open them now,” Deirdre encouraged. “We wanted Andy to appreciate gifts that are unique to Idaho. We hope maybe one day she will visit us there as we consider her family.”

Touched to think his little cherub was so fondly regarded Fat Christos ripped the wrapping paper from a bottle of 44 North Idaho vodka, diplomatically saying, “I think Andy might be a bit young yet for imbibing strong spirits.”

“Oh dear, the vodka was meant for Masha, not the baby,” Deirdre explained “we thought being Russian she would enjoy our home state’s special gluten free tipple. This one is definitely for the baby; it will help to soothe her stubble rash.”

Tassia exclaimed delightedly as she unwrapped a parcel of natural lavender soap from Idaho’s ‘Whatever Floats Your Goat’ handmade goat’s milk soap company. It was followed by a box of Idaho Spud Bars, potato shaped chocolate treats stuffed with marshmallow. Fat Christos was about to object to the candy on the grounds fat ran in his family until he remembered Andy had been spared his obesity genes.

“Oh how cute,” Tassia cried, holding up a miniature Idaho spud tee shirt and popping the matching baseball cap on Andy’s head. The baby gurgled with pleasure, having just spotted the half-bald parrot clamped to Quentin’s head.

“We’d best be gettin’ to the church now,” Fat Christos said, reminding his wife to bring along the stuffed goat to keep Andy occupied. “An’ don’t forget Masha’s vodka, yous never knows when she needs it.”

Masha had gone all out; dressing for the occasion stylishly in a floor-length lime-green velvet evening gown with a neckline so low cut it was daringly ‘vampish.’ Attempting to drag Onos the donkey’s head out of its saucer of ouzo Masha fumed at her husband, “Ow many times does I ‘ave to tell yous the pregnant donkey shouldn’t be drinking?”

The donkey was enraged Masha wouldn’t leave her in peace on her day off from carting round Petros the postman’s temporary replacement, as Petros was still on strike. Rearing her head in annoyance she head-butted the ever present pan of borscht simmering on the stove, causing the contents to splash over Masha’s voluptuous silicone bosom.

“There’s no time to change, we is late already,” that old fool Vasilis insisted, stuffing a large plastic pink flower into Masha’s cleavage in an attempt to disguise the unsightly red stain.

Climbing onto the donkey the mismatched pair quarrelled all the way to the church, arriving just in time for the ceremony. Pappas Iraklis, hovering by the doorway ready to slip Masha the promised icon, rushed to help her dismount.

“I think yous is being a bit forward putting yous ‘ands on my bottom,” Masha scolded the blushing young Pappas.

“Sorry, I was just trying to brush the donkey ‘airs of yous backside,” he muttered shyly, utterly entranced by this Russian beauty.

“Malaka, my heel ‘as snapped,” Masha cursed, placing one hand on Pappas Iraklis’ shoulder to prevent herself falling. Kicking her stiletto off Masha hobbled unsteadily after her husband towards the font, leaving the trainee Pappas to scoop it up and discover he had a new found propensity for shoe fetishism.

“Are we the last to arrive?” Vasilis asked, taking a seat next to his daughter Stavroula, and the other godparents, Gorgeous Yiorgos and Petula.

“Did yous not see I broke my heel?” Masha complained, practically falling into the seat next to Vasilis. “Run over to the ‘ardware shop an’ see if Bald Yannis ‘as some superglue to fix it.”

“Never mind Masha, yous looks lovely even with only one shoe on,” Tassia reassured her.

That old fool Vasilis, rushing to follow Masha’s command, almost collided with Pappas Iraklis who was still hovering by the church door with his nose buried deeply in Masha’s shoe. “I think that is Masha’s,” Vasilis said, snatching the shoe.

“Sorry, I was just about to give it back to your granddaughter,” Pappas Iraklis blushed.

“Masha is my wife, yous cheeky young goat,” Vasilis thundered in anger, recognising the all too obvious signs of infatuation.

“That old fool never fails to embarrass me with ‘is jealousy,” Masha cringed as Vasilis’ voice resonated throughout the church.

“Don’t get upset,” Fat Christos implored, thinking this was not the time for one of Masha’s temper tantrums. Passing her the bottle he added “’Ere ‘ave some Idaho vodka.”

“It’s a gluten free speciality,” Deirdre piped up.

