“You must stop fussing Quentin, I’m perfectly fine except for a few aching muscles,” Deirdre assured him. “Prosperous Pedros said I was a real trooper.”
“Well I want you to take it easy indoors today, no over exerting yourself,” Quentin insisted. “Now how about I cook you a nice omelette and serve it with some of those fresh artichoke hearts I bottled in olive oil?”
“That sounds delicious,” Deirdre agreed.
Using all his strength to prise the lid off a jar of artichokes, Quentin was shocked to discover the contents had turned black and mouldy.
“Holy goats,” Deirdre exclaimed at the sight of her festering lunch, adding, “I can’t think where I’ve picked up that peculiar expression.”
“I just don’t understand it. These hearts were an appetising cream colour when I bottled them and now look at them, all black and manky, sprouting a disgusting putrefying growth,” Quentin said, bitterly disappointed all his spiky endeavours had been wasted.
“Not to worry dear, worse things happen at sea,” a remarkably upbeat Deirdre commiserated. “I’m sure Nitsa won’t mind showing you her technique again.”
It seemed that nothing could faze Deirdre so Quentin decided to come clean about the toilet pipe leaking raw sewage and fertilising the field of wild watermelons.
“Have you telephoned Achilles the borrowed builder to come and take a look?” Deirdre asked before remembering their botched leaking roof was his handiwork and suggested perhaps Bald Yannis should be called instead.
“Oh, no need for all that expense,” Quentin replied. “I have armed myself with an impressive arsenal of plumbing widgets and whatsits from the hardware shop and feel more than capable of tackling the burst pipe that is feeding the watermelons with flushed effluent.”
“Can I help at all?”
“Certainly not Deirdre, you are supposed to be taking it easy,” Quentin insisted, climbing into the beekeeper hazmat suit and donning a pair of rubber wellies. Deciding it was too hot for the helmet he discarded it, thinking it was mainly his lower limbs which would need protection from any stray sewage.
“Perhaps if it’s not too strenuous you could flush the toilet at regular intervals to help me identify which bit of the pipe is leaking.”
“But aren’t the pipes underground?” Deirdre asked logically.
“Darling, the pipes are the handiwork of Achilles,” Quentin said meaningfully.
“Enough said,” Deirdre replied, realising by now if you wanted a job botching, Achilles the borrowed builder was the man to call. Failing to bury the waste pipe was typical of his shoddy approach.
Quentin marched manfully out to the undergrowth at the back of the house, determined to tackle the leak. Following the line of the pipe from where it emerged from the bathroom he was soon able to pinpoint the hole with the help of Deirdre’s regular flushing.
“It looks like there’s something blocking it,” he called up to Deirdre who was hanging out of the bathroom window. “I’m going to try and flush it out with the hosepipe,” he explained, attaching it to the outside tap and turning it on to full pressure. The water surged through the pipes until it hit the blockage, the build up of pressure suddenly causing a tumultuous internal explosion. Quentin was leaning over the hole in the pipe attempting to identify the extent of the blockage when an eruption of revolting squelching sewage hit him squarely in the face.
“It’s a nice day for it K-Went-In,” a booming voice greeted him.
Cringing in embarrassment at being caught with a sludge splattered visage, Quentin turned to welcome the unwanted interloper, Pungent Pedros.
“What are you doing here, Pedro?” he asked brusquely.
“I came to call on Fotini, but ‘eard an explosion out ‘ere ‘fore I ‘ad the chance to knock,” Pungent Pedros said. “It looks like yous ‘ave made a right mess there, ‘appen yous is clueless as to what needs doin’.”
Quentin looked shiftily over Pungent Pedros’ shoulder, hoping with every fibre of his being that his unwanted guest wasn’t being trailed by Fotini or Nitsa. He would never live down this humiliation if the two old crones got wind of it, imagining they would mock his remaining days with some unseemly moniker such as ‘shit face’ or ‘sewage head.’
“Yous shouldn’t ‘ave tried to flush it without giving it a good poke first,” Pungent Pedros advised, stepping into the knee-deep puddle of sewage and elbowing Quentin out of the way. Breaking a long thin branch from an olive tree he proceeded to get up close and personal with the stinking pipe, not sharing Quentin’s prissy revulsion to ripe and reeking waste matter.
