Deirdre looked rather alarmed at the prospect but Masha assured her undergoing a baptismal conversion was no big deal and on the plus side she’d be able to wear a new frock. Deirdre decided the personal sacrifice of undergoing the religious ritual was a price worth paying to call herself Nona to Masha’s baby. She even considered it would leave her well placed to accept further offers of Nona status if Tassia or Soula fancied offering her the position. Quentin wasn’t sure whether to feel excluded or relieved by Masha’s failure to invite him to be the godfather, but on reflection he decided he’d rather avoid any oily dunkings ministered by the Pappas.
“Speakin’ of the baby, I ‘ave been thinkin’ yous look far too ancient to be the father of a new born Vasili. We dont’s want to scare the baby with yous wrinkly face,” Masha chimed up.
“That’s a bit harsh Masha,” Tall Thomas interjected. “It’s not as though he can do anything about ‘is craggy old face.”
“Well that’s where yous is wrong Thoma, they can do some wonderful things with plastic surgery. Vasili, I ‘ave booked yous into a plastic clinic in Athens to ‘ave yous face lifted,” Masha declared.
“I wont’s do it, I is too old to be goin’ under the knife,” that old fool Vasilis refused vehemently.
“But it’s all arranged,” Masha protested.
“I don’t care Masha, I am not ‘aving a face lift an’ I won’t ‘ear another word on the matter. An’ that’s final.”
“You’re taking his refusal very well,” Deirdre whispered to Masha, surprised she hadn’t flown into a dramatic Russian tantrum.
“Po po, I ‘ad no intention of makin’ ‘im do it, the clinic ‘ave already told me they wont’s lift the face of anyone of his advanced years, after all he’ll be ninety if he makes it to his next birthday. It was just a ploy to butter ‘im up so he wont’s say no to Botox when I tell ‘im he’s havin’ a few jabs to make a goodly improvement to his facial sag,” mail order Masha whispered smugly.
Deirdre gawped in awe at Masha’s clever manipulation of her husband, wondering if she should pick up a few tricks for next time Quentin was cantankerous.
The relative peace of the evening was suddenly disturbed by the noisy arrival of a rusty old pick-up in dire need of a spot of fine engine tuning. The door slammed and a rough-hewn peasant type climbed down from the cab shouting, “Pedro, you old rogue, I’ll get you for this.”
Prosperous Pedros immediately ducked out of sight, clueless how he had enraged this angry stranger. He breathed a sigh of relief when the stranger stormed right by him, grabbing Pungent Pedros by the collar, shaking him violently and accusing him of stealing his goat.
“Get yous ‘ands of me Anton, I ‘aven’t ‘ad one of yous goats yous mad malaka.”
“Mad am I, then what do you call that?” the angry man yelled, pointing at the tethered goat Quentin had inadvertently kidnapped from the mountain.
Quentin went completely white beneath his sunburn. Quivering in his seat he muttered to Takis, “Who is that?”
“That is Kyrios Antonopoulos from Katsika,” Takis replied. The name rang an immediate bell with Quentin who recalled the goat from the goat-hit-and-run incident served up in this very taverna after Adonis claimed it as tasty road-kill had indeed been the goat of a Kyrios Antonopoulos from Katsika, the village named for a goat. Quentin had visions of being arrested and dragged off in handcuffs to a Greek prison and he nervously wondered how much truth there had been to Nitsa’s tall tales of torture in the prison dungeon.
Quentin’s worst fears were confirmed when Pancratius the village policeman appeared. Leaning over, Quentin clasped Deirdre’s hand with his own sweaty one, whispering to her, “Darling, I love you. Please make sure you get me the best lawyer.”
Deirdre barely heard her husband, so engrossed was she in the sudden drama.
“What can I do for yous Pancratiu?” Takis asked the village policeman.
“The usual, get them to keep the noise down. Stavroula has been on the blower complaining about all the shouting,” Pancratius replied.
“It’s that mad idiot from Katsika, he’s just arrived and started kicking off,” Takis told the policeman, eager for Kyrios Antonopoulos to be taken away before he could accuse Takis of once serving up his road-kill goat.
Pancratius approached the noisy interloper who reluctantly let go of Pungent Pedros’ collar, dropping him onto the road. “It’s all right, I don’t want any trouble. I have just come to collect what is rightfully mine,” he shouted, stalking over to the tethered goat and releasing its rope. Pointing at the blue ‘A’ branded on the goat’s side he added “A for Antonopoulos,” and without another word he led the goat off to his pick-up, pushing it into the passenger seat and driving away, bald tyres squealing.