A hefty swig from the bottle calmed Masha down and the Pappas began the baptism. She needed another gulp of the potato spirit when the Pappas offended her by asking if she renounced Satan.

The Pappas’ droning litany was interrupted by the noisy late arrival of Fotini, Nitsa, Hattie and Fotis. The old Mercedes taxi had run out of petrol half-way to Astakos, leaving the uninvited foursome to totter along at a doddering geriatric pace. Having been forced to take it in turns to give the three old crones a piggyback, Fotis collapsed in an exhausted heap in the aisle, landing on top of Hattie who was still clinging onto his back. Fotini and Nitsa wasted no time shoving their way forward to the font where they started indiscriminately spitting all over the baby, the godparents and the Pappas, in malicious enjoyment.

“Yous is not invited, yous ‘ave no place ‘ere,” Masha shouted at the interlopers, dabbing the spit from her cleavage with the baby’s stuffed goat.

“Church is a public place, we can do’s what we wants,” Fotini retorted, plonking herself down on Quentin’s lap.

“Just ignore them, this is Andy’s special day,” Fat Christos urged as the Pappas picked up a pair of nail scissors in readiness for cutting three locks of the baby’s hair in baptismal tradition.

“The baby is bald, I’ll just cut a bit off ‘er sideburns instead,” the Pappas improvised, snipping away and preparing to pass Andromeda to Pappas Iraklis who would perform the traditional dunking in the font of Holy Oil.

This was the novice Pappas’ first time to dunk a baby and he was sensitive to the enormous responsibility bestowed upon him. The dunking went like a dream, but as he prepared to pass the now wailing baby to mail order Masha to wrap in the traditional lathopana he was distracted by her ample silicone assets and dropped the slippery baby back into the font.

“Yous fool, yous ‘ave dropped the malaka baby,” the Pappas screeched, “grab it quick before it drowns.”

Pappas Iraklis stood frozen in horror as the steady hands of Gorgeous Yiorgos came to the rescue, scooping Andy out of the oily mix and tenderly passing her to Masha. Everyone hovered over the baby, fussing and cooing to calm her.

“Try the stuffed goat,” Tassia cried, but it was Deirdre’s quick action of pushing Quentin in front of the baby that restored peace when Andy spotted the parrot and started gurgling with delight.

The Pappas decided this was the optimum moment to spring his spiteful surprise on the congregation. Drawing himself up to his full height and directing a venomous glare at Stavroula he announced, “Let us all pray for baby Andromeda, the blessed offspring of Tassia and Slick Socrates.”

The stunned silence that followed was broken by Fat Christos grabbing the Pappas by the scruff of the neck and unceremoniously dunking his head in the oily font. Stavroula sprang from her seat and started to batter the Pappas with her copiously large handbag. Tears ran down Tassia’s face at this very public humiliation, compounded by the ghastly cackles of Fotini.

“Shut up yous old hag,” Tassia screamed at Fotini, who responded by shouting “That’s no way to speak to an old lady who has brought yous brat a gift.” With that she threw the ineptly wrapped present at Tassia who recoiled in horror as a stiff dead black crow fell out of the parcel and landed on her feet.

“You are a wicked old crone to desecrate this sacred place with that symbol of evil,” Pappas Iraklis erupted in a high-pitched squeak, shocked to his core that the church could be so disrespected. Attempting to grasp Fotini under the arm to frogmarch her out of the building he was foiled in his efforts by Prosperous Pedros throwing his mother over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and carting her outside. Pedros was furious his mother had turned up uninvited at the christening to cause such a horrendous scene.

“Po po, I would never ‘ave known you ‘ad that in yous,” Masha said to the young Pappas, stroking his pimply cheek with a fake purple talon.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Pappas Iraklis cried “it’s not in my nature to be so rude, please forgive me.”

“’Ere, ‘ave a swig of this Idaho vodka, yous ‘ave ‘ad a shock,” Masha offered, proffering the bottle which he grabbed in relief.

Striding over to Tassia with a determined step Stavroula struck her a stinging slap across the face. “Is it true? I ‘ave to know. ‘Ave you been ‘aving it off with my Socrates, yous hussy?”

Tassia was at a loss how to defend herself against Stavroula’s accusation. It was true and Socrates was not here to assure his beloved he had had a vasectomy and there was no way Tassia could claim knowledge of this private matter.

