Olive Virgins

by Katerina Nikolas

  Chapter 36: Stinking Rubbish

  “What a stink, why ‘aven’t the rubbish bins been emptied?” Gorgeous Yiorgos complained, holding a handkerchief over his nose to mask the fetid stench of decomposing feculent matter wafting into the kafenion.

  “The bin men ‘ave gone on strike because that eejit from the Department of Antiquities ‘as cordoned off the landfill site as a possible place of valuable architectural interest,” Toothless Tasos replied, wondering if he could persuade the cat to change its diet to incorporate eggs shells, old bits of mouldy bread and other choice delights lurking in his household rubbish

  “That’s down to Thea’s meddling I take it,” Gorgeous Yiorgos guessed.

  “Well she did the right thing by ‘anding the pot in so she wasn’t accused of looting,” Toothless Tasos defended her. “’Ow was she to know Pericles and the other moron would decide the rubbish dump might ‘ave been built on top of an ancient village that now might ‘ave to be excavated?”

  “All because of a bit of old pot, it’s a bit over the top,” Prosperous Pedros piped up. “I see Thea still ‘asn’t given yous your teeth back.”

  “No, she got a ride up to Paraliakos with Masha and she’s ‘oping to flog ‘em up there for a good price. Apparently they ‘ave really expensive palladium hinges. If she gets ‘ome with some money I’m straight off to the dentist for a set of new dentures.”

  “Appen they’ll find yous original set as they sort through the landfill site. Mind yous, they won’t be very fresh,” Tall Thomas said.

  “Neither were the last set but it didnt’s stop Thea insisting I shove ‘em in my mouth as long as it suited ‘er,” the toothless fisherman replied.

  Spotting Nitsa approaching arm in arm with her new incestuous boyfriend Tall Thomas called out, “Ere Aunty Nitsa, yous cant’s just go dumping yous rubbish on the side of the road, it’s unhygienic.”

  “What’s I’m supposed to do with it when all the bins are overflowing?” Nitsa shot back.

  “Yous could feed it to that blasted parrot,” Pedro suggested, ruing the day he had bought the belligerent bird for his mother.

  “Give it to me, I’ll dump it back in Gavros,” Fotis offered with a saucy wink.

  “Ooh yous is such a gentleman,” Nitsa gushed. “Now Pedro, yous mother wants yous to bring yous green fingers round to the ‘ouse. ‘Er favourite indoor miniature lemon tree ‘as suddenly dropped dead an’ there’s no reviving it.”

  “Tell ‘er I’ll be round later to take a look. I planned to stop by anyway to do ‘er olive pruning,” Prosperous Pedros agreed. “Where are yous two off to?”

  “Fotis is taking me to lunch at Stavroula’s taverna,” Nitsa preened “an’ after that Fotis ‘as an appointment at the beauty parlour to ‘ave ‘is moustache waxed into an ‘ansome ‘andlebar.”

  “Yous might want to re-think lunch Aunty. Stavroula is out doin’ ‘er olives an’ ‘as left Achilles the borrowed builder in charge of ‘er kitchen. He’s been serving up plates of charred feathers attached to burnt chicken I ‘ear.”

  “Oooh, I dont’s fancy that, feathers is always ‘ard to chew an’ Achilles’ ‘ands is far too grubby for ‘im to be messing around in the kitchen,” Nitsa scoffed. “Come on Foti, Evangelia can make an early start on grooming yous tash.”

  “But my stomach is rumbling,” Fotis objected.

  “Nonsense, it wont’s ‘urt yous to lose a few kilos,” Nitsa insisted, patting his protruding belly.

  “I thoughts yous said yous liked yous men with a bit of meat,” Fotis said in confusion.

  “Yous need to get yous ‘earing aid sorted. I said I wouldn’t mind an ‘oliday in Crete,” Nitsa countered, dragging him off to the beauty parlour.

  “That Pappas of yous as no manners at all,” Fotis observed when the Pappas totally ignored his greeting.

