Goatly Goings On

by Katerina Nikolas

  Turning to the triple folding mirror atop the dressing table Deirdre let out an involuntary scream as she clapped eyes on what could only be described as a creepy shrine to Slick Socrates. A cluster of lighted candles cast eerie shadows on a gruesome arrangement of photographs of Stavroula’s live-in-lover stuck around the mirror. She couldn’t see her reflection clearly in the glass as one of her best lipsticks had been used to scrawl the word ‘Socrates’ inside a garish red heart. Deirdre’s usual clutter had been replaced with a neat display comprising a folded pair of underpants, a set of braces and a clump of dandruff infested hair.

  The hairs on the back of Deirdre’s neck stood on end at the sudden realisation she may not be alone in the house. It was now clear the house had been cleaned and tidied by a crazy woman suffering an unnatural obsession with the local lawyer. Deirdre imagined Socrates’ stalker could attack her in a fit of deranged madness if she discovered her unhealthy fixation was exposed. Immediately dismissing the notion the obsessive could be Stavroula, Deirdre turned tail and ran from the house, determined to warn Stavroula and Socrates there was a compulsive neurotic on the loose in her house who must be ejected.

  Chapter 15

  No Stray Husbands

  Deirdre had only just missed running into the obsessed stalker squatting in her house by minutes. Koula, bored of using the ‘Lemoni Spiti’s’ telephone to place a deluge of heavy breathing calls to Socrates, determined instead to do something to make him notice her. Ambling along Astakos harbour she ducked out of sight in the beauty parlour to avoid the prying eyes of her sister Soula busy polishing a chainsaw on the doorstep of the hardware shop.

  “Can I ‘elp yous?” Evangelia asked, thinking it would take more than a good brushing to remove the matted knots from this manic looking stranger’s long hair. Evangelia’s question roused Koula from her trance like state and she looked around in wonder, having never before been inside a beauty parlour.

  “Can you make me look irresistible?” Koula asked.

  “Well nothins’ impossible,” Evangelia replied, staring at the shabbily dressed woman who appeared to have made up her eyes with boot polish and thinking irresistible would take a miracle. “Come back in an hour an’ I’ll see what I can do.”

  Spotting the coast was now clear of Soula, Koula darted into Stavroula’s taverna and ordered a cup of mountain tea. Sloshing the tea on the table Stavroula’s curiosity was piqued at the sight of the stranger. “I ‘aven’t seen you in the village before, ‘ave you business ‘ere?”

  “I’m here to look for my husband,” Koula replied, glaring manically at her host.

  “’Ave yous lost ‘im then?” Stavroua asked.

  “You have him, but he is rightfully mine,” Koula answered. Having spied the love of her life canoodling with Stavroula when she followed him round the village in darkness, she was consumed with jealousy, but didn’t think much of her rival who she considered a temporary irritation to be swatted from Socrates’ life like a pesky fly. Stavroula had popped up in the some of the photos Koula had snapped. She had decapitated her out of them with neat precision, careful to leave Socrates intact in the treasured celluloid images.

  “What are you talking about, I ‘aven’t ‘ad any stray husbands in here today, only my regulars?” Stavroula asked, completely baffled by the stranger’s odd utterance.

  “You have to let Socrates go, he belongs to me. Only his sorry liaison with you is stopping him from being my husband,” Koula hissed.

  “Are you mad?” Stavroula shouted, picking up her broom and violently brushing Koula out of the taverna, straight into the arms of Slick Socrates returning from his lawerly office.

  “’Ave yous been carrying on with this trollop?” Stavroula accused, turning the broom on her lover and showering him with painful blows.

  “What are you talking about?” Socrates cried, fighting for control of the broom in an attempt to avoid a thrashing. “I have no clue who this creature is. You know I only have eyes for you, my love, and would marry you tomorrow if it wasn’t for your blasted entanglements.”

  “Well she come in ‘ere claiming yous was her husband,” Stavroula puffed in righteous indignation.”Somethin’ must be goin’ on.”

  Grabbing Koula by the scruff of the neck Socrates demanded “Explain yourself woman, how dare you tell Stavroula I am your husband.”

