“I could have sworn I locked the door,” he muttered, before passing out cold on the church floor with only the semi-deflated Gloria for warmth.
Chapter 36
Quentin Quivers
“Thank goodness you are here to rescue us Pedro, we’ve endured the night from hell stuck in this awful hospital room with that constantly carping carcass demanding endless bedpans,” Quentin said, tilting his head towards a now snoring Kyria Moustakos. “We had no idea hospitalised patients were reliant on the kind ministrations of strangers.”
“Well strictly speakin’ yous was ‘ere to look after me. Masha couldn’t do it as she’s pregnant and ‘as the donkey to see to, an’ it was obvious that smitten old doctor had designs on ‘er body,” that old fool Vasilis piped up. “It’s just bad luck yous got lumbered with someone else’s relative too and there was no transport to get yous ‘ome.”
“There were more relatives sleeping here than patients,” Deirdre observed, thinking it odd that Vasilis seemed to consider them relatives. She’d been surprised to learn whole families set up camp for the night in the hospital, being used to the concept of visiting hours which Greeks apparently took no notice of. “Anyway the doctor has signed Vasilis’ discharge papers so we can leave. Fotis will have to find some other mugs to stay with his mother.”
Deirdre had just finished speaking when Fotis arrived; weighted down with a colossal octopus he thrust into Quentin’s hands.
“K-Went-In, Did-Rees, please accept this octopus in grateful thanks for spending the night with mother. Yous is so kind hearted I knew yous wouldn’t desert ‘er.”
“Foti, leaving your mother, who we had never even met before, and expecting us to spend all night running round after her, is completely unacceptable behaviour,” Quentin sternly admonished the twinkly fisherman.
“But it were a romantic emergency,” Fotis pleaded in his defence. “I ‘ad to find out what Nitsa’s answer was to my proposal of marriage.”
“Did she say yes?” Deirdre asked, mellowing a little at the thought of this senior romance.
“Well it was a bit difficult to get a straight answer out of Nitsa on account of I couldn’t prise her away from all them ‘andsome firemen,” Fotis admitted. “Still I got a good night’s fishin’ in an’ I’m sure yous will appreciate the octopus, they ain’t cheap if you ‘ave to buy ‘em. I’d recommend you do it in a bit of vinegar, Did-Rees.”
“I can’t cope with that thing in my kitchen,” Deirdre said, horrified by its bulbous head and bulging eyes, and having no clue how to gut it.
“Now Deirdre, it’s a fine looking specimen, I’m sure if we take it to the taverna Yiota will turn it into a delicious meal,” Quentin said, struggling to keep hold of the slippery eight-legged creature. “Now what’s this about firemen, Foti? Has there been an incident.”
“Aye, there was a bit of a fire, but no one was hurt,” Fotis began, only to be interrupted by Prosperous Pedros insisting they must leave at once. He was eager to be gone before Fotis could blab about Quentin’s horny goat being rescued from the inferno and his own part in removing it from the vicinity of Quentin’s garden.
“Are you fit to walk or should I give you a fireman’s lift?” Pedros asked Vasilis.
“I’m fit to walk, though I am surprised to be walkin’ out of ‘ere alive. I really thought the end of the world had come,” Vasilis replied.
“That’s not due to ‘appen till next week,” Pedros laughed, as Vasilis strode into the reception area and warned the smitten old doctor, “Keep away from my wife.”
After dropping that old fool Vasilis back home Prosperous Pedros declined Deirdre’s offer to stop by for coffee, pleading a pressing engagement with the locksmith.
Quentin, annoyed to find Fotini picking horta in his garden, looked round for the guard goat but couldn’t spot it anywhere. “There’s a note here from Bald Yannis,” Deirdre called out to him. “He says he found the goat wandering loose on the lane and brought it back and tied it to washing pole. He says you owe him ten Euros for his trouble.”
“But it isn’t here,” Quentin said, grabbing the end of the severed rope and realising the goat must be well and truly gone if Fotini was bold enough to venture over the wall again.
“Have you seen the goat?” he asked Fotini.
