by Lisa Nicol
The curtains parted and two clowns bounded onto the stage.
Waving hello with their oversized ears, the clowns announced their first trick was the Plastic Bag Juggle. As they threw the plastic shopping bags upwards they filled with air. The clowns danced as silly as they could while the bags floated slowly down. Such sights are hard to describe. You really had to see it with your own eyes to know how funny it looked.
Next, the clowns juggled glasses of milk. As they threw one glass of milk in the air, they would take a sip from the other. One clown got the giggles and milk sprayed out of his nose. Bessie whooped. Blue was having a ball, a big smile stretched across her face. After that, the clowns fell off ladders, whacked each other with planks of wood and clowned about as clowns do.
Although she didn’t laugh, Blue was beaming. The ice-cream man came out again, this time with a huge box of chocolates – Moroccan Double Jelly-Ginger chocolates, Baked Caramel and Australian Macadamia Nut chocolates, Icelandic white chocolates with Russian mandarin and Sri Lankan star anise.
As Blue sank her teeth into an Alaskan Blueberry and Chocolate Crunch, two men walked onto the stage. One was incredibly tall. The other was incredibly small.
‘Can you pull up me left sock while you’re down there?’ said the tall man with a snicker.
The small man kicked him in the shins. ‘Just get on with the jokes, will you, you overgrown giraffe. And let me know if any rain’s coming. I left me washing on the line this morning.’
‘Okay, okay, don’t get cranky now,’ said the tall man, before turning to Blue and Bessie. ‘You wouldn’t believe we’re brothers, would you? I mean, it’s not my fault I was born with altitudinous majesty while he was born butt-high to a wombat.’
The small guy kicked him again.
‘Okay, what do you call a gorilla wearing earmuffs?’ said the tall man.
‘I don’t know, what do you call a gorilla wearing earmuffs?’ replied the small man.
‘Anything you like – he can’t hear you!’
‘Yeah, right,’ said the small man. ‘I guess if I was as tall as you, I might think that was funny too. There’s obviously not enough oxygen at that altitude; does funny things to the brain.’
‘Get out of here,’ said the tall man. ‘I know you don’t want to laugh too hard in case someone mistakes you for a hamster with the hiccups. It wouldn’t be the first time, bro. How about this one – What do frogs drink?’
‘Croak-a-cola!’ yelled the small man.
‘Okay, so they have that joke down there too, do they?’ said the tall man. ‘What do you call a boomerang that won’t come back?’
‘A stick!’ yelled the small man.
‘Hey, stop stealing my punchlines! We rehearsed this, remember? You say, “I don’t know”, and then I deliver the punchline.’
‘Okay, hurry up will you, funny man?’ said the small man. ‘You’re always complaining about something. Just because you’re tall you think you should get all the laughs, don’t you? Well, let me tell you something. I’m a naturally funny guy. People just look at me and laugh.’
‘No kidding!’ said the tall man. ‘What do you give an elephant that’s going to be sick?’
‘Plenty of space!’
‘What’s in the middle of a jellyfish?’
‘A jellybutton!’
‘Why do witches ride broomsticks?’
‘Because vacuum cleaners are too heavy!’
‘What’s small and cuddly and bright purple?’
‘A koala holding his breath!’
‘How does a group of dolphins make a decision?’
‘Flipper coin!’
‘Why can’t penguins fly?’
‘They can’t afford plane tickets!’
Bessie was honking like the donkey at the front desk. Blue smiled from ear to ear. She felt as though her face would crack if she smiled any harder.
Next up was ‘Animal Laughs. Rated PG’. Bessie and Blue watched Chihuahuas teetering along in high heels, hula-hooping cats in bikinis, and sea lions doing sit-ups.
Then came the humans. First, there were videos of people laughing. Weirdo laughers who honked and snorted. People rolling round on the floor, laughing. People trying desperately not to laugh. Entire dinner tables full of people convulsing and shrieking. Audiences falling off their chairs with laughter!
Of course, laughing is like yawning. It’s highly contagious. Bessie felt as if she was being gassed alive! With her eyes mashed shut by her laughing cheeks, it took her a while to notice the tears running down Blue’s face.
