“Better make it an ‘undred as it will take at least that much to have the machine fixed,” Yiorgos reasoned. “Still the cat looks nice and clean now,” he added, watching it spring up to violently claw Tasos’ face. In its still confused state the cat struggled to escape from Tasos’ grasp, leapt out of his hands and landed head first in the toilet.
“I’m very tempted to flush,” Tasos said.
“Do yous think we should take it to the vet?” Yiorgos asked, pulling the by now enraged and deranged cat out of the toilet.
“I suppose we better ‘ad,” Tasos agreed while mentally calculating how much this unfortunate cat business was going to cost him. “We’d best ‘urry before Thea gets back from the police station and suspicions I tried to kill ‘er cat.”
Blissfully unaware her adored cat had only escaped a watery death by the skin of its teeth Thea was arguing with Pancratius the village policeman, convinced of the authenticity of the priceless antiquity she was clutching. “Yous can’t just dismiss it as a broken old pot when it might date back to ancient times and be worth a fortune,” she insisted.
“Well it looks like a bit of old junk to me,” Pancratius observed, annoyed his time was being taken up with this nonsense which potentially involved sheaves of pointless paperwork.
“Yous is ‘ardly an expert and ‘ave a duty to bring it to the attention of the Department of Antiquities and Cultural Heritage,” Thea stressed, certain by now this bit of old pot was a priceless find. “For alls yous know the landfill site might be worth excavating.”
Pancratius hoped it wasn’t. If he was forced to quarantine the rubbish dump with rolls of police tape he was certain the stench would cause his pancreatitis to flare up again. He finally agreed to report Thea’s find to the Antiquities Department in a desperate effort to be rid of her. Ushering her out of the police station he promised to attend to the matter as soon as he had dealt with the request from the producers of a new television show to film an up-coming episode in the village.
“What television show is that then?” Thea asked with piqued interest, desperately hoping her favourite soap opera ‘Seven Deadly Mothers-in-Law’ was being revived as she was sick of watching old re-runs. If they filmed in the village she might even be able to land a role as an extra.
“I cannot discuss details of police business with yous,” the policeman sniffed.
“That pathetic Pancratius is so puffed up with ‘is own self-importance,” Thea complained, stopping off to spread this juicy bit of gossip at Stavroulas.
“Perhaps Masha ‘as persuaded the television station to film an episode of the cooking show in my taverna kitchen,” Stavroula said hopefully.
“You’d be much better than the awful Kyria Papadopoulos,” Thea opined, “Did yous see ‘er setting fire to ‘er ‘orrible cardie?”
Their gossiping was interrupted by a tall, painfully thin young man dressed in a clerical dress, suffering from a most unfortunate case of erupting acne. “Can you please direct me to the Pappas’ house,” the young stranger requested “as the church is locked.”
“What do you want with that god bothering fraud?” Stavroula questioned.
“Well I am here to have him oversee my training,” the young man replied looking worried. He had not expected to hear his new mentor described in such disrespectful terms. “I am Pappas Iraklis, pleased to make your acquaintance,” he introduced himself while listening to their directions.
“Po po, that lanky piece of string with a sorry excuse for a beard doesn’t look like any Hercules,” Stavroula laughed as the trainee Pappas took his leave.
“Is it me or is priests getting younger?” Thea remarked “that one didn’t look old enough to be out of short pants.”
“Appen he’ll soon get worldly wise living with the conniving Pappas,” Stavroula said. “Now Thea, comes and taste this bosch I am cookings up to impress Masha, it seems to be missing something. It doesn’t taste anything like the infamous muck she serves.”
The two women dipped their spoons into the bubbling pan of surprisingly palatable red soup, agreeing it definitely needed an elusive something extra, not listed in the recipe, to give it Masha’s distinctive revolting touch. Unfortunately that old fool Vasilis was still out scraping up donkey droppings and was not at hand to advise the soup required copious amounts of vodka to replicate Masha’s infamous version.
Chapter 17: Fake Soup
“Masha certainly knows her weather, she was bang on forecasting this storm,” Yiota said to a wet and bedraggled Prosperous Pedros as he entered ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima.’ “’Appen yous should ‘ave listened to ‘er Pedro.”
