We successfully bypass the John J Hospital hospital information desk and step into an empty lift.
‘How many patients will we cheer up before we free Isobel?’ I ask Chase. ‘Some of the old songs about pulling up sails and boiling whale blubber are quite tiring to act out.’
‘Are you joking, George?’ Chase looks at me seriously.
‘Not at all.’ I shake my head. ‘A patient would hardly be helped if a singing scout collapsed after one song of the sea too many. It might tip them over the edge.’
Chase holds up the joke book. ‘These things are props. They’re part of our disguise. We’re not going to use them. We’re here to get Isobel out and that’s that.’
Oh, I see how this works, and it’s somewhat disappointing.
‘It’s a shame,’ I say, ‘that we don’t get to share a salty sea shanty or a wonderful joke with these poor folk before they walk through death’s door, Chase. But you’re the boss.’
The lift stops and a large lady dressed in a yellow bird suit shuffles in.
‘You’re late.’ Her beady black eyes bore into us over a pointy yellow beak. ‘I thought being on time was a scout thing. Anyway, I have a room of sick patients waiting. So don’t give me any crap. Get goin’, you two.’ She pokes us out of the lift with yellow flowers made of wire. ‘Or I’ll report you to Troop Leader Roger. And as you know, he was in the Mafia for twenty years, so he’s not a person you want to annoy.’
Through an open door, I see a room full of people. Some are in wheelchairs, some have bandages around their heads, and many are attached to oxygen bottles. And they look grumpy, which is understandable, if they don’t have long to live. Yes, it looks like I have no choice but to get this show on the road!
‘Joke or song?’ I whisper to Chase. ‘To start the fun.’
‘Hit ’em with your best shot.’ Chase backs away. ‘I’ll wait in the wings.’
I make my entrance, going straight into a George Parker extended dance-mix of ‘Old Man Emu’. And might I say, I accurately impersonate every Australian native bird and animal while carrying the tune right to the end. And the crowd like it a lot! I turn to Chase but he’s gone, leaving my George Parker joke book on a seat.
Okay folks, get ready to laugh, no matter how lousy you feel!
I open my joke book and see I’ve cracked it for a beauty. This one had the Chargers in stitches for eleven minutes!
‘What happens when it’s raining cats and dogs?’ I scan the happy faces. Nobody has any idea, as I expected. ‘Well, according to the Bureau of Meteorology, it’s impossible,’ I say, to add suspense, ‘but if it did rain cats and dogs, guess what?’ I wait, as one thing I am good at is comic timing. ‘You might step in a poodle!’
Yes! Not a puddle but a POODLE!
And the crowd goes wild!
So it’s back to the song book, from where I pick out ‘Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gumtree’ to sing in rounds. This I do by dividing the room up into People Who’ve Had An Organ Transplant, People Whose Operation Didn’t Go So Well, and Those Who Might Not See Next Week.
Now that’s what I call sensitive song-selection and good scouting!
Approximately fifteen minutes later, I’m just about out of material. The crowd has also gone a little flat after one lady was taken to the Intensive Care Unit during the ‘Banana Boat’ song. Sadly, she was pronounced Dead on Arrival, but I’m pleased to tell the survivors that she did have her Organ Donor card all filled in and ready to go, so we’re soon back on track and feeling fine.
‘And on that bright note,’ I add, ‘here’s a cheery ballad called, “A Strapping Young Stockman Lay Dying”. What he’s dying of, I’m not sure. Perhaps he fell off his horse or got bitten by a snake, who knows? But if anyone’s interested in the answer, perhaps we can google it later.’
‘Pssst!’ Chase is at the door. ‘Wind it up, George! Code Red!’
I see another scout with Chase, which is quite the coincidence. Then I realise that it’s Isobel!
‘Gotta go, kids!’ I kangaroo-hop backwards to the door. ‘I love you all and keep on breathing, if you can!’ Then we’re in the lift and heading down, down, down.
A faint smile takes over Isobel’s face.
‘Hi, George,’ she whispers.
‘Hi, Isobel.’ I see she looks worried, as if she has gone through a lot of difficulties for a long time. ‘It’s a sunny day outside,’ I add. ‘Really quite beautiful.’
The lift stops and a little old lady in a bright green dress and purple hair steps in. She’s holding a collection tin.
‘Hello, girls.’ She peers at us from under a red tennis visor. ‘Some nasty Austrian air-force boys have kidnapped a patient from the fifteenth floor. The place is in lockdown. There’s no way out. No way.’
