“Yanni, I want yous to teach me ‘ow to swim.”
Chapter 22
Voula Receives a Generous Gift of Poo
The news that Toula was to be married hit Voula hard. Her younger sister Soula was already off living the high-life in the picturesque backwater village of Astakos, having snared the successful businessman Bald Yannis from under her nose when the matchmaker brought him up to the bleak farmhouse in the high mountain village of Osta to take his pick from the four spinster sisters. She didn’t begrudge Soula her new found happiness, but with Koula locked up in a padded cell and Toula on the brink of departure, Voula contemplated a lonely mundane existence of plodding along and getting nowhere. Her daydreams of attending college and qualifying as a veterinarian had been shattered by her ogre of a father belittling her ambitions and forcing her to leave school to act as a farm skivvy. Finally free of his yoke she ruminated it was now much too late to pursue her dreams, even though she’d read every dog-eared book she could get her hands on in the village about animal welfare.
Toula attempted to comfort Voula as the two sisters sat in the walled courtyard under the shade of the almond tree, shelling fresh peas. “Look on the bright side, at least the cantankerous old malaka is dead and you won’t be stuck having to look after him.”
“Toula, I give thanks every day that our sadistic father was splattered falling from that helicopter,” Voula agreed, hastily making the sign of a cross.
The sisters might sound callous to an uninitiated observer, but in truth the four daughters of the fraudulent dead convict who’d thought nothing about stashing his dead sister’s corpse in the deep freeze, had endured untold suffering at his hands. Voula longed to escape from Osta, but was so destitute she couldn’t fathom a way to make a fresh start.
A sudden scraping sound alerted Voula’s attention. Opening the yard door she stared down into the trusting eyes of a pink and brown speckled piglet that pushed its warm snout into the folds of her skirt. “Look Toula, isn’t this just the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Voula, it must have wandered off from the taverna. Old Poulios’ sow just had a litter,” Toula said. “We should take it back before he misses it.”
“Oh but the darling thing looks hungry, let me just make it a bottle,” Voula cried, quite entranced by this unexpected visitor. Five minutes later the warm body of the feisty piglet was nestled close to Voula’s bosom, playfully squirming as she encouraged it to feed from a baby’s bottle filled with fresh goat’s milk.
“I told you we should have taken it back,” Toula hissed as the hollering tones of Poulios yelling “Voula,” reached them.
Barging into the courtyard Poulios, the ancient owner of Osta’s run-down taverna, doubled over, panting heavily with his hands on his knees.
“Voula, there was a phone call for you from Astakos at the taverna. Yous brother-in-law said it was very important and you should call ‘im back right away. ‘Ere fetch me a glass of water Toula, I’m gasping.”
Voula’s father had never installed a telephone at the remote farmhouse so the sisters were reliant on the good will of their neighbours to relay any telephone messages. As Poulios downed his water and fought to recover his breath, Voula apologised for not returning his stray piglet at once.
“Po po, it’s the runt of the litter, not fit for anything. The pig ‘ad another six that are bigger and stronger,” Poulios said. Noticing the way Voula seemed so fondly attached to the animal he told her, “Keep it if yous like, it will be more trouble than it’s worth for me to have to fatten it up.”
“I can keep it, really? Poulios that is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” Voula cried, rushing over to hug him.
“Aye, really,” Poulios assured her, touched by her delighted gratitude.
“I shall call it Poo in your honour,” Voula exclaimed. “I wonder what my brother-in-law wanted; I hope nothing bad has happened to Soula.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Poulios advised, dialling Bald Yannis on his new-fangled mobile phone and passing it to Voula. Never having seen such a thing before she bellowed at the top of her lungs so that Bald Yannis would be able to hear her.
“’Old it like this an’ speak into it normal like,” Poulios showed her, shaking his head at her unworldly ways.
Listening closely to Bald Yannis, Voula’s only response was a litany of endless “Ooh Yanni.” When the call ended she announced “my brother-in-law has got me a job as a live-in housekeeper to a wealthy person in Astakos. I can’t quite believe this day, first Poulios gifting me this gorgeous Poo and now the chance to leave Osta which I have dreamed of so long. I must hurry to the bus stop before the once weekly bus leaves.”
