Goatly Goings On

by Katerina Nikolas

  Mrs Jones was desperate to know why one of the old crones had been delivered home in a police car earlier in the week. “There was a misunderstanding at a wedding,” Hattie muttered, hoping this morsel would be enough to quash Mrs Jones’ insatiable appetite for gossip.

  “Oh, do tell, I love a good wedding tale,” Mrs Jones insisted.

  “Nitsa gate crashed a wedding, spat all over the bride and got arrested,” Tassia volunteered.

  “How disgusting,” Mr and Mrs Jones recoiled in unison.

  “Not at all, it is a traditional Greek custom signifying good luck,” Quentin quipped, inwardly cringing as he was in full agreement with his neighbours that spitting at the bride was a ghastly custom.

  “The police would have released Nitsa much sooner but her protestations of being on intimate terms with the Greek Minister of Prisons since her incarceration led them to the false conclusion she is an international criminal,” Hattie said.

  “I ‘ad to object to being strip searched even though the officer was quite beefy with a lovely thick ‘ead of ‘air,” Nitsa complained in a regretful tone. “It was too cold to take my dress off, my chest ‘air would ‘ave sprouted icicles.”

  “Well at least you didn’t gate crash the wedding in your horrible onesie,” Deirdre said. “That would have been a fashion crime.”

  Quentin hoped Nitsa wouldn’t mention the second occasion when the police had been called to forcibly remove her from ‘The Home Depot’ for stripping off her clothes and demanding to try on hideous old lady dresses while swearing at the manager and zooming round in a trolley that ended in an unfortunate encounter with a twelve foot display of plywood.

  “Ere, ‘ave some horta,” Nitsa invited, spooning the greenery onto Mr Jones plate.

  “I hope she wasn’t locked up in a Greek prison for poisoning,” Mr Jones said to his wife, remembering how the other old crone had intended to boil up poisonous dogbane for human consumption.

  “No, it was for vehicular grievous bodily ‘arm to the electric man,” Nitsa said.

  “He deserved it, the malaka cut off our electric,” Fotini shouted to the bafflement of Mr Jones who thought it never snowed in sunny Greece.

  “Anyway Nitsa was exonerated,” Quentin said, sensing his neighbours were by now convinced he was harbouring a criminal mastermind dressed in a bunny suit.

  “Yous will never guess what Fotis told me on the telephone,” Nitsa suddenly shouted. “The mail order floozy ‘as only gone an’ got ‘erself pregnant.”

  “I rather think that old fool Vasilis might have had something to do with it,” Quentin reasoned.

  “So the plastic bride is ‘aving a silicone chip,” Fotini cackled, impressing everyone with her grasp of new-fangled technology.

  “We must toast Masha, she has wanted a baby for so long,” Deirdre said, whipping out her mobile phone to show Mr and Mrs Jones a YouTube video of mail order Masha presenting the weather.

  “She looks like a Russian hooker,” Mrs Jones whispered to her husband who nodded in silent agreement whilst salivating over Masha’s ample silicone assets. Overhearing the spiteful remark Tassia rushed to her best friend’s defence, proclaiming Masha had a heart of gold and was Andromeda’s godmother.

  “We are all very proud of Masha’s fame as a weather girl,” Deirdre said with sincerity.

  “Mail order floozy is not the only one ‘aving a baby,” Nitsa declared. “Fotis said Bald Yannis’ plain lame wife as only gone and got ‘erself pregnant with twins.”

  “I rather think Bald Yannis might have had something to do with it,” Quentin reasoned once again.

  “Po po, everyone knows the malaka is a virgin,” Fotini scoffed.

  “Twins,” Deirdre said with a shudder. “Just imagine the horror of two miniature Bald Yannis’”

  “Tassia and me ‘ave an announcement to make too,” Fat Christos said, fondly taking his wife’s hand. “We are also expecting a new baby.”

  “Is yous the father this time or is it another one of Slick Socrates cast offs?” Fotini spitefully shouted, totally ruining the moment before ‘call me Mel’ interrupted to demand Fotini gave him the name of her stylish dress supplier.

  “I get my dresses from the ‘ardware shop in Astakos,” Fotini revealed, causing Mrs Jones’ eyes to bulge at the thought of such an odd choice of shopping venue.

  “Bald Yannis does a lovely line in dresses,” Nitsa joined in, adding “such an ‘andsome man, I’m sure he would send yous some to sell in yous gyros shop. Yous just cant’s get decent dresses in yous giant Home Depot.”

