The Wombles Go round the World (5 page)

‘You silly young Womble,' said Orinoco. ‘Well
, what can't be put right makes a Womble sit tight
.
*
We've travelled enough for now, so we'd better snuggle down here for a bit and make ourselves a nice little shelter like Cousin Botany told us to do. It's lucky we've got some food left or otherwise we'd have to start looking for animals to follow. Buffaloes and bisons and such. Have a bark-and-moss bun.'

‘After I've made the shelter,' said Bungo who was feeling thoroughly subdued. ‘
I'll
do it. You sit tight.'

Orinoco gave him a sharp look out of his little round eyes and nodded. He remembered from some of his own past adventures that when you felt you'd made a bit of an idiot of yourself, it did help if you tried to do something useful.

Bungo took all the air out of the balloon and then draped it carefully over half the trolley, so that in a way it resembled a very small but cosy burrow; and then he climbed inside himself and the two of them ate half the last package of food and drank half of the last bottle of acorn juice. Then they snuggled down in their sleeping bags and within a couple of minutes they were snoring steadily, quite sure in their own minds that somehow Cousin Yellowstone would find them.

It was Bungo who woke up first and he did so with an awful start, because there was a hand over his mouth and a voice in his ear which was whispering, ‘Don't make a sound. Lie quite still or else . . .'

Bungo whimpered softly, and did as he was told.

.

* Old Womble saying.

.

Chapter Four-and-a-half

Silence

‘Bulgaria,' said Tobermory, putting his grey head round the study door, ‘are you awake?'

‘Gerrumph. What? Yes, yes, of course I am,' replied Great Uncle Bulgaria, waking up with a jump which made his spectacles slide down his nose. ‘What's the trouble? What's happened?'

Tobermory sat down and rubbed his ear with a screwdriver. In his other paw he held two pieces of paper.

‘It's not what's happened,' he said, ‘it's what
hasn't
happened, if you follow me. Well, first the good news and then the – er – other. This one's a message from Tante Lille in France and . . .'

‘Charming, charming, Tante Lille,
tsk, tsk, tsk
. Dear me, I haven't seen her since the Paris Exhibition, in, now when was it? Eighteen hundred and . . . ah well, some time ago. I'm sorry, Tobermory, you were saying?'

‘Tante Lille,' said Tobermory patiently, ‘has sent a message on the Womblex to report that Wellington and Tomsk have arrived safely and that they are
très jolis
, whatever
that
means.'

‘Jolly. Good.'

.

.

‘Jolly good then. Funny way to describe 'em. And she goes on about Wellington working
très fort
, which I take it means he's writing down all their stories and that. And as for Tomsk, he's gymnasting
avec les petits
Wombles. Teaching 'em to do running on the spot and back-paw flips, I suppose. And that tomorrow, that is today now, they'll be off to . . .' Tobermory consulted the message again, ‘meet Cousin Van Amsterdam. So that's all all right. Now then, about the other two, and that's where we run out of information. I had a Womblex earlier from Yellowstone saying that Orinoco and young Bungo had been sighted et cetera, et cetera . . . well, you know how Yellowstone runs on . . . and then nothing.'

‘Nothing?'

‘Nothing. Absolute silence. So I womblexed him back, but there was no reply apart from “Womblex now on clockwork automatic and will record your message. Proceed.” Lot of nonsense. They should have a Womble standing by to take messages. Thought I'd better let you know.'

There was a long silence during which the two Wombles looked at each other. It was the kind of situation which both of them had feared, but had never mentioned. Great Uncle Bulgaria took off his spectacles and polished them and returned them to his nose.

‘I think, Tobermory,' he said, ‘we shall keep this to ourselves. Just pin the message from Tante Lille on the board and the
first
message from Yellowstone. Don't look so despondent, old friend. If I know anything about Orinoco, he'll be all right. And where Orinoco is, Bungo will be too. Have you got anybody standing by the Womblex machine?'

‘'Course I have. Little Shansi. You wouldn't find me putting it on to automatic this, that and the other. I've always said that machines are all very well in their
way
, but that when it comes down to it, nothing can replace Wombles. Besides which, who wants to talk to a
machine
!'

