Olive Virgins

by Katerina Nikolas

  They exchanged greetings with many of the local olive pickers and exclaimed with delight to see Gorgeous Yiorgos overtake them on the back of an olive branch laden donkey. “What a quintessentially Greek sight,” Quentin noted “it is like something out of a time warp postcard.”

  The Americans hardly recognised Petula trailing after the donkey on foot as she was weighted down under an enormous pile of olive cuttings. Gorgeous Yiorgos overheard Deidre expressing her surprise it was ungentlemanly of him to expect Petula to walk while he lorded it up on the donkey and reprimanded her by saying “Did-Rees yous knows Petula ‘asn’t passed ‘er driving test yet.”

  Spying a familiar figure in the distance Deirdre said “Isn’t that Adonis drinking coffee in the kafenion? I thought he said his back was so painful he couldn’t get out of bed.”

  “He seems to have enjoyed a miraculous recovery,” Quentin quipped.

  The fake hypochondriac Adonis was indeed holding court in the kafenion, boasting how he had managed to sell an olive picking experience holiday to a couple of gullible English tourists. “Can yous believe they is paying me to pick my olives?” he chortled.

  “’Ow did yous manage to sell ‘em that?” Tall Thomas asked, impressed with Adonis’ business acumen.

  “I told ‘em it was a romantic and authentically Greek experience,” Adonis laughed.

  “So they ‘ave no idea it is backbreaking work then?” Petros the postman piped up.

  “Not a clue,” Adonis agreed. Catching sight of Quentin and Deirdre approaching Adonis suddenly clutched his back and started groaning. “Kalimera K-Went-In and Did-Rees, I thoughts yous would be ‘ard at work picking yous olives. Oh, oh, my back, my back, I shouldn’t ‘ave made that sudden movement.”

  “I thought you were in too much pain to get out of bed,” a sceptical Quentin observed.

  “I am in agony it is true K-Went-In. I only got out of bed to buy this medicinal tiger palm plaster from Vangelis the chemist.” As he spoke Adonis lifted his shirt up to show off an enormous sticking plaster stuck on his back, unleashing the most potent eye-watering odour. “I ‘ave the traditional remedy of grated onions and ouzo under the plaster.”

  “So ‘ave yous two finished yous olives already?” Tall Thomas enquired.

  “No, we decided to start tomorrow,” Quentin replied, reluctant to reveal the simple act of spreading the nets had worn them out.

  Crossing the road to Stavroula’s taverna, the American pair looked forward to a delicious lunch of prawn saganaki but were immediately disappointed when that old fool Vasilis announced only a very limited menu. “Stavroula is out doing ‘er olives an’ she’s left me in charge. Only thing I can cook is Greek coffee or I can ladle yous out a bowl of Masha’s borscht.”

  The mention of mail order Masha’s infamous borscht prompted their hasty departure and they decided to settle for a lunch of shop bought chocolate bars from the supermarket. Entering the store their eardrums were nearly shattered by the piercing wails of the baby. “Sorry about this, I cant’s get ‘er to settle,” Tassia apologised. “Fat Christos is out doing the olives and poor little Andy misses ‘im something dreadful.”

  “Oh, she is just so adorable,” Deirdre lied, cooing over the ugly baby and thinking how unfortunate it was she so closely resembled Slick Socrates.

  “Now dont’s forget we are ‘aving Andy christened this weekend and we wants yous to come,” Tassia invited.

  “Oh we wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Deirdre promised. “This will be our first Greek christening.”

  Ambling back to the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ the American pair passed the new novice priest, Pappas Iraklis, precariously perched up a three-legged olive tree ladder with a pruning saw. Stopping to admire his technique they attracted the wrath of the elder Pappas who screeched “dont’s distract ‘im. We ‘ave to ‘ave a full font of oil for the christening.”

  “I do feel sorry for that young boy being under the thumb of the nasty Pappas,” Deirdre said.

  “He must have a calling, but it beggar’s belief the Orthodox Church considers the bothersome Pappas a good influence on him,” Quentin supposed.

  Arriving home the parrot spied Quentin and immediately perfected a neat dive bomb onto his head. “Oh no, is there no getting away from that blasted bird?” Quentin lamented. “Fotini, get your parrot off me now,” he bellowed.