  Turning his full attention to Nitsa ‘call me Mel’ suddenly experienced a eureka moment. “We ‘ave the same moustache,” he exclaimed, “perhaps we are long lost family.”

  As the two old crones and ‘call me Mel’ explored their family trees in the hope of finding a familial connection, the others toasted Fat Christos and Tassia, congratulating them on the new baby-to-be.

  “Three new babies all at once in the village, how exciting,” Deirdre declared.

  “Four, you forgot Soula is having twins,” Quentin corrected.

  “I think we’d best do a quick stop at the Museum of Clean tomorrow and stock up on giant stuffed microbes,” Fat Christos urged. “Yous cant’s get stuffed germs like that in Astakos an’ all these new babies will love ‘em.”

  “Want cuddly sip-lly,” Andromeda demanded, smearing tzatziki all over her stuffed typhoid toy.

  “You can tell the baby has a Russian hooker for a godmother,” Mrs Jones whispered to her husband.

  “I can’t believe tomorrow is the last day of our honeymoon, it’s just flown by,” Fat Christos said.

  “It’s been lovely, but it will be so nice to be home,” Tassia said. She couldn’t wait to get back to Greece as she ached for its scenic beauty. After being forced to share a house with the two vile old crones she promised her husband she would never again complain about living with his mother.

  “We have a full day tomorrow,” Quentin revealed. “We have to fit in a quick visit to the Museum of Clean before heading to the Potato Museum. You’ll be able to do all your gift shopping there before we head to the airport.”

  Quentin and Deirdre were flying back to Greece with their visitors and fervently hoped they could find seats on the flight well away from Fotini, Nitsa and the caged parrot. Quentin was feeling smug he had managed to trap the parrot in the cage this evening as it could not be trusted to behave in mixed company.

  Nitsa’s next revelation was a conversation stopper. Fluffing up her blue rinse she announced, “When we get ‘ome Fotis wants to take me to meet his mother.”

  No one had imagined the ancient twinkly fisherman still had a mother. Everyone at the table was frozen with bemused expressions, suddenly engrossed in mental arithmetic attempting to work out how old Kyria Moustakos could possibly be.

  “She’s one hundred and eight,” Nitsa volunteered, “but Fotis says she’s still very sprightly on account of ‘er ‘ealthy Greek diet.”

  “That’s amazing,” Mr Jones blurted. “What does she eat?”

  “Greek coffee and cigarettes for breakfast, a mid-morning raki with a cheese pie and whatever fish Fotis ‘as caught for ‘er dinner. She mashes it up with horta ‘cos she’s not got any teeth left and washes it down with a nightcap of brandy.”

  “Remarkable,” Mr Jones observed, heaping a pile of horta on his plate as he called for a double brandy and contemplated taking up smoking, wondering if he could persuade his wife to start boiling up weeds.

  Chapter 4

  There’s The Time Difference To Consider

  As the ‘Granny’s Greek Gyros’ revellers bid a tipsy goodnight to their new best friend ‘call me Mel’ and trundled home through heaps of snow, over in Astakos Prosperous Pedros was just sitting down at the kafenion for an early morning coffee in the sunshine after a peaceful night’s fishing. The villagers were just beginning to rouse, throwing open the wooden shutters of their traditional stone houses to the
first sounds of the church bells. Pedros waved to Gorgeous Yiorgos who was busy untangling an enormous octopus from his nets, impatient to be done with the eight-legged creature as he was desperate for a kafenion coffee.

  Waiting for Tall Thomas to drive along in his mobile refrigerated fish van to take his catch off his hands, Pedros hastily ducked down out of sight to avoid the approach of Nitsa’s boyfriend Fotis.

  “There’s no point trying to ‘ide, yous bucket of fish is like a magnet,” Fotis greeted Pedros with a twirl of his moustache. “I’ve a message from Nitsa, yous is to pick ‘er and yous mother up at the airport tonight an’ they’ll ‘ave yous guts on a gyros if yous dares to be late.”

  “They ain’t flying back until tomorrow night,” Properous Pedros pointed out.

  “Aye, but there’s the time difference to consider. Forget yous ‘meth avrio’ excuses,” Fotis reasoned.

  “Taking the time difference into consideration they won’t actually land until the day after tomorrow,” Prosperous Pedros reasoned, determined to make the most of the last couple of days free from the demanding orders barked by his mother.