  “I heard up in Osta you are unmarried. You deserve a good wife to look after you. I wanted to tell you on the telephone that we belong together, but couldn’t get the words out.”

  “So yous is the nutter what ‘as been tormenting us with heavy breathing phone calls,” Stavroula accused.

  Socrates interrupted to ask, “You say you’re from Osta. Are you related to that tyrannical chap I represented who was found with his dead sister’s body in the deep freeze? I honestly have no clue who you are and did nothing to encourage your deluded notion I would ever want to be your husband.”

  Stavroula knew her lover well enough to know he was not feigning ignorance of this now sobbing woman. “Be gone with yous, yous is off your trolley,” she commanded, brutally hitting out with the broom again.

  Koula fled the scene, just as Deirdre rolled up in a panic to warn Slick Socrates an obviously besotted stalker had broken into her house and set up a shrine in his honour.

  “I’ve never seen anything so creepy, photos of you all round the mirror and what I suspect are your underpants and braces enshrined by lighted candles. She could have burned the house down,” Deirdre wailed, downing in one the large glass of Metaxa Stavroula pressed on her.

  “We’ve just had a run in with her,” Stavroula explained. “Mad as a hatter she is, claiming Socrates is her ‘usband.”

  “And to think she’s been hiding out in my house,” Deirdre said with a shudder.

  “’As she made an awful mess?” Stavroula asked.

  “Well that’s the strangest thing; apart from the creepy shine in the bedroom the whole house was immaculate. I thought one of our friends had been in to spring clean until I discovered the photographs and lipstick heart. I could have been in danger returning alone,” Deirdre said.

  “Breaking in to clean doesn’t sound exactly dangerous,” Socrates observed.

  “I think she’s actually been living there in our absence. It gives me the shivers to think she was sleeping in my bed.”

  “Well I’ll come back with you Did-Rees and make sure it’s safe until K-Went-In returns from the airport,” Socrates offered.

  “That’s very kind of you Socrate. I really don’t fancy being alone in the house,” Deirdre said in relief. “I just can’t understand why Quentin wasn’t on the plane, leaving me to cope with this all on my own.”

  “’Aven’t yous seen the news then? K-Went-In and those two old crones was only arrested in America for terroristic activity after trying to sneak a bomb on the plane.”

  Deirdre went as white as a sheet and hastily downed another large medicinal brandy. “How could anyone mistake poor Quentin for a terrorist?” she asked. “Oh heavens, have they locked him up in Guantanamo? It must be a case of mistaken identity.”

  “Not to worry Did-Rees, they were arrested in error and have now been released and are on their way back. From what Nitsa said on the television news the parrot innocently squawked ‘bomb’ and they were all carted off, strip searched and interrogated.”

  “Oh poor Quentin, that’s the very last time I let him go anywhere with Fotini and Nitsa, the pair of them are a liability,” Deirdre said, relieved to hear Quentin was actually on his way back. “It was a complete nightmare having them as houseguests, I swear they are certifiable.”

  “It seems yous is surrounded by nut jobs Did-Rees, two of ‘em next door and one in yous house,” Stavroula said. “Now, shall I put some of my moussaka in a packet for you to take ‘ome in case yous get hungry?”

  “Oh there’s no need for that, Socrates’ stalker left a pan of aromatic stifado bubbling away on the hob and it looked very tasty.”<
br />
  “’Ow do yous know it isn’t poisoned? I’m not ‘aving Socrates risking ‘is life with possibly spiked stifado,” Stavroula replied, loading Deirdre up with the aforementioned moussaka and the rest of the Metaxa. Planting a kiss on Socrates’ lips she urged him “Now stay alert an’ if the crazy stalker turns up again telephone Pancratius the village policeman.”

  Chapter 16

  The Parrot Masters Fifteen Languages

  Sighing in relief Quentin finally fled the refuge of the aeroplane’s toilet when the pilot announced they were about to descend.

  “About time, hogging the bathroom for hours when I was wantin’ to use it to lure that ‘andsome young flight attendant with a full ‘ead of ‘air into the Mile High Club,” Nitsa complained, fluttering her eyelashes at the obviously camp steward.