“’Ow dare yous speak to my wife like that, she wouldn’t go near yous man, she’s an ‘appily married woman and Andromeda is mine,” Fat Christos thundered.

“’Ow does yous know the pair of ‘em didn’t cuckold yous?” Stavroula blurted, pointing an accusatory finger at the weeping Tassia.

“The baby can’t be Socrates seed,” Bald Yannis interrupted, marching into the church with mail order Masha’s stiletto shoe super glued to his chainsaw. “When Socrates was telling me ‘ow he planned to get Soula’s father acquitted he confided in me he’d ‘ad a vasectomy.”

“Malaka, I forgot all about ‘im ‘aving the snip,” Stavroula gasped in embarrassment, “it was so long ago since he told me. He couldn’t ‘ave fathered the baby, could he? He’d be shooting blanks. The Pappas is a wicked liar stirring up trouble an’ trying to sew disharmony.”

“Don’t blame me,” the Pappas called out, “everyone in the village was gossiping about it ‘cos Tassia’s baby ‘as Slick Socrates sideburns. It was Fotini who started the rumour.”

Pushing her way to the font Stavroula took her first close look at Andromeda, pronouncing “The baby looks nothin’ like Socrates, she ‘as the same sideburns as Fat Christos.”

The villagers all looked shamefaced; embarrassed they had overlooked Fat Christos sideburns simply because they were not as prominent as those of the lawyer.

Soula sidled up to her husband, asking “what made yous make such a nice gesture?”

“Well the baby is a little innocent and I ‘ear tell she’s very fond of goats. I knows yous consider Tassia a goodly friend so I did it for yous.”

“An’ it’s true, Socrates confided in yous?”

“It’s true; he warned me whatever yous do Yanni dont’s ‘ave a vasectomy, it ‘urts like the blazes.”

No one doubted the veracity of Bald Yannis’ words. Out of all the villagers there was no one less likely to intervene and restore calm in this situation. No one could credit him with any self-serving ulterior motive so they took his words as gospel.

“I am sorry I called yous a hussy, Tassia,” Stavroula apologised, “when the Pappas said Socrates was Andy’s father I just saw red. I ‘ave been consumed with jealousy ever since I first ‘eard the rumours an’ I never confronted ‘im to give ‘im the chance to deny ‘em.”

The still weeping Tassia wordlessly accepted the hearty embrace of the other woman, consumed with guilt that she had actually deceived Stavroula with her lover and tentatively amazed that due to Bald Yanniss’ intervention she would not be held accountable for her shameful secret.

The other villagers were humbled by Stavroula’s apology, aware their own gossiping must have contributed to her incensed distress. Their tolerance did not extend to the Pappas though who had once again revealed his malevolent nature by scheming to ruin the baptism.

“Yous should be ashamed of yous malicious meddling,” Toothless Tasos shouted, hurling a bible at the Pappas.

Just then Victor and Vera decided to pop their heads into the church to see if they could photograph any interesting frescoes. Totally shocked by the sight of the villagers swigging vodka from the bottle, shouting, swearing and chucking bibles at the Pappas who was attempting to duck behind the font, they turned tail and legged it to escape the ridiculous mayhem, exclaiming “You don’t get that sort of carrying on in the Church of England.”

Chapter 45: A Sinful Obsession

Nursing his bible shaped bruises the Pappas simmered with resentment that his plan to humiliate Stavroula had misfired so spectacularly, leaving him yet again the object of derision. Having bottled up the oily water in the font with the intent of passing it off as extra virgin olive oil to a gullible churchgoer who would never suspect a man in a clerical dress of such nefarious deceit, he attempted to enter the vestry.

A solid object prevented the door from opening wide so the frustrated Pappas gave it a hefty kick, eliciting a yelp of complaint from Pappas Iraklis who was lying in a heap on the other side, cradling mail order Masha’s near empty bottle of 44 North Idaho gluten free vodka.

The Pappas launched into a tirade of abuse, shouting “yous useless malaka, yous made a right fool of yourself dropping the baby.”

“I know it was a terrible mistake,” Pappas Iraklis slurred, “I have to confess I was distracted by the womanly charms of the magnificent Russian and fear my worldly and lascivious obsession with her means I am not cut out to be a priest. I simply cannot get her out of my mind or rid myself of these sinful thoughts.”

