The fishermen all suddenly sat to attention, sucking their stomachs in and finger combing their hair as mail order Masha entered, sashaying sexily in a skin tight pink plastic jumpsuit. That old fool Vasilis trailed behind her; happy Stavroula had given him a night off from scrubbing pans.
“Ere yous is that famous weather girl off the telly, can I ‘aves yous autograph?” Fotis yelled in a star struck manner. His cry drew Masha’s attention to the courting couple and she instantly demanded of Nitsa, “what is yous doin’ wearing one of my dresses?”
“Bald Yannis’ new wife Soula borrowed it to me,” Nitsa said defensively.
“Well it looks orrible on yous,” Masha insulted her. “Yous should stick to them hideous old lady dresses from the ‘ardware shop. I’ll ‘ave to ‘ave words with Soula, borrowing out my cast offs without askin’ me first.”
Noticing Fotis was fixated on mail order Masha’s ample assets and appeared to be imagining them, rather than Nitsa’s, encased in the gold velvet dress, Hattie rushed to her friend’s defence, saying “well I think you look lovely in that elegant evening gown.”
“Ere, I’ll strip it off now if yous begrudges an old woman a bit of glamour,” Nitsa fired at Masha.
“Yous will do no such thing Aunty,” Tall Thomas insisted, horrified at the thought of her stripping down to her thermal vest and bloomers.
Nitsa’s offer had at least resulted in Fotis turning his attention back to his date, with Tall Thomas’ objection leaving him spluttering “spoil sport” under his breath.
Just then Gorgeous Yiorgos burst into the taverna, complaining loudly “I ‘ave never met such an ungrateful woman as Stavroula.”
“What’s she gone an’ done now?” Yiota asked.
“Only turned ‘er nose up at my delicious goat curry,” Gorgeous Yiorgos explained. “She said she wanted tips on foreign Christmas dinners an’ so I slaved over a hot pan of Nigerian curry like what I ate in the navy. I took it round and she sneered at it, refusing to taste it till it was stone cold. I asks yous, what normal person eats cold curry and then has the cheek to pronounce it disgustin’?”
The other customers looked totally bemused by his tale. Not one of them had ever been adventurous enough to try spicy foreign food and considered Stavroula had demonstrated remarkable common sense in being rightfully wary. Gorgeous Yiorgos was not only angry at Stavroula’s disdain for his culinary efforts, he also felt guilty he had been so thoughtless to cook goat in the house. Petula had accused him of ignoring the feelings of her precious pet goat Nero who could have been turned cannibalistic if it had licked out the pan he had left lying round in the kitchen. Petula was now weeping at home and comforting the traumatised goat. The only bright spot to emerge from his efforts was the tax inspector had greedily scoffed two full plates of spicy goat curry and was at this moment barricaded in Stavroula’s lavatory, suffering the painful after effects.
“So this is where you ‘ave been ‘iding,” Thea shouted at Toothless Tasos as she entered the taverna. “I dont’s knows why I bothered cooking yous dinner if yous can’t be bothered to come ‘ome and eat it. Why cant’s yous answer yous phone like a normal person?”
“Yous knows why,” Toothless Tasos replied, desperately hoping Thea would not let slip his secret. He was convinced the government were spying on his every movement through the newfangled technology of his mobile phone but preferred not to make it public knowledge in case he became a laughing stock. He had been unable to convince Thea he was interesting enough to attract the full attention of any government spies, a ridiculous notion he had harboured after watching a conspiracy documentary on television. Ever since he had got away with faking his own death at sea, inadvertently turning his first wife Stavroula into a bigamist, he had been convinced the long arm of the law would discover his illegal secret by spying on him through mobile technology and insisted on keeping his phone turned off.
Hoping to appease his fiancée Toothless Tasos threw his usual monetary caution to the wind and invited her to sit down and order a plate of lemon chicken. She was absolutely delighted when mail order Masha told her, “I asked around at the television studio and they is definitely going to be piloting a new show called ‘Price That Junk’ an’ they plan to film the first episode ‘ere in the village.”
“I must get that potentially priceless old pot back from Pancratius the policeman an’ ‘ave it valued on television,” Thea said in excitement.
“’Ow many times does I ‘ave to tell yous the looted pot will belong to the government if it’s worth any money,” Toothless Tasos reminded her.
