The Wombles (12 page)

‘Um, um.’

‘You will get out at Piccadilly Circus and walk down Piccadilly until you see Fortune and Bason on your left-paw side. There you will find Orinoco. Now, please repeat your instructions.’

‘Oh my, oh my,’ muttered Bungo to himself, and then in a somewhat hoarse voice he did as he was asked with hardly a stumble.

‘Not bad, not bad,’ said Great Uncle Bulgaria. ‘You will take the Underground map with you in your pocket. Now then, put on your clothes and count your money.’

Bungo could hardly dress himself he was shaking so much, and the sheepskin coat was so hot he had to start panting.

‘You’ll do,’ said Great Uncle Bulgaria as Bungo slowly turned round. He got stiffly to his feet and put out his snow-white paw. ‘Good luck, young Womble. This is the greatest adventure of your life, and also the most important and
responsible
thing you’ve ever had to do. I’m depending on you to do it properly, and what’s more,’ added Great Uncle Bulgaria with rather less solemnity, ‘you can tell Orinoco from me not to be more of a fool than he can help.’

‘Um, um,’ said Bungo.

He marched out a little stiffly, owing to the boots, and Great Uncle Bulgaria sat down again and shook his head and then glanced at Tobermory.

‘Do you think he will be able to manage?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘After all, he’s never been into London proper on his own before.’

‘Of course he will,’ said Tobermory gruffly. ‘Grown up a lot lately, Bungo has. Noticed it several times. I’ll just see him off.’

And he hurried after Bungo and caught him up by the back door of the burrow.

‘Steady up, young Womble,’ Tobermory said. ‘Got a little bit more for you here.’ And from his large apron pocket he produced a compass, half a bar of chocolate and a tidy-bag. ‘
That’s
to make sure you’re going in the right direction, that’s to keep you going, and this is for just in case you happen to see anything in the food line along the way.’

And Tobermory put his paw on Bungo’s shoulder for a moment and then opened the door on to the outside world. If he hadn’t been in such a state Bungo might have noticed that it had actually stopped snowing and that the air was just that little bit warmer. However, his mind was firmly fixed on trying to remember all Great Uncle Bulgaria’s instructions, and as he crunched (rather flat-footedly) through the snow, he kept repeating them under his breath. It was of course, an enormous honour to be trusted with the quest for Orinoco and it made him feel proud, frightened and anxious by turns. He found the black and white path, consulted the compass and set off down the deserted pavement.

It was quite a long walk to get to the Underground station, but he passed very few people for it was a nasty afternoon and the ground was extremely slippery. Bungo paid for his ticket and the inspector at the gate hardly glanced at him as he marched past and down on to the platform. However, when the train came roaring and rattling towards him, for two pins he would have turned and run for it. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that he was a great deal more scared of what Great Uncle Bulgaria and Tobermory would say to him if he did go back.

The carriage was nearly empty and Bungo sat huddled up at one end, counting the stations, reading his map and saying over and over to himself: ‘Change at Earl’s Court on to the Piccadilly Line. Change at Earl’s Court . . .’

Which, as it turned out, was a great deal easier said than done, for Earl’s Court Station was full of people shoving and pushing and Bungo nearly got swept backwards into the carriage which he was trying rather timidly to leave. So he had to forget his usual good manners and he shoved and pushed with everybody else and somehow he managed to find the right train. And then he was off again, wedged up against the doors by a very fat Human Being who was reading an evening paper. Bungo read the headlines which said, ‘Thaw Coming’, but he didn’t take the words in at all and only wondered briefly who Thaw could be. And then he forgot all about it as he saw a thin woman quite deliberately push a paper bag with half a loaf in it down the side of the seat.

‘Fantastic,’ muttered Bungo and edged over, and when she got out at Green Park he picked up the bag and put it into his tidy-bag. By the time he got to Piccadilly he had also acquired a pair of gloves, a scarf, a baby’s rattle and a copy of that morning’s
Times
, which he knew Great Uncle Bulgaria would be delighted to have.

Bungo was so overcome by all this untidiness that he nearly missed Piccadilly altogether and if he hadn’t lost so much weight recently he would have been nipped by the doors as they slid shut.

The escalator was a bit of a worry and Bungo travelled up with his eyes fixed to the ground, as he was frightened he would be swept away and down a crack if he didn’t watch out. It was very hot in the Underground and what with his sheepskin coat and his own fur Bungo was very warm indeed, but he knew he was far safer if he stayed dressed up like everybody else, so he just put out his tongue and panted. It was a relief to discover that, as Great Uncle Bulgaria had predicted, the Human Beings all about him took no notice of the fact that he was a Womble. They were all far too busy about their own affairs and Bungo, who had never before been so close to so many people, decided that beside being dreadfully wasteful they were also remarkably unobservant.