  Hattie came rushing over, assuring her son, “You will just have to accept the parrot is attracted to you, I think it really loves you Quentin.”

  “Loves yous Quentin,” the parrot shrilled in obvious agreement with Hattie.

  “Sticking its sharp claws in my scalp is a strange gesture of affection,” Quentin moaned

  “Did you have a pleasant lunch?” Hattie asked.

  “There was not a morsel of food to be had. Stavroula was out gathering her olives and left her incompetent father in charge. We couldn’t even get a cup of tea,” Deirdre complained.

  “Well come on in then,” Hattie invited, “Fotini has just brewed the most unique tea you will ever sample.”

  As they entered Fotini’s kitchen the old crone furtively finished wrapping a fusty and foul smelling object. “It’s a gift for the baby’s baptism,” she reluctantly explained.

  Quentin and Deirdre exchanged perplexed glances; most surprised Fotini had been invited to the christening after her unforgivable outburst regarding the paternity of the baby. Of course Fotini had not actually received an invitation, but that wouldn’t stop her from gate crashing the important event.

  “This frapelia drink is quite an acquired taste,” Hattie gushed, presenting Quentin and Deirdre with steaming mugs of rank smelling olive leaf tea. “Fotini swears it keeps her regular.”

  “Aren’t you meant to strain the leaves and twigs out,” Quentin asked, wincing in horror as he sipped the bitter liquid.

  “Oh it’s fine as long as you sweeten it up,” Hattie insisted, spooning copious amounts of sugar into his mug. “It’s the natural oleuropein making it so bitter.”

  “This is even more disgusting than Mrs Kolokotronis’ xorta tea,” Deirdre hissed at Quentin, desperately looking round for a plant to surreptitiously pour it into and fortunately spotting a miniature indoor lemon tree.

  “Disgusting, disgusting, I loves Quentin,” the parrot squawked.

  “Try the frapelia,” Quentin encouraged the parrot. The bird stuck its beak into the mug, swallowed the contents in a gulping motion and keeled over, landing in a wooden heap on the floor with a resounding thud.

  “I seriously worry the old crone was trying to poison us,” Deirdre opined as the two of them fled home to the neighbouring house with Fotini’s cries of “malaka parrot beater” reverberating in their ears.

  Chapter 31: Eavesdropping

  “Ave yous lost your marbles?” mail order Masha accused her husband. He had suggested she spend her day off from forecasting the weather by picking olives. “I could break a nail,” she said in horror, contemplating her perfectly manicured fake extensions. “Yous is the man of the ‘ouse, or so yous is always telling me, so yous should be the one pickin’ the olives.”

  “But Stavroula ‘as left me in charge ‘ere,” that old fool Vasilis complained.

  “Then yous must get Slick Socrates to relieve yous or simply close up shop. Yous ‘ave scared off all the customers anyway with yous atrocious attempts at making coffee,” Masha sensibly pointed out. “There’s Petros the postman, I will rush over an’ tell ‘im yous need the donkey back for the rest of the olive season as yous needs to get started.”

  At that precise moment mail order Masha was the most unpopular person in Astakos in the eyes of the generally easy-going postman. The amount of fan mail Masha generated from her adoring fans was making his job near impossible and her blunt demand to instantly return the donkey was the final straw. Throwing a bulgin
g bag of fan letters at Masha’s feet he declared, “That’s it, I am goin’ on strike unless the post office gives me a new car.”

  “Yous cant’s do that,” Masha moaned, “think of all my fans from all over the world yous will be disappointing.”

  “I dont’s care, I am saddle sore an’ ‘ave nothing but chafed skin left on my inner thighs. The weight of yous mail is too much for the poor downtrodden donkey. I ‘ave to drag ‘er uphill as it is an’ ‘alf the time she is sozzled from drinkin’ ouzo with yous stupid ‘usband.”

  Mail order Masha was flabbergasted when Petros the Postman stormed off. “I cant’s believe my feminine charms didnt’s win ‘im round,” she muttered, instantly deciding to spend the day in the beauty parlour to ensure she looked her beautiful best so no other man would be immune to her stunning charms. A few hours under the sun bed would top up her tan nicely as it was getting a tad too chilly to indulge in her favourite pastime of topless sunbathing.

