“Oh I can’t go outside in this ripped dress, what would people think? It got ruined when Pedros knocked me over,” Koula exclaimed in panic, terrified of running into her sister Soula or her new brother-in-law Bald Yannis in the hardware shop. She didn’t want them to know she was in the village pursuing a new husband until she had a wedding ring safely on her finger.
Evangelia rolled her eyes at Koula’s sudden vanity, thinking she hadn’t given any thought to what people would say when she was wandering round the village with matted hair and ghastly boot polish smeared round her eyes. “Well I suppose I could pop in an’ get yous a dress,” Evangelia volunteered, thinking Bald Yannis should start paying her a commission for buying hideous old lady dresses on behalf of her customers.
By the time Koula left the beauty parlour in her new hideous old lady dress she looked almost presentable. Her waist-long locks were free of tangled knots and her face, scrubbed clean of black boot polish, had been made up with a touch of dated blue eye shadow and a dab of powder. Making a beeline for the coastal road Koula wandered along until she spotted the only stone cottage with an outside bathroom. After carefully casing the joint she muttered “I’ll come back after dark with my camera,” before heading off to the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ in Rapanaki.
Taking a seat outside the kafenion Prosperous Pedros was totally oblivious his brief encounter with the strange woman had provoked an all-consuming obsessive infatuation that would lead to some bizarre events.
Chapter 18
Don’t Call Me Pappas
“Mother, we’re home,” Fat Christos called out, dragging the suitcases bulging with stuffed microbes into the house. “She must be at the supermarket,” he said when his greeting was ignored. “I’d best go and give her a hand Tassia while you unpack and see to the baby, I feel a bit guilty I left her to run it single-handed.”
“Well it’s not every day we go off on honeymoon, but I have to say it is nice to be home,” Tassia replied. Observing a thick layer of dust in the house she joined in the guilt, saying “Oh Christo, yous mother must have been run off her feet, it’s not like her to let the ‘ouse get so grubby.”
“Well she’s no spring chicken. Now we’re back we must let her take things a bit easier,” Fat Christos suggested.
Entering the supermarket Fat Christos was surprised to see Pappas Iraklis scrubbing down the cheese counter. “Kalispera Pappas Iraklis, where is my mother?” he asked.
“She’s at home cooking dinner,” the young man replied.
“I’ve just come from home and there was no sign of mother or of any dinner cooking’” Fat Christos said, confused.
“No, she’s home at her own house, she decided it was time to move back. She thought it would be a bit crowded if we all lived at your place.”
“Yous mean to say yous is livin’ with my mother?” Fat Christos asked, his confusion growing by the minute. “An’ what is yous doin’ scrubbing the cheese counter Pappas.”
“I’m working here full time now since your mother kindly gave me a job. Please call me Iraklis and dispense with my old title of Pappas, now I have renounced the church,” Iraklis requested, nervously hoping Fat Christos would not object to his new position on the supermarket payroll.
Since walking out on the Pappas, moving in with Mrs Kolokotronis and taking up his new job at the supermarket, Iraklis had never been happier. He realised the Pappas had treated him abysmally, but he’d just accepted it as a natural continuation of the dismal home life he’d experienced. Now he was learning to enjoy cosy evenings with Mrs Kolokotronis fussing over him and feeding him up, and praising him for all his hard work in the supermarket. She was even teaching him the invaluable skill of knitting. He was becoming much more proficient on the delivery tricycle since Gorgeous Yiorgos had taken the time to give him a few pointers on the tricky art of cycling and road safety.
“Well frankly I’d be glad of yous ‘elp, what with mother not getting any younger and Tassia pregnant again. But is yous sure giving up the church is what yous wants, it’s a mighty big step to take?” Fat Christos asked.
“I never realised until now that the church was what my mother expected me to do and I just acquiesced to keep in her good books. My heart wasn’t in it and I have to confess I had some very ungodly thoughts. I couldn’t trust myself not to batter the Pappas to a pulp if I was forced to live with him any longer, and I’m not even the violent type,” Iraklis said with brutal honesty.
