Muttering under her breath Thea retreated to the kitchen to prepare a bowl of Greek yoghurt with honey and walnuts, knowing full well her goddaughter would turn her nose up at the healthy food, having a marked preference for junk food snacks.
“Nona, where are all my tops? The drawer is empty,” Sofia bellowed down the stairs.
“Probably on the floor where you left them,” Thea replied feeling a tad guilty the child had no clean clothes, before reminding herself she had told Sofia a thousand times she would only wash clothes left in the laundry hamper.
Sofia flounced into the kitchen, looking very matronly in one of Thea’s Home Shopping channel blouses. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a slob Nona,” she apologised, belatedly realising if she didn’t get her act together she would be forced to grapple with the complexities of the new-fangled washing machine. “I’ll take this along to the salon,” she added, grabbing the bowl of yoghurt and running towards the door.
“Steady on,” Toothless Tasos cautioned, narrowly avoiding an anointment of yoghurt all down his new shirt.
“Yous is back early from fishing,” Thea said to her fiancé, eyeing his new shirt suspiciously.
“I got a call from Pancratius sayin’ he is comin’ round to free me of this cursed ankle monitor,” Tasos explained. Toothless Tasos had borne the indignity of wearing the ankle monitor for three long months, ever since the vile prosecutor had insisted on having him arrested for confessing to his bigamous marriage to Stavroula. He had only been spared a prison sentence because the convicts at Paraliakos prison had been rioting on the night he was meant to be locked up. Fortunately Toothless Tasos’ riotous lifestyle of early nights interspersed with the odd visit to the taverna had not been impeded by the ankle monitor, as it didn’t actually work. Nevertheless it had chafed his flesh most uncomfortably and been a constant reminder of the folly of lawlessness.
Pursing her lips sulkily, Thea failed to respond, wondering if she could persuade Pancratius the village policeman to arrange a new ankle monitor that actually worked, on her fiancé’s leg. She considered Toothless Tasos had been acting most strangely of late, sporting a new haircut that was almost flattering. His grey streaks had disappeared overnight and his notoriously tightly sealed wallet must have been prised open to pay for his new line of modish shirts which were a marked change from his usual drip dry polyester ones. It was glaringly obvious to Thea that another woman must have caught Toothless Tasos’ eye as she couldn’t conjure up any other explanation as to why he’d suddenly decided to invest in improving his appearance.
Thea’s nose was decidedly put out of joint at the very notion the man who had pursued her so pathetically could now be unfaithful. He had been giddy with excitement at the prospect of marrying her when his divorce from Stavroula was finalised and his probationary period expired, but lately he had hastily changed the subject whenever she mentioned their wedding.
“Po po, he’ll not make a fool out of me with ‘is secrets and lies,” Thea muttered, determined to follow Toothless Tasos next time he left the house and snoop on his every move.
Chapter 4
Shocking Pink Plastic Busts
“They look like a coven of witches,” Stavroula snidely observed to Slick Socrates, gesticulating to an outside table where mail order Masha, Soula and Tassia were gathered, drinking Nescafe frappes and desperately fanning themselves to create an artificial breeze. The three women regularly met up for coffee after their antenatal classes in Paraliakos and were much relieved to hear a new doctor was opening for business in Astakos, having rented Thea’s harbour-side house as his surgery. It would spare them the long journey for their check-ups.
“They are just taking the weight off. It can’t be easy carting around those enormous pregnant bumps in this heat wave,” Socrates countered. Decidedly overheated in his lawyerly bow tie and braces he felt sympathy for the three pregnant ladies.
“Trust Masha to flaunt her belly like a shameless strumpet in that skin-tight mini dress, it’s most unseemly,” Stavroula grumbled, seemingly unaware her own flabby stomach was considerably bigger than the pregnant ones she was gossiping about.
“Here comes your old fool of a father at last,” Socrates said, pointing to Vasilis ambling slowly along on Onos, the still pregnant donkey.
“He’s very unreliable these days, always disappearing on the hunt for exotic delicacies to feed the floozy’s pampered cravings she blames on the silicone chip. All ‘is fussing over Masha leaves the washing-up piled up in my kitchen.”
