Float the Goat Page 4

  “But if yous let Stavroula in on yous plans they wont’s be a secret no more. The woman is an insufferable gossip,” Tassia pointed out. “’Ow about I let my mother-in-law in on yous plans an’ between us we can rustle up a meze feast.

  “Well nothin’ too fancy, I ‘ave to do it on the cheap. Can Mrs Kolokotronis be trusted to keep ‘er trap shut?”

  “I’ll tell ‘er it’s important to yous. I can’t do it without ‘er elp, I’m no domestic goddess, Taso. Yous just get Thea over ‘ere on Friday morning to get into ‘er dress an’ then invite everyone back ‘ere after the church service an’ we’ll ‘ave food in the garden.”

  “It’s so kind of yous to go to so much trouble to ‘elp,” Tasos said with gratitude, knocking back a second ouzo and wondering how to distract Thea whilst he dug up his secret stash of cash hidden under the courgette patch, to pay the Pappas.

  Toothless Tasos’ concern about distracting Thea proved irrelevant. By the time he left Tassia’s house Thea had worked herself into such a jealous frenzy she had taken herself off to Stavroula’s kitchen to have a good moan about the cheating antics of her tight-wad fiancé.

  Chapter 9

  A Flasher’s Mac

  “Good grief woman, I told yous to be discreet for this meeting,” Bald Yannis hissed, stepping out of the back door into the shadowy narrow alley behind the hardware shop. Catching sight of Nitsa’s Hawaiian shorts he hastily put his sunglasses on to avoid being dazzled.

  “I’m all yours Yanni. Dont’s worry if yous cant’s contain yourself, I ‘ave that effect on men,” Nitsa pouted, batting her one false eyelash and one hairy black caterpillar in the deluded assumption she looked enticingly sexy.

  “Why ‘ave yous got a dead caterpillar stuck to yous eye?” Bald Yannis asked, lowering his sunglasses for closer inspection and breathing in an unhealthy amount of the chemically concocted super strength fly killer he’d palmed off on Fotini as a supposedly parrot safe bug spray. “Oh never mind, the important thing is I ‘ave a proposition to put to yous.”

  “Ooh Yanni, yous can propose anything indecent, I still ‘ave very flexible joints.”

  “I think yous ‘ave got the wrong idea, yous witless old hag,” Bald Yannis recoiled in horror.

  “Ooh, I just loves it when yous sweet talks me,” Nitsa simpered.

  “Get a grip. I needs yous ‘elp to sabotage the grand opening of Stavroula’s new tourist tat annex tomorrow. The insufferable woman could put a big dent in my business by undercutting the price of my lobster adorned shower curtains,” Bald Yannis explained.

  “Ooh, I could be persuaded to ‘elp yous,” Nitsa enthused. “There’s no love lost between me an’ Stavroula since the miserable cow sided with the public ‘ealth inspector against Fotini and Melecretes. If she’d put in a good word for them they might not have been landed with that enormous fine. She ‘ad no gratitude for them running ‘er taverna whilst she was up at the ‘ospital.”

  “Would that be the fine they got for poisoning customers with manky fish meze plucked from the beauty salon’s wart infected pedicure tank?” Bald Yannis asked sarcastically.

  “That would be the very same poisonous dish what put Dastan the Kazakh out of action before he could finalise his blackmail plans with the corrupt mayor,” Nitsa astutely pointed out. “Dont’s write me off as a fool just ‘cos yous knows I ‘ave indecent designs on yous body.”

  Bald Yannis, admitting the truth of Nitsa’s words, wondered if he had underestimated the ridiculous old bag. It was only because the conniving Kazakh had been confined to the bathroom following his close encounter with Fotini’s tainted fish meze that his plans to open a polluting gold mine in the village had been successfully scuppered.

  “So is yous in or not? Yous ‘ave agreed Stavroula deserves takin’ down a peg or two,” he wheedled.

  “What’s in it for me?” Nitsa demanded, trying but failing to look menacing.

  “If yous can sabotage ‘er tourist tat annex opening yous will get some free curative ingredients from the supermarket an’ a choice selection of hideous old lady dresses from my ‘ardware shop.”

  “I’d rather yous paid me another way,” Nitsa said in her most suggestive manner, nudging closer to Bald Yannis.

  “Well yous can always see if Fat Christos wants to play along with yous desperate and perverted desires, but the only thing yous will get from me is some hideous free frocks,” Bald Yannis pronounced emphatically.