“We must ‘ave somethin’ in the attic that coulds be worth a small fortune,” Thea insisted, convinced some of her unlooted stored hoarded junk could improve their finances.
Mrs Kolokotronis suddenly burst into the taverna, making a full speed dash for the toilet. “Does we looks like a public convenience?” Takis complained in annoyance at her lack of manners.
“Sorry I couldn’t wait any longer for the tax inspector to vacate the toilet in Stavroula’s. He’s been in there for ‘ours,” Mrs Kolokotronis explained, eagerly taking a seat with Fotini and Hattie in order to get a good look at the man courting Nitsa.
“Well I never, if it isn’t Fotis Moustakos,” Mrs Kolokotronis hissed to Fotini. “It must be more than thirty years since I clapped eyes on that malaka.” Turning her beady eyes on the twinkly fisherman she called out to him, “still playing the ladies man then, eh Foti?”
“Dont’s yous go insulting my gentleman friend,” Nitsa warned her.
“I wouldnt’s dream of it,” Mrs Kolokotronis huffed before playing her ace and adding, “Nitsa does yous not knows Fotis is yous first cousin? If yous carries on playin’ footsie with ‘im yous could ends up with inbred idiot children.”
“We’s is ‘ardly likely to be breeding at our age,” Nitsa protested, while inwardly cringing at the possibility of being actually related to her first ardent suitor.
“Are yous sure we is related?” Nitsa asked, acknowledging she wasn’t exactly well up on the local branches of her family tree. Nitsa had moved away from Astakos many years ago, at the time of her marriage, and settled in the up ‘north village’ of Pirouni, named for a fork. It was understandable if she no longer recognised her blood relatives after more than sixty years.
“Everyone in the Moustakos family ‘as the same moustache Nitsa, yous ‘ad one youself before yous ‘ad it waxed off in the beauty parlour. It is a family trait yous cant’s deny, it’s like bein’ branded with an identifying marker,” Mrs Kolokotronis told her.
“Yous means like yous new granddaughter ‘as the identifying trait of Slick Socrates bushy sideburns, clearly showin’ yous fat son was cuckolded?” Fotini blurted out.
A stunned silence descended over the taverna at Fotini’s revelation, only broken by the sound of the stinging slap mail order Masha inflicted on the malicious old crone.
Chapter 29: A Butt Full Of Pellets
“Soula quick, come an’ ‘elp me, I ‘ave a butt full of pellets. Some maniac fired pot shots at me as I cycled back down the hill,” Bald Yannis shouted, painfully dismounting from the bicycle’s saddle.
“Yanni yous knows it is the season for hunters to shoot birds so ‘appen it was just an accident,” Soula suggested, yanking his trousers down to survey the damage. Bald Yannis was most relieved he wasn’t wearing any of his secret stolen stash of women’s silk underwear.
“Oooh what a voluptuous bottom you ‘ave,” Nitsa exclaimed. She had only popped into the hardware shop to buy a handheld vibrating olive shaker. She was most delighted to feast her eyes on this unexpected display of naked flesh, though somewhat surprised Bald Yannis managed to cultivate more hair on his rear end than his head.
“My ‘usband needs medical attention. Can yous runs an’ see if the smitten young doctor is anywhere near?” Soula asked Nitsa
.
“Yous run and looks for ‘im, ‘appen yous will move quicker being younger,” Nitsa replied, taking no account of Soula’s gammy lame leg. “I can stay ‘ere’ to tend to yous ‘usband’s lusciously plump bottom.”
“I’m not letting yous or that struck-off fraud of a useless doctor anywhere near my posterior,” Bald Yannis thundered. “Soula, telephone Vangelis the chemist an’ see if he can come over ‘ere, then get ‘old of Moronic Mitsos and ask ‘im if he can detect who the trigger ‘appy lunatic is. He’s got more sense than that sickly village policeman Pancratius. This was no accident; someone was trying to kill me I tell yous.”
Bald Yannis’ bullet ridden bottom provided hours of amusement to the other villagers as he prostrated himself over the hardware shop counter while Vangelis the chemist attempted to tweeze out the pellets without the benefit of any topical anaesthetic. At least his bottom was proving good for business with a queue of bemused villagers’ eager to mock his predicament. The ex-chief of police Moronic Mitsos was excited to have a case to mull over and was quick to articulate his initial thoughts.