  Fotini had insisted on letting the parrot out of its cage when it woke from its drugged stupor, prompting Quentin to barricade himself in the bathroom to avoid further humiliation. Even from the cell-like confines of the on-board lavatory he could hear the parrot squawking “bomb” and the screams of terror from his fellow passengers. He was unaware the flight attendant who had caught Nitsa’s predatory eye was now a hero for defusing the situation by skilfully taming the parrot. The steward’s theatrical efforts to teach the parrot to say “bomb” in fifteen different languages was so hysterically funny he had the passengers creased with laughter and received a standing ovation when the flight landed.

  “Ere K-Went-In, carry the parrot, it is weighin’ me down something rotten,” Fotini demanded, elbowing her way off the plane.

  “Not on your life,” Quentin retorted, sprinting down the air-stairs to put as much distance as possible between himself and the two old crones, determined to be nowhere near them when he went through customs. Passing uneventfully through passport control Quentin looked frantically round for the soothing presence of Deirdre, but was instead greeted by the smothering embrace of his mother Hattie.

  “Mother I insist you move in with me and have nothing more to do with those ghastly old bags next door,” Quentin told her, still mortified by the embarrassment they had caused him.

  “’Ere K-Went-In, that’s no way to speak about my aunty,” Tall Thomas butted in.

  “Can yous blame ‘im, yous saw what he went through on the news,” Prosperous Pedros said in Quentin’s defence. “I’d disown my disgraceful mother if I could.”

  “That’s no way to speak about your mother,” Quentin protested, worried if Pedros neglected his responsibilities towards Fotini he could end up lumbered as her nearest neighbour. “Why isn’t Deirdre here to meet me?” he asked.

  “Now you’re not to worry Quentin, but Deirdre is at the house making sure the crazy squatting stalker doesn’t come back,” Hattie revealed.

  “How on earth has she got herself a stalker?” Quentin asked.

  “She hasn’t, Socrates has, but as you’ve got a crazy squatter who’s been living in your house I will be moving back in with Fotini and Nitsa,” Hattie said, still rather confused by Deirdre’s garbled phone call about Slick Socrates underpants and a knitted bride toilet brush cover.

  Just then Fotini and Nitsa emerged from passport control, followed closely by ‘call me Mel’ Melecretes, laden down with their suitcases and bulging handbags.

  “What on earth are you doing here Mel?” Quentin asked, surprised to see the owner of ‘Granny’s Greek Gyros’ on Greek soil. He hadn’t spotted Melecretes on the flight due to his self-imposed incarceration inside the lavatory.

  “Call me impetuous. I managed to get a last minute flight. I was so ‘omesick for Greece and Nitsa persuaded me we is probably related on account of us ‘aving the same moustache,” ‘call me Mel’ explained.

  “He’ll be stopping with us,” Fotini announced to the great delight of Prosperous Pedros who considered if his mother had a man under her roof he would be spared the usual daily running round to keep up with her demands. Tall Thomas looked less than enamoured at the prospect, not keen on any more relatives turning up out of the woodwork to attract his aunty’s largesse when it came to her inheritance.

  A flash of bulbs exploded in their faces as the smitten young reporter from Paraliakos television station turned up for the scoop on Fotini and Nitsa’s arrival home after their arrest at the hands of the evil and fascist TSA agents. “Can you tell us about your awful ordeal?” he asked.

  “Ooh it was terrible, strip searched and interrogated we was,” Nitsa declared, adjusting her top buttons to give a garish flash of her hairy wrinkled cleavage. Her sudden movement dislodged the purloined toupee. It fell out of the bottom of her hideous old lady dress, landing at her feet like a smuggled bedraggled rat.

  “Was the experience so traumatic it caused you to lose your hair?” the smitten young reporter asked.

  “’Ow dare you imply I am goin’ bald,” Nitsa scoffed, plumping her wispy blue rinsed hair. “This is just a little token I picked up for Bald Yannis,” she added, scooping up the rug and shoving it back down her bra.