The Pappas looked at his trainee as though he was something nasty stuck on the bottom of his shoe. He had no desire to offer spiritual guidance to the young pup who ought to be busy cooking the Pappas’ dinner rather than wallowing in self pity. However it dawned on him if he didn’t talk some sense into his protégé quickly he would end up losing his valuable dogsbody services and be forced to resume the menial household chores he so loathed. Summoning up some platitudes the Pappas advised;

“It is only natural to have doubts about yous calling, but yous must cast these sinful and lustful thoughts aside. The Russian is nothin’ but a gold-digging hussy who has lured yous with ‘er wicked siren ways. Everythin’ about ‘er is fake. If yous is into silicone I suggest yous works ‘ard in the church and save up for a blow up sex doll.”

Pappas Iraklis was horrified to hear the beautiful Masha may not be the genuine article. Her voluptuous bottom and her lusciously curvaceous chest flooded his thoughts, driving him to distraction. He was suffering a belated surge of teenage hormones, quelled as unnatural by his overbearing mother.

The vodka fog in Pappas Iraklis’ brain began to lift as he listened to the elder Pappas urge him, “Forget yous infatuation with the weather girl an’ focus yous attention on spiritual thoughts and charity.” The novice priest was clueless the Pappas’ notion of charitable deeds involved him rushing home to cook dinner and scrub the toilet. The Pappas continued lecturing, saying;

“Yous renounced real women when you signed up for the church without marryin’ first. Yous could ‘ave found a nice malleable girl in yous parish before goin’ to the monastery, but now it is too late. Yous cant’s get married now yous ‘ave taken yous vows.”

“Mother wouldn’t hear of it, it was her dearest wish I join the church as a celibate priest,” Pappas Iraklis disclosed. “I was innocent to the lure of the fairer sex in my sheltered life. Until I saw Masha’s plump and pouting lips I had no idea women didn’t have moustaches.”

“Nonsense, of course they do, didn’t yous see even that old hag Nitsa ‘ad a ‘andlebar moustache on ‘er forehead?” the Pappas sneered. “I expect Masha ‘as ‘er moustache waxed off in the beauty parlour ‘cos ‘er empty ‘ead is full of nothin’ but vain thoughts. Yous must put ‘er out of yous mind, she’s a married woman, so yous lustful thoughts are not only filthy but also adulterous.”

“I will pray I can cast these wicked thoughts aside,” Pappas Iraklis vowed.

“May I suggest yous starts by taking a cold shower,” the Pappas advised. “An’ if that doesn’t work I can lends yous my mail order catalogue of blow up dolls.”

Chapter 46: Soula Is Broody

“I think we’ve ‘eard the last of the nonsense about Slick Socrates bein’ the baby’s father,” Fat Christos consoled his still weepy wife, following a telephone call with Stavroula’s lawyer lover.

Socrates explained he had deliberately told Bald Yannis he had been vasectomised, certain the hardware shop man would be unable to keep this juicy piece of gossip to himself. He’d hoped once word got round he had endured the snip people would po po all possibility of him being Andy’s father, even though it was true.

“It’s not true,” Fat Christos insisted. “I am Andy’s real father an’ I dont’s want to ‘ear another word about it. Yous just ‘appened to ‘ave a bit of seed ‘andy.”

Changing the subject Christos tried to cheer up his wife, saying “Little Andy ‘as really taken a shine to Fotini’s parrot. Do yous think she would be willing to sell it to us?”

“I think we should keep our distance from the old hag after all ‘er malicious meddling, but we could always ask K-Went-In to try and get it off ‘er,” Tassia suggested. “The old bat must ‘ave lost ‘er marbles to bring a dead crow along to the christening.”

“Knowing the Pappas he ‘as probably got that young whippersnapper Iraklis cookin’ the crow up for ‘is dinner,” Fat Christos laughed. “But your idea is excellent darling; K-Went-In is the man to try an’ get ‘is ‘ands on the parrot.”

“If he can ever prise it off ‘is ‘ead first,” Tassia giggled.

