by Mark A Biggs
Sunday was soon upon us and, with it, Jane and Gordon’s visit.
‘What were you thinking; stealing a motor scooter?’ These were the first words spoken by Jane as she entered Olivia’s room where we were, in trepidation, waiting to meet them.
‘Good afternoon to you as well Jane, how nice it is to see you,’ I said.
‘Don’t be sarcastic with me Max! You’re both lucky you weren’t kicked out,’
‘Olivia, if only I had known! I would have stolen a scooter years ago.’
Trying to defuse the situation, Gordon added, ‘What’s done is done, let’s enjoy the visit.’
‘Sorry Max,’ said Jane. ‘Sometime you just exasperate me… enough said.’ But then unable to resist, she added, ‘You’re like a child.’
I bit my tongue, deciding against a comeback line.
The visit was surprisingly enjoyable, most likely aided by the knowledge we were leaving. In all likelihood, this might be the last time we would ever see them. Despite all that had happened, you can’t help but feel some affection for your family. I was surprised, as we said goodbye, when a sudden desire to tell them what we were doing crept over me. Fortunately, the feeling passed as quickly as it had arisen.
Using one walking stick, and with Olivia carrying her knitting bag to conceal our medications, we accompanied Gordon and Jane towards their car. On reaching the front foyer, we found Jana, and, after a brief introduction, we continued on our way and exited the building. Meanwhile, Jana slipped into the administration office and signed us out using Gordon’s signature; a signature given to him by Olivia and practised over the last couple of nights.
Waving goodbye, Jane and Gordon drove away leaving us standing in the car park.
I looked over to Olivia. ‘Are you ready?’
She didn’t reply and so we made our way to stand in front of number 35 and await the taxi.
‘This is it Olivia, no turning back!’
V-line ran reduced rail service on Sunday, so it was over an hour before we caught a train to Melbourne and we didn’t arrive into Flinders Street Station until 8.15pm. After finding a taxi we made our way to the Grand Melbourne Hotel and the reception desk.
‘Good evening sir and madam. Do you have a reservation?’
‘Good evening, my name is Max Breeze and this is my wife Olivia. This is an unplanned visit and, I’m sorry, but we don’t have a reservation. Would one of your suites be available?’
‘Certainly sir, the Presidential Suite is vacant. How long will you be staying?’
‘We are not sure; our flight is delayed and we will be making alternative arrangements in the morning. Perhaps we should initially book for a couple of nights.’
‘Certainly sir. Can I have someone help you with your luggage?’
‘Ah. Because of our age, you understand, we experience difficulties carrying luggage and it was sent on before us. Unfortunately it’s already left on a plane. It’s, um, gone without us.’
‘Most inconvenient, sir.’
‘Yes it certainly is. Would it be possible for the concierge to purchase a few of the necessities, perhaps a change of clothes and a couple of pairs of smalls for each of us?’
‘It would be our pleasure sir and madam. I will have someone sent up to your suite to take your measurements.’
The Presidential Suite had a separate living and dining area, marble bathroom and a magnificent master bedroom. It would have a beautiful view overlooking the Yarra River and the Melbourne skyline during the day. For us the city lights delivered a spectacular vista. A bottle of chilled Champagne, two glasses and some chocolates were waiting for us by the time we reached the room. The long day had taken its toll with exhaustion and the thought of sleep was more enticing than Champagne. We opened the bottle regardless and sipping the sparkles, waited for the concierge to arrive.
Olivia’s measurements were dutifully recorded: Height 173cm, Bust 86cm, Waist 73cm Hips 97cm. A dress in preference to slacks was Olivia’s wish.
Buying for men is considerably easier than for women just; Height 179cm and build medium. Measurements taken, we asked for clothes that were a little younger, a bit trendy.
‘No beige cardigans,’ I said.
We also requested two small travel suitcases, on wheels, in which to carry the new belongings.