  The Pappas hadn’t even registered Fotis’ greeting. He was lost in a world of his own malicious machinations. Ever since eavesdropping the gossip about Socrates’ infidelity he had been pondering the most precipitous time to divulge the news to Stavroula to ensure she suffered maximum public humiliation. He anguished if he waited too long she might get wind of it from another source, thus depriving him of the pleasure of being the one to drop the bombshell. He reasoned most of the villagers would be too scared of Stavroula to risk being shot as the messenger of such awful news and had almost convinced himself the optimum moment would most definitely be at the christening. With the matter almost sorted in his mind the Pappas headed off to the church, brusquely brushing into Toothless Tasos who was heading home with his bag of garbage.

  “Maybe the strike isn’t such a bad thing after all,” Toothless Tasos muttered, filling the cat’s bowl with his household rubbish. “Thea pampers ‘er cat far too much an’ if it refuses to hunt its own food. It can get fat on these scraps an’ save me a fortune in shop bought food.”

  The cat glared at Toothless Tasos suspiciously, turning its nose up at the disgusting mess in its bowl before scurrying off to search out a suitable hiding place. Thea, just then returning home with a wad of cash from the sale of the dentures, announced “I ‘ave made yous an appointment at the dentist.”

  Spotting the disgusting slop in the cat’s bowl she made short shrift of her fiancés excuses, telling him “sometimes I seriously worries about the ways your warped mind works and yous obsession with saving a few cents.” Looking around she asked him, “Now what ‘ave yous done with the cat this time?”

  The cat sprang out from its hiding place under the deckchair. Leaping into Thea’s arms with its hackles raised it proceeded to spit and snarl at Toothless Tasos in the vain hope Thea would get the message the fisherman was bent on felicide.

  Emptying the contents of the cat’s bowl into a bin bag Thea scooped up the mess, announcing “I am off to visit Petula, ‘er goat isn’t fussy an’ will eat anything.”

  Chapter 37: Old Crone Hanging

  Quentin was not at all happy with Deirdre’s newly adopted habit of nagging him Greek style. “You can always climb up the ladder and see if you can do a better job yourself, rather than constantly criticising my pruning methods,” he exclaimed in exasperation.

  “There’s no need to snap at me Quentin,” Deirdre objected. “I am simply trying to point out you have been sawing ineffectively at the same branch for the last fifteen minutes.”

  “I think the pruning saw Bald Yannis sold me is a bit blunt,” Quentin said. “Maybe I should try lopping off the branches with an axe instead.”

  “Oh what a wonderful idea, I’ve always fancied being a widow,” Deirdre said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Do you seriously think I am going to stand here holding the ladder while you balance on it making wild swings with an axe and most likely chopping your bits off?”

  Their petty bickering was interrupted by a blood curdling scream emanating from the neighbouring olive grove, followed by the desperate cries of Fotini pleading “’Elp me, ‘elp me.”

  “Shall we just ignore Fotini and pretend we haven’t heard her?” Quentin proposed, still smarting from the old crones derisory mocking of their amateur olive picking methods. “You know how the smallest thing sets her off like a drama queen.”

  “Tempting though that it is, it wouldn’t be very neighbourly,” Deirdre shouted, attempting to make herself heard over Fotini’s now desperate wails.

  Reluctantly the American pair sauntered over to Fotini’s olive grove. They were presented with the ridiculous view of their ancient neighbour hanging precariously from the branch of an olive tree, grasping on for dear life, her short stubby legs swinging high above the ground. Her hideous old lady dress was hitched up on a branch, leaving her garish bloomers festooned on full display. The three-legged olive ladder had been pushed over by the Americans’ wandering roosters and Fotini’s almost full olive sack was too far away to offer a so
ft landing.

  “Do something Quentin, a fall from such a great height could kill a frail old woman,” Deirdre ordered.

  “You know as well as I do the miserable old hag won’t welcome my interference,” Quentin pouted, reminding his wife, “She called me gormless.”

  “Quentin is gormless, ‘elp the old hag,” the parrot squawked from the wooden perch it had previously ignored, jolting Quentin out of his reverie. “How amazing, the blasted bird is sitting on its perch creating its own sentences now, instead of simply mimicking.”

  “You can be bowled over by the bird’s mastery of language later Quentin, you really must to do something now to help Fotini.”