“I wish the malaka would remember to put a seat-belt on the goat,” the policeman sighed; annoyed he was now obliged to go after the pick-up and issue a hefty fine for the traffic code violation.
Quentin slowly exhaled, relieved he had not only got away with the goat-hit-and-run but goat kidnapping too, and would be spared a night in a dank prison cell before summary deportation and banishment from his beloved adopted homeland of Greece. Amazed to find Pungent Pedros doubled over with laughter he recovered himself enough to ask,
“What on earth is so funny Pedro, it looked as though he was going to kill you before Pancratius came along?”
“Po po, get a grip K-Went-In. Anton and me ‘ave a regular spat at least once a month. Next time he’ll get ‘is ‘ands on one of my goats an’ I’ll ‘ave to track ‘im down and claim it back.”
“You mean to say you take turns taking each other’s goats and then threatening each other?” Quentin asked in disbelief.
“Of course, dont’s yous ‘ave that sort of sport in Idaho K-Went-In? Now, it’s gettin’ late, we’d best be riding off,” Pungent Pedros said.
“We’d rather walk,” Quentin said, taking one look at Deirdre’s horrified face.
“I wasn’t talkin’ to yous. ‘Ave yous never ‘eard the expression four’s a crowd?” Pungent Pedros laughed, holding his hand out to Nitsa who gave him a saucy wink before suggesting,
“’Ow about a spot of skinny dippin’ in the moonlight?”
“Yous aunty is a public nuisance,” Prosperous Pedros told Tall Thomas as they watched Nitsa goosing the pungent goat-herder before accepting his help to get her leg over the motorbike. Tossing the crash helmet aside Nitsa clasped her arms tightly around the goat- herder and the pair roared off towards the beach.”
Chapter 15
Trifled Affections
Hattie endured a fitful night’s sleep, tossing and turning in the stifling heat without the benefit of air conditioning, waking frequently from nightmarish dreams where she was endlessly plucking the feathers of a pandemonium of parrots drowned in the vat of curative. She’d been in no mood to join Quentin and Deirdre at the taverna after discovering Melecretes prancing round in front of the mirror wearing her favourite twinset, stockings and heels. Mel’s pathetic explanation that he was assembling a costume for Halloween sounded implausible even to Hattie since the American holiday was still many months away, but Mel hastily excused himself from the embarrassing situation by claiming he was late for a hot date with his girlfriend Evangelia. Smoothing his manly moustache he stripped off the twinset and pearls, pulled on his trousers and kicked off the heels, hot footing it out of the house with his legs still encased in the stockings. Hattie, deciding it wasn’t her place to pass judgement or to gossip about Mel’s peculiarities, thoughtfully laid out a few of her least favourite dresses and blouses on his inflatable bed for him to pick over, before she retired for the night.
Finally, after falling into a deep sleep mercifully free of parrot dreams, Hattie awakened again in the early hours of the morning, disturbed by the strangled spluttering of the clapped out two-stroke outside her window. Recognising the less than dulcet tones of Pungent Pedros’ rusty old motorcycle her heart skipped a beat as her fertile
imagination conjured up images of Pedros sweeping her off her feet with declarations of the feelings he had been unable to contain since their earlier meeting. Opening the shutter enough to provide a view of the moonlit garden, Hattie was crushed to see Pungent Pedros lifting Nitsa down from his motorcycle. The moon cast just enough light for Hattie to notice Nitsa’s gaudy outfit appeared to be soaking wet.
Hattie crept down the stairs to the kitchen, careful not to disturb Fotini and the parrot. Putting a pan of water on to boil to make her friend a hot cup of mountain tea, she handed Nitsa a towel, asking “has it been raining? You’re soaked to the skin.”
“Rainin’?” Nitsa laughed. “No, I’m wet ‘cos I went skinny dippin’ with Pungent Pedros. Course I couldn’t risk excitin’ ‘im too much so I kept my thermal vest and shorts on in the sea.”
“Quentin’s shorts,” Hattie corrected, wondering whose clothes Fotini would appear in the next day seeing as everyone else in the household seemed to be freely helping themselves to the contents of other people’s wardrobes.
“It was a bit of a lark. That Pedros knows ‘ow to show a girl a good time,” Nitsa gushed.