‘Funny creatures,’ he muttered to himself.

Piccadilly Station is very muddling for those who don’t know it and Bungo walked round it three times before he found the right exit. It was wonderful to get out into the air again and he took in several deep breaths and then gulped in astonishment as he looked about him. Bungo was, after all, used to the quiet orderly life of the Common and he had been too young to start working until the autumn so he had never seen his own home territory when it was crowded. He would never have believed that there were so many Human Beings in the world. Or so many cars and vans and lorries and taxis and buses. Or such bright lights, for all about him there were enormous brilliantly coloured signs, blinking on and off, making patterns and forming pictures. Bungo turned round and round with his head back and his mouth wide open.

This would indeed be something to tell the other Wombles. Only how could he ever describe it to them? It was like nothing he had ever imagined, not even from the books in the library. Added to which there was such a tremendous noise.

‘Mind where you’re going, can’t you?’ shouted somebody, almost pushing the slowly revolving Bungo off the pavement and in front of a Number 19 bus. That brought him back to his senses and he swallowed and took a grip on himself, consulted the map and the compass and began to walk slowly along Piccadilly, searching for Fortune and Bason. There were a number of brightly coloured shops, and when Bungo saw food in one of the windows he just couldn’t help stopping for a moment. There was a box of chocolates as large as a bicycle wheel and dozens of boxes of other sweets as well as little pyramids of nougat and fudge and Turkish delight and sugared almonds and candied fruits and toffees and mints and liquorice and chocolate drops and rows and rows of bottles of boiled sweets.

Unlike Orinoco Bungo hadn’t got a very sweet tooth, but on the other hand he hadn’t had much to eat for nearly three weeks and his knees went weak at the sight of all this delicious, chewy, melting goodness.

It also made him think of Orinoco, and he leant against the brightly lit glass for a moment and tried to control a sudden rush of hunger, homesickness and fright at the enormity of his quest and the terror of this great adventure. How could he possibly hope to find his friend in this large, noisy, hurrying, bad-tempered crowd of Human Beings?

With trembling paws Bungo took out his half bar of chocolate and ate it slowly to recover his nerve. He was made of stern stuff and he had been well taught by Great Uncle Bulgaria, but he was also one small, almost lost Womble in the centre of a teeming, uncaring city. Excitement had carried him along this far, but the sight of all that food had weakened him and also dulled his instincts, which should have warned him that for the last hundred yards he had been followed!

‘Come on,’ Bungo whispered to himself. ‘Are you a Womble or a mouse?’

He straightened his shoulders and marched on, the tidy-bag banging against his side. The snow had been swept off the pavements and piled into dirty grey banks on the kerb, and every now and again Bungo got pushed into the slush, and once he was showered with wet, sticky mush by a bus as it went roaring past.

Bungo’s head began to spin and there’s no doubt that he was more than a little light-headed when at last he saw before him the elegant shape of Fortune and Bason. There was food in the windows here too, but it was all done up in smart little packets, tins and boxes, and when Bungo actually saw one small carton with the words
CREAM CHOCLATE RASPBERRY TRUFFLES
on the side, it was almost like meeting an old friend.

Bungo pressed his nose to the glass for a moment and then moved hesitantly towards the doors, but as he reached them he saw a man in a very smart green uniform bolt them shut from the inside. Fortune and Bason were closing for the night.

‘Let me in, let me in,’ cried Bungo, knocking frantically on the glass, for he was now convinced that Orinoco must be inside there somewhere, looking for spilt Cream Chocolate Raspberry Truffles or Sugared Mice at the very least. But the man took no notice and at the same moment someone tapped on Bungo’s shoulder and a voice said politely in his ear, ‘Can I be of any assistance, sir?’

Bungo spun round and found himself face to face with a strange Womble . . .

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Chapter 11

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Yellowstone Womble

Bungo shut his eyes tight and counted up to ten and then opened them again, but the strange Womble was still there watching him with polite interest. He was most beautifully dressed in a narrow brimmed hat of pale grey, a long Crombie overcoat of the same colour, tan gloves and highly polished shoes. He was quite old, for his fur was turning a lovely, silky grey.

‘May I introduce myself?’ he said, and took a wallet from his pocket and produced a card.

Bungo’s paw was shaking so much he nearly dropped it, but he did just manage to make out the words
Y. B. WOMBLE, SENIOR. UNITED STATES.

‘I beg – I beg your pardon,’ said Bungo, raising his cap. The strange Womble lifted his hat and said again, ‘Can I be of any assistance, sir?’