“Ah, I can feel the blockage moving,” the pungent goat-herder exclaimed, wiggling the branch inside the pipe.
Quentin turned his attention back to the pipe, waiting breathlessly next to Pedros who said, “yep, it’s still movin, ‘ang on it’s movin’ this way.”
The blockage revealed itself by slithering out of the hole, prompting Quentin to scream “snake” at the top of his lungs.
Quentin’s scream alarmed the creeping reptile so much it turned tail, disappearing back into the pipe but changing direction towards the bathroom.
“Deirdre, put the toilet lid down at once and get out of the bathroom now,” Quentin yelled in alarm, convinced the snake would slither up the vertical pipe.
“I never knew yous was such a big girl’s blouse, K-Went-In,” Pungent Pedros scoffed, slipping his arm into the filthy pipe, retrieving the snake by its tail bone and slinging it into the weeds with a high flying circular motion. “It’s ‘armless,” he said in response to Quentin’s horror struck expression “but it wouldn’t ‘ave been very nice for Did-Rees if it introduced itself to ‘er glow-in-the-dark thong up the toilet, would it now? Let’s see what yous ‘ave got ‘ere amid these whatsits an’ widgets that we can seal up this hole with.”
Declining Quentin’s kind offer to clean up in his bathroom, Pungent Pedros simply wiped the worst of the sewage off with an old rag before scrambling goat-like over the prickly pear plant into the neighbouring garden, running straight into Fotini who was balanced precariously atop the three-legged olive ladder, spying on Quentin.
It was over sixty years since Pungent Pedros had been rejected by Fotini yet he had carried her image faithfully in his mind across the decades. It never for one second occurred to him that the scrawny scowling old hag perched before him, clad in a hideous old lady dress with concertinaed pop socks wrinkled around her hairy legs, could possibly be Fotini, so much had she changed.
“Po po, what’s that ‘orrid malaka smell?” Fotini demanded, wrinkling her nose and getting a distinct whiff of goat beneath the more pervasive stench of sewage.
“Yous reek like a stinky old goat-herder.”
“Fotini, I didn’t ‘ardly recognise yous, but I’d know that contempt for goats in yous voice anywhere,” Pungent Pedros said flatly.
“Does I know yous? What business ‘ave yous got climbing over my wall?” Fotini asked suspiciously.
“Fotini, it’s me, Pedros from up in Ankinari. I ‘eard yous was livin’ next door to them foreign friends of mine and thought to call and get reacquainted with yous.”
“Pedros? Pedros what trifled with my feelings, but thought more of is malaka goats than me? Yous can’t be turnin’ up ‘ere with yous disgustin’ intentions of seducing me, I’m a married woman.”
“I ‘eard yous was a widow.”
“Wicked lies. My ‘usband is away in Athens on business,” Fotini said, losing her footing on the three-legged olive ladder.
Pungent Pedros rushed to her assistance, offering a steadying hand to prevent her from slipping.
“Get yous ‘ands off me yous pervert, yous ‘ave always been obsessed with gettin’ yous ‘ands on my bloomers,” Fotini shrieked.
“Yous delusional hag, I was only tryin’ to stop yous from fallin an’ doin’ yourself an injury,’” Pungent Pedros protested, removing his hand quick sharp. Without his steadying touch Fotini slid down the ladder fas
ter than a fireman down a greasy pole, landing in an ungainly heap sprawled on the ground with her skirt in the air and her bloomers on display.
“What ‘appened to yous Fotini?” Pungent Pedros asked sadly. “Yous always was a bit standoffish, but now yous is downright unpleasant.”
“Who does yous think yous is comin’ ‘ere with yous insults after leavin’ me with a lifelong aversion to goats?” Fotini cackled.
“Po po, goats is warm and lovin’ creatures whereas yous is nothin’ but a vicious old hell-hag,” Pungent Pedros said. The scales had lifted from his eyes. It dawned on him he had romanticised a fancied attachment to an idealised version of Fotini who had never existed beyond his imagination. He had happily played the field, convincing himself if only Fotini hadn’t rejected him, she would have been the one to tame him.