“Well we’ve all been there where the Pappas is concerned,” Fat Christos sympathised. “Yous could never meet a gentler woman than my Tassia, but even she confided she could ‘ave done ‘im an injury when he accused her of bein’ a thief at our wedding. If yous is sure this is what yous want I will train yous up in all areas of supermarket management and yous won’t find a better ‘ome than with my mother.”
As the pair of them made ambitious plans for the future of the supermarket, the Pappas was desperately trying to find a way to contact Iraklis’ mother, a difficult task as she didn’t have a new-fangled telephone, in the hope she could persuade her ungrateful son to resume his churchly career. Without his young dogsbody to push around he was once again reduced to doing his own housework and cooking, matters he considered far beneath his standing.
He’d got used to young Iraklis being around and considered living with him was an improvement on putting up with his estranged wife Petula or the rooster stealing Widow Christeas, though it did put a damper on the possibility of any hanky panky should a suitable parishioner wish to take discreet advantage of his body. He needed to get Iraklis back before the Bishop got wind of his defection or he would be in for an earful.
Chapter 19
Credulous Cretins Believe Any Old Codswallop
Pedros was feeling a tad tired after driving out to the airport when he took a seat outside the kafenion, relishing the prospect of a solitary coffee. There was a bit of a nip in the late afternoon air, making him shiver in his holey pullover. “I’ll ‘ave to do a bit of darning tomorrow,” he muttered, pondering if he should take a day away from fishing to catch up on neglected housework. The bedding could do with a wash and it was about time he gave the outside bathroom a good going over with the scrubbing brush.
Casting his eye out to sea Pedros decided the definite swell to the water and rough seas would make for difficult line fishing. Waves were already crashing into the harbour wall and the salty sea spray was diluting his coffee. Grey clouds flitted across the sky, obscuring the promise of a spectacular sunset.
Pedros was less than pleased when Bald Yannis pulled up a chair to join him, closely followed by Moronic Mitsos and that old fool Vasilis. “Am I late?” a breathless Toothless Tasos asked, just as Adonis arrived, saying “What’s this all about Yanni?”
“I’ll tell yous all in a minute, we still need Yiorgos to put in an appearance. Moron, why dont’s yous run to the supermarket and see if Fat Christos is back, what I ‘ave to say will benefit all of yous,” Bald Yannis declared.
Gorgeous Yiorgos and Fat Christos joined the others, but Christos’ attempt to describe his honeymoon travels was rudely interrupted by Bald Yannis who had no time for trivial small talk. “I ‘ave a serious matter to discuss what will bring lots of money to the village. It will be of benefit to local businesses, anyone with a bit of land, and to yous hotel Adoni.”
The others settled down to listen as the prospect of a cash injection to the village in these austere times was indeed most appealing. “Right now, yous will all ‘ave ‘eard this whole song and dance that the world is goin’ to end next month,” Bald Yannis began.
“I feel it in my guts that the world is indeed going to end,” that old fool Vasilis piped up.
“Dont’s be so daft, yous ‘ave probably just got a bit of wind,” Fat Christos laughed. “Yanni, dont’s says yous believe all that claptrap?”
“Does I looks stupid? The point is lots of gullible eejits do believe it will ‘appen an’ we can make a fortune out of ‘em.”
“’Ows that then?” Gorgeous Yiorgos enquired sceptically.
“Just listen up will yous,” Yannis growled in frustration. “Now back in 2012 the end of the world was predicted and a load of Doomsday believers fell for it, convinced the French village of Bugarach was the only place what would survive judgement day. These eejits flocked there in force and the locals cashed in by renting out rooms and bits of land to pitch tents on. Now all we’s ‘ave to do is market Astakos as the ultimate Doomsday destination to the credulous cretins who fall for all this codswallop. Yous hotel could be bursting out of season Adoni and we all ‘ave ‘ouses an’ olive groves to let ‘em sleep in.”
“’Ang on Yanni, I seem to recall that French village ‘ad some special mountain where UFOs would swoop down to scoop up them daft enough to believe they could escape an apocalypse,” Adonis pointed out.
