We take Isobel to breakfast in a quiet dining room called the View of the Back of the Ship Restaurant. Behind us, the Titania’s wake widens like a white road on a blue landscape – or seascape, in this case.
‘I prefer to see where I’m going,’ Chase says, ‘than where I’ve been.’
‘Looking backwards, philosophically,’ I counter, ‘hopefully stops you repeating mistakes made in the past, Chase. Theoretically speaking, that is. Although it’s not recommended while riding a bicycle or a horse, for example.’
‘Yeah, nah, whatever,’ says Chase.
‘Our dad,’ Isobel murmurs, ‘should think about the past and the future a little bit more.’
‘Well, that is a point, Izzy.’ Chase nods wisely. ‘Yep, I sure hope the old boy won’t lose another couple of hundred million any time soon, as it makes life a bit difficult.’
After breakfast, we go to the cabin, and Chase sets about looking through the various boxes, trunks, and cupboards.
‘Check this out, Georgie.’ He holds up a black semi-automatic assault rifle! ‘Cool or what?’
‘Guns!’ I rush over and look in a trunk that’s full of weapons. ‘What the—’
‘They’re props, George.’ Chase hands me a grenade launcher. ‘They’re not real.’
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ I say, making sure not to point the grenade launcher at anything, which is impossible, as there is always something everywhere. ‘They look real.’
‘Which means they might come in very handy.’ Chase picks up a revolver. ‘Ka-blam! Blam! Blam!’
I’m not so sure about that, remembering a road-rage incident at kindergarten when one little chap on a tricycle pointed a plastic gun at another little chap in a pedal car, who ran off the road and straight through the front door of the cubby house where, fortunately, four children playing doctors and nurses applied first-aid using gumleaves and green cordial.
‘Anyway, George,’ Chase puts down the fake weapon and shuts the trunk. ‘It’s time for rehearsals with our trusted friend, Roland.’
While Chase is being thrown around by Olga and Katerina, I spend my time in a coffin-like box on the stage.
‘When I zaw zis box in ’alf, Gheorge,’ Roland says, holding a long silver saw, ‘you ’ave already dizzappeared out ze hole in ze bottom like a zkaredy-cat ztinking rabbit.’
‘Oh, I see, Roland,’ I say. ‘How very clever.’
Roland smiles, showing dirty teeth.
‘It iz all an illuzion. Truzt me, Gheorge.’
I see another box at the back of the stage. It has a heavy-duty latch and handles welded to it.
‘Zat zpare box,’ Roland says, ‘iz none of your biznezz, zticky beak Gheorge. Do not look at it wiz your eyez or anyzing elze.’
Chase comes over as Katerina and Olga take a drinks break, which they obviously need, as both are sweating like a pair of brewery draught horses.
‘Oh, they’re funny ladies.’ Chase crosses his eyes. ‘They laugh every time they drop me. Here.’ Chase hands me his drink bottle. ‘Drink.’
I do, although my mother says sharing bottles is as risky as knitting in bad light or boiling the kettle in bare feet.
‘Go away, zticky beak Gheorge and zmarty panz Chaze,’ Roland says. ‘Zee you tonight.’
We go out onto the deck and breathe in the cool, clean ocean air. Far below, waves race by.
‘Roland thinks he can deliver us to the bad dudes,’ Chase says, ‘like three little pigs off to market. Well, that’s not gonna happen.’
I certainly hope not, as I’m aware that not many pigs that go to market ever go home or reach retirement age, except perhaps as aged bacon slices in long-life vacuum-sealed packs. Boy, I wish I was back at Tapley Grammar working on my simplified counting system that presently runs for about seven hundred pages. I would feel a lot safer.