“Oh Yanni, dont’s be such a grump, it will be fun. You can pick their brains for ideas of what vital things to put in yous precious apocalypse kits,” Soula chided, skilfully flipping a large batch of kolokythokefthedes in the frying pan to brown the courgettes patties and checking the progress of the feta baking inside the oven.
“As long as yous dont’s spend all night talking about babies,” Yannis reminded her. “’Ave yous done some skordalia?” he added.
“Of course, I knows ‘ow yous phantom pregnancy is makin’ yous crave garlic,” Soula told him. “Ooh, that will be them now, can yous let ‘em in Yanni? ‘Ow does I look?”
“Very nice,” Bald Yannis complimented his wife, thinking she’d scrubbed up quite nicely.
Fat Christos and Tassia entered, explaining they’d left baby Andromeda with Mrs Kolokotronis and Iraklis.
“Aren’t yous worried the young lad will drop ‘er on ‘er ‘ead again?” Bald Yannis asked, remembering how the trainee Pappas had dropped the baby at her christening.
“Mother will keep a watchful eye. I think it was bein’ round the Pappas that made Iraklis a tad clumsy, he’s provin’ to be a dab hand with the cheese grater,” Fat Christos said. “Ah, here’s Masha,” he added as mail order Masha entered wearing a ‘Bun in the Oven’ tee-shirt straining to contain her voluptuous silicone bosom.
“What ‘appened to that old fool Vasilis, ‘as he ‘ad a better offer?” Bald Yannis asked.
“No, he’s still trying to get up the steps to the front door,” Masha explained. “He’s a bit winded.”
Fat Christos disappeared to give Vasilis a push up the stairs. The old fool finally made it; looking a sickly shade of grey he collapsed onto a chair, wheezing, “I’ll be all right after an ouzo.”
“Yous ‘ave made it nice in ‘ere Soula,” Tassia said looking round. “’Ave you found out yet if the twins are girls or boys.”
“Boys, I am ‘avin’ two miniature Bald Yannis,’” Soula said joyfully. “Do yous know what yous is ‘avin.”
“A boy this time, a brother for Andromeda.”
“An’ we all know Masha is ‘avin a silicone chip,” Bald Yannis laughed, having no idea his idea of an original joke was well past its sell-by-date.
“Did yous all hear that funny business about a squatter moving into K-Went-In and Did-Ree’s ‘ouse whilst they were back in Idaho?” Masha asked. “Stavroula said it was some crazy woman who had gone gaga over Socrates and fancied he was ‘er ‘usband.”
“Well he does ‘ave a bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man,” Bald Yannis boomed, not sparing Tassia’s blushes.
“It must be a terrible thing to suffer unrequited love, and how terrible that the poor woman had nowhere to call home and had to resort to squatting,” Soula said, having no idea the squatter in question was her sister Koula.
“We must all lock our houses and shops very securely,” Fat Christos observed, not liking the sound of squatting strangers.
Bald Yannis soon steered the dinner chatter to his end of the world scam and was relieved to hear Masha had arranged for the smitten young reporter to do a televised segment on the unique benefits of Astakos as the place to survive the impending apocalypse.
“Does you think people will fall for it?” Fat Christos asked hopefully.
“All we’ve got to do is get the word out that Astakos is the only place on earth to avoid being exterminated in this galactic god bothering event and we can cash in. I’ve been busy puttin’ the word out on social media too,” Bald Yannis said.
“Excellent. Adonis told me he’s ‘ad his wife Penelope doin’ the same thing too,” Fat Christos said. “His ‘otel is already fully booked so we’ll ‘ave to start thinkin’ of where we can put up all the others we can con into comin’ ‘ere.”
“I’ve come up with an idea for that. Naturally we can rent out our ‘ouses to ‘em. Soula an’ I will be sleeping in the goat pen,” Bald Yannis revealed to Soula’s surprise. “But I’ve been reading up on this new fashion for glamping an’ think we can make some money out of it.”
“Glamping?” the others all questioned in unison. “What on earth is that?”
“It’s posh camping,” Bald Yannis explained.
“’Ow are we supposed to making camping posh? Surely that’s like saying’ bedding down in the goat pen is more upmarket than sleeping in the pig sty,” Fat Christos queried, being rather partial to his home comforts.