The subject of vasectomies was threatening to cause a rift in the marriage of Soula and Bald Yannis. The usually compliant Soula was upset her husband had even been discussing such a private subject with the lawyer when she had assumed he would be happy for nature to take its course. Her dearest hope was to soon be able to announce she was expecting a miniature Bald Yannis.

“I told yous, he only warned me never to ‘ave one ‘cos it ‘urts like the blazes,” Yannis huffed, baffled as to why his wife was making such a fuss.

“I never evens knew yous was thinkin’ of such a selfish act as ‘avin’ the snip,” Soula said.

“I’m not, an’ I wasn’t, it was Socrates that brought it up. Does yous really think I’d let someone loose with a knife on my privates? But now the subject ‘as been raised perhaps we ‘ave been a bit lax with the old family planning. Now yous is naggin’ on about it I ‘ave to say I’d rather ‘ave a kid than a baby.”

“So yous want to adopt an older child?” Soula questioned incredulously.

“Does yous ‘ave to be so pedantic? I meant a kid from a goat. ‘Appen Mrs Kolokotronis could knit it somethin’ cute an’ yous could wheel it round in a pram if yous gets all broody.”

“I cant’s believe yous can be so insensitive Yanni,” Soula cried, dashing out of the hardware shop. Pausing outside the pharmacy she worried if Vangelis the chemist could be trusted not to gossip about the purchase she was about to make.

“It’s too far to go all the way to Paraliakos for one,” she told herself, pushing the door open, grateful the shop was empty of other customers.

“’Ave yous got a pregnancy testing kit,” she requested in a low whisper.

“What, you mean to say Bald Yannis ‘as finally lost ‘is virginity?” the chemist chortled, happy to have a bit of prime gossip to spread round the village.

Chapter 47: Pick Yous Own Olives

Stavroula was ecstatic she need not cook up ways to kill off her possibly unfaithful lover now his loyalty had been publicly proven. When Socrates returned from Osta she was chasing round on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, trying to re-capture dozens of snails that had crawled out of the cooking pot. Throwing herself into his arms she hissed instructions to that old fool Vasilis to wipe up the snail slime and started to drag her lover off to the bedroom. Unfortunately, all thoughts of afternoon passion were thwarted when the telephone rang in the taverna.

It was the television producer saying her cooking show audition had been brought forward to the following day. To Socrates great relief, as he was still suffering the tender after-effects of his recent vasectomy, Stavroula dropped him like a hot potato.

“Of course I am excited to be on telly tomorrow but I still ‘aven’t come up with a goodly menu for a foreign Christmas dinner,” she panicked. “What on earth will I cook? That curried goat muck Gorgeous Yiorgos cooked up was ‘orrible an’ I dont’s know where to get my ‘ands on a herring to put under a fur coat.”

“There’s an English chap picking olives for Adonis who could be persuaded to give you a hand preparing a traditional English Christmas dinner,” Quentin volunteered.

Quentin and Deirdre had no idea Stavroula could move at such a lightning pace until she sped out of the taverna to track down the foreign olive picker, only stopping to give Quentin a bone crushing hug and an unwanted kiss for his idea.

“I have to say I’m quite pleased she rebuffed your offer to help,” Deirdre told her husband “I don’t like the idea of her being so free with her kisses.”

“The relief is all mine,” Quentin assured his wife, tentatively poking his ribs to check they were all still intact.

Adonis was not at all happy Stavroula was demanding he lend her the services of Victor. “He come to Greece to pick my olives, not to ‘ang round in yous kitchen,” Adonis protested.

“Actually it was supposed to be a holiday with a bit of light olive picking thrown in, not long back breaking days of hard labour,” Victor complained. “I’d rather be back on the conveyer belt at the biscuit factory stuffing packets than here; at least there I can get some decent tucker like jammy dodgers and garibaldis.”

“Adoni, you ‘ave to stop faking yous bad back, picks yous own olives and lend me this Englishman. If I land the job of hosting the cookery show it will ‘elp to put Astakos on the map and that ‘as to be good for yous ‘otel,” Stavroula argued persuasively. Turning her attention to Victor she promised him “if yous ‘elps me out there will be lots of delicious food and yous will be on telly.”

As Victor still looked unsure Stavroula decided she may as well pimp out Masha for a good cause. Throwing shame to the wind she blatantly enticed the Englishman with the words, “My mother-in-law mail order Masha will be popping in to peel the potatoes.”

