In Lonsdale, Chase and I see a pet shop full of pet things. We enter, taking Amy with us.
‘Just get the essentials.’ Chase looks around. The place is cluttered with bird cages, dog kennels, tortoise shelters, and bubbling fish tanks. ‘Don’t go overboard, George.’
I don’t know what the essentials are for a dog, but I guess food would be one. And I can’t go overboard, as I don’t have the ‘going overboard’ kind of money.
‘I’ll have some dog food, please,’ I say to the lady, who is cross-eyed, so it’s hard to say if she’s looking at me, Amy or outside. ‘For this dog.’ I hold Amy up, to make sure the lady is on target.
‘Buy it at the supermarket,’ she says. ‘It’s cheaper.’
‘Of course,’ I agree, as she seems quite definite about it. ‘Well, perhaps I’ll just have a dog lead and a collar, please.’ They would surely be essential equipment for responsible dog ownership.
‘Supermarket,’ the lady says. ‘Cheaper.’
I look at Chase, who shrugs. ‘She’ll need a top-quality coat, George,’ he says. ‘Something wind-, water- and snow-proof.’
A coat? That is snow-proof? I look outside. The street is baking under a hot Australian summer sun.
‘It’s thirty-five degrees, Chase,’ I observe. ‘Give or take a degree.’
‘Not in New York, it’s not.’ Chase is engrossed by a Mexican walking fish that is swimming in rapid circles. ‘Or in Paris.’
I guess I hadn’t considered being in either of those two places any time soon.
‘We need a dog coat, er, please,’ I say to the lady.
‘Supermarket,’ she repeats. ‘Possibly.’
This strikes me as weird, but I suppose a business operator can run her business any way she likes.
‘Yes, absolutely,’ I say doubtfully. ‘Thank you for your help.’
We buy everything we need for Amy from the supermarket and a sale-item sheepskin jacket from a farm supplies store.
‘Right,’ says Chase. ‘Do you have a good jacket, George?’
I wear my school blazer in cooler conditions, which is what my mother said it was for. If it’s very cold, I wear a thermal singlet underneath my school shirt. And if it’s exceptionally cold, I wear a turtleneck jumper under the blazer but over my shirt. Plus gloves, scarf, and a pom-pom hat, all home-knitted with Australian merino wool.
‘I do like the Tapley blazer, Chase.’ I see he winces at this. ‘Students have been wearing it for over one hundred years with no complaints. Many older folk call it a rather smart jacket. Sometimes I’ll add a colourful turtleneck jumper with contrasting woollen ear muffs for extra warmth. It’s an extremely flexible item, the blazer.’
Chase crosses his arms. ‘It wouldn’t be too flexible if it was frozen stiff,’ he says. ‘And neither would you be.’
It would be hard to argue that point, I suppose.
‘But I only have thirty-nine dollars left, Chase.’
‘Don’t worry about money, George,’ says Chase. ‘I’ve asked you to come to my house, so you’re my guest. And with your brain, we should be able to swing a few deals to cover costs. Anyway, I’ll lend you a coat. I have seventy or so. But if you ever wear a turtleneck jumper under it, I will have you killed.’
As some Tapley families do have private armies, threatening to have someone killed is taken quite seriously at school, and might result in a half-hour detention.
‘I’m joking,’ Chase adds. ‘By the way, what colours are your turtleneck jumpers?’
‘One is a rather restful shade of dark green,’ I say. ‘And the other is a very pleasing woodland brown.’
Chase doesn’t look too thrilled. At all.
‘Not turtle-green, George? Not frog-brown?’
I suppose you could classify the colours as such.
‘Kind of a mossy-green,’ I suggest hopefully. ‘On a brighter day. And perhaps a cheerful chestnut brown. On a sunny morning.’
Chase takes one of my shopping bags. ‘George, those colours would be fine if you lived in a pond or under a barn. But if you dress like a piece of damp wood, girls will think you’re clammy.’
I agree that looking clammy or like a piece of damp wood would not be ideal.
‘Anyway,’ Chase continues, ‘let’s get a coffee. I’ve got to make a call.’ He walks towards an old waterfront building and Amy and I follow.
‘Would it be all right if I had tea instead, Chase?’ I ask. ‘Tea is rather more healthful for the teenaged organs.’
‘Tea is rather more hopeless,’ Chase answers. ‘You’ll have to get used to coffee if we end up in the United States or Europe.’
The idea of going to America and Europe is alarming. I do have a passport, since visiting the New Zealand Antarctic Centre as winner of the Southern Hemisphere Interesting Teenagers competition – which didn’t look very good as an acronym on the trophy. Anyway, the Antarctic Centre was closed, although I did look through a window and saw a scientist making a toasted cheese sandwich while being kept company by a very attentive king penguin.
‘Chase, you can’t just jump on a plane and turn up in another country.’
‘You wanna bet?’ Chase pulls out his mobile phone. ‘If Clementine is out of bed, we’re all set to go.’
Well, that’s clarified things – not (as some people say – a modern but extremely clumsy way of expressing a negative sentiment). When I said it to my mother during a dispute over asparagus, she was so grammatically confused that she had to lie down.
‘Who’s Clementine?’ I ask as we climb a rickety old staircase.
‘Our family pilot,’ Chase says. ‘She was flying F-18s for the air force, but missed a few missions because she slept in. Eventually they had to let her go.’
Perhaps I do need a cup of coffee?