  “So Fat Christos is in on it too,” Nitsa mused.

  “Yes, he is worried about the competition to his own line of tourist tat,” Bald Yannis confirmed. The two shop owners had agreed to put their differences aside in their efforts to thwart Stavroula’s new venture.

  “I’ll do it, but on top of the dresses I want yous word yous will support me in my campaign for mayor.”

  “Yous is standing for mayor?” Bald Yannis spluttered in mirth.

  “What’s so funny? Is yous a malaka chauvinist pig what thinks a woman isn’t up to the job? If I’m clever enough for a bit of sabotage just think what I could achieve with my feet under the table of high office.”

  Talk of Nitsa’s feet drew Yannis’ eyes to her parrot chewed plimsolls as he contemplated her words. He’d been planning to cast his electoral vote in favour of Moronic Mitsos but he could see the advantage of having this pliable and gullible old woman at his disposal.

  “It’s a deal. Yous will ‘ave my vote if yous dont’s make a mess of the tourist tat annex sabotage,” Bald Yannis promised.

  “Po po, I can guarantee Stavroula’s grand opening will be an epic disaster of chaos an’ mess,” Nitsa laughed.

  The ratchety sound of hacking coughing echoed suddenly in the alleyway, causing the two oddly matched conspirators to pause their scheming. When silence returned they resumed their plotting, oblivious that the Pappas was lurking behind the bins eavesdropping on them, with a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth.

  “’Ow will yous create chaos?” Bald Yannis asked.

  “Best yous dont’s know about anything clandestine,” Nitsa said, affecting a feeble Mata Hari impersonation.

  “Well yous cant’s go undercover looking like that, yous stand out more than a goat in a camel show. ‘Ang on a minute, I ‘ave an old raincoat in the shop,” Bald Yannis said, momentarily disappearing and returning with a belted beige mackintosh recovered from the dusty depths of his lost property box.

  “There’s more to yous than meets the eye Yanni. Whoever would ‘ave guessed you’d ‘ave a flasher’s mac handy?” Nitsa said, grabbing the grubby raincoat. “No one will recognise me in this,” she chuckled, disappearing inside its enveloping bulk.

  Their furtive plans were interrupted by an out-of-breath Fotini attempting to run down the alleyway.

  “Nitsa come quick,” she gasped. “The parrot ‘as ‘ad a relapse. We ‘ave to get it to the new doctor.”

  Chapter 10

  Paella and Sangria

  “If yous is just ‘ere for a chat yous may as well give me an ‘and with washing these pots and pans,” Stavroula told Thea. “That useless fool of a father of mine ‘as taken off early to rub expensive lotions into the mail order floozy’s swollen ankles. I cant’s imagine why she insists on tottering round on those tarty heels in ‘er condition, it’s not seemly.”

  “I can’t picture Masha in flats,” Thea opined. “I can understand ‘er still wanting to look glamorous though. Don’t forget she has ‘er public personae as a famous weather girl to maintain.”

  “Po po, she’s an overrated strumpet,” Stavroula groused, never missing an opportunity to bad-mouth her young step-mother. “Why are yous lookin’ so glum Thea, yous ‘ave a face like a slapped trout?”

  “It’s Tasos. He’s been sneaking around. I suspicion he’s up to no good,” Thea sighed.

  “I can’t see why yous bother with ‘im Thea, he always was a useless ‘usband to me. He ‘ad no get up an’ go about ‘im.”

  “He got up and went all the way to Au
stralia to get away from yous,” Thea snarled back defensively. “An’ yous didn’t do a better job of keeping ‘old of the cheating Kostas.”

  Stavroula had to keep her jaws clamped as tight as a vice to swallow the retort on her lips. It wouldn’t do for her to reveal that Kostas’ cheating ways were nothing more than a convenient fabrication put out in a calculated move to deflect any suspicion she had done away with her second husband.

  “But third time lucky eh Thea, Socrates is a devoted fiancé and we are planning the most bigly wedding,” Stavroula boasted. Noticing the dejected look on her friend’s face she asked, “’Ow are yous wedding plans going with Tasos?”

  “They aren’t, he changes the subject whenever I mention it,” Thea admitted. “That’s what I was trying to tell yous, he’s been acting most oddly. I just caught ‘im sneaking into Tassia’s ‘ouse while ‘er ‘usband was at the supermarket. I’m not sure I trust ‘em together. Dont’s forget there was all that gossip about ‘er carrying on with your Socrates.”