“I will help you pack,” Toula offered, happy that this stroke of good luck had befallen her sister and would ease her own guilt in leaving the farmhouse.
“I’ll wait an’ give yous a hand to the bus stop with yous luggage,” Poulios offered. The old man’s kind heart sank when Voula emerged from indoors two minutes later clutching nothing more than a half-empty olive sack containing all her worldly goods. Muttering under his breath he swore,
“If the father of them girls wasn’t dead already I’d ‘appily kill ‘im, treating ‘em like servants an’ makin’ ‘em live with nothing.”
Cutting the washing line down to make a lead for the piglet, Voula asked anxiously “Toula, you won’t miss this will you?”
The once weekly bus came to a halt in the village square and Voula embraced her sister before climbing aboard with the piglet. “Ere Voula, take this for the fare an’ a bit of lunch,” Poulios called, pressing some money into her hand.
As the bus pulled out of the remote mountain village Voula opened her hand. So many tears welled up in her eyes at the sight of the fifty Euro note she was clutching that the bus was ten kilometres away before her eyes had cleared enough to enjoy the spectacular views.
Chapter 23
The Grand Opening of the Tourist Tat Annex
Tilting the deerstalker hat at a jaunty angle, Nitsa adjusted Quentin’s dark glasses and belted the flasher’s mac tightly over her hideous old lady dress, seemingly unaware her black pop socks sloppily concertinaed around her ankles exposing her hairy legs. Feeling she projected an air of mysterious anonymity in the beguiling disguise, she was surprised when Sofia called across from the salon,
“Yassou Nitsa, don’t forget, we must go clubbing soon.”
“’Ow on earth did Sofia know it was me in my goodly disguise? I wish that girl would tell me once and for all what this ‘clubbin’ is she’s intent on us doing,” Nitsa muttered under her breath.
Quentin, struggling to control a ludicrous pink plastic flamingo far bigger than him, narrowly avoided sending Nitsa flying over the harbour wall. Ignoring Quentin’s cry of “Oops, sorry Nitsa,” she swore under her breath,
“’Ow did the malaka know it was me in my goodly disguise?” before making a beeline for Stavroula’s new annex.
The neglected one-storey old stone structure adjoining Stavroula’s taverna, originally built to house animals, had long since fallen into neglect until Stavroula engaged Achilles the borrowed builder to turn it into a tourist tat annex. Achilles replaced the rotten old wooden entrance that hadn’t been entered for years with a glass harbour-side doorway that allowed light to flow into the formerly dank gloomy place. He also created an open archway leading from the taverna’s interior into the adjacent space, now lined with shelves sagging under the weight of Stavroula’s tasteless merchandise.
The pavement outside the glass door was carpeted with overpriced knock-off Flokati Chinese rugs. Plastic racks full of plaques of Greek icons and strings of komboloi worry beads fought for floor space with Stavroula’s pride and joy, the shocking pink plastic busts of Aristotle crying out to have his learned head removed so his true purpose as a planter could be utilised. Ribbons across the doorway and archway held the crowds back, waiting for Stavroula to ceremoniously cut them for the
grand opening.
In order to lure the crowds Stavroula had prepared a feast of free meze. Tantalising aromas wafted above the taverna tables that groaned with food. Bowls of tzatziki, skordalia, taramasolata and fava waited invitingly to be introduced to fresh crusty bread, and flaky pies burst with fillings of feta, spinach and sausage. Empty plates were stacked high next to a massive tray of homemade moussaka and glorious salads offered to slake mid-day hunger.
With arms folded over her sagging bosom Stavroula leant against the kitchen doorway with a scowl on her face, watching the villagers descend like a plague of locusts on the free food.
“Po po, dont’s they feed that child at ‘ome?” she lamented, clocking the side-burned toddler Andromeda grabbing a selection of pies and stashing them under her bedraggled summer bonnet, giving her head a lumpy lop-sided appearance.