“I did listen to ‘er which is why I am soaking wet. Yous try shifting a boat out of the ‘arbour to save it from being smashed up in choppy waters while ‘olding an umbrella,” Prosperous Pedros grumbled, adding, “Thoma I appreciate yous elp moving the boat, it was an ‘ard task for sure in this awful weather.”
“Least I coulds do Pedro after yous saved my life this morning. Who else is coming down to Gavros tonight to ‘elp reclaim my mobile refrigerated fishing van?”
“All the fishermen are coming,” Pedros confirmed, asking “’ows about yous K-Went-In, do yous fancy coming along to Gavros in case the fishermen down there get nasty with Thomas again?”
“Count me in,” Quentin eagerly agreed, pleased to be so readily accepted as one of the village men.
“Do you think that is wise dear?” Deirdre questioned. “I heard the fishermen in Gavros resorted to violence this morning.”
“I’m sure there is safety in numbers,” Quentin said in an effort to reassure his wife “and it may well be dangerous for Thomas if he goes without back up.”
“I’ve some freshly made fakes soupa to warm yous all up,” Yiota announced to her customers, carrying out steaming bowls of aromatic soup.
“What do you suppose she puts in fake soup?” Quentin hissed, to the amusement of Vangelis the chemist who laughed “fakes are lentils K-Went-In, not a fake ingredient.”
“It is most excellent vegetarian fare,” Pedros declared, heartily tucking in.
“I also ‘ave a lovely prawn saganaki tonight,” Yiota said, hoping to tempt her customers.
“I thinks I’ll give anything with prawns a miss,” Tall Thomas shuddered, correctly suspecting Yiota may have purchased Pedros’ surplus fish bait.
“Did yous manage to get yous boat out of the sea ‘fore the storm set in?” Takis asked Toothless Tasos as he dripped into the taverna.
“I ‘ad no time to get it out, but ‘ave secured it with a rope,” Tasos complained, hoping the improvised safety measure would hold fast. “I’ve been all afternoon at the vets with Thea’s malaka cat. It cost me a bigly fortune.”
“At least it survived,” Fat Christos reminded him “an’ ‘opefully Thea will be none the wiser about its near drowning.”
“We’d best be setting off soon to Gavros,” Tall Thomas reminded the others. “’Ow many are coming in Pedros’ pick-up? There’s plenty of room in the back.”
“I refuse to go in the back of the pick-up in this storm,” Fat Christos whined, “I could get pneumonia and pass it on to the baby.”
The others all agreed this was no night to travel in the uncovered back of the pick-up truck in such atrocious weather. Toothless Tasos’ motorbike and sidecar were equally uninviting, as was Fat Christos’ tricycle.
“I’lls telephone Aunty Nitsa and gets ‘er to drive some of us in ‘er taxi,” Tall Thomas announced, leaving the others desperately vying for first claim on the two passenger seats in Pedros’ pick-up to avoid being stuck with Nitsa.
Hurriedly finishing their food the men rushed out of the taverna as the taxi pulled up.
“Was it something I said?” Katerina asked, offended to the quick everyone was dashing out the moment she arrived. Spying De
irdre as the only remaining customer she plumped herself down at her table without waiting for an invitation, intent on spreading her slanderous statements about Stavroula to a captive audience. One look at the bat bones and one sniff of the overpowering garlic convinced Deirdre it was time to leg it.
Using the excuse “I promised Tassia a hand with the baby,” Deirdre grabbed her brolly and rushed headlong into the storm.
Chapter 18: It’s Raining Men
“Come on in out of the rain,” Mrs Kolokotronis invited Deirdre, fussily stripping the dripping raincoat from her shoulders.
“I hear the baby is still awake,” Deirdre noted, nearly deafened by Andy’s piercing wails.
“She’s missing Fat Christos,” Tassia explained, “she’s all coos and gurgles when he’s around but the minute he leaves she screams the ‘ouse down.”
“Let me try a trick I used when my grandson John was a baby, it always stopped his crying,” Deirdre offered.
“Oh please do try, anything would be a relief from this wailing,” Tassia implored. The last thing she expected was to hear Deirdre burst into a loud and tone deaf rendition of ‘It’s Raining Men’ while mimicking the dance moves of the Weather Girls.
“Stop that caterwauling, it’s worse than the baby screaming,” Mrs Kolokotronis shouted over Deirdre’s mangled lyrics.