  “All lies, don’t forget it was impossible for ‘im to ‘ave got ‘er pregnant as he’d ‘ad the snip,” Stavroula bristled; annoyed at her stirring up old rumours. Still in a bad mood she stomped out to take the order from a couple of tourists, leaving Thea to mull over Tasos’ possible betrayal.

  “Can yous believe them English eejits?” Stavroula scowled on her return to the kitchen. “Demanding food what isn’t on the menu.”

  “What does they want?” Thea asked with disinterest, her mind still occupied with Toothless Tasos’ strange carryings on.

  “Paella an’ sangria; whatever that is.”

  “Paella is a Spanish dish with, I think, rice and snails, an’ sangria is a fruity Spanish wine,” Thea explained, showing off her more worldly sophistication.

  “Po po, I’m done with cookin’ any of that foreign muck,” Stavroula sneered, recalling the humiliation she had suffered when attempting to cook an English Christmas dinner on the televised cookery show audition. “Why cant’s people just be ‘appy with goodly Greek pastitsio. Still I ‘ave some snail and tomato stew that’s not quite due for the bin, I’ll serve it up with some rice an’ tell ‘em it’s paella. Thea, throw a few bits of nectarine in that jug and pour some Retsina over it. That should satisfy their odd demands for fruity wine.”

  Stavroula busied herself with the snail stew she intended to pass off as paella while she shared some news with Thea. “Uncle Lukas is coming back to his ‘ouse in the village.”

  “Po po, not Lecherous Lukas, the pervy sex pest,” Thea gasped in surprise, forgetting all about her possibly cheating fiancé. “It must be years since he’s been back. I’m surprised he’s got the nerve to show ‘is face ‘ere again.”

  “That’s no way to talk about my rich uncle and besides that’s all in the past,” Stavroula declared, hoping to brush her uncle’s previous indiscretions under the carpet.

  “Yous ‘ave changed yous tune, I never ‘eard yous say a good word about ‘im,” Thea said.

  “Well he is family. It’s time to let bygones be bygones,” Stavroula snapped.

  “But he isn’t technically yous family if yous think about it,” Thea argued. “Now yous know that old fool Vasilis is yous natural father it means yous isn’t really related to Lecherous Lukas.”

  Thea’s logic took the wind out of the grasping Stavroula who always had one eye on money grubbing ways to increase her wealth. Her ‘uncle’ Lukas was worth a small fortune which she hoped to inherit, having failed miserably in her attempts to get Vasilis to make her his sole beneficiary. She had recently taken to telephoning Lukas at his home in Athens, encouraging him to return to Astakos where he owned the finest house in the village, scheming to at the very least extract a fat dowry out of him for her wedding to Slick Socrates.

  Stavroula realised Thea was correct and Lukas was no longer technically her uncle. Lukas was the step-brother of Gregoris, the man who’d been married to her mother Melina and had raised Stavroula, thinking she was his daughter. Gregoris had remained unaware that Stavroula was the result of a passionate encounter between Melina and Vasilis in an overgrown olive grove. Melina only revealed Stavroula’s true paternity in her death bed confession to the Pappas who took advantage of the secret to try to blackmail that old fool Vasilis.

  “It would break Lukas’ ‘eart to learn I’m not ‘is real flesh an’ blood,” Stavroula hastily improvised. “Please dont’s let on to Lukas, Thea.”

  “Well it’s none of my business, I’m sure. The last thing I want to do is ‘ave any dealings with the letch,” Thea huffed. “But if yous don’t want ‘im to find out the truth yous will ‘ave to get that old fool Vasilis to keep ‘is mouth shut.”

  “Leave ‘im to me,” Stavroula said, scooping up two plates of not quite rancid snail stew to carry out to the starving tourists.

  “Paella,” she informed the tourists, plonking the dishes down with a warning scowl that brooked no complaints.

  “Gracias,” the couple carefully enunciated, determined to show off their best phrase book Spanish, convinced they had flown out to a little known unspoilt area of Spain.

  Chapter 11

  A Pungently Presumptuous Guest

  Hattie was painstakingly plucking parrot feathers out of the curative when the strangled spluttering of a clapped out two-stroke caught her attention. Peering through the kitchen window her mouth dropped open in amazement at the ridiculous sight of Quentin and Deirdre crammed compactly onto the ancient motorcycle held together with more rust than paintwork. Even after the engine petered to a halt Deirdre’s arms remained tightly locked around the waist of a grubby old gent balancing a goat on his lap. Quentin, bringing up the rear of this queer quartet, was clinging onto a helmeted Deirdre with one arm. His other arm was raised above his head to avoid stabbing his wife in the back with the spiky bunch of artichokes he was holding, a generous gift from the goat-herder.