“Can yous think of anyone that doesn’t like yous Yanni?” he questioned.
“It would be quicker to rule out anyone who does like the malaka,” the Pappas opined, handing over the cash for a new light bulb.
“That’s rich coming from Mr Popularity,” Bald Yannis fired back.
“’Ave yous any enemies yous can think of?” Moronic Mitsos persisted. “Anyone yous ‘ave ‘ad cross words with.”
“Well Toothless Tasos still ‘olds a grudge about his chopped off finger an’ Fat Christos never got over me undercutting the price of his goats’ postcards. That old fool Vasilis is still seething I sold my goat droppings to K-Went-In ‘an ‘is silicone wife mights still be mad I botched up ‘er cheeks with concrete filler. Fotini is furious I banned ‘er parrot an’ Yiota still wont’s let me in the taverna after I insulted her cookin.”
“Hmm, I see what the Pappas means about yous not being too popular,” Moronic Mitsos said. “I will investigate if any of these enemies of yous ‘ave an alibi.”
“Yanni, yous can’t possibly think the lovely Masha would try to kills yous when she ‘as been so good to me. An’ can yous really see Fotini or Yiota wielding a shotgun?” Soula interrupted.
“I wouldnt’s put anything past that venomous old crone Fotini,” Petula interjected, still smarting over the nasty woman’s outing of Slick Socrates possible paternity of her good friend’s Tassia’s baby.
It had been several weeks since Fotini had dropped her bombshell in the taverna. No one in the village had seen Fotini since the night Prosperous Pedros had thrown her over his shoulder like a sack of olives and carried her kicking, screaming and spitting out of the taverna.
Almost everyone in the village had heard the gossip, and while condemning it as cruel and malicious, they secretly admitted the baby bore more than a passing resemblance to the slick lawyer. Mail order Masha had rushed straight round to Tassia’s house to gently break the news her secret was out. “Of course peoples might not believe Fotini because everyone knows she’s a spiteful old hag, but I thought I should warn yous she blurted out Fat Christos was cuckolded and the baby ‘as Socrates’ sideburns, an’ everyone ‘eard er.”
“I suppose I must tell my ‘usband the truth, though I suspicions he already knows I was pregnant long before we ‘ad our first fumble in the garden shed. It didnt’s puts ‘im off marrying me because he married for money, an’ he never ‘ad any interest in the bedroom side of things anyway,” Tassia confided.
Masha reassured her friend, saying “yous knows ‘ow much Christos dotes on Andromeda. He’s besotted with the baby.”
“But will he still stand by us if the word is out that ‘er real father is Socrates?” Tassia sobbed.
“Of course I will, yous and Andy are everything to me,” Fat Christos burst out, having overheard their conversation. Taking his wife in his arms he told her, “It was pretty obvious to me I ‘adn’t actually spawned the baby else it would ‘ave been the shortest pregnancy in ‘istory. Yous wanted a baby so much an’ I was too fat to perform in the bedroom so I overlooked yous indiscretion. I’d ‘ave preferred not to know who it was yous did the deed with, but now word is out I says we just flatly deny it. Last thing we want is that slimy lawyer making a claim on our darling baby.”
“Christos is right Tassia,” Masha urged. “Deny, deny and deny some more.”
“Better if we dont’s even deny it but just old our ‘eads up and face down the rumours, perhaps even bring the christening forward,” Tassia suggested, drawing inner strength from her husband’s loyalty.
“An’ it might ‘elp if yous was to cultivate some bushy sideburns Christo so Andromeda will look more like you,” Masha suggested, adding, “There’s only one fly in the ointment. What if Stavroula gets wind of the gossip ‘er lover is the baby’s father?”
Chapter 30: I Loves Yous Quentin
“I can’t believe Adonis has let us down after promising to help with our first olive harvest,” Deirdre lamented, surveying their trees laden with ripe olives in the olive grove.
“Bad backs can be very temperamental and poor Adonis claims he is in excruciating agony this morning,” Quentin said
“He looked the picture of health dancing the syrtos last night,” Deirdre reminded her husband.
“Perhaps his wild contortions exacerbated his condition,” Quentin mulled.
