“I knows, we could be sisters,” Nitsa beamed; seriously deluded her new hairdo was attractive.
“Have a glass of vodka old woman?” Dastan purred.
“Better make it a brandy, I’m driving the taxi,” Nitsa replied, adding “Yous do ‘ave a fine ‘ead of ‘air an’ a nice ‘airy chest, I likes that in a man.”
“Tell me old woman, do you know the local mayor well?” Dastan enquired, wondering if he could make use of her. The elders in his own country were greatly revered and he supposed if the same was true in Greece the ridiculous looking old crone may have some influence, especially as she had already admitted to him her dodgy criminal past and her familiarity with the inside of a prison cell.
“What, the butcher mayor? I didn’t vote for that spineless malaka even though he tried to bribe me with ‘alf-a-kilo of mince. Po po, the very thought I could be so cheap.”
Firing a filthy look in Nitsa’s direction now she’d revealed herself as being of no use to him in greasing the mayor’s palm with a bribe, Dastan excused himself to go to the bathroom. As soon as he was out of sight Masha grabbed Nitsa’s hand and hissed, “He’s creeping me out, there’s definitely something a bit dark about ‘im”
“Well that could be ‘is sunglasses,” Nitsa suggested. “It’s a bit odd he’s wearing ‘em at night.”
“Look old woman, there’s somethin’ sinister about ‘im, yous ‘ave to help me get away from ‘im. Bald Yannis begged me to ‘ave dinner with ‘im to find out what’s he’s up to, but I think Dastan ‘as dastardly intentions.”
“So yous was only with ‘im ‘cos Bald Yannis put yous up to it an’ not because yous is cuckolding yous comatose ‘usband?” Nitsa said. “I knows from experience ‘ow ‘ard it is to say no to Bald Yannis.”
“An’ now the Kazakh as confessed to me he’s in cahoots with the butcher mayor an’ yous knows ‘ow yous hates ‘im.”
“The mayor’s a wrong ‘un all right, there’s all sorts of sordid gossip about ‘im,” Fotini piped up, having overheard the frantic whispering between Masha and Nitsa
“Dastan, I ‘ave to go now, I feel sick,” Masha urgently declared as soon as the Kazakh returned, almost knocking the table over in her haste to get away from his sinister presence.
“Was it something you ate? I can arrange to have the chef taken care of,” Dastan offered in what he thought was a whisper, but was actually loud enough to be overheard by Nitsa and Fotini. The old crones exchanged worried looks and instantly decided it was their duty to get Masha and Melecretes away from this malaka mafia hood.
“Masha, I’ll drive yous ‘ome now in the taxi,” Nitsa offered.
“And I will escort you,” Dastan insisted.
“There’s no room for yous,” Nitsa told him. “I ave to take Fotini and Mel as well.”
“There will still be room for me,” Dastan argued.
“Not when she ‘as to squeeze the Scottish pair in too,” Fotini improvised, dragging Hamish and Fenella out of their seats and hissing at them to get in the taxi parked outside.
“But we only have to go three doors down to our lodgings,” Hamish objected until Fotini hissed “if yous get in the taxi now yous wont’s ‘ave to pay for the fish meze and wine.”
Meanwhile Nitsa dashed to the kitchen, telling Mel, “Dont’s ask questions, just get in the taxi with Masha now.” Mel, naturally delighted to do anything to oblige the two old crones and Masha, made a mad dash for the taxi, scooping Masha up protectively on his way out.
Watching the overloaded taxi tear off with his Russian beauty squashed in with Mel, Nitsa, Fotini and the Scottish pair, Dastan was almost certain the two old crones had somehow plotted to get Masha away from him, but he’d knocked back so much vodka he couldn’t be certain.
Chapter 20
A Stroll through the Olive Groves
The next morning Hywel and Blodwyn, the Welsh Doomsday trippers, were woken by Hamish rattling their tent flap and inviting them to join him and Fenella for a jaunty stroll through the olive groves.
“Och aye, it’s such a bonnie morning, we’d be glad of your company,” he said persuasively. “It would be a shame to waste possibly the last morning we have in the world as we know it, if the Doomsday prediction comes true and the world ends tomorrow.”
