We get up at sunrise, hit the showers, and meet in the saloon for breakfast.
‘Right, who wants a coffee?’ I wander over to the machine to get things started. ‘I’ll just hit the old button and set my sights on ninety-two degrees Celsius.’
‘Take it easy on the coffee, George,’ Isobel says. ‘It can be quite addictive.’
‘Isobel,’ I say, ‘might I inform you, as we have a few minutes while the water heats up, that in worldwide clinical trials, coffee consumption at reasonable levels is considered quite beneficial.’
‘Perhaps you should wait until later,’ she says. ‘You know you get a little over-enthusiastic if you drink it too early.’
Disappointed, I settle for hot chocolate, which is wonderful in and of itself but no substitute for the brilliant bean that stimulates the brain and opens the blood vessels like the sluice gates of the Hume Weir on the mighty Murray River. And I can most certainly say that there are no other beans I’ve ever had that come close to doing that, including homegrown butter beans, or the rather cheerfully-named-but-ultimately-boring green runner bean.
So I enjoy a caffeine-free breakfast. I then do the caffeine-free dishes, and clean my caffeine-free teeth with caffeine-free toothpaste. Then we go out onto the Solange’s sunny deck, dew sparkling in the grass on the riverbanks, sheets of gold lying on the surface of the canal, and simply enjoy the delights of the caffeine-free morning with all of my five major senses unsensitised.
‘Check it out.’ Chase points down the canal path. ‘It’s old Jean-Pierre. And he looks to be in a bit of a hurry.’
We watch as Jean-Pierre wobbles dangerously along the dock on his bike and stops with a squeak of brakes.
‘A vairy fast boat iz on ze big rivair,’ he says, in between wheezy breaths. ‘The people in it are asking everybody if zay ’ave seen Solange. I zink you better ’ead upstream. Otherwise you will be capturized and zat will be zat, I zink.’
That certainly would be that, if Roland has any say.
‘Start her up, Georgie-boy.’ Chase gives me the nod. ‘Izzy and I’ll throw off the ropes, then we’ll charge full-speed ahead upstream.’
Jean-Pierre’s wrinkled face wrinkles more and more until his black eyes disappear. Then they flash open, filled with a wild joy.
‘I will ’elp!’ He lifts off his plum-coloured beret. ‘I will come on Solange and zhow you where you can ’ide her.’ He laughs, claps, and does his little jig. ‘Zo exciting! An adven-ture! Let’s go!’
‘Okay, Jean-Pierre,’ says Chase. ‘Quick. Jump on board and let’s get out of here. Yo, Georgie, do your thing!’
Did Chase mean turn on the coffee machine? Or start the engine?
Well, me being Thorough George, I’ll do both, so I nip back into the saloon, turn the coffee machine on as I’m passing, and then climb into the wheelhouse. I hit the green starter button, and off we go, heading for the Italian border at seven kilometres an hour, Amy barking like crazy at this absolutely insane breakneck speed.
Jean-Pierre takes over the helm. ‘I know ze water, Monsieur George. I can make la Solange go fazter. Why don’t you build yourzelf a coffee while ze going iz good?’
Yes, why don’t I? So I go downstairs and get into coffee-making action like a well-caffeinated machine.
‘You never know when we might get another chance, Isobel,’ I say, handing her a latte with a froth daffodil tied with a froth bow. ‘This is just being sensible, which is a life-skill I specialise in.’
‘Oh, yes, George.’ Isobel takes her coffee and gives me a look I can only describe as cool. ‘Very sensible.’
I take that as a signal to ramp up production, although I must admit I have had a few sneaky sips – well, a few sneaky cups – just to see if this new packet of beans is up to my incredibly high barista standards.
‘No worries at all.’ I whip up a flat white for Chase, a long black for Jean-Pierre, a pupaccino for Amy, and an Appaloosa for me, which is my own invention of a short black triple shot with seventeen spots of cream that give a dappled effect like the horse of that name. Then I whack in a sugar, as I am that kind of a guy, and slurp it down. ‘See, Isobel?’ I put down the empty cup. ‘No effect. Not on young George. No way.’
Isobel turns off the machine. ‘Go and see what Jean-Pierre’s plan is. I’ll pack our stuff. In case we have to leave in a hurry.’
‘Right on!’ I shoot up the ladder, jump into the seat next to Jean-Pierre, then pick up Amy and put her in her favourite place with paws on the dashboard and her nose against the windscreen. ‘So what’s the plan, JP? Because right now, it’s go time!’
Jean-Pierre concentrates on the canal, looking over Amy’s pointy black ears. Suddenly, I hear church bells chiming. Amy has hit Rock ’n’ Roll Christmas Classics, which, although spiritually uplifting, is rather inappropriate in a tense situation occurring quite some weeks after December the twenty-fifth. I turn down the volume but leave the music on, as Amy seems to be enjoying it.
‘I am ’eading for an old canal called ze Lozt River,’ Jean-Pierre says. ‘It iz covaired wiz treez, George. Solange can stay in zaire for a short while. Or a long while.’
‘Sweet!’ I say. ‘I’ll just go downstairs and check out the situation.’ I slide down the ladder and decide that, although I don’t know much about art, we absolutely must take the Picasso picture with us. Especially if it’s worth upwards of thirty million buckeroos.
Chase comes into the saloon as I climb onto the couch.
‘What’s up, Georgie-boy? You dusting the pictures, old bean?’
‘If we have to abandon ship,’ I explain, ‘we should take this picture. It’s worth millions.’