“But it’s working, Andy loves it,” Tassia clapped joyfully. Andromeda was indeed suddenly quiet, staring in entranced fascination as Deirdre made a ridiculous spectacle of herself. Clutching her tiny fists to her ears the baby quickly realised the only way to shut out the appalling cacophony was to promptly fall asleep.
With peace finally restored Mrs Kolokotronis insisted on making their guest a cup of horta tea. Deirdre winced, disgusted at the bitter green brew steeped from weeds, but Mrs Kolokotonis insisted it was the healthiest of beverages. “Drink it all up; it will put ‘airs on yous chest Did-Rees. Yous looks like a gust of wind woulds blow yous over. Yous must build up yous strength before the olive picking season.”
“Quentin and I are so excited at the prospect of our very first olive harvest,” Deirdre declared. “Adonis has promised to show us the ropes.”
“Dont’s you make your own olive oil back at ‘ome then?” Mrs Kolokotronis queried, finding it quite amazing a middle-aged couple could be so clueless about olives when everyone in Greece routinely produced their own olive oil as a matter of course.
“We don’t have olive groves back in Idaho, but I am an expert in digging up potatoes,” Deirdre said, determined not to appear ignorant.
“Where do yous get yous olive oil from then?” Mrs Kolokotronis wanted to know, unable to fathom a culinary culture not revolving round the acclaimed green elixir.
“Well we occasionally buy a small bottle from a specialist delicatessen, but it is frightfully expensive. In America people don’t pour olive oil over everything as they do here.”
“What do you put on yous veggies then?” Mrs Kolokotronis asked, turning up her nose when Deirdre replied “ketchup.”
“I remember Stavroula told me yous all had strange eating ‘abits. She said yous eat cheese sprayed from a can and the men there thinks salad is for wimps.”
“Quentin loves Greek salad,” Deirdre said, doing nothing to dispel Mrs Kolokotronis’ opinion he was a wimp. “We did start to cook Greek food in Idaho after our first visit here and Adonis very generously gave us a huge tin of his olive oil.”
Deirdre neglected to mention the baggage handlers had been a bit rough with their luggage and the giant tin of oil had spewed its contents over all their clothes. Some of it had seeped into the plug on the glow-in-the-dark Acropolis they had carted back to Idaho as a souvenir, causing an electrical fire when they plugged it in.
“There was a very strange woman reeking of garlic and rattling bat bones in ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima’ this evening,” Deirdre confided.
“If she was covered in evil eye amulets it would be the wicked gossip Katerina determined to spread trouble for Stavroula by smearing ‘er good name,” Mrs Kolokotronis surmised. “Best if yous can avoid ‘er Did-Rees.”
Their chatter was interrupted by the piercing ring of the doorbell, instantly waking Andromeda up. Masha sashayed in, wringing her hair extensions out and emptying rain water out of her stilettos. She made a beeline for the now screaming baby, smothering her in wet kisses. “It’s rainin’ goats and roosters out there. I cant’s stop long as I promised Vasilis I would ‘ave dinner at Stavroulas an’ the producer is sat outside in the limousine, but I ‘ad to pop in with a present for my little cherub.”
“Oh Masha yous do spoil Andy,” Tassia exclaimed, ripping the wrapping paper off a set of Russian stacking dolls which had each been personalised with a different image of mail order Masha.
“Every girl needs ‘er own matryoshka doll,” Masha insisted “an’ these could well be a collector’s item when Andy is bigger, now I’m so famous.”
“Yous ‘ave time for a quick cup of horta tea?” Mrs Kolokotronis suggested, rushing off to heat up some more of her noxious brew. In her absence Tassia and Masha furtively whispered about Tassia’s worry that Bald Yannis had been overheard remarking Andromeda had a more than passing resemblance to Slick Socrates. Masha attempted to reassure her worried friend, saying “no one takes any notice of that malaka but I’lls ‘ave a word with Soula and see if she cant’s get ‘im to stop ‘is gossiping, he’s worse than an old woman.”
“Appen there’s something new to gossip about that might distract ‘im,” Tassia said, pointing at the television where the smitten young reporter had a breaking news story about a body discovered in a freezer in Osta. “Isn’t Osta the high mountain village Soula hails from? Oh shush baby, Did-Rees can yous try that song again to soothe Andy to sleep?”