“I was thinking we could put shower curtains inside tents for ‘em to sleep on, it will add a luxuriant touch. If we put the tents on the beach they can sluice ‘emselves down in the sea and we can get Takis to deliver ‘em gyros in bed.”
“Ooh Yanni, yous is so clever, gyros in bed does sound upmarket,” Soula gushed with pride.
“I’ve told yous before, I feel it in my guts that the end of the world is nigh,” that old fool Vasilis said. “Yous should be takin’ this Doomsday prophecy seriously.”
“I never ‘ad yous down as that gullible,” Yannis snorted, “but yous did get taken in by a gold digger.”
As Masha glared at Yannis with dagger drawn looks he continued, “I’ll fill my apocalypse kits with all the extras they’ll need to survive. I was ‘oping to pick yous brains on ideas for what to put in ‘em. So far I’ve come up with raincoats, torches an’ ouzo.”
“I can supply the ouzo and they’ll be needin’ olive oil too, nobody could survive Doomsday without a dash of extra virgin,” Fat Christos volunteered.
“I couldn’t survive the end of the world without lipstick and nail polish,” Masha offered.
“I dont’s think you really get the idea about essential end of the world supplies,” Bald Yannis sneered, rolling his eyes at Masha’s inanity.
“There’s no need to act so superior,” Tassia butted in to defend her friend.
“Tassia’s right, some of these Doomsday believers might well be vain women,” Fat Christos.
“Hair dryers, they’ll definitely need hairdryers,” Masha suggested, nonchalantly fingering her hair extensions.
“Now yous is just bein’ daft, where’s they goin’ to plug in hairdryers if they is stopping in tents on the beach,” Fat Christos mocked.
“But Yannis said they was glamorous tents,” Masha said defensively.
“Look, if you really want end of the world supplies you need to think of practical things,” Tassia piped up. “Flint to start fire, cast iron skillets to cook in, bottled water, first aid kits and hunting knives.”
The others stared at Tassia, ashamed they had not realised the apocalypse kits must contain such practical essentials.
“That’s all well and good,” Bald Yannis harrumphed, “but we cant’s ‘ave ‘em lighting fires, the next thing yous know all the olive groves would be set alight an’ the village burned down. An’ I dont’s think we should let a bunch of Doomsday nutters loose with huntin’ knives, not with all my goats to consider. Perhaps we’d better stick to bottled water and toilet paper.”
As the rest of them continued to argue over suitable items, that old fool Vasilis slowly slumped over, landing face first in his plate of beefteki.
“’As he croaked it?” Bald Yannis shouted, hoping his wife’s cooking hadn’t killed the old codger.
Yanking her husband’s head upright Masha screamed “someone ‘ad better give ‘im the kiss of life.”
“Dont’s look at me,” Fat Christos and Bald Yannis said in unison as Soula pushed them out of the way, demanding, “Give him some air. He doesn’t look good at all. With ‘is advanced years we cant’s be too careful. We must get ‘im to ‘ospital at once. Yanni, phone for a taxi, it will be quicker than waiting for an ambulance.”
Between them Bald Yannis and Fat Christos hauled Vasilis downstairs, propping him upright until the taxi arrived. The three women hovered over him, despairing he looked at death’s door. Mail order Masha fretted her husband had been poisoned by Soula’s cooking, wondering if she had used any ingredients that had been stashed i
n the Osta deep freeze next to her aunt’s decomposing body.
When Nitsa pulled up in the old Mercedes taxi Fat Christos took charge of the situation, insisting “yous three pregnant women should stay away from the ‘ospital, it’s flu season and yous could pick up anything. Yannis and I will go along with Vasilis in the taxi.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Bald Yannis argued. “Yous is forgettin’ there’s my phantom pregnancy to consider.”
“The clue is in the word phantom, yous big lummox,” Fat Christos shouted, “now man up and ‘elp me. Yous cant’s expect Nitsa to carry ‘im from the taxi into the ‘ospital.”
“Ooh, I don’t mind givin’ Yannis a hand when we get there,” Nitsa declared, delighted to have the hardware shop man captive in her taxi.
Mail order Masha, relieved she wasn’t expected to go along as she loathed hospitals, waved the taxi away, saying “Someone ‘as to stay ‘ome to feed the donkey and check the old fool has updated his will.”