“It’s only natural for him to be doting on his wife after what happened,” Slick Socrates pointed out, referring to the moment that old fool Vasilis, not long out of his coma and having only just recovered his memory after a bout of traumatic amnesia, had mistakenly been informed by a bungling policeman that his glamorous young wife had been bundled into a car boot and kidnapped. The shock had almost killed him. He’d then discovered that his darling donkey had ended up as an exploited attraction giving pleasure rides to overweight tourists on Paraliakos beach before Masha had rescued her from the donkey sanctuary. Now he fussed constantly over Masha and refused to be parted from the donkey, tethering her up at the taverna whilst he washed up.
“I ‘ave picked up yous pickled lingonberries from the post office,” Vasilis said to Masha, plonking down a parcel of jars just delivered from Russia.
“My brusnika,” Masha exclaimed delightedly, prising a lid off and immediately tucking greedily into the tart red fruit.
“It’s very bad form to eat yous own food in ‘ere,” complained a frowning Stavroula. Handing Soula a cheese sandwich she watched with disgusted horror as Soula produced a rough-hewn block of olive oil soap, deftly slicing slivers of soap and stuffing them between the bread and cheese.
“There’s no need to look at me like that, I ‘aven’t taken to eating bodily detergents. The sandwich is for Yannis,” Soula snapped. “My ‘usband is still ‘aving some very strange cravings with ‘is phantom pregnancy.”
“Whoever would ‘ave guessed soap could be so fattening,” Stavroula crowed, glancing across the harbour where a positively rotund Bald Yannis was posing for a tourist photograph with his dressed-up pet goat Agapimeni.
“It’s ‘is hormones,” Soula sighed, acknowledging her husband’s phantom pregnant belly had grown bigger than hers even though she was the one expecting twins.
“Po po, what is that girl thinking?” Stavroula mocked, watching young Sofia walk by, dragging Thea’s reluctant cat by a leash. The teenager had dyed the long suffering cat turquoise to match her latest hair colour.
“Sofia says taking cats out for ‘walkies’ is all the rage in Athens,” Tassia explained. “She likes to hashtag photos of it to Instagram.”
“Well the cat doesn’t look too thrilled,” Stavroula said sarcastically.
“She won’t walk it far, she’s just hoping Iraklis will stick ‘is ‘ead out of the supermarket and notice her,” Masha said, smug she didn’t need to resort to such obvious tactics to turn heads.
“It’s understandable,” Tassia sighed. “My mother-in-law is forever interfering in their budding romance and the poor children haven’t managed even a single date without her tagging along as a chaperone.”
Mrs Kolokotronis was indeed inordinately protective of her young charge Iraklis who she considered more of an honorary grandson than a lodger. Whilst approving of Sofia as a suitable girlfriend, she was determined to ensure young Iraklis was not trapped into a shotgun wedding due to an unplanned bundle of joy.
Sofia was duly rewarded by Iraklis sticking his head out of the supermarket doorway, looking rather alarmed by his girlfriend’s turquoise tresses. Iraklis was rather conservative by nature and wished Sofia wouldn’t keep surprising him with alarming new hair colours.
“I never thought Iraklis would grow out of ‘is acne so quickly,” mail order Masha observed.
“He’s turning into an ‘andsome lad now he’s rid of his suppurating pimples,” Tassia agree
d. “Fotini wants to turn ‘im into the poster boy for her ‘er ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ which she swears is a miracle zapper of acne. Course he’s too shy to pose.”
“They is looking very cosy, I wonder what they is up to,” Stavroula remarked as Sofia, having waved goodbye to Iraklis, stopped to urgently whisper with Toothless Tasos before heading into the beauty salon.
“Well I cant’s sit ‘ere all day, Yanni will be wanting an ‘and in the ‘ardware shop,” Soula sighed, hoisting herself to her feet.
“Don’t forget to come over tomorrow for the grand opening of my tourist tat annex,” Stavroula reminded her.