“Yes, but it was all rubbish, that’s the point, the lame brained boneheads what are taken in by this type of religious nonsense will believe any old baloney if we give ‘em a credible reason. We can concoct a tale that all them caves we ‘ave off the coastal road are the only place to survive the end of the world next month. While they ‘ang around Astakos waitin’ for the world to end they will eat at the tavernas and stock up on supplies in the supermarket.”
“Not to mention yous ‘ardware shop,” Prosperous Pedros dryly observed.
“Exactly, yous get the picture,” Bald Yannis said triumphantly, waiting for an opportune moment to mention the commission he planned to charge the others for increased business.
“Dont’s yous think a bunch of cultish hippies ‘anging round Astakos might put other tourists off the place,” Toothless Tasos worried.
“There are no tourists ‘ere at this time of year an’ the cultists will bump up village revenue,” Bald Yannis insisted.
“But ‘ow are we supposed to convince a bunch of hippie nutters they will survive Doomsday ‘ere in Astakos? The only thing Astakos is famed for is Masha doin’ the weather,” Moronic Mitsos asked.
“It’s easy; we advertise it on social media?”
“What’s that then?” Toothless Tasos asked, clueless that technology had moved on since telephones and television were invented.
“We could get the smitten young reporter to do an international story on it,” Fat Christos suggested, warming to the plan. Convinced Bald Yannis had come up with a genius idea he envisioned the supermarket cash register ringing continually.
Adonis, equally enthused by the idea, rubbed his hands together in glee at the prospect of his hotel rooms being booked solid in March.
“Who’s with me?” Bald Yannis asked, putting his devious money making scheme to the vote.
Everyone raised their hands enthusiastically with the exception of Prosperous Pedros who announced “Yous ‘ave all lost yous marbles,” before stalking off in a huff.
That old fool Vasilis shouted, “yous can all mock but I feels it in my gut that this Doomsday prophecy could ‘appen.”
Returning to the hardware shop Bald Yannis was delighted his end of the world scam had garnered so much enthusiastic support, with the other villagers promising to go out of their way to make it happen. He was soon engrossed in compiling a list of necessary items to put into the apocalypse kits he planned to flog to gullible fools in his shop. So far his list comprised raincoats as protection against torrential end of world downpours, torches to shine in the end of world blackness, and bottles of ouzo to drown out the end of the world hysteria.
“Ere Soula, can you turn this lot into raincoats?” Bald Yannis asked his wife, dumping a pile of dusty lobster adorned shower curtains on the hardware shop counter.
“Are people still wanting that fashion Masha made popular when she did the weather in one?” Soula said.
“Orders from that fad ‘ave dried up, this is the new project I told yous about. It should bring in a lot of cash.”
“Ohh Yanni, yous is so clever,” Soula gushed, impressed with the way her husband always had a money making scheme on the go and knowing her pregnancy with twins would further rack up their expenses. Bald Yannis was waiting for an opportune moment to tell Soula he planned to rent their home out to Doomsday trippers the following month and expected her to bed down with him in the goat pen.
As Soula got busy with the scissors she decided to broach a delicate subject with her husband. “Yanni, now Tassia and Christos are back from their honeymoon I’d like to ‘ave ‘em round for a meal, along with Masha and Vasilis.”
“What on earth for?” Bald Yannis asked, genuinely perplexed by Soula’s request. Being a total novice when it came to entertaining he couldn’t understand why anyone would wish to waste time socialising.
“I thought as we will all be ‘aving babies at the same time it would be nice to get together.”
“Why cant’s yous just go a taverna like a normal person?”
“’Ow can we do that when yous is banned?” Soula asked.
At a pinch Bald Yannis could put up with an evening in the company of Fat Christos and his mousey wife, but the very thought of getting together and making baby small talk with that decrepit old relic Vasilis and his silicone wife bored him rigid. Preparing to put Soula in her place with a sharp remark about getting ideas above her station it suddenly occurred to him he really must keep the other villagers on side if he was to pull off his scam successfully. They might even proffer some valuable suggestions as to what items would be a big hit in his apocalypse kits; after all Vasilis had lived through the war and Masha had grown up in some frozen Russian wasteland. He had no idea where he could get hold of the skanky nalgenes and frog ascending systems his internet searches had revealed were essential cave supplies. He must have a word with Quentin about those Christmas tinners he was always raving about as self-heating food should go down a treat in his handy kits.