“This bloody beach will still be ‘ere though,” Hywel complained, having spent an uncomfortable night being disturbed by goats chewing on his guy ropes.
“Count us in,” Blodwyn called out enthusiastically, jiggling about in an effort to dislodge sand from her knickers and a cheese n’ onion crisp packet from her bra. “We’ll be with you in a jiffy.”
As Hamish waited for the Welsh couple to complete their morning ablutions he was tempted to take off his socks and sandals to feel the warm sand between his toes. The Ionian Sea lapping the coastline was an enticing turquoise, crystal clear and calm in the morning sunlight. Blodwyn emerged from the tent wearing a diamante dragon tee-shirt, wondering if she should change when she spied Fenella, who was waiting just to the side of the beach, wearing the hideous old lady dress she had grown very fond of despite mail order Masha’s disparaging comments.
Blodwyn waved enthusiastically to Fenella, knocking her husband’s newly purchased Greek fisherman’s hat onto the beach. “She won’t come over,” Hamish remarked. “Fenella has a bit of a sand phobia, if she wants to go in the sea I have to give her a piggy-back over the beach.”
“Bloody hell man, I’m developing a bit of a sand phobia myself. The bloody stuff gets everywhere. Last night we had a gyros delivered and had to pick the sand out of it with a bloody torch,” Hywel complained.
“I’d rather be picking sand out of my gyros than heading back home to work in the salt factory,” Blodwyn sighed, not believing for a moment that the world would end everywhere except Astakos the following day. “I think we have all been conned,” she stated, expanding on the Doomsday subject. “If you think about it, all the businesses in Asktakos would benefit from perpetuating the bloody Doomsday scenario.”
“Well we don’t care if it is a con,” Fenella said as the threesome joined her. “Hamish and I have had the most marvellous time. We’d never have chosen Greece for a holiday otherwise, but it’s been such a wonderful experience we plan to return every year. It’s a fantastic country full of amazing scenery, ancient ruins to explore, delicious food and such friendly people. Why only last night the local lady who drives the taxi insisted on driving us round the village to see all the sights.”
“We didn’t actually see much of anything as it had already gone dark,” Hamish pointed out with a smile, pleasurably recalling being boxed in tightly next to mail order Masha’s voluptuous body. “But the other old lady who was serving in the quaint taverna absolutely refused to accept a cent for our fish meze and wine.”
“Well to be fair we didn’t exactly order the meze Hamish.”
“It didn’t stop you eating it dear,” Hamish responded.
“And the accommodation we’ve stayed in is so authentically Greek, we wouldn’t have had the same experience staying in a hotel, would we Hamish?”
“It was certainly authentic when we got back from our late night forced drive,” Hamish replied. “It took four of us to drag Toothless Tasos upstairs to his bed. He’d passed out in a drunken stupor on our sleeping bags on the living room floor; the demon ouzo don’t you know?”
“But he was very apologetic about it when he woke us at five this morning to go fishing,” Fenella reminded him.
“The less said about that the better,” Hamish coughed, preferring not to mention to their new Welsh friends that Tasos, trying to sneak out without waking them, had tripped over the cat and dropped his bucket of fish bait on their heads. It had taken Hamish a good half-hour in the shower to get the stench of prawns and chopped up squid out of his hair, not an easy task as Sofia had used up all the hot water.
“We won’t be coming back to Greece,” Hywel said. “Blodwyn has her heart set on Benidorm.”
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“That was before I knew how much you’d gone over our budget ordering gyros deliveries every five minutes,” Blodwyn shot back. “Unless I can get lots of overtime in at the salt factory we’ll be taking our next holiday in flippin’ Rhyl.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Rhyl, at least they speak Welsh and you can get proper fish and chips, not like all this weird octopus and squid they serve up over here.”
“We adore octopus, we had it last night,” Fenella boasted.
“Give me a nice bit of plain battered cod anytime,” Hywel said.
“You can get that here in Greece Hywel, it’s called bakaliaro,” Hamish informed the Welshman, showing off his superior knowledge. “It’s very tasty.”
“Speaking of tasty, what do you suppose we should do for lunch later? Perhaps we could ask Mel to make up some sandwiches to take along as a picnic?” Fenella suggested.