  Returning to the taverna Masha called out to her husband, “’ere, I’ve got yous precious donkey back.”

  That old fool Vasilis was so delighted to be reunited with his darling Onos he immediately closed up shop and rushed outside to embrace the donkey.

  “Evangelia ‘asn’t got an appointment until later so I will ride ‘ome with yous on the donkey if yous can stop slobbering over ‘er,” Masha announced.

  The donkey was already exhausted after enduring a morning weighted down with all Masha’s sacks of fan mail, so the ride was a slow one, with frequent stops. The mismatched couple were gossiping about Tassia and Fat Christos’ paternity predicament, with Vasilis for once agreeing with his wife it would be a disaster if his new found daughter heard the rumours.

  “It would break Stavroula’s ‘eart if she ‘eard Slick Socrates ‘ad cheated on ‘er,” Vasilis said. “We must shield ‘er from the awful gossip.”

  “I am more worried she would make Tassia’s life hell and bring shame on the baby,” Masha voiced.

  Unfortunately the gossiping pair failed to notice the Pappas lurking behind an olive tree, avariciously eavesdropping their every word. As they rode away on the donkey the Pappas could hardly contain his excitement that he finally had something to hold over the loathsome Stavroula. Clapping his hands in an ungodly display of glee he let go of the precariously balanced three-legged olive ladder Pappas Iraklis was perilously perched on, letting the ladder crash to the ground and leaving the novice Pappas dangling dangerously from a capriciously wobbling branch.

  Screeching “I ‘ave urgent church business to attend to,” the Pappas hurriedly legged it with his long clerical dress flapping behind him. “Po po, he’s young an’ ‘ealthy,” he muttered as Pappas Iraklis lost his precarious balance with a blood curdling scream. The Pappas had more pressing matters on his mind than the odd broken bone of his young charge: should he break the joyous news to Stavroula of Socrates’ infidelity immediately, or wait until the christening to disclose it?

  Chapter 32: Soaking The Olives

  Thea was neglecting her knitting, convinced there must be something worth a small fortune stored in the attic which she could take to have valued when ‘Price That Junk’ filmed in the village later that evening. She was hugely excited at the prospect of meeting Pericles the presenter and impressing him with her tasteful tat.

  She had endured a frustrating morning arguing with Pancratius the village policeman, insisting he ought to return the doubtless priceless pot she had discovered whilst rummaging around on the land fill site. The policeman had refused to budge from his position and assured her he was anticipating a visit from someone important in the Department of Antiquities and Cultural Heritage later that day who would give his learned opinion on the authenticity of the ancient disputed pot.

  “Do yous think this old olive jar coulds be valuable?” she asked Toothless Tasos, unearthing a large earthenware container and passing it to him.

  “Dont’s be daft, I bought it from the bargain bins in Lidl,” Tasos scoffed. “’Ow on earth did yous cat get inside it?” he questioned; ignorant the cat had judged it a suitable hiding place when it saw the ‘cat-hating’ fisherman enter the attic. Pulling the cat out by the scruff of its neck he said, “I ‘ave been lookin’ for this jar everywhere, what’s it doin’ in the attic instead of the kitchen. I need it to store the olives when they is out of the sea. Now I’ll ‘ave to fumigate it to get rid of cat ‘airs.”

  “Well I thought it was ugly so put it up ‘ere where I didn’t ‘ave to look at it,” Thea told him, revealing her latent snobbery.

  “I needs to go and shakes the olives in the net now my little loukoumade, do I really ‘ave to come with yous later?”

  “Yes yous do, an’ makes sure you wear yous best clothes, I dont’s want yous showing me up on the telly,” Thea instructed.

  Toothless Tasos was glad of the peace and quiet as he checked on the fishing net full of eating olives soaking in a salt water inlet at the edge of the sea. He believed his unique method of preparing eating olives was a stroke of genius. The seawater marinated the olives perfectly and saved him the bother of the usual method of changing salted water every day for forty days. Instead he just ambled by twice a week to give the net a nifty shake.