Hungry fisherman had forgone the kafenion in favour of free food, annoying Stavroula with their presence as she was certain they weren’t in the market for any typically Greek souvenirs. Melecretes pushed his way through the crowds clutching a box full of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ he’d persuaded Stavroula to stock by telling her that the annex would be the only outlet in Astakos to carry it. Stavroula rolled her eyes at his brazen lie, knowing full well the curative was sold at the supermarket, the beauty salon, the hardware shop and the rival taverna, but not wanting to be out of the loop when it came to this surprisingly popular product.
Elbowing her way through the mass of people Nitsa was sidetracked from her chaotic mission by the thought of food. She greedily grabbed the last rings of deep fried calamari before piling a piece of crusty bread high with a generous portion of tirokafteri which she managed to clumsily smear down the front of the flasher’s mac.
The English couple who’d incredulously managed to maintain the delusion they were holidaying in Spain despite spending four days in Greece, hovered over the selection of meze, attempting to find something identifiable to eat.
“That looks like a prawn, Cilla,” the man said, pointing at a cheese covered crustacean in a delicious dish of shrimp saganaki.
“What a strange combination, Clive. Pass me a napkin to wipe the cheese off it,” Cilla instructed. “I must say I’m looking forward to this new shop opening. I hope we can snap up a stuffed donkey, a sombrero and some castanets as souvenirs.”
“I wonder if anyone around here speaks English.” Clive mused. “We can ask if there are any excursions to a bullfight or flamenco dancing.”
Propped up against the wall, Gorgeous Yiorgos amused himself by eavesdropping on their conversation before deciding to take pity on the poor lost couple.
“Yous does know yous isn’t actually in Spain?” he blurted out.
“What do you mean? Of course we’re in Spain. There’s sun, sea and sand, and souvenirs soon,” Clive replied.
“No, yous is in Greece,” Gorgeous Yiorgos assured them. “We do ‘ave sun, sea and sand ‘ere too yous know.”
The couple gawped gormlessly at Gorgeous Yiorgos, convinced he was winding them up; but before they had chance to challenge his geographical knowledge they were transfixed by the sight of the scowling taverna owner wielding a frying pan and chasing a grey-bearded man wearing a long black dress that flapped around his ankles.
Stavroula screamed at the Pappas, “Get out yous malaka, I’ve told yous a ‘undred times yous is banned.”
“But Stavroula, let me explain, I have something important to tell you about nefarious plans that are afoot,” the Pappas cried, defending himself against the frying pan. His pathetic attempt to win Stavroula over by warning her Bald Yannis and Nitsa were planning mischief went unheard as Stavroula swung the frying pan menacingly, shouting, “Just drop that loukanikopta and get out, yous odious little man.”
Scraping the cheese off another prawn Cilla watched Boukali the taverna cat pounce on the sausage pie dropped by the fleeing Pappas, convinced someone was about to leap out with the catchphrase, “Smile, you’re on candid camera.” She couldn’t contain her uneasy laughter when an old woman dressed in a rumpled tirokafteri smeared mac tripped over the cat, sending the table stacked high with salads crashing over, leaving the floor swimming in puddles of olive oil. The side-burned child with the lumpy head ran over to slide through the oily mess, unable to resist the delights of this impromptu skating ring.
Steam came out of Stavroula’s ears as she turned on Nitsa, screaming “Nitsa, yous clumsy old hag, yous ‘ave ruined my salads.”
“’Ows she know it was me in this goodly disguise?” Nitsa muttered to herself just as Tall Thomas leapt to her defence, proclaiming, “Stavroula, it’s not my Aunty Nitsa’s fault. Yous should ‘ave more control over that malaka cat of yours.”
The arrival of Lecherous Lukas distracted Stavroula’s attention away from Nitsa. Firing a vulgar wink at Cilla he sauntered over to the table of pies, filling his pockets with the tasty pastries. Tempted as she was to turn her frying pan on her thieving uncle, Stavroula controlled her natural urge for violence by thinking how she would butter him up enough for him to shell out for a generous dowry. Rushing over, her presence at least put paid to his petty thievery when she informed him she had found him a live-in housekeeper who would be arriving that very afternoon.
“That is excellent news Stavroula, you are a good niece,” Lukas said, genuinely relieved she had found him a woman so quickly. The task of putting sheets on his bed had so flummoxed him that he had considered booking a room at Adonis’ hotel, but the thought of parting with so much money had pained him. “Come to Takis’ taverna this evening where I will treat you to dinner as a thank you.”