  Looking around the airport Nitsa was disappointed Fotis hadn’t turned up to meet her, but she gave him a wave on camera.

  “Shall we be off home then?” Prosperous Pedros urged, eager to get out from the limelight.

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere without the parrot,” Fotini cried.

  “Well where is it?” Pedros asked in frustration.

  “The cage was ‘eavy so the ‘andsome young flight attendant with a full ‘ead of ‘air offered to carry it through customs,” Nitsa explained, unaware the parrot and the flight attendant were now being quizzed by Greek customs officers over the parrot’s verbal prowess in being able to squawk bomb in fifteen different languages.

  Fifteen minutes later the flight attendant emerged in a terrible temper, carrying the parrot. Luckily for Fotini she escaped the verbal lashing he was primed to deliver when the television cameras zoomed in on him, allowing him to ham up his heroic handling of the parrot mid-flight and the way he had calmed the traumatised passengers with laughter. He was so eager to claim his moment of fame he didn’t even flinch when Nitsa goosed him on camera.

  Chapter 17

  Prosperous Pedros Attracts An Admirer

  Koula fled the scene of her humiliating rejection and ejection, furtively taking cover behind a tombstone in the local graveyard. Stinging from the painful snub by her chosen husband, her tears rolled freely, further adding to her deranged appearance as the boot polish smeared her cheeks. “He didn’t mean it, he is meant to be with me, not that horrid Stavroula,” she chanted.

  Suddenly remembering her appointment at the beauty parlour Koula perked up. “I will look so irresistible he will have to marry me,” she convinced herself.

  Dragging herself up from the ground she scuttled head down in the direction of the beauty parlour. She was so wrapped up in her deluded ambition of snaring Socrates away from Stavroula that she failed to notice Prosperous Pedros parking his pick-up after dropping his mother home, and was knocked off her feet as his door slammed against her.

  Climbing out of the pick-up Pedros fervently hoped he hadn’t done any damage to the woman. The last thing he needed was an inconvenient trip to the hospital. Apologising profusely he helped the shabbily dressed woman to her feet, paying scant attention beyond noting none of her limbs appeared to be broken. He failed to notice the desperation in her eyes, suddenly transformed into a manic glint of fanatical passion as her deluded feelings for Socrates were instantly transferred to this handsome vision of manliness. Too awestruck to speak, Koula brushed her ripped skirt down and scuttled into the beauty parlour, giving herself over to Evangelia’s professional care.

  Evangelia’s attempts to draw the strange woman into conversation at first elicited no response, but as she dragged a comb through the tangled knots Koula finally struck up the courage to ask “Who was that gorgeous man who knocked me over with his pick-up door?”

  Peering through the window Evangelia spied the familiar pick-up
and told her customer “well the vehicle belongs to Prosperous Pedros.”

  “Does he live round here?” Koula asked, desperate to obtain any scrap of information on her latest obsession.

  “He lives on the coastal road leading out of the village. ‘Appen you’ve noticed his little stone cottage with the primitive outside bathroom,” Evangelia volunteered in relief. She hated to work in silence, enjoying nothing better than a bit of gossip. “Pedros is a fisherman, a quiet type, a bit shy.”

  “Is he married?” Koula asked with her fingers crossed.

  “Po po, Pedros is a confirmed bachelor. You’ll never catch ‘im with a wife,” Evangelia confided, remembering the days when she’d had her own eye on Pedros but had been met with complete disinterest. Koula’s eyes glinted, mad with excitement at the news Pedros was single and she immediately decided to make him her husband. How pathetic she had been ever imagining Socrates was the man for her when the godlike Pedros existed, she’d had a lucky escape. Her reverie was interrupted when Evangelia asked her if she’d like a complete makeover.

  “Yous hair could do with a good cut; it’s in terrible condition if yous don’t mind my saying, an’ yous moustache could do with a waxing. That black eye make-up is like somethin’ out of a horror movie, a nice touch of blue eye shadow would be much more becoming. ‘Appen yous could buy a new dress from the ‘ardware shop when I’ve made yous over.”