“I thought he was going to show me a good time,” Hattie said with a heartfelt sigh, “but it seems when I didn’t come to the taverna he transferred his attentions to you with no thought at all of me. I didn’t have him down as the fickle type, but I’ve never been a good judge of men.”
“Hattie, is yous sayin’ Pungent Pedros ‘as been triflin’ with yous affections?” Nitsa asked, instantly contrite and concerned about Hattie who had only just got over having her heart broken by the scheming catfisher swindling from his Nigerian cubbyhole.
“He said I had big blue eyes,” Hattie revealed.
“An’ he told me I ‘ad brown eyes as deep as mud pools,” Nitsa groaned. “I would never ‘ave gone swimmin’ with the old rascal if I’d known he’d been leadin’ yous on. I only went off with ‘im to make Fotis Moustakos and Bald Yannis jealous. The malaka never stopped talkin’ about Fotini anyway, he’ll be tryin’ it on with ‘er next I expect.”
“I can’t see Fotini falling for his charms,” Hattie remarked, passing Nitsa a small bowl of curative and saying “dab a drop of this on your eye Nitsa, it is horrendously swollen.”
“Yous ‘ave to be jokin’ Hattie, likely it’s been contaminated by that malaka parrot. It might be good enough for our payin’ customers but I ‘ave higher standards an’ will purchase a proper remedy at the pharmacy. As for Pungent Pedros, he’ll get his comeuppance if he shows his smelly self round ‘ere again. He mustn’t ‘ave realised we ‘ave girl power solidarity if he thought he could toy with our feelins’.”
Chapter 16
Stumped by an Artichoke
Fotini was up at the crack of dawn bottling the parrot contaminated curative prior to preparing a new batch. The parrot, much recovered from its traumatic near drowning and open throat surgery of the previous day, perched on the kitchen windowsill, squawking the odd insult. When it suddenly announced “Did-Rees weedy,” Fotini nosily peered out of the window, doubling over with manic laughter at the sight that greeted her.
“Nitsa, get down ‘ere, yous will never believe what that addled-brained Did-Rees is up to,” Fotini yelled.
Joining Fotini at the window Nitsa gawped in disbelief at Deirdre’s antics. Armed with a shovel and trowel Deirdre was strenuously turning over a rock hard patch of bone-dry soil, ready to plant the aromatic herbs she’d risked their lives for on the mountain.
“Why is Did-Rees planting that rampant ragweed in ‘er garden? It makes no sense to put weeds in the ground rather than pullin’ ‘em out. It’s so pervasive it will take over in no time an’ it isn’t even edible,” Nitsa chortled. “’Appen she’s stupid enough to think it is horta?”
“Should we go out an’ tell the dopey dunderhead it will be a disaster or just let ‘er get it all planted first ‘fore we tell ‘er? That way we can ‘ave a goodly laugh watchin’ ‘er trying to dig it all up,” Fotini cackled. “’Ere watch yous step Nitsa,” she added as her cousin tripped over a cardboard box full of bottled curative and went sprawling onto the cold tiled floor.
Extending a hand to help Nitsa up Fotini screeched, “What ‘ave yous done to yous eye, it’s a right ‘orrible mess? It’s no wonder yous is tripping over things.”
The hairy black caterpillar Hattie had super glued to Nitsa’s eyelid had swelled up alarmingly, its putrid bloating corpse obscuring her eye which was now engulfed in a mass of lurid yellow and green bruises. “Perhaps we should call back at the quacks,” Fotini suggested.
“I ‘aven’t got time for that, I promised Bald Yannis I’d sabotage the grand opening of Stavroula’s tourist tat annex an’ I cant’s let ‘im down. If I does a good job he might see me in a new light as ‘is desirable co-conspirator.”
“Well if yous wont’s see the doctor at least pop next door and borrow a pair of K-Went-In’s dark sunglasses. Yous dont’s want to draw attention to yourself with that frightful eye when yous is out causing chaos,” Fotini suggested.
“I wonder if K-Went-In ‘as a deerstalker hat I could nab. It would ‘elp to add to the mysterious air I will project in dark glasses an’ Bald Yanni’s flasher mac,” Nitsa pondered.
“I thought yous is meant to look incognito so yous wont’s get blamed for the chaos,” Fotini said.
“Po po, no one will know who I am in my goodly disguise,” Nitsa assured her cousin, never considering her plan to cause chaos involved driving up in the old Mercedes taxi, a dead give away to her disguised identity.