  “That’s an added bonus,” he muttered, spotting a crab lurking amid the olives, “comes ‘ere my lovely, Thea can cooks yous up for dinner.”

  “What a novel way of preparing olives, I would never ‘ave thought of it as there wasn’t any sea up in Osta,” Soula remarked, strolling by. She was taking the pampered pet goat Agapimeni for a walk. It was sporting an orange silk bow and a knitted jacket that was a credit to Mrs Kolokotronis’ collection of home-made goats’ clothes.

  “’Ow is Thea?” Soula enquired.

  “She’s driving me mad sortin’ out old piles of tat to shows off on telly.”

  “I’d best tell Yannis about it. The ‘ardware shop is full of junk an’ he ‘as some lovely old knobs.”

  “Speakin’ of knobs, ‘ow is yous ‘usbands bottom,” Toothless Tasos asked politely.

  “It’ll be a good while yet ‘fores he can sit down comfortably,” Soula replied, jumping out of the way to avoid being run over by the old Mercedes taxi.

  “It looks like Fotis is still courting Nitsa,” she observed, having spotted the twinkly eyed fisherman drooling over Nitsa.

  “It will come to no good ‘er carrying on with ‘er first cousin,” Toothless Tasos opined.

  “Well at least it ‘as stopped ‘er lusting after my ‘usband,” Soula sighed with relief. “I’d best be on my way now, I promised Petula Agapimeni could ‘ave a play date with Nero.”

  Bidding Soula good day Tasos muttered under his breath, “Best place for them pampered malaka goats is in a hot oven.”

  Chapter 33: Price That Junk

  Evangelia was totally absorbed in plucking Mrs Kolokotronis’ nasal hair. The sound of rasping snoring suddenly emanating from the curtained off sun-bed room threw her into a panic and she accidentally tweezed her client’s nostril sharply.

  “Oh malaka, I forgot all about mail order Masha topping up her suntan.”

  Dashing behind the curtain Evangelia was horrified to discover the famous weather girl had turned a bright fluorescent orange. “There must be somethin’ amiss the electrical wiring,” she muttered, trying to rouse mail order Masha from a deep sleep. “Wake up Masha, wake up.”

  The sound of Evangelia’s voice finally woke Masha who jumped up to admire herself in the full-length mirror. Delighted with her reflection Masha exclaimed, “This glorious tan will look stunning with my new red mini dress and six inch heels.”

  Hardly believing her luck that Masha was oblivious to her new garish colour a relieved Evangelia hastily changed the topic, asking, “Are you taking any old relics along to ‘Price That Junk?’”

  “Only my ‘usband,
” Masha replied.

  “I like that presenter Pericles; he’s a bit of a dish. I ‘ope I ‘ave the chance to get up close to ‘im,” Evangelia said excitedly.

  “Po po, he’s nothin’ but a phoney poseur and a nasty narcissist. Even ‘is name is fake. His real name is Pedros but he fancied a posh name for ‘imself.”

  “But he always looks so stately on telly. I never missed an episode of the fashion show he presented,” Evangelia gushed.

  “He was no good with fashion; a sack of olives ‘as more style than ‘im. He got booted from the show because his ratings were terrible an’ this pilot for the antiques programme is Pericles’ last chance with the television station. I tells yous he is nothin’ but a jumped up peasant with pretensions above ‘is station,” Masha declared.

  This rivalry between Masha and Pericles had been evident since their first encounter after he had exploded in a hysterical rant over being ousted from his dressing room to make way for her all-weather wardrobe. The hatred between them was sealed when Masha discovered him parading around in her fabulous fuchsia faille frock and a pair of her heels, shamelessly imitating her distinctively sexy walk and mimicking her heavily accented Greek. Masha had never forgiven him and was determined to upstage him this evening.

  “He’s madly jealous of me. He gets ‘ardly any fan mail whiles my adoring fans thinks I am a sex goddess,” Masha threw out as a final comment.

  Arriving home Masha frantically started raiding the cupboards, looking for anything of value she could take along to have appraised on the antiques show. She couldn’t expect a place in the spotlight to outshine Pericles unless she turned up with something of value.