Tobermory talked at some length and Great Uncle Bulgaria nodded and went ‘
tsk, tsk, tsk,
' every now and again, because he knew how worried Tobermory was, but at the finish he only said, ‘Quite right, yes indeed. Well, if little Shansi is on duty she will, I'm sure, be able to cope when Yellowstone next calls us. So off you go, Tobermory, and have a good sleep; otherwise you won't be in a fit state to deal with what the morrow will bring. And that, old friend, is an order!'

But after Tobermory had left the study, Great Uncle Bulgaria stopped being brisk and began to rock backwards and forwards in his chair. He was a great deal more anxious about Orinoco and Bungo than he had admitted. Had they got themselves into some dangerous situation? Why wasn't Cousin Yellowstone answering? What could have happened? And, if anything bad
had
occurred, then he, Great Uncle Bulgaria, was the one who was responsible.

Great Uncle Bulgaria shook his head, poured himself a hot acorn juice from the flask which Madame Cholet had left for him, drank it slowly and then quickly made his way to the Workshop where Shansi was sitting patiently in front of the Womblex machine, while she carefully unpicked a sweater which had been tidied up from the Common.

‘Anything from Cousin Yellowstone?' asked Great Uncle Bulgaria.

Shansi folded her hands together and shook her head.

‘I think I'll sit and wait with you for a while,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria.

.

Chapter Five

The ‘Gingerbread' Burrow

‘There's a lot of trees about,' said Tomsk, ‘miles and miles of trees.'

‘Black Forest,' said Wellington, who was writing busily as he sat in the bottom of the trolley. Beside him were sheets and sheets of paper all covered in his neat, rather loopy handwriting.

‘Doesn't
look
black. Looks green, like ordinary trees,' said Tomsk after a long pause. ‘How do we land in trees, Wellington?'

Wellington put the top on his pen and got up and joined Tomsk who was steering. The view below them was certainly unusual, as there was nothing to be seen but the apparently endless forest, which undulated up and down like a great green sea.

‘We don't land,' said Wellington briefly. ‘Sorry, hang on while I look at our orders. Oh dear, our next meeting is with Onkel Bonn, so we must have gone a bit off course. Lend us a paw, Tomsk.'

‘I wish we were going to Russia,' said Tomsk, as Wellington began doing sums on the back of his notes and then checking the dials and making adjustments. ‘Do you remember Omsk who came under the wire from Kensington Gardens?'

‘'Course I do. A very large, silent sort of Womble. There, that should do it. Why?'

‘Omsk wasn't silent really. Talked quite a bit. Told me a lot about the Wombles in Russia. Didn't understand all of it. But they did a lot of skiing and skating and going about in sledges. Trouble is,' said Tomsk and stopped dead.

Wellington looked at his large friend, who was standing first on one paw and then another in a fidgety way.

‘The trouble is,' said Wellington, ‘that you get jolly bored with just sitting in a trolley for hours on end.'

‘Mm,' agreed Tomsk. ‘It's OK for you, because you like writing things down and all that. But I do need to stretch my paws a bit. Used to it.'

Wellington looked at Tobermory's time sheet and then at the neat graph which he had been keeping. According to his reckoning, Balloon Two was just a bit ahead of schedule. Wellington did some sums in his head and for once in his life decided to behave recklessly. If Tomsk couldn't do a bit of running quite quickly he might get very itchy and restless indeed, and that could lead to something awful, like falling fur, which is bad for Wombles.

‘We'll go down,' said Wellington, his own fur getting rather prickly as he spoke.

‘But you said . . .'

‘For a breather. Stand by for landing.'

‘Stand by for landing, but Wellington . . .'

‘Five, four, three . . .'

‘Five, four, three . . .'

They landed gently in a small clearing. It was a charming place, with the early morning sunlight glinting through the tall trees and the grass splattered with small flowers which were just starting to unfurl their petals. A speckled thrush came hopping over to look at these strange visitors and the most beautiful red squirrel came chattering crossly down a tree.

‘Isn't it smashing?' said Wellington softly.

‘Not bad.'