Chase agrees. ‘There’s bubble wrap in the galley. Grab that.’
So off I toddle at about seventy kilometres an hour, and wrap the wonky painted lady as if she’s intended as a birthday present for Christmas 2060. Then I go out on deck.
‘I think I can hear a speedboat,’ Chase says.
With my caffeine-enhanced hearing, I pick up the distant whine of twin outboard motors, most probably Mercury 250s.
‘Unless someone’s doing some water-skiing at this ungodly hour, Chase,’ I say, ‘that’ll be our boy, Roland. I’ll go tell Johnny-P.’
Chase nods. ‘I’ll help Isobel get our stuff. See you in a minute.’
He darts off, tapping into his phone as he goes. Then I whiz back inside and fly up the ladder.
‘We’ve got trouble,’ I tell Jean-Pierre. ‘There’s a speedboat coming up behind us at high speed. Which is what they do.’
Jean-Pierre nods grimly. ‘’E will catch us before ze Lozt River Canal. Perhaps you can jump off and jump on a train to anothair country, Gheorge. Pozzibly Ruzzia.’
Oh, I’d prefer not Russia, but then again, it might be nice to visit Siberia and see what all the fuss is about.
‘Good plan, Jean-Pierre!’ I slide down the ladder with Amy under one arm and rush back out on deck, where Isobel stands with our luggage.
‘That boat’s getting close,’ she says. ‘But we’re ready to go. If we have anywhere to go.’
I tell Chase and Isobel about Jean-Pierre’s idea to hide the Solange up the Lost River Canal.
‘Okay . . .’ Chase looks at his phone then at Isobel and me. ‘But we won’t jump off quite yet. Because Plan C is just about to come online.’
‘Plan C?’ I run through the alphabet forwards then backwards in one-point-eight seconds. ‘Did I miss Plan B, Chase? Perhaps over the vibrations of the coffee grinder? Boy, I’ll have to get that thing looked at, then, because I prefer a finer blend than—’
‘Plan Clementine.’ Chase shuts his phone. ‘But her phone’s dropped out. So we’ll just have to wait to see what happens.’
I hear the high-pitched roar of powerful twin outboard motors, and around the bend zooms a black inflatable boat. It is captained by Roland and crewed by Olga and Katerina, all three in black wetsuits.
‘You are up zis French crick wiz no peddle, ’orrible Gheorge!’ Roland shouts through a megaphone. ‘You are cornaired like a feelthy ret or an untidy mouze and muzt give up! And alzough ze conzequencez will be terrible, zat is ze funniezt bit for me.’
‘Listen!’ Isobel stands still. ‘Something big is coming downstream!’
I certainly can hear something powerful coming fast. It’s the chop-chop-chop of a chopper!
‘It’s Clemmy!’Chase goes down on one knee,holding his phone, and pumps a fist. ‘And here she comes!’
Just metres above the water, a big dark blue helicopter comes screaming down Canal Dix, straight at the barge. Behind us, Roland’s boat is at the Solange’s stern – that is, until Jean-Pierre puts the wheel hard-over and pushes the black boat right up onto the bank and three wet-suited maniacs are tossed out into the reeds! Jolly good show!
The helicopter hovers right over us and the noise is incredible, the downdraft pushing us onto the deck as it starts to descend. Chase shouts:
‘GET OUT OF THE WAY! CLEMMY’S BRINGING IT IN!’
We scramble back to the wheelhouse as the Jet Ranger settles like an enormous bird of prey, the Solange now wedged across the canal. The side door of the helicopter slides open and a helmeted crewman holds out a gloved hand to help Isobel aboard as we throw in our bags.
Chase shouts in my ear. ‘Go, Georgie! Take the painting! Go!’
Well, I would, but Amy has been blown away up the Solange’s deck.
‘No, you go!’ I shout back. ‘Take the picture!’ I hand over the Wonky Lady. ‘Give me ten seconds!’
Chase scrambles into the chopper and I crawl after Amy, suddenly seeing Jean-Pierre crawling the other way! He scoops Amy up and holds her out.
‘Fly away, liddle Gheorgie and tiny Amee! I will ’ide ze Solange. Come back one day and meet me at L’Hotel Fat Rabbit! Jean-Pierre will live thirty more yearz because coffee beanz keep me young! Bon voyage, my good friend!’
‘I hear you, daddio,’ I shout back. ‘Thanks for everything, Jean-Pierre! Merci!’
I turn and see Roland and the Russians climbing like black spiders up over the stern of the barge. Time for Georgie to fire his jets! Down the deck I run, Amy under one arm, only to see that the helicopter is lifting off.
‘Grab on, Geepy!’ Chase holds out a hand. ‘We’re going!’
I toss Amy to Isobel then grab Chase’s arm. For one dizzying moment, I am dangling in mid-air – but not to worry, I’m coffee-cool with it, as they say! Then I’m in the chopper, Clemmy hits the power, and the Solange falls away as we lift like a rocket into the sky.
‘Holy smoke, space cadets!’ Chase throws himself back in his seat. ‘That was freakin’ awesome!’
‘Oh, Clemmy,’ Isobel says, talking to our life-saving pilot. ‘You are the best girl in the world.’
Clemmy shrugs, her eyes invisible behind dark aviator sunglasses, her blonde hair hidden under a white space-age helmet.
‘I’ll drop you guys on the yacht,’ she replies. ‘I have to have this thing back in London by lunchtime.’
Isobel sits down. ‘I have a feeling, Chase,’ she says, ‘that our lives are about to change. Again.’