It seems quite unusual that the Luftwaffe would be involved in something like this – and then I realise she’s talking about us!
‘If we see them,’ I say, ‘I’ll dial 9-1-1 and Homeland Security. Now, what charity are you collecting for, madam?’ I take out the money Chase gave me.
‘I’m collecting for Sydney the Patient Companion Dog.’ She pushes the tin into my chest. ‘Is that a ten or a twenty, dear?’
I add another ten. ‘It’s twenty now.’ I poke the money into the slot. ‘Where does Sydney the Companion Dog live?’
‘At home,’ says the old lady. ‘But he’s also got a pen in the serenity garden on the ground floor. With a doggy-door that opens right out into the street.’ She holds the tin higher. ‘You can meet Sydney, if you like. And see his doggy-door.’
I flick off notes, poke them in the tin, and keep on poking until we crawl out the doggy-door and catch the first cab we see back to our apartment. I do feel guilty about bribing our way out of the hospital, but seeing Sydney the Companion Dog tucking into a steak and caviar sandwich, I know it’s all for a good cause.
We eat lunch, Isobel has a sleep, and Chase rings the taxi guy who knows the ship dude.
‘Have you heard anything from your parents, Chase?’ I ask. ‘About the, er, lost money?’
Chase sighs. ‘Yeah, Dad’s paid back two million. But they’re being quite stubborn about the other two hundred and forty eight. And they’ve frozen the money Clemmy got for the plane. So my folks thought it safest to hide out in the Italian Riviera in a small castle on a six-star island.’
I’m not sure that’s a place I would’ve picked, but I suppose it would be more comfortable than, say, a tent in a caravan park in southern Tasmania.
‘So these people,’ I say hesitantly, ‘would still like to get hold of us?’
‘Oh, you bet,’ says Chase. ‘And the hospital sent Dad a bill for three million bucks. I mean, he’ll pay it. Just not yet. Since he hasn’t got the money.’
Yes, that normally would hold up proceedings. Chase’s phone rings.
‘Okay,’ he answers. ‘Good. Fine. Right. No problem. Sure. Excellent. Great. Terrific.’
That sounds reasonably positive.
‘Near the kiosk?’ Chase talks very clearly. ‘At five bells? Of the Last Dog Watch? Right.’ He ends the call and looks at me. ‘What the hell does all that rubbish mean?’
Fortunately for us, I use the official maritime bell system for my bath-time tugboat and container ship activities, so this is easily cleared up.
‘Five bells of the Last Dog Watch is six thirty p.m.,’ I say. ‘Obviously.’
Chase grins. ‘You’re a genius, George. Right. Sailor suits on and let’s go!’
‘Those suits are a hundred years old, Chase,’ I say. ‘We’ll look ridiculous.’
‘No, it’s cool.’ He drums his fists on my knees. ‘The ship dude, Roland, is in charge of Onboard Entertainment. We’re now actors, George. People will expect us to look odd.’
‘What about Isobel, Chase?’ I’m worried. ‘We can’t expect her to present a ten-minute version of Romeo and Juliet on the docks. Or get her head around my many hilarious jokes or favourite folk songs. Can she play the gumleaf or the spoons?’
‘Nah.’ Chase heads to the fridge. ‘She can just sit on a suitcase and be a prop. Improvisation, George. That’s the name of the acting game! Want an apple?’
I’d better, because my bowels are telling me quite clearly that I’m stressed. Just to be on the safe side, I pop a couple of peppermints that I picked up with the fruit. Then we pack, grab Isobel and Amy, and head for lift. Franz the doorman, wearing his white gloves, is very pleased to see us.
‘Oh, hullo liddle zailor boy!’ He pinches my cheek. ‘Everybotty loves a zailor!’
‘We’re actually actors acting as sailors,’ I explain to Franz. ‘We’re also mime artists. You’ve heard of Marcel Marceau?’ I correct myself. ‘Well, you won’t actually have heard him, Franz, as mimes don’t speak unless they’ve struck a problem. Or are buying, for example, a railway ticket or a pair of trousers, and so forth.’
Franz looks fascinated. ‘Oh, ja-ja,’ he says. ‘Marcel wore white gluffs. Like zeze.’ He pulls a spare pair from his pocket and gives them to me. ‘Zee you zailor boyz! Gut luck under ze bright lightz.’
I tip Franz twenty dollars as we get into the cab. Then we set off to the wharf and hopefully, eventually, to France.