Bessie signalled for the show to stop. She put her arm around Blue. ‘Oh, luv.’
‘I’m sorry, Bessie. I’m just remembering what it’s like to laugh like that. To laugh so hard you can barely breathe. Maybe I’ll never laugh again, not like that.’
Bessie pulled out her hankie and gave it to Blue. ‘Oh yes, you will, luv. Funny bones can be fixed, just the same as every other bone. My word they can. It just requires a special kind of doctor to do it. Come on now, give me a hug.’
Bessie put her arms round Blue and hugged her tight. It is so unfair, Bessie thought, for a young girl to suffer from No Laughing Syndrome. Childhood was meant to be full of laughter. A healthy child laughs at least three hundred times a day while those poor old grumpy adults barely clock up twenty! It went against the very laws of nature for a child not to laugh.
‘My poor mother and father. Imagine having a daughter like me,’ said Blue. ‘Love and laughter go together – that’s what my mother says. I’m sorry for being such a sourpuss, Bessie. I try so hard not to be. I really do. My mother says there’s nothing worse than being a sourpuss.’
‘Well, with all respect to your mother, that’s a load of absolute twaddle, luv,’ said Bessie. ‘You’re no sourpuss. And believe me, I’ve met a few. In fact, I believe quite the opposite to be true. I think you’re wonderful company. I knew we’d get along from the very first moment we met.’
‘You did?’
‘I did. Broken funny bones are one thing, and a golden heart is another. And you, my luv, have a golden heart. Trust me. I have a nose for them. It practically shines through your skin. Now, help me out with this Chinese Sweet-and-Sour Choc Delight here, and if you’re all right, we’ll get this show on the road again.’
Blue had no idea what a golden heart was, but she very much liked the sound of it. Blue had only known Bessie for a few hours, but already she adored her. She was just like the favourite aunt Blue had always dreamt of having.
Blue wiped her eyes with Bessie’s hanky and smiled. ‘I’m ready.’
Bessie gave the men in the control booth a signal to resume testing. They watched blooper reels and funny movies. Not a snigger. YouTube videos of people walking into glass doors, epic bike stacks and people being pranked. Nothing. Dogs with their heads out car windows, their slobbering jowls inflated like balloons and flapping like wings. Zilch, nada, not a titter. Not even laughing babies, strange animal farts or newsreaders with the giggles could coax a laugh out of Blue.
A serious young man in a doctor’s white coat appeared. ‘Ahem, we call this our inappropriate humour section. Can I just say, Blue, could you not tell your mother or father what you’re about to see?’
Blue nodded.
‘I’m sorry we have to go here,’ the man apologised, ‘but it’s necessary for an accurate diagnosis, I’m afraid.’
The man in the white coat disappeared. Moments later an immaculately dressed, posh-looking man came on stage.
‘Hello ladeez, I’m Gus. Now, don’t try this at home. A life-saving skill like this one takes years of practice.’
Gus pulled out a balloon. He bent over and politely stuck his bottom high in the air. He put balloon to bottom and slipped into a state of deep concentration. Suddenly, his face scrunched up like an old paper bag and he let out a tiny sound:
Paaarp.
Then another.
Paaaarp.
And another, a little louder
this time.
PAAAARP.
And then another, each one a little louder, a little bigger and a little ruder than the one before it. Ever so slowly, the balloon began to inflate. On it was a cheeky, winking face and a hand that flapped and waved with each and every parp.
Well, poor Bessie, her body heaved with laughter. She laughed so hard she could barely breathe! It seemed Bessie was more than a little partial to a bit of inappropriate humour. After blowing up balloons in the shape of sausage dogs and other such creatures, gassy Gus put the microphone to his bottom and farted the national anthem. He ended with an encore performance of ‘Gangnam Style’. (A very difficult rhythm to fart, apparently. Particularly the chorus that requires farting at machine-gun speed. Not easy!)
But still no laughter from Blue.
After a number of acts so inappropriate they can’t be spoken of or written down, the show ended. The diagnosis was official and everyone’s worst fears were confirmed: Blue’s funny bone was broken, all right, and she was suffering from a serious case of No Laughing Syndrome.