Chapter 30
Frightful Bed Companions
Propped up in the back of Nitsa’s old Mercedes taxi between Bald Yannis and Fat Christos, that old fool Vasilis looked distinctly corpse-like. “I ‘ope he’s not dead,” Fat Christos said, “it wouldn’t be right ‘aving to bury ‘im again, so soon after the last time. Cant’s you speed up a bit Nitsa? At this pace rigor mortis could set in.”
“I’ll ‘ave to charge extra if yous want me to go any faster in the dark,” Nitsa complained, accelerating to a risky twenty kilometres an hour and hitting a pot hole.
The resultant bump jerked Vasilis who fell forward, violently bashing his head hard against Nitsa’s handbrake. “What ‘appened? Who ate my beefteki?” he groaned before passing out in another dead faint.
“He’s alive, it’s a miracle,” Fat Christos cried in relief.
“Yous can turn round Nitsa, he ain’t dead,” Bald Yannis shouted, eager to avoid the hospital and return to the homemade rizogalo Soula had prepared for dessert.
“Dont’s be so daft, he’s been out of it for ages, we ‘ave to get ‘im checked out,” Fat Christos argued as Nitsa pulled into the hospital, stopping the taxi by driving smack into the emergency barrier.
After handing over Nitsa’s exorbitant fare Bald Yannis and Fat Christos dragged Vasilis’ still inanimate body out of the taxi and into the hospital, hotly pursued by Nitsa who was desperate to get up close and personal with her favourite hardware shop man. She was still modelling the frumpy night dress and curlers she’d been wearing when the emergency call for a taxi came through. There hadn’t been time to scrub the avocado face mask off, leaving her with a ghastly green complexion made all the more garish against her neon orange moustache.
The examining doctor demanded to know if the old fool was taking any medication, but as Vasilis was too out of it to answer the doctor resorted to rummaging through his pockets.
“I think you’ll find the old fool has overdosed on these,” the doctor sneered disapprovingly, waving an empty bottle of Viagra aloft. “He has fainted and is showing other classic symptoms,” he added, pointedly gesturing towards Vasilis’ obviously tumescent groin. “Send the timewaster home. I just can’t understand why these old codgers are so bent on carrying on as if they are still forty years younger.”
“You would if you saw his wife,” Fat Christos countered. “He’s married to Masha what does the weather on telly.”
“This old relic is married to that ravishing beauty?” the doctor gasped in amazement. “On second thoughts the old man must be observed for the night in case he develops palpitations. His wife must be told about his condition and summoned immediately. Nurse, prepare a bed.”
The doctor was a devoted fan of Masha’s weather show, skilfully scheduling operations to never miss one of her television appearances. He wasn’t about to waste this wonderful opportunity to meet her in the flesh. Wandering over to reception he stole a single carnation from a vase of flowers to plump up his buttonhole, then grabbed the rest of the blooms to stash in the doctor’s lounge and present to Masha when she arrived.
“His bedside manner certainly improved when yous mentioned the mail order floozy,” Nitsa grumbled.
“It’s shocking. Vasilis could have dropped down dead in the taxi going home, he still looks a funny colour,” Fat Christos commented, helping Bald Yannis drag the old man to the bed the nurse had prepared.
Vasilis was unceremoniously dumped on the bed. The movement revived him and looking around he screamed in terror when he caught sight of the skeletal horror with a bald skull, a toothless grimace and a broken arm occupying the adjoining bed. “’Ere, ‘ave a drop of my raki, yous dont’s look too hot,” the old woman gasped, proffering a bottle in her claw like hand.
“Is this a nightmare? ‘Ave I woken up in the graveyard? I knew that end of the world prophecy would come true,” Vasilis moaned.
“Nitsa, I knew yous would come, ‘ave yous decided to marry me?” the familiar voice of Fotis piped up from the chair he’d been dozing in next to Kyria Moustakos’ bed.
“Foti, what are yous doin’ ‘ere?” Nitsa exclaimed, desperately trying to peel the green gunk off her face.
“I tried to tell yous, mother broke ‘er arm, but yous just disappeared into the night,” Fotis said, clueless Nitsa had been driven away by the prospect of playing nursemaid to his mother. He was still waiting for her answer to his marriage proposal and harboured the deluded presumption his unromantic offer of marriage had simply scared her with its suddenness.
