Lobsters That Size

Next morning, Denis and Gaius set off for the bus station, on their bikes.

Terence is in Gaius's backpack.

Ageless lobster is in a string bag, dangling from Denis's handlebars.

They arrive at the bus station. 

The bus to Whyalla leaves in ten minutes.

I hope we can take our bikes on board without dismantling them, says Gaius.

He asks the driver.

Bikes are classed as Excess Luggage, says the driver.

Meaning? asks Gaius. 

You'll have to pay extra, says the driver.

Very well, says Gaius. How much will two bikes cost?

Thirty dollars each, assembled, says the driver. Twenty dollars each, disassembled.

Curses, says Gaius. We don't have enough time.

I see you've brought a fancy lunch, says the driver, spotting Ageless lobster in the string bag. 

Not at all, says Gaius.

O yes, says the driver. Lobsters that size cost over a hundred dollars. Tell you what, the bikes travel free if you give me a share of the lobster.

I should report you for corruption, says Gaius.

Only kidding, says the driver. Hello, Ageless! Where's your red hat?

Couldn't find it, says Ageless. Hello, Stanley.

Ahoy, matey! says Stanley. 

Very good, says Gaius. Where does that leave us?

I'll shove the bikes in free of charge, says Stanley. Ageless is an old acquaintance.

He shoves the bikes in and closes the hatches.

Denis and Gaius climb onto the bus. Terence is still in the backpack.

Are we there yet? asks the backpack.

What's in that backpack? asks Stanley.

Me, says Terence, popping up. I'm in the backpack.

Right, says Stanley. Travelling as what?

A statue of an infant, says Gaius. Of course, he's no ordinary statue.  

I can see that, says Stanley. Okay, time to depart. First stop, Port Wakefield for refreshments.

How long to Port Wakefield? asks Denis.

An hour and a half, says Stanley.

Time enough for me to write that email, says Denis.

And me to refresh my cuttlefish notes, says Gaius.

And me to do what? asks Terence.

Help me look for my hat, says Ageless.

It won't be on the bus, says Terence. We just got here.

Any hat, says Ageless.

It's something to do.

They start looking.

Red Hat Volunteer

So Terence got his claw back, says Kobo.

Yes, good as new, says Ageless lobster.

What's that smell? asks Kobo.

Denis has burnt the potatoes, says Ageless.

Why is he here? asks Kobo.

He's going to Point Lowly with Gaius, says Ageless.

When? asks Kobo.

Tomorrow morning, says Ageless.

You should go with them, says Kobo.

Trying to get rid of me, beloved? asks Ageless.

That would be a bonus, says Kobo. But you could be a help.

What do you mean by that, dearest? asks Ageless.

You can venture underwater, says Kobo. You can provide on-the-spot intelligence. Like a journalist in a war zone.

Ageless imagines himself in that role. Posting despatches.

You have convinced me, beloved, says Ageless. I'll volunteer for the role.

Don't forget your red hat, says Kobo.

Gaius comes in from hanging out the washing.

What's that smell? asks Gaius. 

I burned the potatoes, says Denis. 

Already? says Gaius. 

Didn't use enough water, says Denis.

Can they be saved? asks Gaius.

I suppose so, says Denis. I'll scrape them out of the pan, and cut off the worst bits. 

I'll look for some butter, says Gaius. 

He is now near the fridge. Ageless calls out to him.

I will be coming!

What? asks Gaius. 

With you to Point Lowly, says Ageless. In the role of intelligence officer.

Excellent, says Gaius. Are you happy to travel in my back pack? 

I prefer a string bag, says Ageless. 

A string bag? hisses Kobo. People will think you're his lunch!

Why would they? asks Ageless. 

I foresee it happening, says Kobo.

I do have a string bag somewhere, says Gaius. I'll go and look for it. 

You'd better look for your hat, says Kobo.

Good thinking, says Ageless. With a red knitted hat on, no one will mistake me for Gaius's lunch.

Where's this butter? shouts Denis.

Fridge! shouts Gaius.

He comes back with a string bag, just as Denis is opening the fridge and not finding the butter.

Never mind, says Gaius. I must have used it all up before going to Paris. There's some cooking oil in the pantry, we could fry them.

So Denis fries the parboiled and half burnt potatoes.

They turn out quite nice.

Comfort Of Sorts

This was a bad idea.

But you can't blame the muffin, whose seedy eyes had become misaligned.

The muffin falls off the table.

And crumbles.

Now it's really ruined, says Terence.

I should have stopped it, says Denis. Sorry.

Terence picks up the pieces of muffin.

The crumbs, the paper wings, the toothpicks and the passionfuit seed eyes.

This was his beak, says Terence.

So it was, says Gaius. What shall we do with it?

Bin it, says Denis. Where is your bin?

I don't want it to go in the bin! says Terence.

The compost bin, says Gaius. With the compostables, where it will break down and become one with the peelings.

One what? asks Terence.

One with the earth, eventually, says Gaius. A passionfruit vine may spring from its eyes in good time.

There's a fine thought, says Denis.

And trees will grow out of the toothpicks, says Terence.

Less likely, says Gaius.

And butterflies from the wings, says Terence.

Impossible, says Gaius.

Keep the wings, says Roo-kai. They'll remind you of the muffin.

Okay, says Terence. He pulls the toothpicks out of the wings.

At least I've got you, my real parrot, says Terence.

Yes, says Roo-kai. But you tried hard with the muffin.

I might keep the toothpicks as well, says Terence.

So only the crumbs and the passionfruit seeds end up in the compost bin in Gaius's kitchen.

There they lie.

All alone. 

Because Gaius hasn't peeled anything since he got back from Paris.

Now, says Gaius, we must plan our itinerary. 

Do we fly to Whyalla? asks Denis.

No, says Gaius. We'll catch a Stateliner to Whyalla, and we'll take our bikes, so we can cycle to Point Lowly.

He takes out his phone, and starts checking the Stateliner timetable.

Tomorrow morning at 8.25, says Gaius. I'll make an online booking.

He taps for a while.

Done, says Gaius. Who's for an apple?

Me, says Denis. I'm famished,

Gaius looks into his pantry.

No apples, just a box of potatoes, some of which have sprouted.

Better go shopping, says Gaius. 

I'd be happy with potatoes, says Denis. Boiled and mashed with butter. I'll start them. Where's your peeler?

Drawer, says Gaius. While you do that, I'll hang out the washing.

So Denis starts peeling.

Soon the crumbs and eyes of the muffin are joined by peelings and sprouts of potato. 

A comfort of sorts.