The much delayed annex was finally finished and stocked to the brim with all manner of tasteless tat carefully chosen to appeal to any less than discerning tourists. The shelves were bursting with mass produced bargain priced Flokati rugs imported from China which Stavroula had no qualms about passing off as genuine hand-woven by nuns, from wool obtained by bottle-fed sheep hand-reared on the verdant plains of Epidaurus. Being an ardent collector of tat Stavroula was easily enticed to stock hideously kitsch pieces. She had a line of shocking pink plastic busts of Aristotle that transformed into plant pots when the top of his learned head was removed to be stuffed with soil, and blasphemous snow globes with an orthodox priest in traditional dress jumping on his stovepipe hat.
Stavroula had blatantly encroached into both the hardware shop and supermarket territory by stocking the popular line of patriotic lobster adorned shower curtains. She was clueless that her endless boasting about her new superior business venture had alienated most of the villagers.
Tassia shot Stavroula a filthy look as she left. The annex was in direct competition to the tourist delights they flogged in the supermarket, though she had to confess even Fat Christos drew the line at the most flagrantly tacky tat selected by Stavroula. Tassia hoped the supermarket could cope with the extra competition, unaware Fat Christos was conspiring with Bald Yannis to indulge in a spot of tourist tat annex sabotage.
Chapter 5
Positively Putrescent
“Where’s that gormless malaka Quentin when we could do with ‘is muscle?” Fotini complained, struggling alongside Nitsa to dislodge a barrel of past its best vinegar out of the taxi to roll into the kitchen.
“I told yous we should just leave it in the taxi till Pedros answers ‘is phone or till Mel gets ‘ome,” Nitsa puffed, wilting from the exertion.
“But they might not be ‘ere for hours and we needs this ‘ere vinegar to be getting on with the next batch of cure,” Fotini reasoned.
Production of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ had been ramped up to keep pace with unprecedented popular demand. Its miraculous properties as a curative for rampant acne, fungal foot infections and plagues of warts had been much lauded, leading to high demand for this hot new must-have product. Achilles the borrowed builder had been retained with the proceeds of Nitsa’s compensatory windfall to create a supposedly sterile kitchen extension now equipped with fancy gadgets and a giant stainless steel vat to blend the ingredients of the curative until it could be siphoned off into small glass bottles to be sold at exorbitant prices.
It had taken all of Slick Socrates’ lawyerly skills to win Nitsa compensation over the kidnapping ordeal she had endured at the hands of the dastardly Dastan. After being bundled into his car boot she’d waited for an opportune moment to break free from the clutches of the oily Kazakh. The moment duly came when Dastan pulled the car over on a deserted dark road with the intention of ravishing his supposed bride-prize, the magnificent mail order Masha, only to be foiled by the quick-witted kidnapped imposter Nitsa lunging at him with a car jack and reversing the car over his prostrate body for good measure.
Nitsa had called Tall Thomas on the Kazakh’s purloined mobile phone to tell him she had escaped from the hands of the oily kidnapper and was on her way home. Thomas persuaded his aunty to stop in at the nearest police station and report her abduction as it was imperative the Kazakh be apprehended for his purportedly Mafia misdeeds. The police had taken one look at the ludicrous old hag sporting long blonde hair extensions, clad in a gold beaded evening dress with a deep cut cowl back exposing the elasticated waist of her bloomers, and dismissed her as a delusional nutter. Her preposterous tale of being kidnapped by a man with lewd designs on her body only served to elicit hysterical laughter from the bumbling representatives of law and order.
Nitsa had fluttered her single remaining false eyelash incessantly in a desperate ploy to persuade the police to telephone Tall Thomas, insisting her nephew, an upstanding Greek citizen with a mobile refrigerated fish van, would verify her unbelievable story. Tall Thomas confirmed his aunty had indeed been kidnapped in a case of mistaken identity and that Interpol now had an All Points Bulletin out on the Kazakh. After conferring with the Paraliakos police the newly chastened local constabulary insisted Nitsa accompany them to the wanted Kazakh’s last known whereabouts. By the time they finally pulled up at the dark secluded spot where Nitsa had escaped Dastan the only remaining evidence he had ever been there was an oily outline of a body on the tarmac and a pair of discarded sunglasses.
The police refused to let Nitsa drive away in the Kazakh’s car, impounding it for evidence. The local police chief was dragged from his bed to interrogate Nitsa, to whom he took an instant loathing. When a search of the car revealed a number of gold bars hidden behind the door panels, the police chief had no qualms about locking Nitsa into a cell because she annoyed him intensely, rather than because he suspected her of any nefarious activities. It was this hasty and unwarranted decision that led to the police chief’s humiliating demotion and Nitsa’s lottery win of police compensation, funded by auctioning off the Kazakh’s gold bars.