The concierge assured us that he understood our instructions and would leave precise instructions for Meredith who would be seeing to our request in the morning. He would, he said, be returning to his office and would dutifully record our wishes and measurements in the hand-over book.
Next morning we woke early having slept together, in a double bed, for the first time in two years, made all the more memorable because of the fine Egyptian cotton sheets, which were in stark contrast to our normal hospital grade sheets. Breakfast was served in our bedroom, a treat you can experience at Bellbird Village only when sick.
After breakfast we took a taxi to the State Library of Victoria, situated at the top of Swanston Street, which had free internet access. This time our quest for airline flights did not lead to a collage of pornography sites. Over breakfast Olivia and I had decided we would seek and take the earliest possible flights. Our search revealed that two business class seats were available leaving Tullamarine at 3.00 pm today for London.
‘What do you think Olivia, 3.00pm today? We will need to be at the airport by 1.00.’ Checking my watch I saw it was 11.00am.
‘Now or never Max.’
I pushed the booking confirmation button on the website. ‘Let’s go, we have only four hours before the plane leaves.’ We made our way back out onto the street.
‘Max, we should ring Penny.’
‘We can ring her from the airport,’ I said while hailing a cab.
Back at the Grand Hotel Melbourne, the concierge had left our new clothing neatly packed into our travel bags at reception. Having retrieved our drugs from the suite, we returned to reception to settle the account. Luggage in tow, it was outside to the waiting taxi, the one we had taken from the library and then asked to wait for us, for the drive to the airport. Climbing in the back of the cab and checking my watch again, I saw there was three hours and fifteen minutes remaining. Plenty of time.
A trip to the airport ordinarily takes about thirty minutes but, as we swung off City Link and crossed the Bolte Bridge to join the Tullamarine motorway, the traffic came to a complete standstill. None of the lanes was moving. Nervously I looked at my watch. Three hours remaining. Tick, tick, tick, I could almost hear the minutes slipping by. We waited uneasily in the back of the taxi. After what seemed an eternity I checked my watch once more. Two hours forty-five minutes before the flight left. I looked through the windscreen and still the traffic was stationary.
‘What do we do Olivia, wait or get out of the taxi and try and get off the freeway and find another way to the airport?’
‘How can we get off the motorway? Nothing’s moving.’
‘The other side of the road is.’
‘You mean to cross the median strip and then all the lanes of traffic. On a motorway.’
‘Yes, unless you have a better plan?’
‘There’s nothing for it Max, let’s go.’
To the protests of our driver and after paying him $100, we left the taxi. After we gave him another $100, he reluctantly took our luggage out of the boot and placed it on the ground. Walking stick in one hand and pulling our luggage with the other, we hobbled off toward the median strip which separated the north/south lanes of the motorway. The lanes travelling in the opposite direction, unlike our side of the motorway, were moving and, as we traversed the median strip, I was taken aback by how exceptionally busy the lanes were, with fast moving vehicles and lots of trucks (big trucks; B-Doubles).
Standing at the precipice, Olivia looked to me. ‘Now what Max?’
‘We have to cross all four lanes, get to the emergency lane and then hitch hike.’
Melbourne has the dubious honour of having one of the only International Air
ports in the world with no rail link. To travel to Tullamarine airport you go either by car, taxi or bus; all using the roads.
‘It’s a plan if we live! But let me tell you, I will be most annoyed if you get us killed.’
‘I know; you won’t ever speak to me again.’
Walking stick held out in front and waving it towards the mechanical monsters, Olivia stepped onto the freeway taking one shuffle at a time and then pausing to jerk the luggage closer with her free hand, before shuffling forward once more. The sound of chaos was deafening. Tyres screeched and horns rang out as the first truck narrowly missed her. The next vehicle swerved and the smell of burning rubber filled the air. The first lane was now at a standstill and, with me walking in her wake, we approached the second lane. Looking only at the ground, too frightened to see what was going to hit us, we stepped off into the second and third lanes.