The lure of an early Christmas dinner combined with the busty silicone presence of the stunning Russian was enough to convince Victor which side his bread was buttered. Downing his olive smacker he went off with Stavroula, eagerly discussing the Christmas menu in convoluted sign language.

“Po po, next year I will sell my olive pickin’ ‘olidays to the Japanese, they is much more reliable than these English olive virgins,” Adonis muttered.

Suddenly realising Vera may be much more persuadable without the negative influence of Victor around Adonis turned the full force of his charm on the Englishwoman, saying “Vera, let me take yous for a drive, I wills show yous some authentic Greek ruins. Does yous knows my cousin Adonis? He moved to England an’ ‘as a fish an’ chip shop in Rochdale called the ‘Greek Plaice’?”

Adonis offered the simpering Vera a leg up into his pick-up, mentally mapping a route to take in all the old houses he hoped to flog for a generous commission.

Chapter 48: Hob-Nobbing With Custard Creams

As the morning of the live television cooking show audition dawned Stavroula was running round like a headless chicken. Complimentary tickets had arrived for Stavroula to distribute to her friends to boost the numbers of the studio audience. That old fool Vasilis was sent out on the donkey to deliver the tickets, enraging half the village by waking them so early and depositing unwanted piles of organic manure on their doorsteps.

Stavroula was frantically preparing everything she needed to take with her to Paraliakos when Victor arrived with an enormous shopping list of vital ingredients she must secure before they set off.

“I cant’s go shopping, I ‘ave to wait ‘ere for Gorgeous Yiorgos to drop off the turkey,” Stavroula told him.

“I can wait here for the turkey and make a start preparing it while you find the things on this list,” Victor said. “I have no idea where to find Brussels sprouts and cranberries in Astakos.”

“Po po, I dont’s even know what a Brussels sprout is,” Stavroula complained.

“It could be described as a small cabbage,” Victor explained.

“Well I’m sure Fat Christos will ‘ave some of them,” Stavroula sighed in relief. “I’m not sure about some of these other things though,” she added, scratching her head over ‘pigs-in-blankets’ and wondering about this strange foreign obsession of serving animals in clothes and bedding. She had just rushed off to the supermarket when Gorgeous Yiorgos arrived, dumping a large live turkey on the doorstep.

“What the heck am I meant to do with that enormous thing?” Victor shrieked. His only experience was with ready plucked headless turkeys from Tesco, with plastic bags of giblets stuck up their bottoms.

“I’d hazard a guess yous put it in the oven,” Yiorgos told him, still smarting his suggestion of curried goat gizzards had been snubbed by Stavroula in favour of this griping twit’s turkey dinner. “If it ‘elps I can wring its neck for yous,” he offered, chasing the bird round the taverna tables until it croaked its last breath with a gasping gobble.

Staggering under the weight of the turkey Victor headed to the hardware shop, begging Bald Yannis to “decapitate this thing with your chainsaw.”

“I’m ‘appy to pluck it for yous if yous let me keep the feathers,” Mrs Kolokotronis butted in as Bald Yannis fired up the chainsaw. “’Appen the feathers would make a nice fringe on my latest line of goats’ bonnets, what does yous think Yanni?”

“I ‘ear feathers are all the fashionable range,” Bald Yannis concurred, thinking of the feather trimmed bras he had been tempted by in his latest collection of underwear catalogues, now hidden from Soula’s prying eyes under bags of goat manure in the back of the shed.

Just then Soula returned from tending the goats. Taking one look at the decapitated turkey head she rushed outside to heave over the harbour wall, excusing her secret morning sickness by saying “I’ve no idea what come over me; I’m not usually so squeamish.”

By the time Stavroula returned there was no time for Victor to examine the vital ingredients needed for a traditional English Christmas dinner. Pulling the turkey out of the oven he piled into the back of Nitsa’s taxi sent by the television company, closely followed by Stavroula clutching the bags of shopping. The part roasted turkey attracted the eye of the parrot that was seemingly overcome with inappropriate lust and attempted to ravage it.

“Yous ‘ave to control that malaka parrot Fotini else I’ll be stickin’ it in the oven next to the turkey,” Stavroula screeched, adding “Nitsa pull over, we forgot my old fool of a father.”

