“I thought Fotis said ‘er and Nitsa was comin’ ‘ome two days ago,” Takis said in confusion.
“Take no notice of that old rogue, he’s goin’ senile,” Pedros assured him. “They is due to land this evening, along with K-Went-In and Did-Rees. Thomas should be ‘ere soon then we are off to get ‘em.”
“It will be good to ‘ave the Americans back,” Yiota said with a smile, noticeably not extending the sentiment to Fotini and Nitsa.
“What yous all dressed up like that for, we is only goin’ to the airport?” Tall Thomas called out as he entered the taverna.
“Evangelia said it was the done thing to be smart.”
“She was ‘avin yous on, no one ‘as dressed up for the airport since the 1950s,” Thomas laughed.
“Yous mean to say she conned me out of good money for this ‘aircut?” Pedros said, annoyed for being so gullible. “Yous ‘ad better ‘urry up and eat, there’ll be hell to pay if we’re late.”
“Kalispera Socrate, it’s good to see you ‘ere, ‘as Stavroula let you off the leash?” Takis said to Slick Socrates as he entered the taverna.
“I had to get out, she’s harping on constantly about these anonymous phone calls we’ve been getting from a heavy breather,” Socrates said.
“That doesn’t sound good, the last thing we need is another pervert when it’s possible the elusive underwear thief is back in town,” Thea butted in.
A gust of cold air blew into the taverna as mail order Masha sashayed in wearing a vintage mini tent dress cut to hide her expanding belly, followed by that old fool Vasilis staggering under the weight of her enormous designer handbag.
“What on earth ‘ave yous got in ‘ere Masha, it weighs a ton?” Vasilis complained.
“Oh nothing much, dont’s make such a fuss,” Masha chided, grabbing the bag to keep its emergency contents from prying eyes. “Yous knows I’m not meant to carry anythin’ heavy in my condition. Now what’s cooking this evening Yiota, I could eat an ‘orse?”
The door was opened in trepidation by the nervous young Pappas Iraklis. Approaching the taverna he had bumped into a shadowy figure lurking outside with its nose pressed against the window. The close encounter had further unnerved him when his abject apology for being so clumsy had drawn no response beyond heavy breathing. Carrying a large box of cream puffs he anxiously approached Masha, saying “Kyria Masha, you forgot your kokakia when you left the supermarket and Mrs Kolokotronis asked me to deliver them to you.”
“Masha you promised me you would stop this binging. Yous is already too heavy to get on the donkey and yous know the television studio ‘as threatened to sack yous if yous get any fatter. Yous is supposed to look sexy when you do the weather an’ ‘ere you is buying fattening kokakia,” that old fool Vasilis reproached his wife.
“I am not fat you old fool, I am pregnant. They can’t sack me for that, it would be sexist discrimination,” Masha retorted, thrashing her arms in anger. Her wild flailing knocked the enormous handbag over, revealing its sweet contents as honeyed loukamades and bottles of chocolate milk spilled out.
“Good grief woman, is there no end to your gluttony?” Vasilis demanded, holding aloft a giant sized packet of baklava and oregano flavoured crisps. “This ‘as to stop, it isn’t ‘ealthy.”
“But I am eating for two,” Masha guiltily protested.
“Get a grip, Soula is eatin’ for three and she’s a third of the size of yous. What is ‘appening to yous Masha? Yous ‘ave always taken such a pride in your appearance. Dont’s think I didn’t see you sneaking ‘ome in one of Bald Yannis’ hideous old lady dresses after you split your seams.”
Masha burst into hysterical sobs at her husband’s reprimand. “I cant’s stop, I ‘ave these cravings I just cant’s control. I hate the way I look. I cant’s even see past my stomach to admire my stilettos. Vasili yous ‘ave to ‘elp me stop eatin’ so much junk.”
“I will pray for you to control your cravings,” Pappas Iraklis offered, adding “there are bible verses countenancing against gluttony which may offer you comfort.”
“Well that acne of yours shows Masha’s not the only one with a chocolate addiction,” Vasilis shouted, furious the obsessed with his wife young priest would attempt to bring up religion at this sensitive moment. Taking his weeping wife in his arms he promised to help her, consoling her with the words “Masha I will always love yous no matter what size yous is, but I am worried about your ‘ealth.”
