The Wombles Go round the World (12 page)

‘Mushroom chop suey, if I'm not mistaken,' he said. ‘Cousin Yellowstone, I'm starving. Can I make a few notes please? Just for Madame Cholet, you know.'

‘OK,' said Cousin Yellowstone, ‘but be careful.'

‘Trust me,' said Orinoco and disappeared round the back of the restaurant from which all these lovely smells were issuing. His sharp little nose took him instantly to a particularly large black plastic bag, and he was just about to put in a paw when a soft voice said, ‘Can help, please?' Orinoco stopped dead and then very slowly turned round, to find himself face to face with a small figure who was bowing and nodding.

‘It all depends,' said Orinoco cautiously, ‘what you mean by help, you know. What's your name?'

‘Nanking is my name. Nanking Womble.'

‘Never!' said Orinoco. ‘I'm pleased to meet you. Orinoco, Orinoco Womble. Shake a paw. I say, did I get a sniff of mushroom chop suey just now? I'm starving. Very hungry, that is. So are my friends. Would there be any to spare?'

‘Always plenty spare,' said Nanking, bowing and nodding harder than ever. ‘Please invite Womble friends to join us inside. Yes?'

‘
Rather
,' said Orinoco.

It was over two hours later that four rather fat-looking Wombles emerged into the street, rubbing their stomachs and scratching behind their ears.

‘Well, I must say,' murmured Cousin Yellowstone, ‘I've learnt more about the problems of Chinatown during the last hundred and twenty minutes or so than ever before. I'd no idea there was a Chinese Womble community right here under our noses, and what problems they have! Orinoco, thank you.'

‘ 'S all right,' said Orinoco who was busy scribbling down the cooking instructions which Nanking had given him. ‘Good cooks, these Chinese Wombles. I wonder if we could grow bean shoots on Wimbledon Common? I'll have to ask Cousin Botany when we get home.'

‘It'll be awfully nice to get back to Wimbledon Common,' said Bungo, quite forgetting that he was supposed to be a great explorer and brave adventurer.

‘Sure it will,' said Cousin Yellowstone. ‘I sometimes feel homesick for the old burrow myself. Never mind, young Womble, you only have one more country to visit, and then you can set sail – or balloon – for Wimbledon. Meanwhile, back to the truck . . .'

‘One more country,' said Bungo, ‘and do you know what country that is? I'll tell you what it is – it's Japan and it'll take ages and ages and
AGES
to get there.'

‘No, it won't,' said Idaho as they walked back to the truck, and he licked one finger and stuck it up into the air. ‘Wind has changed. Weather has changed. You will reach Japan very fast.'

‘Oh, get on,' said Bungo, starting to smile. ‘You don't know anything about the weather. You're just doing your Native American Womble act.'

‘No, never,' said Idaho, crossing his arms and grunting.

‘Yes, you are.'

‘No, I'm not . . .'

‘Oh, shut up,' interrupted Orinoco. ‘How can I get down the last of Nanking's recipe if you keep on arguing? Now, was it four ounces of mushrooms or five? Or, hang on a moment, perhaps it was three . . . what are you two laughing about? I'll have you know that it's very important to get these things right, don't you agree, Cousin Yellowstone?'

‘I do indeed,' said Cousin Yellowstone ‘and what's more, it's also important for me to get you two Wimbledon Wombles back to your transport. Lift-off time is just three hours away, according to Tobermory's schedule!'

.

Chapter Ten

Great-great Aunt M. Murrumbidgee

Tomsk was singing, somewhat off-key, a tune that he couldn't get out of his head. Then he stopped singing and said, ‘Who
is
Waltzing Matilda, Wellington?'

‘Sorry, don't know,' replied Wellington who was writing up his notes. As he had made himself a hat out of paper, and was wearing it over his cap, he looked rather odd; but Tomsk's appearance was even stranger, as he was wearing a kind of paper bonnet.

‘My word, it's warm,' muttered Tomsk, flapping a cardboard fan.

The two young Wombles glanced up at the sky which was a dazzling blue dotted with fluffy little white clouds.

‘Wouldn't suit our big Cousins,' said Wellington, snapping his notebook shut and yawning. ‘I wonder what the Australian ones will be like? Well, we'll soon find out – it shouldn't be too long now. Goodness, we seem to have been flying over this country for days and days.'

‘
And
days. Empty sort of place, isn't it?'

They got to their back paws and looked over the edge of the trolley. Below them was mile after mile of brownish grass, with here and there a clump of tall bushes, and now and again a long straight road whose beginning and end vanished in the heat haze. Every so often a small figure would go bounding from one group of bushes to the next.