  Rushing from the house Hattie risked possible impalement on the prickly pear plants by taking the perilous short cut over the garden wall; such was her haste to satisfy her curiosity.

  “My my, I ‘ardly recognised yous Fotini,” Pedros the goat herd called out, winking lewdly at Hattie who he blindly mistook for the object of his once youthful ardour. “Yous ‘ave put some meat on yous bones since I last saw yous.”

  “Pedro, this is my mother Hattie,” Quentin corrected, shakily climbing down from the motorcycle. “Mother, this is Pedros who kindly brought us down from his village of Ankinari when we ran into car difficulties. He’s an old friend of Fotini.”

  “Beggin’ yous pardon Kyria for mistaking yous for Fotini,” Pedros said, prising himself free of Deirdre’s grasp and springing from the motorcycle with a surprisingly sprightly step to plant a slobbering kiss on Hattie’s hand. “Now I’m up close I can sees yous ‘ave beautiful blue eyes, not mucky brown ones like Fotini. ’Appen yous dont’s ‘ave a goat phobia either.”

  Wiping her wet hand on her dress Hattie had no time to wonder if the old goat-herder would scrub up into something resembling presentable. Rushing forward she was just in time to prevent a shell shocked Deirdre from wobbling sideways off the motorbike. “Give me a hand Quentin,” she shouted, “Deirdre doesn’t seem herself.”

  “She’s had too much sun followed by a traumatic over the precipice moment. I think whizzing down the mountain on this precarious motorcycle may have been too much for her delicate sensibilities,” Quentin explained.

  Deirdre was incapable of mouthing anything other than gibberish as Hattie and Quentin led her into the house, closely followed by Pedros the goat-herder who immediately zoned in on a bottle of five-star Metaxa and poured an enormous medicinal glass for poor Deirdre and another one for himself.

  “He’s a bit pungent,” Hattie hissed to Quentin, unwittingly providing the perfect moniker to plant before Pedros’ name to prevent him from being confused with Fotini’s son Prosperous Pedros.

  “So you live in the village named for an artichoke? I pr
esume that explains Quentin’s fresh vegetable haul,” Hattie said in an effort to make polite conversation.

  “Their ‘earts ‘ave aphrodisiacal properties,” Pungent Pedros pronounced, eyeing up Hattie’s stout bosom with a libidinous look that set her pulse racing.

  “I’ve always fancied having a go at bottling artichoke hearts in extra virgin. I shall don my protective rubber gloves and tackle them tomorrow,” Quentin beamed, happy to have an excuse to use up some of their superlative hand-picked oil.

  “Pedros is quite keen to meet up with Fotini again,” Quentin told his mother.

  “She’s not at home I’m afraid, she went off with Nitsa in the taxi, they could be gone hours,” Hattie revealed, happily noting Pungent Pedros didn’t appear to be too devastated by this news, being otherwise occupied by leering lasciviously at her.

  Having knocked back enough brandy to put a dent in her stupor Deirdre noticed the goat had climbed onto the sofa, settling down to chew its way through her favourite decorative throw cushion. “What on earth is that goat doing indoors?” she queried, perplexed as to why the whiffy creature had been ferried along on their travels.

  “It’s always best to keep new goats close at first, gives ‘em a chance to get familiar like with their new owners,” Pungent Pedros explained.

  “We can’t possibly keep it,” Deirdre spluttered. “Look at the chaos that ensued last time we tried to keep a goat next door to the goat-hating Fotini.”

  “Did-Rees, yous ‘ave the wrong end of the stick. I want’s the goat to get used to me. I ‘ave to say it was a grand present yous gifted me, it will make an ‘andsome addition to my herd. I’ll be taking it ‘ome with me when I’ve ‘ad another brandy an’ perhaps a bite to eat if yous is up to a bit of cookin’; I’m ‘ungry enough to eat an ‘orse.”

  Deirdre sprang from her chair, dragging Quentin along to the kitchen, hissing, “What are we to do, he seems to be under the impression we gifted that goat to him rather than realising it was just some random creature that hitched a lift from the mountain?”