“Or we could get some pies from the bakery,” Hywel said. “I have to say these Greeks do make bloody delectable pies. You have to try the ones filled with feta and spinach.”
“Or we could stop by the hardware shop and get a few Christmas tinners to take along, very useful things they are, being self-heating,” Hamish suggested.
His idea was well received by the others who, although by now were almost convinced they had fallen for some elaborate end of the world hoax, thought just on the off-chance life as they knew it ended the next day, it would be very festive to eat one last Christmas dinner in the olive groves.
“Let’s do that,” Blodwyn encouraged. “I haven’t been in the hardware shop yet, but I’m thinking it would be nice to get one of those traditional Greek dresses. You look a picture in yours Fenella.”
With lunch plans decided the two couples strolled from the beach to the harbour. Entering the hardware shop they walked straight into the middle of a hot dispute, with Thea demanding Bald Yannis remove the silk knickers his blow up mannequin was clad in under the hideous old lady dress.
“I’d recognize my lace smalls anywhere, I paid good money for them from the home shopping channel,” Thea shouted. “I’d like to know ‘ow yous got yous hands on ‘em, Yanni.”
“I dont’s rightly recall,” Bald Yannis procrastinated, distinctly remembering the clandestine pleasure of stealing them from Thea’s washing line. “’Ang on, does yous remember when underwear started turning up all over the village in unlikely places? Now I think about it yous knickers might ‘ave been dumped in my wheelbarrow.”
“So what are you still doin’ with ‘em Yanni,” Thea asked suspiciously.
“Well ‘ow was I supposed to know they was yours? An’ yous could ‘ardly expect me to gives yous cast-off undies to my wife,” he said, distinctly remembering gifting Soula some stolen underwear on their wedding night. “Most likely I shoved ‘em under the counter to use as a duster until the mannequin needed ‘em.”
“They aren’t cast-offs, they were stolen from my washing line. I want ‘em back.”
“Ang on a minute,” Bald Yannis told her, climbing his ladder to divest Gloria of her undergarments. “There’s no pleasin’ yous women. When the mannequin ‘ad no knickers on Nitsa accused ‘er of flashing ‘er privates and Soula said it embarrassed young Iraklis.
Soula stepped forward in an attempt to diffuse the situation, saying, “Iraklis is very impressionable Yanni, he’s led a sheltered life. I’ll give you a pair of my smalls to make sure yous blow up mannequin isn’t indecent.”
Snatching her knickers from Bald Yannis, Thea stomped out to accompany her goddaughter on her shopping trip to town. She was under strict instructions from Toothless Tasos not to spend a single cent and was a tad worried by his ominous warning that they needed to have a serious talk when she returned from Paraliakos. Thea had a niggling worry she had gone too far by moving Sofia into Toothless Tasos’ home.
“Perhaps I am worrying over nothing,” she pondered, “after all he hated the cat at first but suddenly he’s all over it.”
“Bloody hell, what’s going on out there?” Hywel shouted, distracted from reading the ingredient labels on the Christmas tinners by the arrival of the Sea Police in a motorised boat in the harbour. Everyone rushed from the hardware shop to the harbour wall to get a closer look at the sudden activity. The fishermen cleaning their nets hoped they wouldn’t have to hand over any of their catch to bribe the Sea Police into turning a blind eye to any fishing transgressions.
Pancratius the village policeman sidled up to Bald Yannis, explaining the Sea Police were here to investigate Deirdre’s concerns about seeing the body of a naked woman in the sea.
“’Appen we’ve got some nudists out ‘ere on their holidays but since when is that a crime? Did-Rees can be a bit of a prude,” Bald Yannis piped up, knowing full well the naked woman Pancratius referred to was none other than the blow up sex doll currently suspended from the hardware shop ceiling.
“Did-Rees reckons she saw the naked body of a dead woman, not a nudist out for a swim. It’s a mystery though, no one else saw the body Did-Rees claimed to see through that red pea-souper; even though her husband and Toothless Tasos were with her at the time. I’ve a feeling I’m overreacting by calling the Sea Police down to investigate, but Did-Rees is a like a dog with a bone about it and won’t let it drop,” Pancratius explained.