“Oh I must try that routine out on my weather show,” mail order Masha exclaimed at the sight of Deirdre’s ridiculous dance routine as she once again burst into off key lyrics, belting out “I’m gonna let myself get soaking wet.”
“Yous will if yous goes back out in that storm,” Masha agreed, “shall I gets the smitten young struck-off doctor to drops yous ‘ome in the limousine?”
Masha took one incredulous look at the cup of green horta tea Mrs Kolokotronis offered and used it to water the nearest plant. Rushing after Deirdre she hissed “tell me yous didn’t drink that ‘orrible muck. Yous is welcome to stop at Stavroulas, we is ‘aving vodka and borscht.”
“Probably in the same bowl if I remember,” Deirdre speculated, recalling her one and only unfortunate encounter with Masha’s infamous borscht at the village lobster festival. “I think I’ll just head home in your chauffeur driven car as I’m a little worried the roof may not be keeping the rain out.” The continuing storm was preying on Deirdre’s mind as she remembered the haphazard way Achilles the borrowed builder had patched up the roof, assuring her it never rained in Greece.
The two women ventured back out into the torrential rain, slamming the door against the gale force wind. “Oh not again, now ‘ow did that song of Deirdre’s go?” Mrs Kolokotronis asked in despair as Andy once again started wailing.
Chapter 19: Brawling Fishermen
Thea was delighted to receive an invitation to dine at Stavroulas. She was a tad concerned about leaving the cat home alone as it was acting very oddly, though she speculated it could be down to a fear of thunder. When Toothless Tasos had popped in for a dry pair of wellies before heading off to Gavros the cat had dashed away from him in obvious terror, diving into one of his waterproof boots. No amount of coaxing could draw it out, forcing Tasos to leave the house in his already sodden shoes, grumbling about his teeth and ignoring Thea’s demand to know what he had done to wreck the washing machine.
Fortunately for Tasos he had managed to secure a seat in Prosperous Pedros’ pick-up alongside Moronic Mitsos, leaving Tall Thomas, Quentin, Fat
Christos, Gorgeous Yiorgos and Achilles the borrowed builder all squashed into the old Mercedes taxi driven by Nitsa. Fotini had persuaded Nitsa to take the parrot along for an outing and it had zoomed straight onto the top of Quentin’s head.
“If yous is expecting trouble yous should ‘ave brought Bald Yannis along,” Nitsa advised. “Yous may need a fine looking man what is not afraid of ‘is own shadow like yous useless lot.”
“Cant’s you go any faster?” Fat Christos complained “I dont’s want to be away from the baby too long.”
“Well if yous want me to ‘ave an accident I could speed up, but these slippery wet roads are treacherous,” Nitsa said, pressing her foot down hard on the accelerator. The resultant skid threw Quentin into Tall Thomas’ lap and the parrot objected by taking a piece out of Thomas’ ear. Whelping in pain Thomas advised his aunty “slow down an’ takes yous time, better we get there in one piece.”
Nitsa’s view over the edge of the mountain was obscured by the sheeting rain, but the occasional flash of lightening brought the dangerous hair-pin bends into sharp relief. “You’lls ‘ave to pay extra for dragging me out on a night like this,” Nitsa slurred, taking a furtive gulp from a hip flask of brandy to steady her nerves as she peered through the windscreen, its wipers barely coping with deluge.
“Aunty, yous cant’s be drinkin’ and driving, you’ll get arrested,” Tall Thomas admonished, snatching the hip flask and knocking back the rest of the contents to ease his fear.
“Po po, yous thinks I am afraid of spending more time in prison, with my connections?” Nitsa cackled. “Anyway yous can stop yous fussing, we are almost in Gavros,” she added as the close proximity of the fishing village was revealed in another bright flash of lightening.
The taxi groaned to a halt next to Prosperous Pedros’ pick-up and the men piled out. Tall Thomas’ mobile refrigerated fishing van was parked directly outside the popular taverna frequented by the local fisherman. They muttered there was no chance they could move the van without being spotted, especially when they saw a lookout had been posted in expectation of the men from Astakos arriving. The lookout whistled sharply to attract the attention of his fellow fishermen who came pouring out of the taverna into the pelting rain.
Olive Virgins Page 5