“I don’t know what yous is talkin’ about,” Fotini cackled, looking anything but innocent. Scuttling back over the wall she let the parrot out of her kitchen and slammed the door. The parrot took aim, landing directly on Quentin’s scalp, where it clung on with sharp talons squawking “bomba.”
“I didn’t know the parrot could speak Spanish,” Deirdre said, quite impressed by its linguistic ability.
“It could be Italian. I think it’s going to squawk its way through its full repertoire,” Quentin said as the parrot proceeded to impress Deirdre with its mastery of fifteen languages. “I just want to be rid of it, I’m desperate for some sleep; I didn’t manage a wink in that hospital.”
“Just try and ignore it dear and go to bed,” Deirdre advised, throwing a tea towel over the parrot. “You can worry about the missing goat later.”
Half-an-hour later Quentin was roused from a deep sleep by the persistent hammering of Bald Yannis on the front door. As a bleary eyed pyjama clad Quentin opened the door, Bald Yannis questioned, “What is that stupid contraption doin’ on yous head, K-Went-In?”
“It’s Fotini’s blasted parrot,” Quentin explained as the parrot squawked “bomba” through the tea towel.
“Does Fotini know yous ain’t fit to be in charge of a living creature? I let yous ‘ave that goat in good faith and look what ‘appened to it. Nearly burned to a crisp in Thea’s ‘ouse fire. If I ‘adn’t come along to rescue the poor thing it would ‘ave been incinerated.”
“What on earth are you talking about? When we left for a drive to Ankinara yesterday the goat was tethered securely to the washing pole. We only got back from that old fool Vasilis’ hospital bed an hour ago to discover the goat was gone. How on earth did it end up in Thea’s house?”
“Well no one’s quite sure ‘ow it got from Pedros’ boat into Thea’s house, but the point is yous should ‘ave been looking after it better.”
“I tell you it was tethered securely when we went out,” Quentin insisted, trying to get his parrot adorned head round this nightmare of Bald Yannis standing in his doorway revving his chainsaw and accusing him of mistreating the goat that had apparently hot footed it from a boat into a burning building. It was all too confusing for Quentin’s sleep deprived brain to cope with.
“Just give me them one hundred Christmas tinners and we’ll say no more about it,” Bald Yannis relented, pushing the quivering Quentin aside as he marched inside to claim his tinned payment.
“So where is the goat now, have you brought it back?” Quentin asked.
“Oh finally yous bothers to show some concern for the goat. It’s safe now, no thanks to you. Yous isn’t fit to be in charge of it. It’s a very sensitive creature and will need Soula’s tender care to ‘elp it overcome the trauma of ‘aving to be rescued from a second storey window down a ladder.”
“Gosh, I heard the firemen had been in the village but I’d no idea they performed such a heroic act,” Quentin gushed.
“They didn’t. I rescued yous goat single-handed,” Bald Yannis boasted. “Now it’s stopping at ‘ome with Soula for a bit of tender nurturing, an’ yous needn’t bother pestering me for another one. If yous want to keep Fotini away try rat poison.”
With that Bald Yannis stomped off, cycling precariously away whilst trying to balance one hundred Christmas tinners and his chainsaw.
Chapter 37
Handcuffed To The Altar
Even before he opened his eyes in the early morning gloom the Pappas sensed a sinister presence hovering in the church. He tried to ignore it, but the cold slab floor offered no comfort so he reluctantly shook himself awake, screaming in shock to be confronted with a strange woman standing o
ver him with a manic glint in her eyes, wearing a frumpy white wedding dress that appeared to have been fashioned from a bed sheet embellished with fishy embroidery. “How did you get in?” he demanded to know, confident he had locked the door behind him the previous evening.
“I came to book my wedding in your church,” crazy Koula said, ignoring his question.
“Ah, you are to be married, my child,” the Pappas said, perking up at the prospect of finally getting some bums on pews. “When would you like this auspicious event to take place?”
“Tomorrow,” Koula told him. “Tomorrow I will wed my true love Pedros. I have spent the whole night sewing this wedding dress from one of his bed sheets and embroidering it with fish.”
“That’s very short notice. I will need your paperwork to ensure it is all above board and legal,” the Pappas said, wondering if the suddenness was a sign of a shotgun wedding. “I haven’t seen you in this parish before, is this Pedros you speak of local?”