‘Excuse me,’ said Bungo, ‘but you are a Womble, aren’t you?’

‘Yes indeed. Cousin Yellowstone Boston Womble. And you are?’

‘Bungo Womble. Of Wimbledon Common. England.’

‘Well, bless me,’ said Cousin Yellowstone, in exactly the same way as Great Uncle Bulgaria said it. ‘If that isn’t an astonishing coincidence. I was hoping to visit with you during my stay. But aren’t you rather young to be wandering round London on your own?’

These words brought Bungo back to earth and reminded him of his quest. Talking with increasing speed he told Cousin Yellowstone about the reason for his being in Piccadilly, and the difficulties in which he now found himself with Orinoco
inside
Fortune and Bason and himself
outside
.

‘Dear, dear me,’ said Cousin Yellowstone at the finish of this somewhat rambling story. ‘If you’ll allow me to make a suggestion, I would guess that your friend Orinoco is also outside. Fortune and Bason are – er – rather narrow-minded about their customers and I do not believe that they would allow a young Womble wearing a straw hat and a scarf to remain inside their portals for long.’

‘You mean they’d have thrown him out?’ said Bungo in horror.

‘Not thrown,’ corrected Cousin Yellowstone. ‘Escorted with the utmost courtesy and civility.’

‘Then what shall I do?’ asked Bungo, wringing his paws.

‘You say your friend is partial to these candies?’ said Cousin Yellowstone thoughtfully. His shrewd eyes had long ago noticed Bungo’s thin shape in spite of the sheepskin coat, and he had guessed that he had heard only half the story. In his youth Cousin Yellowstone had journeyed to Canada and experienced the really gruelling fight for survival which went on among all creatures, even man, during those long, frozen winters. He had put two and two together, and because he was a Womble of very wide experience he went on, ‘I believe your friend may have gone round the side of this elegant store, to where they nightly put out their so-called trash.’

‘Then let us go there immediately,’ said Bungo.

‘Follow me,’ said Cousin Yellowstone, and led the way down a much quieter side street where there were fewer people and less traffic. It was not so brightly lit as the main thoroughfare and as Bungo and Cousin Yellowstone approached the second doorway they saw a small figure crouching in the shadows between two bulging sacks.

‘Orinoco!’ shouted Bungo, his voice cracking with relief.

Orinoco jumped violently, and then cautiously stepped out into the light. He was a sorry figure. His fur was wet and bedraggled and covered in splashes of melting yellow snow. His straw boater, which had never looked its best since it was soaked in Queen’s Mere, was now a shadow of its former self and his scarf had two big holes in it. Orinoco had been on his own in a terrifying city for nearly a whole day, during which time he had been pushed and shoved in all directions. He had walked all the way from Wimbledon and his paws hurt and, because of stubborn pride, he hadn’t eaten a mouthful since the two pastries of the early morning. At the sight of Bungo suddenly appearing out of nowhere, Orinoco’s mouth twitched and he might have done something as UnWombly as to sniff tearfully if Cousin Yellowstone hadn’t said quickly, ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,’ and held out his paw.

Orinoco shook it, his eyes almost bulging out of his head in a way which suddenly struck Bungo as amazingly funny.

‘Good old Orinoco,’ he said, buffeting his friend on the shoulder. ‘Good, good old Orinoco. Trust you to find out where the food is.’

‘I haven’t touched a bite,’ said Orinoco between stiff lips. ‘I was collecting it for – for . . .’ His voice trembled.

‘Well, my goodness me,’ said Cousin Yellowstone. ‘Will you just look at that? Why, you must have nearly a sackful there. That’s absolutely marvellous. And what fine stuff it is too. I see you have truffles, and what’s this? Bless me, candied fruits. Why, I haven’t seen them in years. You must have been very, very busy collecting-wise.’

‘Gosh,’ said Bungo, taking his cue from his American relation. ‘I say, Orinoco, you
have
been going at it. Did you do it all by yourself?’

‘Um-hum,’ said Orinoco, who still wasn’t up to saying much.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Bungo, tactfully looking away from his friend’s puckered face. ‘I haven’t introduced you properly. Cousin Yellowstone from America, this is my friend Orinoco from Wimbledon Common.’

‘Glad to know you, young Womble,’ said Cousin Yellowstone. ‘Well, I daresay we should be getting along. I’ll call a cab.’

‘Can you – I mean, they’re rather expensive,’ said Bungo.

‘Well, I believe I could just about make the fare,’ said Cousin Yellowstone. ‘You just wait right there.’

The two young Wombles watched his dapper figure disappear out of sight and then Orinoco said in a low voice, ‘I don’t think I should go back. Not after what happened.’