“An’ I want my amazing figure back,” Masha cried. “I promise I will stop using my pregnancy as an excuse to binge on all the sweet things I ‘ave deprived myself of for years. Yous ‘ave no idea what a struggle it was to live on nothing but borscht and vodka while denying myself custard laden galaktoboureko and buttery koulourakia, but I can do it again.”
“And I will help you my love, you’ll soon have yous luscious figure back,” Vasilis promised. Realising his promise could be an uphill struggle without a suitable incentive Vasilis resorted to bribery, offering “’Ow about when you gets your figure back I will treat yous to that eyebrow lift yous ‘ave been wanting.”
Always a sucker for plastic surgery, Masha agreed, “It’s a deal.” Taking pity on Pappas Iraklis she told him to take all the sweet confectionary home with him.
Elated at the prospect of soon regaining his shapely wife Vasilis shouted, “Yiota, my wife will have a salad.”
The other customers visibly exhaled as this embarrassing scene came to a close. Wiping her eyes Masha turned her attention to Prosperous Pedros, asking him “Pedro, did you see the news. Apparently your mother and Nitsa were arrested for trying to sneak a bomb onto their aeroplane?”
A shocked silence descended over the taverna as Masha’s words sank in.
“Dont’s talk such nonsense,” Tall Thomas piped up.
“It’s true; reports were coming through when I left the television studio. Turn the television on Taki, the news will be on.”
All eyes were riveted to the television news where the lead story concerned panic and pandemonium at an American airport where two Greek old ladies had been arrested for attempting to smuggle a bomb. The camera zoomed in on Nitsa and Fotini, with Quentin lurking behind them clutching the parrot’s cage in abject embarrassment.
Prosperous Pedros grasped his head, slamming it up and down on the table, muttering “Tell me this isn’t ‘appening.”
The others shushed him as the newsreader began to speak, saying “It is a national disgrace the way these two elderly innocent ladies from Greece were treated by brutal TSA agents with no respect for their advanced years.” Shoving the microphone under Nitsa’s nose he urged her, “Can you tell me in your own words what transpired?”
“We was dragged out of line, strip searched and interrogated, beaten an’ humiliated,” Nitsa explained. Getting into her stride she continued “we was stretched limb from limb, hung from a hook in the dungeon and whipped mercilessly.
“That’s the same pack of lies she came out with when they ‘ad her locked up in Paraliakos prison,” Prosperous Pedros spluttered. Once again he was shushed by the others who didn’t want to miss a word of the unfolding story. The camera was on Fotini as she claimed, “They took away all my Idaho Spud Bars, the greedy thieving malakas.”
“Abused our ‘uman rights is what they did,” Nitsa shouted. “What is them eejits at Amnesty International goin’ to do about it?”
Before the reporter could get a word in edgeways Nitsa shoved him aside, saying “’Ang on a minute, I just want to wave to my boyfriend Fotis.”
“Dear God, don’t let mother wave at me,” Prosperous Pedros shouted at the television, hoping to retain his anonymity. He had no idea what had led to the arrest of his mother and Nitsa, but he was certain they were anything but innocent. Yet again he was shushed by the others, desperate to hear the full story.
Nitsa was once again holding centre stage under the cameras, claiming “Treated like common terrorists we was, just because the parrot squ
awked ‘bomb.’ Them TSA fellows must be pretty dim witted to mistake the parrot for that Bun Laden bomber just because it ‘ad a shower curtain over its head. ‘Ere, K-Went-In bring the parrot over ‘ere.”
The camera zoomed in on Quentin who had turned an unnatural shade of puce. Nitsa yanked the potato adorned shower curtain off the cage he was holding to reveal what appeared to be a dead parrot.
“They’ve only gone an’ killed it,” Fotini accused.
“The murdering malakas, that was ‘er only companion and comfort in her lonely old age,” Nitsa declared, playing it up for the cameras.
“It isn’t dead. I simply drugged it to shut it up. I couldn’t go through another bomb scare,” Quentin said, at the end of his tether. Grabbing a discarded souvlaki stick he poked the parrot through the bars to prove it was still alive. Jolted rudely awake the parrot announced “Quentin is a pervert,” before falling back into its drugged coma.