  “Considering the time difference it would be best if yous get to the airport tonight,” Fotis insisted, totally confused by the fact that Greece was nine hours ahead of Idaho. Spotting Tall Thomas approaching, Fotis decided he must pressurise him to make sure he wasn’t late collecting his aunty. “‘Ere Thoma, yous tell Pedro, yous needs to be at the airport tonight to collect yous Aunty Nitsa.”

  “But they ain’t flying back until tomorrow night,” Tall Thomas assured him.

  “Aye, but there’s the time difference to consider,” Fotis insisted, twirling his moustache.

  “Yous could always go an’ get ‘em youself, yous keeps saying ‘ow much yous is missing Nitsa,” Prosperous Pedros proposed, hoping to get out of the airport pick-up.

  “I would if I could, but I ‘ave to go an’ feed fish to my mother,” Fotis protested. “Yous ‘ad better make sure yous is at the airport tonight as yous cant’s leave two feeble old dears all alone and unprotected.”

  Pedros and Thomas guffawed with laughter at the very idea Fotini and Nitsa were feeble and would need manly protection. “Yous is forgetting mother ‘as the parrot with ‘er,” Pedros reminded Fotis.

  “An’ they is travelling with K-Went-In and Did-Rees,” Tall Thomas reminded the ancient fisherman.

  “Those gormless wonders,” Fotis laughed.

  Their conversation was interrupted by a resounding splash as Gorgeous Yiorgos lost his hold on the slippery octopus he had been grappling with. “Malaka, there goes dinner,” he swore. He had been looking forward to Petula preparing octopus in vinegar.

  “The rest of the catch is nothing but sardines,” he called up to Prosperous Pedros.

  “Well yous can liven ‘em up with a bit of fresh lemon,” Pedros advised, reaching up to pluck a lemon from the nearby laden tree and tossing it down into Yiorgos’ boat.

  Fotis spied Bald Yannis opening the hardware shop and leapt up to intercept him, demanding he explain to the clueless fishermen the time difference meant they had to get to the airport immediately. Bald Yannis rolled his eyes at their collective stupidity and suggested Fotis splash out on a hideous old lady dress as a welcome home gift for his girlfriend.

  Toothless Tasos hurried along the harbour front and took a seat with the other fishermen, complaining “I ‘ate to waste money on luxuries like kafenion coffee but Thea is in a right old strop this morning an’ as thrown me out.”

  “What ‘ave yous done now?” Tall Thomas enquired of tight-wad Toothless Tasos.

  “I put ‘er blasted cat out with the rubbish and the young Pappas ran over its tail with Fat Christos’ tricycle,” Toothless Tasos groaned, mopping his brow with the poor cat’s decapitated tail.

  “Po po, tails is overrated anyways,” Prosperous Pedros mused.

  “Try telling that to Thea, she’s besotted with the malaka cat,” Toothless Tasos complained, seized by a fit of feline jealousy.

  “Bring ‘er cat to the ‘ardware shop, I can staple the tail back on,” Bald Yannis suggested.

  “Yous did do a good job stapling my stub up,” Tasos agreed, examining his now deformed finger. “’Ere watch yous backs, ‘ere comes the young Pappas again on the tricycle an’ he ain’t got any road sense.”

  Pappas Irakalis had been moonlighting as a supermarket delivery boy whilst Fat Christos was on his honeymoon. He enjoyed working for Mrs Kolokotronis because she kept him well fed on home-made pastitsio and baklava, though the latter did nothing to improve his rampant acne. Amazingly the Pappas encouraged his young charge’s entrepreneurial spirit and had even offered to lend him his briefcase of cutlery to sell on his delivery rounds. At least when he was pedalling around the village he wasn’t pouring his guilt-ridden heart out in a maudlin diatribe about his obsessive infatuation with mail order Masha.

  The object of his obsession suddenly sashayed into view, tottering along the cobbled harbour on her way to the beauty parlour in impossibly high heels. Pappas Iraklis was so distracted by this vision of loveliness he cycled straight into Prosperous Pedros’ bucket of fish, violently propelling the contents back into the sea.

  “That’s a full night’s fishing wasted, yous clumsy malaka,” Pedros bellowed at the young Pappas. Pappas Iraklis burst into tears and promised to reimburse the angry fisherman for his lost catch from his delivery boy wages.