“I understand if yous need more time to think it over my cherub, but face facts, we ain’t gettin’ any younger,” Fotis pleaded with a twirl of his moustache.
“Foti, I cant’s marry yous, I ‘ave promised myself to Bald Yannis,” Nitsa spluttered, kicking Yannis in the shins and hissing “if yous play along, I’ll make it worth yous while.”
“Dont’s try and entangle me in some sordid love triangle, you mad old bag,” Bald Yannis retorted, refusing to humour the deluded old hag.
“Ooh Foti, I warned yous she was a loose type, she’s been stringin’ yous along with another man on the side,” Kyria Moustakos piped up.
Pulling himself out of his chair Fotis squared up to Bald Yannis, saying “Does yous want to take this outside?”
“Dont’s be so ridiculous, do you imagine yous is any challenge to me and my chainsaw,” Bald Yannis scoffed, revving the engine of the chainsaw that accompanied him everywhere since being caught out without it when he’d transported Quentin’s goat on his bicycle.
“What is this rowdy disturbance about? Don’t you realise there are sick people in here,” the doctor shouted, entering the room to see if Masha had turned up yet. Fotis slumped meekly back into his chair, confused by Nitsa’s professed devotion to another man.
Turning to Bald Yannis the doctor enthused over the chain saw. “That is a fine looking machine; I’ve been meaning to invest in one.”
“I presume with his bedside manner he uses one when he operates,” Fat Christos muttered, less than impressed with the doctor.
“I can give yous a good price in my ‘ardware shop if yous can just ‘ave a quick look at my chest,” Bald Yannis blurted. “I keep ‘aving a tightness when I’ve eaten.”
“That’ll be heartburn on account of your phantom pregnancy, Tassia suffers from it all the time,” Fat Christos diagnosed.
“Oh, it that all it is?” Yannis sighed in relief.
“How much of a discount can you offer,” the doctor asked Yannis, still thinking of the chainsaw.
“Nowt, now Fat Christos ‘as done yous job for yous,” Yannis sniffed.
“Nurse, tell me when the old fool’s wife turns up,” the doctor barked, rushing out to find some aftershave before Masha arrived. “I’ve had quite enough of this peasant rabble.”
Chapter 31
Quentin And Deirdre Get Lumbered
“I could swear I just saw a goat in a boat,” Deirdre remarked as they were towed past the harbour in the
ir broken down car by Adonis the mechanic.
“You must be seeing things, dear, perhaps the moonlight is casting odd shadows and making you see floating goats,” Quentin replied. “It’s been a long day and I expect your eyes could be playing tricks on you.”
“To say it has been a long day is putting it mildly,” Deirdre groaned. Following coffee and brandies as the guest of Pedros the old goat herder in his daughter’s house, the one Melecretes had mislead them into thinking was a taverna, the American pair had planned a leisurely afternoon drive. Their plans were thwarted when the old banger refused to start.
After a lot of tinkering under the bonnet the old goat herder pronounced “yous is right, the old banger won’t start, yous ‘ad better come back inside whiles yous wait for the tow truck. My daughter will be ‘appy to rustle yous up some lunch.”
“We couldn’t dream of imposing,” Deirdre insisted, desperate to be rid of the malodorous groping goat herder and his scowling daughter. “I’m sure Adonis the mechanic will be along any minute. We can amuse ourselves with a bracing walk.”
“I couldn’t let yous do that, it ain’t safe. Old Kostas’ guard dog ‘as chewed through its chain an’ is on the rampage. It’s already feasted on Maria’s roosters and it ‘as a preference for a shapely ankle,” Pedros the goat herder told them, eyeing up Deirdre’s legs and dribbling slightly.
The look of panic on Deirdre’s face, magnified at the sound of wild barking, prompted Quentin to declare “A spot of lunch sounds wonderful.”
The goat herder’s warm welcome was not mirrored by his daughter’s sulky scowl. She set to preparing lunch in surly silence, finally slamming down a basket of crusty bread, a plate of feta cheese doused in olive oil, salad and some freshly fried chips.
“Dont’s forget the garlic,” her father shouted, telling the Americans “yous ‘aven’t lived till yous ‘ave tasted raw garlic cloves on top of oily bread. It’ll put ‘airs on yous chest Did-Rees.”
Goatly Goings On Page 12