Tomsk climbed out and did three somersaults and then two perfect back-paw flips. After which he started to rush up and down the clearing to get the itchy feeling out of his back paws, while Wellington put away his books and began to pick some of the flowers, grasses and ferns which he intended to press and take back to Wimbledon for the Womblegarten.

The tinkling sound of running water drew Wellington further down the clearing to where a small stream was muttering and chuckling to itself as it ran over brown stones, swirled in a little pool and then raced on again.

‘It really is a beautiful place,' Wellington whispered and he dropped a leaf into the water and watched it go bouncing and dancing on its way. He shut his eyes for a moment, remembering some of the old fairy stories that Miss Adelaide used to read to him when he was a very small Womble in the Womblegarten. Why, he could almost imagine that any second Hansel and Gretel would come wandering past, but if they did, then, of course, the Wicked Witch who lived in a gingerbread house would not be very far away . . .

Wellington opened his eyes with a shiver and looked down at his reflection in the pool, and then his fur really did stand up in prickles, for beside his own familiar face, he saw two other faces as well. Very, very slowly Wellington turned his head. Standing on either side of him were two, small, fluffy little Wombles, who were watching him with grave interest. One of them wore a little cap and an embroidered overall and had a wicker-work basket over her arm, while the other was wearing a funny sort of hat and shorts with coloured braces. He was carrying a long, pointed stick.

‘How – how – how do you do?' said Wellington, stuttering for the first time in a long while.

The two strange Wombles bowed their heads politely.

‘I say, excuse me, but,' said Wellington, remembering the
Burrows of the World
maps which Miss Adelaide had made, ‘but are you lost?'

The two small Wombles shook their heads.

‘But, but there's no Womble burrow marked here. You must be a long way from home. Mustn't you?'

The two small Wombles looked at each other and then at Wellington. They shook their heads.

‘Talking to yourself again?' asked Tomsk, suddenly coming into view as he leapfrogged neatly over a tree stump. ‘Oh, my word. Goodness. Whoops!' And Tomsk crash-landed out of sheer astonishment. The two small Wombles looked at Tomsk lying flat on his stomach with his eyes round as buttons and began to laugh. They laughed so much they had to hold each other up, while the Wimbledon Wombles watched them in open-mouthed surprise.

‘And what is going on here, please?' said a quiet voice.

The four young Wombles all stopped what they were doing and turned round. Standing under a tree was a very, very old Womble, leaning on a stick. He wore two pairs of spectacles, a hat with a tassel and an embroidered shawl and his fur was as white as snow. He looked even older than Great Uncle Bulgaria.

‘You,' he said, pointing to Wellington, ‘please explain yourself, mm?'

‘I, we, that is, sorry, oh dear . . .'

‘Mm. Where is your home burrow?'

‘Wim-Wim-Wimbledon,' stuttered Wellington.

‘
Ach
, really. Speyer, Heilbronn, pick up your stick and your basket.
Tsk, tsk, tsk
, such behaviour. Well, well. You must forgive their bad manners, but they are very young. And your names are?'

Wellington and Tomsk told him and the very old Womble nodded gently and asked, ‘And, may I ask, what you are doing here, mm?'

Between the pair of them they managed to explain and at the finish the very old Womble nodded his head and said, ‘If that isn't just like young Bulgaria Coburg. He always did have unusual ideas. Come, let me take you back to our burrow for some small hospitality before you once again set off on this adventure of yours. I find it all most amusing and interesting. Allow me to show you the way, mm?'

Wellington and Tomsk, keeping very close together, followed the very old Womble, while Speyer and Heilbronn came last, whispering behind their paws.

The Black Forest Burrow was so well hidden that even Tomsk's sharp eyes didn't spot it, until the very old Womble knocked on what looked like the bottom of a fallen tree. The gnarled roots parted and an opening appeared, leading deep into a bank.

‘Cor,' said Tomsk, while Wellington was past saying anything at this point. The burrow was lit by dozens of flickering candles in carved candlesticks. There were carvings and pictures everywhere and Wellington, who rather likes reading old history books, began to feel that he was stepping backwards in time. There were obviously no machines in this burrow, because even the Workshop had only benches and rack upon rack of hand tools.