“Yous led me on then absconded on the eve of our wedding,” Fotini accused him.
“It looks like I ‘ad a lucky escape, but don’t yous dare accuse me of absconding when yous changed yous mind at the last minute and broke my ‘eart,” Pungent Pedros countered, remembering how he fled to the hills with his goats when he learned of Fotini’s rejection.
In his youth Pungent Pedros had worshipped Fotini from afar, without ever exchanging a word with her. He broached the subject of marriage with Fotini’s father rather than proposing directly to her, the accepted way of doing things back in the day. Fotini’s father promised his daughter’s hand to the goat-herder. Even though he didn’t consider Pedros a good catch he preferred to marry Fotini off sharpish rather than risk being stuck with a spinster daughter. Fotini was summarily informed by her father she was to wed the goat-herder and arrangements were duly made. The couple were formally introduced in the presence of a chaperone, a brief encounter during which Pungent Pedros practised a cheesy range of sweet nothings on Fotini. In turn Fotini giggled bashfully, concealing her naturally malevolent nature from this ardent suitor. Pedros was so smitten he readily dismissed her vocal loathing of his precious goats as nothing more than a girlish fear of the skittish creatures that she would grow out of.
Unbeknown to the engaged couple, Fotini’s father was still in the market for a more advantageous marriage offer. When a rival suitor with better prospects came along he callously informed Pungent Pedros his daughter had rejected him, at the same time shattering Fotini’s dreams by telling her the goat-herder had changed his mind and legged it up to the hills with his goats rather than go through with the wedding.
“’Appen yous father played us both, Fotini,” Pungent Pedros sighed.
“He always was a manipulative old devil,” Fotini agreed.
Fotini accepted the helping hand Pungent Pedros extended to pull her to her feet without slapping him off with her usual insults.
“I’d best be getting back to my goats,” Pedros said.
“Aye, an’ I’ve got curative that wants stirring,” Fotini replied.
As the pair parted Fotini realised her fear of goats had developed into an obsessive aversion after she’d been deceived into believing Pungent Pedros had abandoned her at the altar. Pedros strolled off with a wistful expression, realising even though he hadn’t been rejected things would never have worked out between them. It was just so unnatural for anyone not to have a natural affinity for goats.
Chapter 38
A Midget Blancmange
“Nona, Tasos has arranged a treat for you. Evangelia is going to style your hair and do your nails at the beauty salon,” Sofia announced on the morning of Thea’s surprise wedding.
“Since when do I let that man tell me when I need a change of style?” Thea asked suspiciously, still convinced Toothless Tasos was carrying on an illicit relationship with Tassia.
“Oh Nona, don’t be such a grump. I’d be delighted if Iraklis came up with such a thoughtful treat,” Sofia said, breaking into inconsolable sobbing when she remembered that Iraklis would be boarding the bus for the army barracks whilst she played bridesmaid.
“Sofia, pull yourself together, all that cryin’ will make yous face as pink as yous ‘air,” Thea chided, thinking her goddaughter couldn’t be that broken hearted if she’d time to tinker with her hair colour yet again.
“I’ll try Nona, but I miss Iraklis so much.”
“He hasn’t even left the village yet,” Thea pointed out; having no idea Sofia would miss his departure by playing bridesmaid. “Military service will make a man out of Iraklis; he’ll come back ready to settle down. ‘Ave yous seen Tasos this morning Sofia, he’s sneaked off somewhere? He ‘asn’t gone fishin’ ‘cos ‘is bait bucket is cluttering up the kitchen.”
“He’s arranging something very special for you Nona,” Sofia said excitedly. “All will be revealed shortly.”
“Hmm,” Thea sneered, convinced if he was arranging something nice it was because he had a guilty conscience. “’Ave yous seen the cat, it’s on the missing list along with Tasos?”
Toothless Tasos was on such tenterhooks that he had left for the church two hours before the appointed hour of the service. He had polished his dentures till they gleamed and shoe horned himself into his new wedding suit, leaving him uncomfortably stiff. Determined to have everything just so, he had carried along the newly dyed pink cat in a cardboard box, worried it would never get the hang of being the ring bearer. The Pappas’ relentless religious droning did nothing to quell Tasos’ anxiety and he alternated between using his decorative pocket handkerchief to mop his sweating brow and to put an extra spit of shine on his shoes.