Nitsa slammed the brakes on sharply, causing Victor to lurch forward, head butting Fotini and dropping the turkey rear end up on the floor. That old fool Vasilis climbed in and promptly got his foot stuck up the turkey’s still unstuffed bottom, earning him a sharp clout round the head from his anxious daughter. Grasping Vasilis’ leg she managed to extricate his foot, but his shoe remained firmly stuck inside the turkey. As the taxi jolted off, swerving erratically to avoid knocking over Bald Yannis’ life sized cardboard cut-out goat, Victor began to wonder what he had let himself in for and wished he was back in the biscuit factory hob-nobbing with custard creams.

Chapter 49: A November Christmas Dinner

Mail order Masha, casually dishevelled from delivering a windy weather forecast, was furiously peeling potatoes for her bossy daughter-in-law in the television studio kitchen, distracting the drooling Victor with her silicone assets as the floppy end of her Santa hat fell into her cleavage.

“It’s not natural cookin’ Christmas dinner in November,” she complained, hurling a rancid potato at a garishly decorated plastic Christmas tree and sending the reindeer topper, that looked suspiciously like a goat, flying into a pan of boiling carrots.

Attempting to stuff a mixture of minced beef and sugared raisons up the turkey’s backside Stavroula moaned, “There’s not much room to work in ‘ere round that old fool Vasilis’ shoe. Oh malaka, this stuffing was meant to go in the mince pies, not up the turkey.”

Victor rushed over with a congealed mess of feta cheese, olives and cornflakes for Stavroula to stuff up the turkey and started spooning the minced beef she had now extracted from the turkey’s bottom into pastry cases. Still traumatised by the white-knuckle ride in Nitsa’s taxi he was past caring if the dinner was a disaster or if he produced savoury mince pies under a curtain of icing sugar.

“It all smells very festive Stavroula, I hope you’re nearly ready. Live filming starts in ten minutes and we are about to open the doors to the audience,” the producer called.

“This is my moment to land a job on telly and get more bigly famous than Masha,” Stavroula said to herself, waving giddily to the villagers filling up the seats. She was happy to see Tassia had accepted her apology for calling her a hussy and was now taking a place alongside Fat Christos and Mrs Kolokotronis. Tall Thomas and Prosperous Pedros had turned up, determined to ensure their aged relatives, Nitsa and Fotini, didn’t make a spectacle of themselves on telly.

As the camera whirred into life Deirdre elbowed Quentin out of view, mortified the sight of the parrot stuck on his scalp would embarrass her as she excitedly waved, “Hello Idaho, it’s me Deirdre.”

Slick Socrates sat as far away from Tassia as possible, mourning the loss of the signature sideburns he had shaved off in an attempt to downplay his resemblance to the baby. He hoped all this attention wouldn’t go to Stavroula’s head and make her feel amorous later as he was still nursing painful bruises. Vera’s head had been turned by Adonis’ charm offensive, leaving her oblivious to the cow eyes Victor was making at Masha.

Mail order Masha, having hastily changed into a festive elf costume displaying plenty of leg, took centre stage to introduce Stavroula, saying “Stavroula is the latest cookin’ sensation. She is ‘ere to show those of yous what won’t be eatin’ herring under a fur coat this December how to make a traditional English Christmas dinner.”

Stavroula, exhilarated to be in the limelight, beamed for the cameras, promising in a pretentiously fake posh accent, “The turkey is nearly done in the oven and while it crisps up I will demonstrate how to make stuffing.” She was in her element clattering pans of vegetables and whisking up gravy.

“This is making me ‘ungry, ‘ere Victor throw me a jammy dodger,” Fotini bellowed across to the stage at full volume, having been introduced to this quintessentially British biscuit treat in the taxi.

“Behave mother, I cant’s take yous anywhere” Prosperous Pedros told her.

Shushing Pedros, Slick Socrates proclaimed “She’s a natural,” feeling a sudden rush of affection for Stavroula.

Dishing half-a-dozen full sized boiled cabbages onto a serving platter Stavroula explained to her audience English people loved to eat them with turkey but called them Brussels sprouts.

“Those aren’t sprouts, they are cabbages,” Victor hissed at her, unable to believe his eyes as she started to roll up sausages inside cut up squares of blanket.

“’Ere, that’s the blanket out of my taxi what I use to wrap road-kill in,” Nitsa shouted.