‘All handmade,' said the very old Womble, stroking a line of chisels which would have made Tobermory turn green with envy. ‘You see, Wellington and Tomsk, we Wombles of the Black Forest have decided that here we can keep all the old crafts alive. If
we
don't do it, they may die away and become lost for ever. This is one of the oldest Womble burrows in the world. Very few Wombles even know that it still exists, which is why we are not marked on any of your maps. Mm?'

‘Mm,' agreed Wellington.

‘In the winter we are very quiet here, but during the spring, summer and autumn we have some tidying-up to do – although not very much.'

‘Isn't it a bit dull?' asked Wellington.

‘Oh no, not at all. Our young Wombles go off on expeditions to study wildlife and to draw pictures and collect all kinds of things. We specialise here in paw-craft and from their earliest years our small Wombles are taught a trade. Allow me to show you round the burrow.'

As it was early morning, and therefore by tradition in the Womble world tidying-up time – even if there was extremely little to tidy up – the burrow was nearly deserted. Which was just as well, as there was so much to see and take in without having to meet Wombles as well.

Every single room, even the Womblegarten, had the most beautiful furniture in it. There were tables with carved legs and highly-polished tops with lovely inlaid designs. There were chairs which ranged from little rockers to a most imposing throne-like affair which had Wombles carved all over the back and down the arms.

Wellington couldn't believe that this lovely furniture had been made from old bits and pieces, until he looked at the underneath of a pretty little stool and saw the letters . . .
YFFES BANANA
stencilled on it. It made him feel quite homesick for a moment.

There were thick tufted mats on the polished, wooden floors, wonderful woodland paintings and Womble portraits on the walls. There were many highly-carved dressers, displaying painted plates and mugs, and heavily-embroidered curtains covered all the doors.

Finally they reached the kitchen where the cook, Frau Heidelberg, wearing the most wonderfully embroidered cap, apron and cuffs, had set out two steaming mugs of acorn juice, topped with thick daisy cream, and two enormous helpings of very rich-looking pudding which, she told the two by now speechless young Wombles, was her special fir-cone-and-moss strudel.

‘Eat up, eat up,' she said. ‘You are so thin for Wombles! Here we are getting much snow in the wintertime, so we have to eat to keep out the cold. Another helping? No?
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
I have heard so much of the fame of Madame Cholet, but perhaps she does not make strudel for you?'

By now both Tomsk and Wellington had realised that Frau Heidelberg answered her own questions, so they only shook their heads.

‘
Tsk, tsk.
So I have taken the liberty of writing out the recipe for her, and together with it is this little wooden spoon which I feel she might like to have. Yes? It has the small Womble carved into the handle, which is nice. Mmm? More acorn juice? No!
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
Well, I hope you will come and visit us again at some time, but not during the winter when it snows. The snow often is more high than we are, so you would get lost. Now then, here are some little sandwiches, buns, rolls, chocolate and biscuits for your journey.'

And Frau Heidelberg handed over a large and bulging embroidered satchel, patted Wellington and Tomsk on the head, told them at least three times to give her fondest, best wishes to Madame Cholet and, in fact, was still talking as they thanked her and backed out of the kitchen. Her voice followed them down the passage to where the very old Womble was waiting for them by the front door. He, too, was holding a package which he gravely presented to Wellington with the words, ‘I should like you to accept this small gift for young Bulgaria Coburg, which I present to him on behalf of the Wombles of the Black Forest. We are rather out of the world here and, having no Womblex machine, we of course knew nothing of the proposed
Vol. Ten
. However, I think this small gift may make one short chapter in the new modern History.'

Tomsk and Wellington bowed, said ‘Thank you very much' and ‘Rather' several times and were slowly and solemnly escorted back to the balloon, where Speyer and Heilbronn were waiting for them with their arms full of flowers and ferns as their parting gift. Everybody shook hands, lift-off procedure took place and the two Wimbledon Wombles rose up into the sky. They waved and waved until their Black Forest relations were out of sight, and then Wellington put the balloon on automatic and sat down. Tomsk was already sitting, with his legs straight out in front of him and a totally blank expression on his face.