Tasos’ fidgeting presence was annoying the Pappas so much he decided it was time to get the service underway. “Is it time already?” Tasos asked.
“It is indeed,” the Pappas lied. “I’ll do the announcement over the megaphone now, telling folks it kicks off in twenty minutes.”
The wedding announcement took the villagers by complete surprise. It was such short notice that the fishermen who had only just moored their boats after a morning’s fishing had no time to change out of their fishy smelling work clothes before legging it to the church. The shopkeepers turned their signs to ‘Closed’ knowing everyone would be at the wedding and there would be no customers to serve.
Quentin and Deirdre, trapped in the back of Nitsa’s taxi as she drove them to the garage to collect their newly repaired car, were turfed out at the harbour as soon as Fotini heard the wedding call.
“Ooh I love a good wedding, moisten up Nitsa, we can get in lots of spittin’,” she cackled.
“Fancy Tasos makin’ an honest woman of ‘er. It should be me and Bald Yannis getting hitched if ‘she’ ‘adn’t got ‘er claws into ‘im,” Nitsa said, sending a draggers drawn look at Soula who was waddling by. Climbing out of the taxi Nitsa offered her arm to Deirdre, saying, “Stick close to me Did-Rees; we don’t want to lose yous again after that nasty scare yous gave us.”
“Po po, only the gormless K-Went-In could lose ‘is wife on a floating ostrich,” Fotini mocked.
“It was a flamingo,” Nitsa said.
“’Appen ostriches ‘ave more sense,” Fotini retorted.
Sofia had just arrived at Tassia’s house when the booming voice of the Pappas echoed around the village through the church megaphone. “What on earth is the Pappas playing at, it’s much too early. Nona’s still at the beauty salon and we still have to get her into her dress.”
“Put your bridesmaid dress on quick, then run and get Thea so she can slip into her bridal gown,” Tassia advised.
“Seriously. You can’t expect me to wear that sickly pink meringue, it’s the fugliest frock I’ve ever seen,” Sofia wailed, clapping eyes for the first time on the elaborate crinoline bridesmaid dress with enormous puff sleeves.
“I told you I wanted something pink and edgy, that frothy thing looks as though it was spewed out of an explosion in a marshmallow factory,” Sofia objected.
“Don’t exaggerate Sofia, it’s not that bad. Little Andy chose it and see how adorable she looks in her matching dress,” Tassia said
as the side-burned toddler pirouetted into the room, tripping over her hemline and landing on her stubbly haired chin. The bilious green furry bonnet fashioned out of the cuddly syphilis stuffed microbe and resembling a well-worn bathmat spared the child’s head from smashing open on the floor tiles.
“Just put it on and run and get yous Nona,” Mrs Kolokotronis urged. “An’ look on the bright side, young Iraklis won’t see you in it.”
Her reminder of Iraklis prompted more tears from the hideously dressed bridesmaid who looked quite a fright by the time she arrived at the beauty salon.
“Are yous goin’ to a fancy dress party?” Thea asked, still clueless about the wedding since her head had been under the dryer when the Pappas made his megaphone announcement.
“No Nona, I am the bridesmaid at your surprise wedding, Tasos has arranged everything. Come with me now,” Sofia blurted.
“My wedding,” Thea gasped, completely flabbergasted by this unexpected turn of events. “I was convinced Tasos was sneaking round with another woman.”
“He hated being so sneaky, but if he’d let on it would have spoiled the surprise. It’s his way of showing you how much he loves you, even though he went about in a bit of a cack-handed way,” Sofia explained.
“’Ow silly I’ve been, suspecting him of being unfaithful when he always tells me I am his goddess. It was wrong of me to think badly of ‘im,” Thea said regretfully. “’Ang on, I can’t marry him now, this skirt and blouse isn’t at all bridal.”
“Tasos even organised your wedding dress Nona, he hid it at Tassia’s house. We need to hurry there now so you can put it on.”
“Tasos went wedding dress shopping,” Thea exclaimed, suddenly dejected. Her fisherman fiancé had about as much sense of style as one of his dead catches.
Float the Goat Page 17