Bald Yannis, dragging olive nets over from his bicycle, burst into laughter at the pathetic excuses the Americans were making for the workshy Adonis. “He ‘as a bad back every olive season, he ‘ates to get ‘is ‘ands dirty.”
“But we don’t know the first thing about gathering olives, this is our very first olive harvest,” Deirdre explained.
“It’s not rocket science Did-Rees,” Bald Yannis sneered. “Yous ‘ave to get all the olives off the trees and into them sacks. I’ve delivered all the equipment yous needs to get on with it.”
“Can I tempt you with a coffee,” Deirdre offered, hoping if the hardware man stuck around for a drink he may be inclined to share some of his technical expertise.
“I aven’t got time to be sittin’ round drinkin’ coffee, I’ve a shop to run,” Bald Yannis huffed. Although the hardware shop was in Soula’s capable hands it was still too painful for him to sit down unless he used the inflatable ‘doughnut cushion’ designed for haemorrhoid sufferers sold to him by Vangelis the chemist.
Striding back to his bicycle Bald Yannis adjusted his new bullet proof vest, hiked up the bullet proof long johns Soula had fashioned and pulled a protective motorcycle crash helmet onto his head. He was convinced the nutter with the shotgun was still out there, determined to kill him. So far Moronic Mitsos’ informal investigation had failed to uncover the guilty party. His detective skills were clearly inept, as evidenced by his lack of success in exposing Bald Yannis as the elusive underwear thief, not to mention his failure to fathom he had been a victim of Yannis’ fake dating scam.
The previous evening the former chief of police had been tucking into souvlaki in ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima’ when that old fool Vasilis’ ancient sparring partner Sotiris had walked in and requested Yiota cook the couple of thrush, known colloquially as ‘chewing gum’, he had bagged while out hunting with his shotgun. Sotiris’ advanced years and deteriorating eyesight made him a dangerous liability with the shotgun. He had mistaken the tufts of Bald Yannis’ hair transplant whizzing by on the bike for the plumage of an exotic bird, and fired randomly in that direction. Fortunately for Bald Yannis, Sotiris was a poor shot; otherwise his head would have been blown off. Even as Moronic Mitsos congratulated Sotiris on his catch he still hadn’t managed to put two and two together and surmise the old man was the guilty gunman.
Bald Yannis cycled back to the shop, leaving Quentin and Deirdre totally flum
moxed over what to do with all their new olive picking equipment. “Perhaps we should wait until Fotini makes a start on her olives and see how she does it,” Deirdre suggested.
Quentin mulled this suggestion over but decided if they waited for Fotini to show them how to do the job they would never hear the end of it. He could imagine her cackling how unmanly he was and refused to subject himself to her ridicule.
“Let’s approach it logically,” he suggested. “First we need to lay these olive nets on the ground under the trees and then I suppose we hit the olives with this smacker thing.”
“What do you suppose this comb is for,” Deirdre asked. “Do you think we need to tidy up the trees with it afterwards?”
“Or we could just book them into the beauty parlour,” Quentin joked; running his fingers along the pruning saw to test its sharpness. “This three-legged olive ladder looks a bit wobbly. I can’t believe Bald Yannis cycled all the way here with his head stuck between the rungs.”
“Well at least we were able to extricate his head without decapitating him due to our speedy intervention of oiling the ladder.”
“Not that he appreciated it,” Quentin pointed out, ruminating Bald Yannis hadn’t even offered a discount on his wares as a thank you.
“I don’t think you should be climbing the greasy ladder until we know what we’re doing,” Deirdre cautioned. “Let’s leave the ladder until later. Why don’t we just pick the olives from the low hanging branches to start with, until we get a feel for what we are doing?”
“Or we could just lay the nets and then wander into the village for a leisurely lunch. We could take a look how the locals do it and learn from their expertise,” Quentin suggested.
Pleased with their prevaricating decision to put off the inevitable the pair ineptly laid the olive nets beneath the trees. It was an exhausting task as Bald Yannis had conned them into buying his unsellable stock of the old style heavy oilskin sheets rather than the lighter green nets favoured by experienced pickers. Panting with exhaustion from their exertions they strolled slowly towards Astakos, with Quentin heartily relieved he had for once managed to evade the parrot.
Olive Virgins Page 10