‘Bit like the Tibetan Wombles,' said Tomsk.

‘They're kangaroos. I remember Cousin Botany telling me once about when he was young and gave an injured kangaroo his hat to wear. He said he never did get his hat back. Perhaps it's still jumping about down there!'

‘Be pretty old by now, I should think. I say, Wellington, look at that car down there. Funny sort of shape.'

Wellington followed the direction in which Tomsk was pointing and stared. The car, if car it was, wasn't travelling on a road, but was going quite fast over open country. Even from this height, they could see that it had what appeared to be a park bench as the back seat, with an old-fashioned bedrail behind it. Two small figures wearing large hats were sitting in the front, and they looked as if they were peering through a windscreen made of proper windows.

‘It's . . . it's stopping,' said Wellington nervously. ‘I wonder if they've spotted us? What's more it's stopped just where we're supposed to land. Oh dear. Now what do we do?'

‘Better do what Tobermory ordered,' replied Tomsk firmly. Even though he was thousands of miles from Wimbledon, he didn't want to go against Tobermory's instructions.

‘Tobermory's never wrong,' Tomsk added vaguely, ‘and if those Human Beings do start being nosy we can always take off again.'

‘Um. Yes. I say, look!'

They looked. Not only had the car stopped at exactly the point where their balloon was supposed to land, but the driver had climbed out and was turning a handle at the side of the steering wheel. A kind of aerial with a flag attached to the top of it appeared. The aerial grew taller until it was about six feet high and then stopped. The flag fluttered gently in a faint breeze.

‘Got a “W” on it,' reported Tomsk, who has astonishingly good eyesight – even for a Womble. ‘Wonder what that stands for?'

But Wellington was too busy going through the landing procedure to listen to what Tomsk was saying. They might be nosy Human Beings down there, but the lazy flapping of the flag was certainly a great help in working out the wind speed, with the result that Balloon Two made – for the first time – an absolutely perfect landing in exactly the right spot.

‘Off Props,' said Wellington.

‘Off Props,' rumbled Tomsk.

‘Well, here they come,' said Wellington, his paw on the Emergency Take-Off control – just in case there was trouble.

Two small figures, their faces shadowed by their large hats, came trotting across the brown scrub.

‘Hallo,' said the first stranger and stuck out a paw. ‘Welcome to Australia. You'll be Wellington? I'm Cairns. This is Perth.'

‘Hallo,' said Perth, ‘and you'll be Tomsk. Welcome to Australia. Good trip?'

‘You're . . . you're Wombles!' said Wellington.

‘Too right we are. What did you think we were, Human Beings?'

‘Well, sorry, yes, just for a minute we did wonder. I say, how do you do!' said Wellington. ‘Goodness, it's jolly nice to be here. And thank you for putting up that flag thing – it was a great help.'

Everybody then shook paws with everybody else several times over, until Cairns said, ‘Well, better stack that flying machine of yours away in the back of the old car here. Can't keep the burrow waiting.'

‘It's a very unusual sort of car, isn't it?' said Wellington, once the balloon had been deflated and stacked neatly inside the trolley, which in turn was roped to the back of what he could now see was definitely a garden seat.

‘That's right,' agreed Cairns. ‘Our very own design. Made up of all kinds of throw-outs. Park bench in the back, easy chairs in the front. Steering wheel comes from a boat, indicators from an old ute.'

‘Ute?'

‘Utility truck. So we call this car our Ute-Beaut. Goes anywhere, no trouble at all, and runs on clockwork. Hold on while I wind her up.'

It was a surprisingly smooth journey across country, for the Ute-Beaut had balloon-like tyres which cushioned them against bumps.

‘'Course we don't use her in the cities,' said Cairns, who was driving, ‘but she's great out here in the country.'

‘Isn't this the – er – Outback?' asked Wellington, who had been looking at his maps.

‘Nah, the Outback's over there,' replied Perth, waving a paw towards the hazy horizon. ‘The Outback's always miles and miles away, wherever you are. Human Beings and even Wombles don't ever say they're in it.'

‘Sorry, but why not?'

‘Too big. Makes you feel sort of lost. Look, camels . . .'

‘I didn't know there were camels here!'

‘You do now.'

‘Too right,' Wellington heard himself saying. ‘I mean, goodness, yes. We saw some kangaroos as well.'

‘Roos we call 'em. Silly sort of animal, but quite friendly. Don't talk much, though. Here we are – home.'

Home appeared to be nothing but a large bank surrounded by thorn trees, but as the Ute-Beaut reached it, the sparse vegetation stirred and a drawbridge came down. Cairns drove straight over it and into the burrow, coming to a halt in a cloud of dust.