“I’ll come along an’ help myself to some of their eggs while yous distract Did-Rees with a bit of inane chatter,” Fotini suggested, making a mad dash to her neighbours chicken coop as Nitsa casually ambled over to make small talk with Deirdre.
“Kalimera Nitsa, I’m surprised to see you up at this early hour considering how very late it was when Pungent Pedros brought you home on his noisy motorcycle,” Deirdre said, casting a disdainful look over her aged neighbour and recoiling in disgust at the state of her eye. She didn’t risk mentioning the eye in case it provoked an outpouring of invective from Nitsa regarding the violent passions of her latest man-friend.
“Yous should try a midnight swim sometime Did-Rees; it might ‘elp yous to let yous ‘air down.”
“Actually, I find a spot of gardening is most relaxing. You wouldn’t catch me in the sea after dark; goodness knows what could be lurking underwater. Now Nitsa, is there any particular reason for your early morning clamber over the garden wall? As you can see I have my hands full,” Deirdre asked, distracted by the sticky red rash beginning to erupt all over her hands.
“Actually it is K-Went-In I is wanting,” Nitsa replied.
Preferring to subject Quentin to an early morning dose of the mad old hag rather than endure anymore of Nitsa’s unwanted company, Deirdre volunteered, “You will find Quentin in the kitchen up to his elbows in artichokes.”
“Nitsa, I am immensely pleased to see you, come on in,” Quentin greeted his nuisance neighbour with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, holding a spiky artichoke aloft in rubber gloved hands as though it was a dangerous unexploded bomb. “It looks so easy to prepare artichokes in this cookery book, but in reality it’s more like handling a lethal weapon. Can you help me to get to grips with a pain free method please? I’m determined to get the hang of it and fill the pantry with jars of artichoke hearts in olive oil.”
“Po po, there is nothin’ to it K-Went-In,” Nitsa crowed, grabbing an artichoke and impressing Quentin no end with her skilfully precise cutting of the thick thorny outer leaves with a serrated knife, before triumphantly unveiling the coveted heart.
“Slow down Nitsa, you worked so fast I couldn’t quite get your technique. Could you show me again please, but this time in slow motion?” Quentin begged.
“K-Went-In, I will turn yous into a natural if yous will lend me a pair of your dark sunglasses to cover up this ‘ere shiner,” Nitsa bart
ered. Quentin had been so obsessed with his artichokes he hadn’t even noticed Nitsa’s swollen eye. Peeling off his rubber gloves he rushed over to his neighbour with genuine concern, declaring,
“Oh Nitsa, that looks so nasty, did that roguish old goat herder hit you?”
“Dont’s be so daft, that malaka is no match for me. I think I ‘ave ‘ad an allergic reaction to my false eyelash,” Nitsa explained, clueless Hattie had mistakenly stuck a dead caterpillar in place rather than her falsie.
“Certainly I will lend you a pair of dark glasses Nitsa; they will help to protect your eye from the sun until you can seek medical attention. Would you like me to drive you to the new doctor’s surgery? Oh hang on, I forgot the car’s off the road. I could always drive you there in your taxi,” Quentin offered.
“Po po, no one gets behind the wheel of my taxi ‘cept me,” Nitsa refused haughtily. “Yous just get me the glasses an’ a hat with a brim if yous ‘ave one, and I will show yous the secret of mastering artichokes like a natural born Greek woman.”
By the time Nitsa surreptitiously slunk out of Quentin’s kitchen wearing his dark glasses and a Sherlock Holmes inspired deerstalker hat, she was fully immersed in her ridiculous role of mysterious secret agent on a mission to sabotage the grand opening of Stavroula’s tourist tat annex. She left Quentin flummoxing around in mountains of artichoke leaf debris, none the wiser how to avoid serious injury whilst preparing the vegetables, and asking himself “how on earth did Nitsa make it look so easy?” The tips of the leaves pierced his rubber gloves painfully for the hundredth time and the exposed creamy yellow flesh of the tricky vegetable turned black because he’d already forgotten to add lemon to the pan of water.
“I ‘ave turned yous ‘usband into a dab ‘and with the artichokes,” Nitsa announced to Deirdre who had just finished planting the cuttings she had carried home from the mountain. Arching her back to relieve the aches and pains of digging in the parched soil Deirdre used a muddy finger to tuck a stray hair behind her ear and asked Nitsa, “Are you taking the taxi into Astakos at all? I could do with a lift to the beauty salon. Evangelia has managed to squeezed me in for a trim.”
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