‘I don’t know what happened and I don’t want to know,’ said Bungo, which was noble of him, as he was consumed with curiosity. ‘And anyhow if you weren’t going to come home, what were you going to do with all that food?’

‘Leave it outside the burrow,’ said Orinoco. He was feeling a little more like his old self now and he straightened his back as he spoke. ‘It
is
rather a good haul, isn’t it? I found a perfectly good shopping basket inside a telephone box place. And then I went into Fortune and Bason and . . .’ He stopped, and after a moment went on. ‘How did you know where to find me anyway?’

‘It was Tobermory. He and Great Uncle Bulgaria were awfully upset when they read your letter and they sent me off to find you and here I am.’

‘It’s jolly good of you,’ said Orinoco gruffly.

‘’S all right,’ said Bungo, wriggling his paws inside his fur boots. ‘Cousin Yellowstone’s nice, isn’t he?’

‘Um,’ said Orinoco, nodding violently.

The two young Wombles looked at each other and then looked away, and Orinoco whistled softly and Bungo hummed to himself until a taxi swung round the corner with Cousin Yellowstone leaning out of the window.

‘Here, driver,’ he said.

The taxi driver looked rather doubtfully at Bungo and Orinoco – who were luckily standing in the shadows – and he frowned even more when Orinoco picked up his very laden shopping basket, and Bungo handed in his carrier on the top of which he had just stuffed three slightly damaged Christmas stockings which he’d noticed sticking out of one of Fortune and Bason’s rubbish sacks.

‘Wimbledon Common please, driver,’ said Cousin Yellowstone.

‘Whereabouts on Wimbledon Common, sir?’

‘I’ll tell you when we get there,’ said Cousin Yellowstone firmly and shut the small glass panel so that he and the two young Wombles could talk in private. Actually he did most of the talking himself, as he could see that they were both extremely tired, and long before they reached the suburb of Wimbledon Orinoco was fast asleep with his head, battered straw hat and all, on Bungo’s shoulder. Cousin Yellowstone smiled to himself and went on talking softly until Bungo suddenly jerked upright as he recognised the building site and the black and white crossing, which was now perfectly visible as the snow was melting fast.

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Cousin Yellowstone knocked on the glass and the taxi stopped and they all climbed out. The driver looked at them, shook his head and only muttered a gruff ‘Thanks, guv’ when Cousin Yellowstone tipped him most generously.

‘No manners, Human Beings,’ said Cousin Yellowstone as the taxi drove off through the slush. ‘Now then, let me see if I remember the way correctly.’

‘You?’ said Bungo, with Orinoco echoing him.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Cousin Yellowstone. ‘I’ve been here before – once. Long, long ago, before either of you was born. Tell me, is Uncle Bulgaria still reading
The Times
newspaper?’

‘Yes,’ said Bungo. ‘But he’s Great Uncle Bulgaria now.’

‘Is that right?’ said Cousin Yellowstone. ‘My, how the years do roll by. Well, shall I lead the way?’ And he set off at a brisk pace through the bushes.

Before any of them reached the back door it was thrown open, and Tobermory came out with a lantern held above his head.

‘You’ve taken long enough . . .’ he began, and then he saw Cousin Yellowstone and for a moment his eyes bulged just as Orinoco’s had done, and he said huskily, ‘Why, I do believe – yes, it is! Yellowstone!’

‘Tobermory!’ exclaimed the American Womble. ‘I’d have known you anywhere. Still wearing that apron, I see.’

‘Aye,’ said Tobermory at his gruffest, ‘and by the looks of things you’ve done well for yourself. So there you are, Orinoco; a nice mess you’ve made of things to be sure. Come in so I can close the door. The weather’s turned, but it’s still chilly. Well done, Bungo,’ and for a second his grey paw touched Bungo’s shoulder, and then he was hurrying off down the passage, blowing out the lantern as he went.

‘You’d better go and have something to eat,’ Tobermory called over his shoulder. ‘Madame Cholet’s waiting for you.’

‘I’ve brought some food,’ said Orinoco, ‘quite a lot of it.’

But Tobermory had already gone on with Cousin Yellowstone, and so the two young Wombles stumbled into the nice bright kitchen where Madame Cholet was stirring something hot and savoury-smelling on the stove, and Alderney was chopping up grass in a very professional manner.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Madame Cholet, ‘take off your wet things and put them there to dry. I never saw such a sorry-looking pair of Wombles in my whole life. Good gracious, what is this?’

For Orinoco had tipped up his shopping basket and the food was spilling across the floor. Bungo added his half loaf and three Christmas stockings and Madame Cholet sat down on the nearest chair and fanned her face and Alderney plumped down on her knees and picked up the pretty packets and paper bags with cries of delight.