“Put some welly into it Fotini,” Nitsa instructed, still grappling with the oversized barrel of out of date vinegar. “If we cant’s get it indoors it is liable to explode in this hot sunshine.”
“Thank goodness you’re back,” Hattie called out, joining the two old crones at the taxi. “I think something is amiss with the formula as the current vat of curative has a distinctly nasty smell.”
“This ‘ere vinegar will sort that out, it covers most malodorous odours,” Fotini suggested, adding, “if we can ever get it inside.”
No matter how much the three old women pushed and pulled the barrel they could not free it from the taxi door. Finally admitting defeat they retreated from the sunshine into the kitchen where Fotini phoned Prosperous Pedros, demanding he come round at once.
“What is it now mother?” Prosperous Pedros asked wearily, none too pleased to have his afternoon siesta disturbed by her shrill tone.
“Get round ‘ere at once, we ‘ave a vinegar emergency,” Fotini shouted.
“Cant’s that lazy malaka Mel deal with it?” Pedros queried impatiently.
“He’s off somewhere on important curative business,” Fotini replied. “We is in danger of bein’ blown up if yous dont’s get ‘ere at once.”
Grumbling under his breath Prosperous Pedros threw a fish-stained tee-shirt over his head and climbed into the pick-up. Driving along the harbour he noticed Mel’s van was parked near the beauty salon and cursed his mother’s house guest for spending his siesta hours canoodling with Evangelia instead of being conveniently at Fotini’s beck and call.
“It is positively putrescent in ‘ere,” Prosperous Pedros declared on entering his mother’s kitchen. “It stinks of something rotten.”
“That’s why yous ‘ave to shift the barrel of vinegar what is wedged in the taxi. We need to pour it into the curative vat to kill off this ‘orrible pong, vinegar will mask the most vilest of smells,” Nitsa gulped, trying not to breathe in.
“What on earth have you got in the vat?” Pedros asked.
“Just our usual curative ingredients of capers and other bits and bobs,” Hattie replied. “Maybe this exceptionally hot weather has caused it to spoil.”
“That rank stench is more th
an capers and oil,” Prosperous Pedros insisted venturing closer to the stainless steel tub. Pulling his fish-stained tee-shirt up as a nose mask he grabbed hold of the ladle to stir the vat’s contents in an exploratory fashion. “There’s something solid in ‘ere,” he declared as the ladle hit a blockage. “Mother, run out to the pick-up and grab my grappling hook.”
The three women watched with bated breath as Prosperous Pedros lowered his grappling hook into the rank smelling brew. “I’ve got ‘old of something,” he yelled, yanking the hook free to reveal the parrot slick with oil and decorated with caper berries and oregano.
“How on earth did the parrot get in there?” Hattie cried innocently, having been left in charge of the mixture.
“Never mind ‘ow it got in, is it still breathing?” Fotini screeched, demanding Pedros give it the kiss of life.
“’Ere, stand by while I unblock its airway,” Pedros commanded masterfully, pumping his fingers up on down on the bloated bird’s chest. “I think we could be too late to save it, goodness knows what amount of muck it has swallowed.”
“Save it,” Nitsa screamed. “The stuff it has swallowed is meant to be a goodly curative, not a killer potion. If the parrot croaks it wont’s be good for our business reputation.”
“’Ow can yous be so callous about my beloved parrot?” Fotini wailed, just as the parrot vomited up a stream of caper strewn olive oil and launched into a hacking cough. Sweeping the bird up in her apron she carried it outside, desperately hoping the fresh air would help to restore the parrot to its usual foul-mouthed self.
“Oh no, this whole vat full of curative is contaminated,” Hattie lamented.
“Don’t be so soft ‘Attie,” Nitsa chided. “What ‘arm can a bit of decomposing parrot do to the cure? Most folks just rub the stuff in an’ will be none the wiser once we drown out the foul stench with vinegar and a bit of extra spit. Let’s get bottling quickly.”
Float the Goat Page 2