  Finally springing into action Quentin up-righted the olive ladder and climbed the rungs until he was high enough to put a firm hand on either side of Fotini’s hips. “Keep yous ‘ands off my bloomers yous pervert,” Fotini instructed.

  Ignoring her ingratitude Quentin assured her “The last thing I want is to be anywhere near your bloomers. I’ve got you now Fotini, I’ll have you down in a jiffy.”

  “What if yous drop me?” Fotini questioned, not convinced Quentin was man enough to pull off a successful rescue.

  “Swing your legs towards the ladder and when you feel the rungs let go of the branch, I have a firm hold of your bottom,” Quentin commanded.

  Feeling herself about to fall Fotini tentatively swung her legs until she had both feet firmly planted on a rung either side of Quentin’s shoulders, but she refused to loosen her hold on the branch. Quentin’s head disappeared up Fotini’s skirts, muffling his cries and blocking his vision. Deirdre swooned in panic, imagining both of them falling as their combined weight caused the ladder to wobble.

  Fortunately at that moment Prosperous Pedros arrived and came to the rescue. Standing on the roof of his pick-up he hoisted his mother into his arms, depositing her on the ground before giving Quentin a hand down. The parrot flew over and landed on Quentin’s head, taking a congratulatory peck out of his ear.

  “It’s a good job yous was ‘ere to ‘elp my mother K-Went-In,” Prosperous Pedros said, giving Quentin’s hand a firm shake of thanks. “Goodness knows ‘ow many broken bones she would of ‘ad if you ‘adn’t come to ‘er rescue.”

  “Well he took ‘is time about it,” Fotini complained.

  Turning on his mother Prosperous Pedros admonished her, saying “Mother was yous on the raki before yous went up the ladder?”

  “Yous know it is an olive pickin’ tradition Pedro to ‘ave a snifter of raki to takes the chill off the morning,’” Fotini told him.

  “A snifter yes, but not ‘alf a bottle.”

  “You mean to say I risked life and limb to rescue your mother and she was half sozzled in charge of an olive ladder?” Quentin questioned, amazed a woman of Fotini’s advanced years could be so irresponsible.

  Retrieving his blunt pruning saw Quentin said “well I must be getting back to the pruning.”

  “It looks to me as though Bald Yannis ‘as ripped yous off with that puny tool,” Prosperous Pedros sneered. “Let me gives yous an ‘and K-Went-In, it’s the least I can do when yous ‘ave just saved mothers life.”

  Reflecting if it hadn’t been for Quentin’s speedy intervention he would most likely have been at his mother beck and call in the hospital, Pedros grabbed his chainsaw from the pick-up and set to with gusto pruning Quentin’s trees, saying, “If yous dont’s let on I did the pruning, people will think you is a natural.”

  Chapter 38: A Delicate Operation

  Stavroula was gathering her olives, relieved to be out of the taverna and away from the villagers. Although no one had been crass enough to gossip in her presence she had still picked up the mortifying rumours her lover Socrates was the father of Tassia’s baby. She attempted to take a close look at the baby when she popped into the supermarket for some olive sacks, but Tassia had Andromeda swaddled up in layers of woollies and a cumbersome hat pulled down to cover up the incriminating bushy sideburns.

  Stavroula was tempted to discount the rumours as nothing more than malicious gossip; desperately trying to convince herself her darling Socrates could not possibly have been unfaithful. She considered Tassia to be a dull mousey type, hardly capable of attracting the attention of her manly lover. She knew he had a roving eye but was more likely to be seduced by the silicone charms of her mother-in-law than the insipid Tassia. She decided to tread warily and ascertain all the facts before accusing her beloved of adultery. Of course if he had done the deed with dreary Tassia, Stavroula had her own unique way of dealing with him. A tear rolled down her cheek as she conjured up visions of burying the cold dead body of her beloved Socrates under the foundations of the chicken coop.

  “Malaka,” she shouted aloud. It had suddenly occurred to her without a formal marriage certificate she would not be entitled to any of Slick Socrates assets. Even worse, his relatives could crawl out of the woodwork and lay claim to half of her taverna. There was no way round it, if Socrates had really been unfaithful she must extricate herself from her bigamous marriage to Toothless Tasos and marry Socrates before murdering him. Picking up the olive smacker she vented her frustration on the olives, smacking them forcefully. As olives galore rained down on her head she muttered “even with Tasos out of the marital picture I still can’t marry Socrates because I am still legally married to Kostas who although dead and buried is legally only presumed missing. I must get Socrates to sort this out once and for all; after all he is a slick lawyer. Bother, I could do without this distraction with the cooking show audition coming up.”