“I am to marry Pedros the fisherman,” Koula announced with an ecstatic smile.
“Pedros, Fotini’s son? Surely not, the man is a confirmed bachelor with an avowed loathing of matrimony,” the Pappas said.
His words incensed Koula who was already hyper-frenzied with fever from her dip in the sea the previous evening. “Well my darling Pedros will marry me tomorrow whether he likes it or not. The only problem is that blonde woman with the enormous plastic chest is trying to steal him away from me.”
The Pappas began to glean there was something not quite right about this manic woman, even as he attempted to humour her by saying, “You mean the Russian floozy? She’s married to that old fool Vasilis. I’ve never heard of her carrying on with Pedros and you know how gossip is rife in a small village.”
“Po po, an adulterous is she? I will not allow her to besmirch my perfect Pedros with her loose ways. Tell me where she lives Pappas, I need to take her out of the picture,” Koula demanded menacingly.
“I don’t think that would be the proper thing to do at all. I have a duty to my parishioners, even if they rarely bother to come to church. I am sure you don’t really want to involve the Russian in your deluded fantasies,” the Pappas prevaricated, certain this raving woman was unhinged.
“How dare you say our love is a fantasy,” Koula screamed, wielding a heavy gold candlestick over her head. “Tell me where I can find the Russian, or you get it with this.”
No one had ever accused the Pappas of being a man of honour, yet he sensed the very real danger in providing directions to Masha’s house and staunchly refused to divulge them. He soon had a change of heart when Koula smashed the heavy gold candlestick into his temple, following it up with a second heavy blow. Gibbering in fear the cowardly Pappas broke down, telling her where she could find the mail order bride. As the blood dripped down his face and stained his beard, Koula pulled the kinky furry handcuffs she had stolen from Slick Socrates out of her pocket and handcuffed the Pappas to the altar, adjusting the position of the semi-deflated sex doll beneath him so his bleeding head was cushioned on its still inflated plastic bosom.
“I will see you tomorrow at my wedding,” Koula promised, leaving the church, determined to sort out Masha.
Chapter 38
A Bag Of Cheese And Onion In A Damp Tent
“Are you sure it is wise to take Andromeda out in this weather, dear?” Tassia asked, watching Fat Christos bundle their daughter into multiple padded layers.
“It’s tradition to go out flying kites on Clean Monday,” Fat Christos insisted.
“But there’s not a whiff of wind and those black clouds forecast pelting rain,” Tassia observed, peering from the window. “Everyone else has cancelled their kite flying plans to give Toothless Tasos a hand to clear up the mess from the fire in Thea’s house.”
“Well I ‘ardly think Andy is going to be a hit with a hammer,” Christos laughed. Picking up the pathetic looking kite Bald Yannis had bodged together at the hardware shop he tried to persuade the baby to leave her cuddly syphilis at home, but she insisted on taking it everywhere.
Stepping outside he was surprised to spot a strange looking woman with a manic glint in her eye. She was wearing a frumpy wedding dress and scuttling away from the church, holding a candlestick aloft as though on a pilgrimage. Before he’d made up his mind to approach her to ask if she needed help he was distracted by Andy demanding they go back inside to retrieve her bridal Barbie.
The men who were helping renovate Thea’s house were gradually leaving the kafenion, making room at the outdoor seats for glum looking Doomsday trippers who had started to arrive in the village to secure early accommodation. The first arrivals appeared to be a motley assortment of long-haired new-age hippies, fanatical looking bearded cultists, and cash rich preppy style ‘Ya Hoo Henry’s’ wearing camouflage gear and gas masks. Foreign accents pervaded the drizzled air as they waited for the hardware shop to open, having heard on the village gossip vine that the bald owner stocked essential Apocalypse kits.
“Bloody hell man, those black clouds look a bit apocalyptic, are you sure this is the right place to avoid Doomsday?” an aging Welsh hippy clutching a large bunch of leeks asked his companion.
“You’re the one who insisted on coming to Greece, Hywel. I’m telling you now if the world doesn’t end this month then you’re on your own next time. I’ve been traipsing round after you since you listened to that American televangelist in 1982 and it’s been nothing but one failed end of the world flop after another. Can’t we just have a normal holiday like regular folk for once?”