‘One to go,’ I called.
The inside lane was still moving as, together, we stepped out from in front of a now stationary truck, which had just managed to come to a complete halt in the nick of time. Traffic in the inside lane had slowed considerably, with the other lanes now stopped, but still the first vehicle was blindsided as we appeared from in front of the truck. I didn’t want to look up but found myself staring at the bonnet of a car under full brakes appearing as if it would never stop until it had killed us both. When it came to a halt, it was resting against my stick. Looking back to Olivia I saw that she was quietly moving towards the emergency lane. Looking back, I saw that the freeway was at a complete standstill with people looking in utter disbelief.
‘What are you doing?’ called the man, in a distressed but concerned tone, from the vehicle that almost collected me.
Turning and walking up to the now open passenger window, all the while thinking of what lie to tell, I said. ‘Our son in England is dying; he has twenty-four hours to live. We have to be on a plane in one hour’s time or we won’t be able to say goodbye. Our side of the motorway, the one going to the airport, has come to a complete standstill. We couldn’t think of any other way of getting to the airport other than getting off the motorway.’
As I finished speaking, I turned and pointed to where we had come from. To my dismay, traffic was now moving.
‘Get in,’ the man said.
With the freeway still at a complete standstill and under the amazed gaze of those who could see, we got into the car with an unknown man and moved off. Two hours, five minutes to go.
The trip to the airport was slow but luckily traffic kept moving. As we pulled up at a drop off spot in front of the international terminal, I glanced once more at my watch; one hour to go.
‘Good luck,’ were the parting words from our driver as we made all haste into the airport.
Having checked in our luggage we made our way to the departure area which seemed an incredible distance away.
‘Final call for passengers Max and Olivia Breeze travelling on Qantas Flight QF 172 to London,’ was the plea that came over the PA system. We were stuck in a long snaking queue at passport control.
‘Excuse me, Excuse me—that’s us; can we get through please,’ I said, now queue jumping as quickly as possible. Our frenzied actions were fortunately seen by the immigration officials, helped, I think, by our frantic waving of our walking sticks in their direction. We also hit people standing too near to us. Within a matter of minutes, we were through passport control and seated on an electric transport vehicle, requested by the customs offices, speeding off towards the departure lounge. After arriving at the gate, I looked up at one of the TV screens which was running a breaking new story with the caption:
“Pensioners close the Tullamarine Motorway”.
‘A multi car pile-up on the Melbourne-inbound lanes of the Tullamarine Motorway has caused traffic chaos with all lanes still closed,’ said the news reporter.
‘Authorities are looking for two pensioners who allegedly tried to cross the motorway near the Bolte Bridge. This triggered the multi-car pile-up some two kilometres further back. There are no reports of serious injuries. Anyone with any information is asked to contact Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000.’
Olivia and I handed over our boarding passes and made our way down the gangway and on to the plane for the twenty-three hour flight to London. It wasn’t until the wheels finally left the ground that we allowed ourselves to relax, amazed to be on the flight and too weary to bid Melbourne and Australia farewell.
I was still haunted by the memories of our last international flight, returning from Britain after the accident. But this trip was different; no sooner had I settled into my seat than sleep greeted me. The trip passed quickly and was not the nightmare I recalled from our last flight. Before I knew it, we had landed at Heathrow Airport.
‘You have to ring Penny and let her know we have arrived safely!’
‘I know, Olivia, as soon as we disembark and before we pass through Customs.’
One of the many joys of travelling business class is that you’re first off and having, during the flight, requested assistance leaving the airplane we enjoyed a ride on another electric chariot before leaving our transport in the baggage collection area. Looking around, it did not take long to locate a phone.
‘Hello, Penny this is Max.’
‘Pops, where are you?’
But before I could answer, she added, ‘They know you’re missing.’
‘What’s happened?’ I said, pretending we had not seen the news bulletin as we were readying to catch the flight.