On Monday she would commence treatment with Dr Boogaloo.
CHAPTER 6
Skype Calls and Fried Grass
Blue had fifteen minutes before the Skype call from her father was scheduled to begin. She set her laptop up on the table in the backyard and took six paces back. She checked and double-checked that her whole gymnastics routine would fit within the frame. Blue then got some masking tape and stuck a large X on the spot where she needed to start. She didn’t want her dad to miss a move. When she was sure everything was perfect, Blue pulled her long, crazy hair into a tight bun, sat down and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
She ran through the routine one more time and waited some more.
It was five o’clock. Her dad was an hour late. Blue started to worry it would soon be too dark. She lay on the grass, watching squiggles of smoke rise from the Taylors’ yard into the late afternoon sky.
‘I think the barbie’s ready for the snags now, hon,’ called Mr Taylor from over the fence.
Just as Blue was about to give up and pack away her laptop, she heard the aquatic ringtone of an incoming Skype call. She leapt up and ran to her computer.
‘Daddy!’ cried Blue.
‘Maggie, sweet pea! My, how you’ve grown!’
‘It’s Blue now, Dad, remember? Mum can’t stand pinks and purples anymore. How was Namibia?’
‘Oh yes, marvellous, marvellous. Did you love the coat I sent you? I could have gone with the zebra or the leopard, but I knew you’d prefer the ostrich – I know how much you love birds, Maggie.’
‘I did. Thank you, Daddy.’ Blue was no good at fibbing. She quickly changed the subject. ‘I’ve got so much to tell you, Daddy, but first I want to show you my new gymnastics routine. I’ve been practising for weeks. Stay right there while I get into position.’
Blue ran back to the X on the grass. She pointed the toe of her right foot and raised her arms above her head, just like they did in the Olympics. And off she went. A perfect back-walkover, handstand, into the splits, before a cartwheel, front flip, an improvised somersault into an elbow stand – just because things were going so well – before ending on a backflip, then into her landing position without so much as a wobble!
Blue’s hands shot into the air, triumphant. She bowed to her laptop and waited for applause.
Nothing.
Blue bowed again.
Still nothing.
The call must have been disconnected, thought Blue. Communications with Africa were always fraught.
She ran over to the laptop. But the call had not been disconnected. She could see her father, now a tiny figure at the back of the computer screen. Around him stood a circle of men and women in fancy clothing. They were all chatting and laughing.
‘Daddy,’ said Blue, tapping the screen to get his attention.
‘Daddy,’ she said a little louder. ‘Did you see my front flip?’
It was hopeless. Over the hubbub of laughter and conversation, her father couldn’t hear her. Blue tried to convince herself they must have been discussing some sort of urgent business. Daddy had often told her his business required a lot of ‘schmoozing’. From what Blue could gather, schmoozing was work that didn’t resemble work at all but looked a lot like a party. She hadn’t even had a chance to tell him about Dr Boogaloo yet. Blue decided to sit and wait till her daddy had finished schmoozing, but eventually she gave up trying to get his attention.
‘Night, Daddy,’ said Blue.
She closed her laptop. ‘Night, Dad.’
To say she was disappointed didn’t describe how Blue was feeling at all. It was a feeling worse than disappointment. It was the feeling you get when you know someone else finds you a disappointment. Weren’t fathers meant to think their daughters were the best thing ever? Even when they weren’t?
Blue could feel the prickle of tears coming, but she refused to cry. After all, what good would that do? Instead, she reminded herself of all the gifts her father had sent her. From the outside, you would surely think her father loved her to bits. I mean, all those expensive presents. But from the inside, sometimes it felt as if he didn’t really know her or love her at all. He felt present and absent all at the same time. It made Blue feel so muddled up.
Blue lay back down on the grass and watched the squiggles of smoke from the Taylors’ yard puff and thicken into miniature storm clouds. The smell of burnt sausages wafted over the fence.
Blue got up and looked through the hole in the fence to see what was happening.
Mr Taylor was running around the yard, a boy under each arm, their small arms spinning in circles. They were playing seaplanes.
‘My turn, my turn!’ yelled Riley.