“Lots of people come to Greece for their holidays, it’s very fashionable, Blodwyn.”
“Yes, but normal people come in summer when it’s hot enough to get a bit of a tan. They come to lie on a sunny beach and explore Greece’s great ruins, not to pitch a tent on a damp beach in bloody February. It wasn’t easy getting time off work at the sea salt factory, not on such short notice” Blodwyn snapped.
“Can’t you get it through your thick head that if the world ends next week there won’t be a sea salt factory to go back to? You’ll be unemployed and then there’ll be no money for fancy vacations and you’ll be glad of a bloody cave.”
Melecretes, sitting at the next table, couldn’t help overhearing the Welsh pair. He interrupted their sniping to advise them, “You know Bald Yannis at the ‘ardware shop has a lovely line in lobster adorned shower curtains that serve as excellent waterproof ground sheets for tents. By the way, just call me Mel.”
“Thanks mate, that’s good to know,” Hywel said with a friendly grin. “We have to get a few food supplies in too; we haven’t got enough money to be flashing it around in fancy restaurants.”
“That’s right, sell it to me as an adventurous Doomsday holiday and then expect me to sit in a damp tent eating a bag of bloody cheese and onion washed down with half a bloody lager,” Blodwyn complained.
“There’s no need for that,” Mel told them “the local taverna is organising a gyros delivery service to any campers. I think you’ll find it most excellent value.”
“What’s a gyros then mate,” Hywel asked.
“You’ve never heard of Greek gyros?” Mel asked in amazement. “It is deliciously tender souvlaki meat served with potatoes, sandwiched in a hot pita dressed with tzatziki and salad. Back in Idaho I have my own gyros shop.”
“So you’ve come all the way from the States for this bloody Doomsday malarkey?” Blodwyn asked.
“Oh no, that’s a load of old rubbish, you’d have to be pretty dense to believe the world is going to end next week. I’m over here visiting friends.”
“Who are you calling dense? You’ll have egg on the other side of your face if the world really does end,” Hywel taunted Mel.
“But as you believe Astakos will be the only place to survive, I’m in the right place,” Mel smirked, adding, “And at least I had the sense to stay in a warm house with cooking facilities and an inside toilet, rather than being stuck in a
damp tent in a thunderstorm.”
Mel’s last words were almost drowned out by the rumble of thunder which closely followed a lightning strike, creating a dramatic display in the darkening sky. Bolts of lightning appeared to sweep down into the grey sea and torrential rain fell, soaking all the Doomsday trippers.
Mel dashed into Thea’s harbour-side house for shelter. Everyone was hard at it, sweeping away ash and scrubbing the smoke stained walls of the upstairs bedroom. “There’s something not quite right here,” Slick Socrates declared, preparing to carry the tarnished mirror Thea had salvaged from the landfill site outside. Inspecting the glass closely he noticed the charred edges of photographs held in place with melted sellotape and a smudged lipstick heart in the centre. “This looks oddly familiar,” Socrates said as the others gathered round. “It looks like that creepy shrine my crazed stalker set up in Did-Ree’s bedroom. Thea, it could be the stalker was squatting here and started the fire, perhaps in a fit of jealousy if she’s become fixated with Toothless Tasos.”
Thea stared closely at the mirror trying to make out the letters in the heart. “They’re too sooty from the fire,” she said “but it definitely looks like a P and an E. The rest is too smudged to make out clearly.”
“Who do we knows whose name starts with Pe?” Toothless Tasos asked.
“Let’s think, there’s Petula and Petros the postman,” Thea said, relieved Taso began with a T.
“And Pedros. Prosperous Pedros ‘as been bombarded with peculiar phone calls from a heavy breather,” Tall Thomas announced.
“Po po, that definitely sounds like the deluded harpy who stalked me,” Socrates said. “When I confronted her she promised me she would return to the high mountain village of Osta and I stupidly let her go as Did-Rees felt so sorry for her. Did-Rees reckoned she was harmless as she broke in and did all the housework.”
Goatly Goings On Page 15