‘Hallo, hallo, hallo,' said a voice and a small, grey-brown Womble appeared out of the haze. She was wearing a large hat, a sleeveless coat and an apron, and she looked extremely fierce.

‘So, you took your time,' she said. ‘I'm your Great-great Aunt M. Murrumbidgee. Hallo.'

The small Womble held out a paw, and Wellington and Tomsk shook it without a word to say for themselves.

‘Cat got your tongues?' said Great-great Aunt M. Murrumbidgee. ‘Didn't expect to see me here, I dare say. Although Botany should have told you. Come on in and have a thorn-bush juice. There's nothing goes on in Australia that's to do with Wombles that I don't know about. Well, sit down, sit down. Poor-looking pair you are. It's all that city life you lead right in the middle of London, I dare say. What you need is good fresh air and exercise.'

‘Wimbledon isn't in the middle . . .' Wellington said feebly.

‘'Tis to me. No room to breathe there and don't argue. I know what's best. Cairns, Perth, stable that Ute-Beaut of yours. And quick.'

‘Yes, OK, Great-great Aunt . . .'

The Ute Beaut clicked away and disappeared into the depths of the burrow and Great-great Aunt M. Murrumbidgee went ‘
tsk, tsk, tsk
' and hurried over to a speaking tube, took what looked like a wooden peg out of it and blew. There was a shrieking whistle that made the fur of Wellington and Tomsk stand up on end for a moment.

.

.

‘Three thorn-bush specials and make sure they're iced, and a plate of bluegum waffles. Don't argue, do it. And quick. Well?'

This last ‘well' was directed at Wellington who stared back dumbly.

‘Aren't you going to take your hats off?' asked Great-great Aunt M. Murrumbidgee. ‘In my young days it wasn't considered polite or good manners to sit around a burrow wearing hats. Maybe it's different in London. Hm?'

Wellington took off both his hats like a Womble in a trance, but Tomsk, after slowly removing his paper bonnet and thinking things over in his own time, said, ‘Don't usually wear a hat. Sorry, I forgot it. But Wimbledon isn't in London. Wimbledon's a very nice place. The grass there is green, the air is nice and fresh and we take lots and lots of exercise. We do swimming and running and sports and golf and sometimes cricket. Think you've got it muddled up with somewhere else.'

Wellington shut his eyes and waited for the roof to fall in. He was quite certain that no other Womble had ever spoken like this before to Great-great Aunt M. Murrumbidgee, who in a way resembled Great Uncle Bulgaria, Miss Adelaide, Tobermory and Madame Cholet all rolled into one.

There was a long silence, during which Tomsk stared placidly at his Australian relative. Tomsk knew that he wasn't a clever sort of Womble like Wellington, but he did know when he was right about things. And one of the things about which he was absolutely certain was every kind of sport.

‘Good on you,' said Great-great Aunt M. Murrumbidgee suddenly. ‘I like a Womble who knows his own mind. What kind of cricket do you play?'

‘The usual sort. Eleven-a-side. I'm a pace bowler . . .'

‘I might have known it! Hallo, here are our thorn-bush specials and the bluegum waffles. Put 'em down here. Tomsk, Wellington, I'd like you to meet Eucula, our cook-in-chief. And a very good cook she is too.'

Eucula wore a white, starched apron and had steel-rimmed spectacles halfway down her nose. Her fur was grey-grey-brown and her eyes over the top of her glases were almost as sharp as Great-Great Aunt M. Murrumbidgee's. She slapped down three cartons of juice and a large plate of bluegum waffles and sniffed.

‘So you're from Wimbledon, England,' she said. ‘Never had bluegum waffles before, I dare say?'

‘No, sorry,' said Wellington, coming out of his trance-like state, ‘but that's because we haven't got bluegum trees on Wimbledon Common, you know. Of course we've got lots of other trees and bushes and Madame Cholet makes . . .'

‘Madame Cholet,' said Eucula, suddenly becoming a great deal less stiff and starchy. ‘Oh, I've often wished I could meet her. Her bracken pie with daisy sauce, now that sounds a real treat. I don't suppose you'd happen to know how she makes it?'

‘Um,' said Wellington, wishing desperately that Orinoco was there, ‘well, yes, actually, I think I can just about remember . . .'

‘Well, just eat and drink up while I get out my notebook. Of course, I'll have to use thorn-bush roots instead of bracken. Now then?' And Eucula produced a pencil from behind her ear.

‘Um, I say, these waffles are smashing,' said Wellington rather thickly. ‘Well, first of all you need . . .'