Ignoring Nitsa’s shouts of “thief” Stavroula prepared to lift the centrepiece of the meal out of the oven. The audience let out a collective “oooh” as the fragrant smell of roast turkey wafted over them, tantalizing their olfactory senses with its rich aroma.

The crispy skin of the perfectly browned turkey breast glimmered under the studio lights, prompting the producer to utter in surprised amazement “She’s pulled it off, it looks magnificent.”

The magical moment was ruined by Victor screeching, “You can’t do that, it’s not British,” as Stavroula anointed the succulent bird with a generous garnish of oregano, before squeezing a handful of lemons over it then drowning it in olive oil.

The parrot could contain its lust for the turkey no longer. Launching itself from Quentin’s head it made a beeline for the turkey, sweeping it up in its beak and flying over the studio audience, showering them with olives and cornflakes. Amidst the sudden mayhem Deirdre nonchalantly munched one of the falling olives she retrieved from her ample bra.

As the parrot flapped frantically around the room that old fool Vasilis’ shoe was finally dislodged from the turkey’s bottom and fell with a splatter onto the mince pies, squashing them beyond recognition. Finally worn out from its antics the parrot deposited the turkey on Quentin’s head where it nosily attempted to roger the ravaged carcass.

Kyria Papadopoulos, the ousted host of the cooking show, was hovering in the wings fervently hoping Stavroula’s performance would end in disaster. With a satisfied smirk she rolled up the sleeves of her ancient cardigan and strode onto the stage carrying a platter of roast turkey with all the trimmings, nestling in a bed of Brussels sprouts, Winking malevolently at Stavroula she announced “ “ere’s one I made earlier.”

I Hope You Enjoyed Olive Virgins

If you enjoyed this book please post a glowing review on Amazon and/or Goodreads, and tell all your friends who love Greece and humour. Indie authors rely on reviews to help spread the word.

If you would like to be notified when the next book in the Greek Meze series is available please feel free to contact me on katerinanikolas@outlook.com

Katerina Nikolas

Contents

Chapter 1: A Bundle Of Joy

Chapter 2: Soula Is A Sweetie

Chapter 3: Silicone Fame

Chapter 4: Keeping Secrets

Chapter 5: Toothless Tasos Loses His Teeth

Chapter 6: Deirdre Puts Her Foot In It

Chapter 7: Tourist Complaints

Chapter 8: Fig Cake and Onions

Chapter 9: Eureka!

Chapter 10: Stupid Superstitions

Chapter 11: Parrot Beater

Chapter 12: Saved At Sea

Chapter 13: Egg On The Pappas’ Face

Chapter 14: The Body In The Deep Freeze

Chapter 15: Stormy Weather Forecast

Chapter 16: Thea’s Cat Suffers An Unwanted Bath

Chapter 17: Fake Soup

Chapter 18: It’s Raining Men

Chapter 19: Brawling Fishermen

Chapter 20: Scared Of A Dark Puddle

Chapter 21: Herring Under A Fur Coat

Chapter 22: Lashing Waves And Paddling Paths

Chapter 23: Trapped In The Twilight Zone

Chapter 24: Nitsa Bags A Suitor

Chapter 25: A Stapled Stub

Chapter 26: Crumbs In The Wax

Chapter 27: Cackles And Curses

Chapter 28: Moustakos

Chapter 29: A Butt Full Of Pellets

Chapter 30: I Loves Yous Quentin

Chapter 31: Eavesdropping

Chapter 32: Soaking The Olives

Chapter 33: Price That Junk

Chapter 34: Bras Full Of Olives

Chapter 35: Shooting Blanks

Chapter 36: Stinking Rubbish

Chapter 37: Old Crone Hanging

Chapter 38: A Delicate Operation

Chapter 39: Pressing The Olives

Chapter 40: Cupid’s Arrow

Chapter 41: Olive Virgins

Chapter 42: Plucking The Parrot

Chapter 43: Oiling The Cat

Chapter 44: Dunking In Oil

Chapter 45: A Sinful Obsession

Chapter 46: Soula Is Broody

Chapter 47: Pick Yous Own Olives

Chapter 48: Hob-Nobbing With Custard Creams

Chapter 49: A November Christmas Dinner

I Hope You Enjoyed Olive Virgins