  “’Ere, stops yous bullying,” mail order Masha intervened, attempting to cradle the sobbing young man’s head against her voluptuous silicone bosom. Pappas Iraklis’ dreams of burying his face in Masha’s magnificent chest were thwarted as her abnormally huge belly protruded unnaturally far beyond her silicone assets. Spying a solitary fish lurking in the bottom of Prosperous Pedros’ bucket Masha scooped it up and rubbed it vigorously all over the young Pappas’ face, saying “Evangelia swears fish oil is good for acne.”

  Blushing in mortification because the object of his desire had noticed his proliferation of pimples, Pappas Iraklis pedalled off hastily on the tricycle. Toothless Tasos grabbed the acne smeared fish, saying “I may as well use this to lure Thea’s cat to the ‘ardware shop to ‘ave its tail stapled.”

  Chapter 5

  Sickly Sweet Cravings

  “Just look at the way the mail order floozy was givin’ the come on to that impressionable spotty young Pappas,” Stavroula sneered to her live-in-lover Slick Socrates. “Yous would think in ‘er condition she would try an’ keep ‘er ‘ands to ‘erself, she ‘as to know he is besotted with ‘er.”

  “It is the first time he’s lived away from his mother and must be missing his home comforts. It can’t be easy for a Mama’s boy to live with the Pappas. Perhaps Masha’s condition has made her feel motherly towards Pappas Iraklis,” Slick Socrates said in defence of mail order Masha.

  “Well ‘er condition ‘as certainly cramped ‘er pretensions of glamour, she’s fatter than Onos the pregnant donkey,” Stavroula smirked.

  “Don’t be so snide, she’s expecting your sibling,” Socrates instructed.

  “Half-sibling, if that old fool of my father is actually the father,” Stavroula hissed.

  “Well she certainly served him enough Viagra,” Socrates argued, feeling the subject of questionable paternity was one best squashed speedily. He didn’t want any rumours reviving the gossip about his possible paternity of Tassia’s baby since he had gone to the drastic length of having an unnecessary vasectomy to put Stavroula off the scent of his infidelity.

  Although still in her first flush of pregnancy Masha had ballooned so enormously she was already waddling around like a duck. Her inflated size was entirely due to her insatiable craving for deep fried feta cheese dipped in fig jam. That old fool Vasilis had to shoe horn his wife into her signature figure hugging dresses, now straining and threatening to burst at the seams.

  Although Masha and Soula shared the same due date Soula still had an invisible baby bump, even though she wa
s expecting twins. Whilst all day morning sickness prevented Soula from keeping anything down, Bald Yannis was suffering a phantom pregnancy in sympathy with his wife, leading to abnormal cravings. The usually strict vegetarian had morphed into a raving carnivore, only drawing the line at eating goat out of respect for his adored pet Agapimeni.

  Mail order Masha was in complete denial about her ever expanding body, having convinced herself she was a voluptuous goddess. No matter how hard she tried to resist she could not deny her cravings for custard laden galaktoboureko washed down with extra virgin olive oil straight from the bottle. She indulged in midnight feasts of bougatsa bought in bulk from the bakery, and extra sweet frappes. The only thing she couldn’t face was her favourite borscht and vodka.

  Masha was popping into the beauty parlour for daily tanning sessions as she couldn’t face topless sunbathing in the February chill. Evangelia was dithering between discreetly researching reinforced tanning beds or persuading Masha it was time to stop binging. She braced herself to raise the delicate subject as she plucked Masha’s eyebrows but was thwarted by the ringing of Masha’s mobile phone. Tassia was phoning long distance from Quentin’s Idaho house to congratulate her best friend on her pregnancy and share her own good news.

  “Po po, that gossiping Fotis ‘as spoiled my surprise, I wanted to tell yous myself,” Masha lamented. “’Ows my darling Andromeda?... What’s that about syphilis, this is a terrible connection?” she shouted as the line went dead.

  “I’ll kill Fat Christos if he’s been cheating on Tassia,” Masha threatened, jumping out of her seat in a sudden temper. “Malaka, this dress must ‘ave shrunk in the wash,” she cried as the straining seams finally exploded in an embarrassing rip.

  Ten futile minutes later Evangelia had to admit defeat in her efforts to safety-pin Masha’s dress back together. Waving her hands in despair she conceded defeat, saying “There’s nothin’ else for it Masha, I will ‘ave to pop to the ‘ardware shop an’ get yous one of Bald Yannis’ hideous old lady dresses to go ‘ome in.”