‘All right, you’re up next, Riles,’ said Mr Taylor. ‘Coming in for landing … Nnnnneeeeeaaaoooowww …’
Mr Taylor threw both boys onto the trampoline.
‘Oh yes, perfect landing, pilot of the year!’ yelled Mr Taylor, thrusting his arms victoriously in the air. As always, a rebellious tuft of hair stood straight up on his head like a sulphur-crested cockatoo.
Blue cupped her hand and put her lips to the hole in the fence. ‘Excuse me, Mr Taylor … I think the sausages are burning!’
But Mr Taylor couldn’t hear. He had already taxied down the imaginary runway with Jeannie and Riley tucked under his armpits.
‘Nnnnneeeeeaaaoooowww …’
‘EXCUSE ME, MR TAYLOR!’ shouted Blue through the hole. ‘THE SAUSAGES ARE BURNING!’
Mrs Taylor came outside. Her hands were covered in flour, and there was a ghostly white smudge across her forehead. Her hair was stacked in a messy pile on top of her head. It looked like the perfect nest for Mr Taylor’s sulphur-crested cockatoo. ‘Oh no! The bloody sausages are burnt to a crisp!’
Mr Taylor looked up. ‘Nooooooooooo,’ he said, tossing Jeannie and Riley on top of Ned and Tom.
‘Oh well,’ said Mrs Taylor, wiping another white stripe across her cheek, ‘it’s just as well I’ve made damper. In two ticks those boys will be drowning the snags in a bloodbath of tomato sauce, anyway. They wouldn’t know if they were eating live squid or fried grass if I served it up to them.’
Mrs Taylor walked over to the fence. She put her eye up to the hole and looked through. ‘Thanks for the warning, hon. You wouldn’t like to join us for an incinerated snag, by any chance?’
Blue was sure her mother would be absolutely furious if she took up Mrs Taylor’s offer.
‘Thanks so much, Mrs Taylor, but I better not,’ replied Blue.
‘Not at all, hon, there’s plenty here if you change your mind.’ Mrs Taylor went back inside.
Blue went upstairs to her bedroom. From her window she could see down into the Taylors’ yard. Mr Taylor was carrying the tray of burnt sausages to the table. Jeannie was catching a ride on his left foot while Riley was on his right, their arms wrapped around his legs like koalas in a tree. Tom was
on his father’s back. ‘Giddy up, horsey!’ he cried. ‘Giddy up!’
Mr Taylor was doing everything he could not to fall over or drop the sausages, dragging his feet along in a straight-legged zombie walk. Ned was standing on a chair, busting some crazy dance moves while Moose barked at him.
Blue would have liked to join them, even though the sausages resembled the charcoal sticks they used in art class. She shut her bedroom window. ‘I guess it’s dinner alone again for me tonight.’
CHAPTER 7
Monday
Blue woke early. She raced downstairs and fell over the couch. White couches, white carpet, Blue was always falling over some piece of furniture. Her mother’s white phase had proven to be particularly bad for bruised shins and golf-ball foreheads and other such minor injuries. After Blue found the fridge, she gulped down a bowl of Crispies and ran out front to wait for Bessie. She looked at her watch.
Six-thirty!
It seemed like a whole day before Bessie finally arrived. Blue could hear her long before she could see her. It was the sound of a Swahili gospel choir accompanied by flutes and electric guitar. In the distance, Bessie looked just like a snail – the back a hump of instruments, up front googly-eyed maracas wobbling on storks, and behind her a shimmering trail of music.
Bessie was wearing a magnificent orange skirt that matched her hair and a tree-frog green bolero jacket. Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds.
‘Crikey, luv,’ said Bessie, looking at Blue’s enormous mansion. ‘You could house the Doctor’s instrument collection in there. Come on, then, jump on.’
Blue threaded herself through the instruments and sat down behind Bessie. Off they went. The gospel choir started up again. Blue thought their joyful voices were the perfect accompaniment to the soft warmth of the morning sun.
‘They go together like jam on toast, don’t they?’ said Bessie, who was obviously thinking the same thing.
Now, clearly, there was no choir on Bessie’s iBike. And for the life of her, Blue couldn’t work out how they could hear one.