  Aware of Stavroula’s murderous tendencies Socrates had followed through with his plan to prove he could not possibly have fathered Tassia’s baby if his beloved was to hear the rumours. He had gone through with the vasectomy, bribing the smitten young struck-off doctor to secrecy with an excruciatingly large brown envelope.

  The delicately painful operation had been carried out in the curtained-off back area of the beauty parlour. Fortunately for Socrates the struck-off doctor was far more experienced in performing vasectomies than he was in re-attaching decapitated finger tips or ministering Botox injections. The vasectomy appeared to be a success and although Socrates was still guarding his tender appendage warily it was at least still attached.

  Wielding a scalpel the smitten young doctor had confided to his patient, “I am done with Masha, she is nothing but a fame hungry gold-digging hussy who I suspect is carrying on with the smitten young reporter. I am an educated man, yet she led me on and treats me like a dogsbody. I will take this brown envelope and make a new start in a country where my medical credentials will be appreciated and not too closely examined.”

  With the operation performed Socrates had taken the opportunity to drive up to Osta to represent Soula’s father. With distance between him and Stavroula he was able to conceal the swelling and bruising from her prying eyes and was confident he could lie convincingly were she ever to accuse him of the ill-fated dalliance with Tassia.

  Chapter 39: Pressing The Olives

  Quentin and Deidre were very impressed they had managed to collect almost a full sack of olives despite their inexperienced picking. They were waiting outside the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ for Prosperous Pedros to drive them to the olive press where they would enjoy their first experience of turning olives into liquid elixir. Unfortunately Pedros had failed to warn them Fotini would be coming along with her bulging sacks. The old crone ambled along to join them, sneering contemptuously at their single sack.

  “Is that the best yous could do? Not surprisin’ considerin’ K-Went-In was more intent on gettin’ ‘is ‘ands on my bloomers than with any serious pickin.’ Yous two never really got the ‘ang of smacking the olives,” she crowed.

  “You are an ungrateful old woman,” Deirdre blurted “if it hadn’t been for my husband you would most likely be lying in a hospital bed with broke
n bones.”

  “And I can assure you your bloomers was the last place I ever wanted to put my hands, but it was the only way to prevent you from falling,” Quentin added, shuddering at the recollection of having his head buried inside Fotini’s hideous old lady dress.

  “Rescue me did yous, po po?” Fotini taunted. “’Ow do I knows K-Went-In didnt’s push over my ladder in the first place? He’s already tried to kill the parrot and my miniature indoor lemon tree ‘as given up all signs of life since yous two came near it.”

  Deirdre stared the old hag down, refusing to feel any guilt for killing the plant when she had poured Fotini’s poisonous brew into it. Instead she turned on her neighbour, saying, “We have heard about your witch like behaviour, putting a curse on Katerina. I am convinced you tried to poison Quentin and me with your disgusting frapelia tea. Just look what it did to the parrot and the plant.”

  “Ah, so yous admits yous killed my miniature lemon tree,” Fotini exclaimed triumphantly, taking no responsibility for the potentially lethal brew she had concocted. “I expect yous to buy me a new one as even my green-fingered son couldn’t revive it.”

  The arrival of Prosperous Pedros in his pick-up truck put paid to their arguing. He announced Quentin and Deirdre would have to sit on the olive sacks that were spilling over the back. His collection of eighty full sacks put their single bag to shame, particularly as Fotini boasted she had filled a dozen in the time it had taken them to fill one. However Pedros diplomatically praised the Americans first-time efforts, reminding his mother she had eighty years of experience while they were olive virgins.

  The Americans settled themselves uncomfortably on top of the bulging olive sacks, watching in amazement as Fotini nimbly threw a sack full of olives in their direction. “How on earth did she do that, the heavy sack must weigh more than the scrawny old crone?” Quentin whispered to his wife.