“Okay Soula, yous can go ahead an’ invite ‘em,” Yannis relented.
“Ooh thank yous Yanni, yous won’t regret it, our first ever dinner party,” Soula said delightedly, planting a sloppy kiss on her husband’s bald head.
“Well dont’s get carried away trying to impress plastic Masha. Good plain ‘ome cooked food will do,” Bald Yannis told her, already beginning to regret giving in.
Chapter 20
Horny Goats And Christmas Tinners
“Deirdre, I do believe you are tipsy,” Quentin accused his wife as she greeted him in a fit of hiccups. “Have you been trying to get my wife drunk?” he quizzed Socrates suspiciously, having heard the rumours he was a bit of a ladies’ man.
“Oh Quentin, how can you be so ungrateful after Socrates stayed with me to ensure my safety. Don’t you realise a crazed stalker has been squatting in our house and could be dangerous? She’s obsessed with Socrates and set up a creepy shrine to him in our bedroom, it gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.”
“Mother did garble something, but you know how she exaggerates. You mean someone has actually been living in our house while we were in Idaho? Have they done any damage?”
“On the contrary, the crazy stalker appears to have been obsessed with cleaning as much she was with Socrates,” Deirdre told him.
“Well whoever it was she couldn’t be any worse than those two crazed old bats next door. Honestly Deirdre, you have no idea what I have been forced to endure through their latest antics.”
“That’s nice dear,” Deirdre replied, smiling vacantly through her tipsy haze.
“This is not the sympathetic welcome home I expected after my traumatic ordeal of being strip searched and interrogated by fascist and brutal TSA agents, and then being forced to fly back in the unsavoury confine of a small airline toilet,” Quentin complained. “The absolute cheek of someone having the gall to squat in our house, I can’t believe it. Socrate, has the squatting stalker been driven out?”
“There’s no saying when she will return, but I’m sure she will. She is so obsessed she will be bound to want get her hands all over her p
hotos of me.”
“That does it. I am overriding your objections Deirdre and I will invest in a guard goat. I planned to get one to keep Fotini at bay as she’s terrified of goats, but who knows the squatter may share her fears. Socrate, would you mind holding the fort to protect Deirdre while I pop along to the hardware shop to negotiate the purchase of a goat from Bald Yannis?”
“An excellent idea,” Socrates concurred, thinking if the deranged stalker returned the gormless Quentin would be as much use as a chocolate teapot and it would be down to him to drive the fanatical female away. If he had to he was prepared to throw Koula in the back of his car and dump her back in the high mountain village of Osta. He had taken the precaution of bringing along the kinky furry handcuffs Stavroula enjoyed when she was feeling frisky in the bedroom.
Quentin drove along to the hardware shop where he was greeted with uncommon enthusiasm by Bald Yannis. “Just the man, K-Went-In, ‘ow do I go about getting ‘old of a job lot of them Christmas tinners you is always raving about?”
“What on earth do you want with self-heating cans of Christmas dinner at this time of year? They aren’t vegetarian you know.”
“Good grief, I dont’s want to eat ‘em, I want to put ‘em in my apocalypse kits,” Bald Yannis sneered.
“Well, never mind that, you appear to have lost the plot Yanni. I am here to agree a price for one of your goats, the bigger and more menacing the better.”
“I ‘ave to make it clear I dont’s sell goats for eatin’, it ain’t right,” Bald Yannis thundered whilst stroking Agapimeni protectively.
“I have no intention of eating it. I want a goat to keep that pest Fotini from darkening my door, she’s terrified of them,” Quentin explained.
“I ‘ave just the one to put the jeepers up the bloomers of that old hag, I’ll deliver it in the mornin’ when I’ve given its horns a good ‘ole polish. Now ‘ow about we barter one horny goat for one hundred Christmas tinners?”
Goatly Goings On Page 7