“She’s nothing but a prone to hysterics attention seeker if you ask me,” Bald Yannis offered, quite happy to throw Deirdre’s reputation under the bus. He had no intention of confessing he had planted the blow up sex doll, retrieved from under the Pappas’ bleeding body in the church, as a joke. “An’ anyway no one’s missing, so who’s body is it supposed to be anyway?”
“Well it could have been the body of a woman pushed overboard from a passing cruise ship,” Pancratius suggested, realising he was clutching at straws. He was personally of the opinion Deirdre had just been a bit spooked out by the red mist and all the talk of a madman on the loose, but procedures had to be followed.
The Sea Police obviously shared his opinion they’d been sent on a wild goose chase and after ten minutes decided to stop searching, preferring to moor their boat and have coffee at the kafenion. “We’re not going to dredge the harbour unless someone is officially declared missing,” they announced to their audience.
Bald Yannis herded his customers back into the hardware shop, determined to make some money from them. Blodwyn complained all the hideous old lady dresses he showed her were too big for her body and would drown her. “What about that one, it looks just your size,” Fenella suggested, pointing to the dress displayed on the mannequin. Bald Yannis climbed the ladder to undress the blow up sex doll and Soula told her husband she would rush home to retrieve some underwear to avoid any vinyl flashing offending customers with delicate sensibilities.
“Bloody hell man, that’s the oddest looking mannequin I ever saw,” Hywel nudged Hamish. “It looks more like a blow up sex doll.”
“I really wouldn’t know,” Hamish snootily responded, before whispering to his wife “are you sure these are our kind of people?”
Bald Yannis, overhearing Hywel’s comment, gave him a glassy stare, saying “Does I look like a massage parlour?
Armed with their picnic lunch of Christmas tinners and Blodwyn’s new hideous old lady dress, the four foreigners resumed their walk, feeling a tad too intimidated by Bald Yannis revving his chainsaw to demand a receipt. Passing the beauty parlour Fenella was excited to read Evangelia’s new sign advertising fish pedicures and insisted on calling in to book an appointment.
“I can’t do any pedicures until this evening,” Evangelia apologised, looking flustered. She had no recollection of emptying the mop bucket in which she’d left the fish from the pedicure tank swimming the previous evening, so she could change the water in the tank. After fruitlessly searching the salon and even her handbag for the missing fish, she’d jumped to the erroneous conclusion Sofia must have emptied the bucket into the harbour, and resorted to begging Gorgeous Yiorgos to catch her
some new ones.
“I can’t believe you want to squander our cash on a bloody fish pedicure,” Hywel complained after his wife decided to join Fenella for an evening treatment.
“So it’s all right for you to blow cash on lager and pies, but as soon as I fancy a bit of pampering you have to object,” Blodwyn hissed, not wanting their new friends to overhear their sniping. “It will be just the thing to sort out this nasty sand-infested fungal foot infection I’m afflicted with.”
The foursomes’ petty bickering was soon replaced with gasps of delight when they discovered a winding track leading through the poppy strewn olive groves. The olive trees were laden with blossom, prompting a fit of sneezing from Hywel who excused himself by saying “bloody allergies.” The sight of a tortoise chomping its way through wild sage distracted Hywel from his sneezing.
“Bloody hell Blodwyn, you’ve always wanted a tortoise as a pet. We could easily fit this little fellow into the suitcase and take it home,” Hywel shouted.
“Only if you fancy being arrested for smuggling an endangered species,” Hamish said with disgust. “How would you like it if someone grabbed you while you were out minding your own business, stuffed you in a suitcase full of dirty washing and smuggled you off to a foreign country on an aeroplane?”
“No need to get the huff, I was just saying,” Hywel spluttered. “I can always get her one from the pet shop back home.”
“I think I’ve gone off the idea,” Blodwyn said. “It would seem cruel to keep a tortoise cooped up indoors after seeing them roaming around in their natural habitat.”
Strolling into the adjacent olive grove Hamish was excited to encounter a herd of goats gambolling around in knitted clothes. “These must be the famous goats we heard about, let me get a picture of them with my camera.”
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