The newsreader finished his report by saying “The authorities have promised a full investigation into the despicable way these two elderly Greek ladies have been mistreated on American soil. I think we can safely say we haven’t heard the last from these two brave old souls. For now we can only wish them a safe flight home.”
“’Ere Pedro, this means we dont’s need to be at the airport to meet ‘em as they ‘aven’t got on the plane yet,” Tall Thomas said.
Pedros nodded in silent agreement, wishing with every fibre of his being he could disown his mother. Still in a state of shock from her latest antics he rushed out of the taverna, almost knocking over the shadowy figure lurking outside with its nose pressed against the window.
Chapter 13
Pappa Iraklis Questions His Celibate Calling
A further brush against the shadowy figure lurking outside the taverna caused Pappas Iraklis to drop Masha’s rejected box of cream stuffed kokakia, denting the cardboard and squishing the contents. His initial instinct to check on the welfare of what appeared to be a pitiful lost soul was thwarted when the shadowy figure once again offered nothing more than heavy breathing instead of an apology. Heading home to the miserable house he shared with the Pappas, he muttered “I am beginning to think everyone in this village is lacking in manners.”
The Pappas greeted his young charge with a carping complaint, moaning “What time do you call this? I’ve been waiting hours for you to come home and cook dinner.”
“Dinner is served,” Pappas Iraklis announced sarcastically, slapping the cream puffs, loukamades, bougatsa crisps and chocolate milk on the kitchen table.
“There’s no need to take that uppity tone,” the Pappas rebuked. “Perhaps you should re-read your bible chapters on humility.”
Sighing heavily, the young Pappas decided to confide in his mentor. “I suggested Masha may take inspiration in bible verses to control her sin of gluttony, but her heathen husband mocked me.”
“Well you’re still new to this priest lark, you should concentrate on keeping the house and church clean until you gain more experience. You must keep away from that mail order hussy; you know she incites lustful thoughts that risk corrupting you. You’d be better engaged spending the evening scrubbing the candle wax out of my clerical dress than dwelling on adulterous thoughts,” the Pappas advised.
The Pappas never failed to make Pappas Iraklis feel inadequate in his calling. He knew he needed to banish all thoughts of Masha from his sordid mind and focus on offering spiritual solace to the community. Thinking of this, he said “I have a confession to make. I was so wrapped up in my own humiliation at the hands of Masha’s husband I failed to offer comfort to a poor creature lurking in the shadows outside the taverna. Perchance it was some starving soul desperate for a crumb, and I didn’t even offer them a cream puff.”
“Or it could just as likely been some nefarious type who could have done you physical harm,” the Pappas suggested, demonstrating his usual lack of compassion.
Pappas Iraklis had led a sheltered life, free from nefarious types. Even the small backwater village of Astakos appeared to be a veritable metropolis to him after the tiny hamlet he had been raised in by an overprotective abandoned mother who imagined she saw sin lurking behind every olive tree. The other children had teased young Iraklis because his weedy and lanky stature made a mockery of his Herculean name, but any question of physical intimidation had been avoided as his mother escorted him to school and back, spending every break time sitting in the school yard, fixing her beady eyes on him whilst crocheting bible bookmarks in the shape of a cross and knitting toilet roll holders in the image of the Virgin Mary. For the first time in his life he was free of her chains and beginning to question his calling. He was experiencing the first inkling that his mother’s stifling influence had led him to the church, rather than his own free will. He had never dared to stand up to her, meekly falling in with her ambitions for him to become a celibate priest.
As he ironed the Pappas’ clerical dress he ruminated on his mentor only allowing him to do churchly drudge work. The only opportunity he had been given for a bit of hands-on priestly business had resulted in the humiliating experience of dropping baby Andromeda in the oily font at her baptism. In contrast he was enjoying his part time job as a supermarket delivery boy far more than his priestly duties.
He cherished the warm affection Mrs Kolokotronis extended towards him as a novelty in his life. Instead of chastising him for being clumsy when he went head-over handlebars on the tricycle, she had taken him home to bathe his grazed knee. After fussing over his bruises she had fed him a heaped plate of papoutsakia, insisting he needed feeding up. She had mopped up his tears of gratitude with a tea-towel as he confided his own mother had kept a frugal kitchen as a form of eternal penance and the only entertainment allowed had been bible reading.