Stavroula knew full well that her rich uncle’s offer of dinner would be a measly pita gyro, but at least it would give her the opportunity to persuade him to pay for her wedding. The now oily Andromeda skidded over, squashing Boukali the taverna cat who made a soft landing for the clumsy child; reminding Stavroula the floor was a slippery mess and prompting her to holler for that old fool Vasilis to tackle it with a mop.
The villagers began to disperse now there was no more free food to pick over despite Stavroula’s best efforts to contain them.
“I ‘ave fish to deliver,” Tall Thomas excused himself, happily sated on free fava.
“An’ I ‘ave to see if Toothless Tasos ‘as been sneakin’ round while my back was turned,” Thea explained, wiping pie crumbs from her chin.
“’An I ‘ave an important letter I must get to young Iraklis,” Mrs Kolokotronis piped up, pocketing a portion of moussaka for her young charge.
Stavroula, hoping to halt the embarrassing exodus, decided this was the moment to cut the ribbon. Before she had chance to sever the ribbon and bore everyone that hadn’t already scarpered with her speech, Nitsa elbowed her out of the way, grabbing the scissors and pronouncing the tourist tat annex open. Dashing headlong into the annex determined to spread further chaos she was closely followed by Cilla in pursuit of some Spanish souvenir bargains.
Cilla, zoning in on a teddy bear clad in an ‘I love Greece’ tee-shirt had her first inkling that the fat fisherman might not have been winding her up. A toy donkey draped in the Greek flag confirmed her suspicions they had been had by their travel agent.
“I say Cilla, this is a bit different,” Clive gushed, waving around a patriotic lobster adorned shower curtain.
“You know that fisherman was right, we aren’t in Spain at all,” Cilla told him.
“Not to worry, Greece is very nice and those pies were far superior to the ones back at home. It’s supposed to be big on ruins; we can book an excursion to something typically Greek when we’ve finished our souvenir shopping,” Clive boomed, prising his head through the neck of a Zorba the Greek tee-shirt.
“See if you can find a Greek phrase book in here Cilla while I stock up on these ornamental bottles of ouzo and tsipouro.”
“Yous should get Nitsa to give yous a tour in ‘er taxi,” Gorgeous Yiorgos butted in, pointing to Nitsa. The old cro
ne had wandered onto the pavement where she was trying to discreetly untether that old fool Vasilis’ donkey and lure it into the annex where she hoped it would head-butt the fancy displays or leave a steaming deposit. Her attempts were thwarted by that old fool Vasilis rushing over protectively and shooing her away, so Nitsa turned her attention to the busts of Aristotle. Dumping her trilby on the donkey she picked up a planter, opened the lid and shoved her head inside.
“Malaka, it’s stuck fast,” Nitsa shouted, sightlessly staggering into the plastic racks and knocking them over. Wooden icons landed on the pavement with a thump and hundreds of strings of komboloi beads rolled into the harbour. The villagers stood around chortling and pointing at Nitsa whose head was now concealed inside the bust of Aristotle.
“What’s ‘appened now?” Stavroula shouted, rushing outside. Her mouth gaped open as she stared wordlessly at the scene of destruction and all her cheap tat in disarray. The ridiculous sight of Nitsa groping blindly around with her head firmly implanted in an Aristotle planter incensed Stavroula. Yanking the planter from Nitsa’s head she frogmarched the old woman back to her taxi, warning her never to set foot in her new annex again.
“’Ere Stavroula, these tourists want to pay for this huge pile of souvenirs,” Gorgeous Yiorgos shouted.
“Yous ‘aven’t ‘eard the last of this,” Stavroula hissed at Nitsa before dashing back to relieve Cilla and Colin of an outrageous amount of Euros and failing to see Nitsa giving the thumbs up to Bald Yannis across the harbour.
Chapter 24
A Disaster and a Delivery
“’Ang on Nitsa, these English tourists fancy the grand Greek tour in yous taxi,” Gorgeous Yiorgos called out, helping Cilla and Clive to carry their bulging bags of tourist tat to the old Mercedes taxi.
Float the Goat Page 10