‘I don’t know how they found out but the news report said the police are searching for two elderly people reported missing from Bellbird Village. They also said that they suspected you were the people who yesterday caused chaos on the Tullamarine Motorway. Was that you and where are you?
‘It’s okay Penny, we are safe and sound in London. We wanted to call because we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye and to let you know we are safe and well. Olivia wants to know if the news said anything about us going to the airport?’
‘No, and they haven’t released your names yet. But when they do, it will be only a matter of time before someone links you, the motorbike accident in Europe and the car crash in Moonee Ponds.’
‘There is no need to worry Penny, everything is going perfectly. It’s been great talking with you; we had better go and make our way through Customs. One final question though. Since we have made the news, has anyone spoken to you about us?
‘No, not yet.’
I explained to Olivia what Penny had said as we asked a kind young gentleman to lift our luggage from the carousel. We then proceeded to Customs, hoping to be waved straight through, but unfortunately we were not.
‘Madam, did you pack these bags yourself?’
‘Yes,’ said Olivia.
‘And sir?’
‘Of course,’ I said, feeling slightly annoyed.
A Customs officer, somewhere in her thirties and very polite and friendly, then proceeded to unzip Olivia’s suitcase and held up a monthly dosette box containing five pills per day.
‘Are these yours Olivia? Is it okay to call you Olivia or would you prefer Mrs Breeze?’
‘Yes, call me Olivia and yes they are mine. It’s prescription medication.’
‘No problems, Olivia. Do you have either a letter from your doctor or a copy of your prescription?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure these are your prescription drugs?’
‘Of course.’
‘And this is your suitcase?’
‘Yes,’ Olivia said, now sounding impatient.
The young Customs officer then proceeded to take from the suitcase, and hold up so Olivia could see, a G-string.
‘And these; are they yours Madam?’
Before Olivia could answer, she took a lace bra from the luggage and again holding it up so Olivia could see, said, ‘And this!’
‘No,’ said Olivia, ‘they are not mine.’
‘But Madam, you sa
id that you packed this bag?’
I looked on in bewilderment before realising the message to the morning concierge had been muddled up. Rather than buying for eighty-somethings and making the clothing more trendy, the message for trendy must have been given without reference to our age.
‘There has been a mistake,’ I said. ‘That’s my suitcase.’
The Customs officer was not amused by my humour, saying, ‘importing prescription drugs into the UK is a serious offence.’ She held up the dosette box from my suitcase and a pair of silk boxer shorts. ‘Can you tell me the names of these prescription drugs?’
‘Olivia knows better than me but it’s something like Zoloft, Prednisolone, Coversyl, Panadol, Furosemide and,’ I added, breaking into a singing voice, ‘a partridge in a pear treeeeee.’
‘Max,’ Olivia reprimanded me.
‘I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of this sir. I will need to talk with my supervisor and it’s quite possible that you won’t be granted entry into the UK.’
Thirty minutes seemed like three hours before she returned and said, ‘You are free to go and welcome to the United Kingdom. Please enjoy your stay.’
After repacking our cases, we passed through Customs and into the arrival area. Even when you know there is no one waiting for you, it’s an impulse to look around. Perhaps somewhere there’s a sign being held with your name on it. But there was not. For us, it was outside and a wait for the free bus ride to the hotel and I had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched.
‘Olivia, I think we are being followed.’
‘I consider you’re a little paranoid; besides there are hundreds of people about, so if we were, you couldn’t tell.’
Olivia was probably right, but I remained uneasy waiting the ten minutes for the bus to arrive.
Stepping off the bus and looking at the hotel, I was overwhelmed by fatigue but also exhilaration. We had made it to Britain and, with it, part one of our journey was over. Now the dangerous part would begin.
Taking Olivia’s hand, just for a second, I said, ‘Are you ready?’
‘To book in to the hotel or for bed?’ Olivia smiled at her own answer and then strode off towards the front entrance of the hotel. I followed and thought to myself, bed.