Mrs Kolokotronis’ gentle probing led Pappas Iraklis to confess the move to Astakos had raised questions within him about the path in life dictated by his mother. He hated living with the Pappas who he suspected was a religious fraud, and his infatuation with Masha had stirred doubts within him about a life of celibacy. Overcoming his shame he’d told the grandmotherly figure “I know Masha is unattainable, but maybe there’s a nice simple girl out there for me. I would need to relinquish my job as a Pappas in order to marry as I didn’t even consider getting wed before committing to the church.”
“Yous is right about the Pappas being a god-bothering fake who is using yous as a dogsbody. It sounds as though yous mother is a cold, heartless woman who ‘asn’t recognised yous is starved of affection,” Mrs Kolokotronis told him. “If yous dont’s want to live a miserable chaste life you can always chuck the church in, yous deserve a chance of ‘appiness with a nice simple girl. Christos ‘as left me in charge of the supermarket and it’s all getting a bit much for me to handle, ‘ow about I give you a promotion. It’s good honest work.”
Pappas Iraklis promised to give serious thought to the matter, but worried giving up the church would make him homeless. Mrs Kolokotronis po poed his fears, telling him “You could come and lodge with me. I still ‘ave my ‘ouse, but moved in with Christos when he wed. ‘Appen it is time to move back to my own home and let Christos and Tassia ‘ave quality time together. I’ll still see ‘em at the supermarket.”
Pappas Iraklis was roused from his reflections by the Pappas chucking a bible at his head and shouting “look what you’ve done now you clumsy oik, you’ve only gone and burned an iron shaped hole in my best vestments.”
It took all Pappas’ Iraklis’ self control to restrain from taking the iron and beating the Pappas to a pulp. Without uttering a single word he packed his bag. Walking out of the house he ignored the furious cries of the Pappas yelling “get back here at once and finish your duties, the toilet still wants a good scrubbing.”
Chapter 14
A Creepy Shrine
Deirdre spent most of the flight home to Greece with her head stuck in a sick bag, hyperventilating. She couldn’t imagine why Quentin wasn’t on the plane,
but the absence of the two old crones led her to believe they had something to do with it. Allowing her imagination to run riot she created increasingly ridiculous scenarios to explain their absence. Hattie po poed her fears, pointing out Quentin was a grown man and there was any number of reasonable explanations to account for his missing the flight. By the time the plane landed Deirdre was easily persuaded to accept a lift to the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ from Fat Christos, leaving Hattie to wait at the airport for her son and her two best friends.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right waiting here alone?” Deirdre asked Hattie.
“Of course, though I can’t imagine why Pedros and Thomas aren’t here yet to collect Fotini and Nitsa,” Hattie replied, completely oblivious to her friends’ antics hitting the international news. “You get along home and make everything comfortable for Quentin’s return.”
“What a relief it is to be back secure in the knowledge our Greek home will be free of those repugnant creatures from next door,” Deirdre said to herself, opening the door of the ‘Lemoni Spiti.’ Making a beeline for the bathroom she was confused to discover an embroidered toilet roll holder hanging on the back of the door and a rather grotesque knitted bride disguising the toilet brush. Rushing into the living room she found all the furniture had been rearranged, with embroidered antimacassars draped over the back of every chair. “How odd,” she said aloud, wondering which of their Greek friends not only had access to a key, but had a natural bent for interior decorating. The rearranged furniture was certainly an improvement on the layout she had designed and whoever had been in the house was a dab hand with the furniture polish and a feather duster as every surface gleamed.
Heading into the kitchen Deirdre exclaimed “How thoughtful,” at the sight of a pan of stifado with a delicious aroma bubbling away on the hob, though she was less enthused that the contents of her kitchen cupboards had been anally lined up in alphabetical order. Dragging her suitcases into the bedroom she smiled at the sight of the double bed neatly made up with starched, ironed sheets, but began to suspect something odd was going on when she pulled back the covers to be assaulted by a sweet cloying perfume emanating from the pillows. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” Deirdre wondered.
Goatly Goings On Page 5
