The Wombles Part 4

Bungo had done his job well; for the Common Room was full of Wombles in oilskins, sou'westers and boots. The whispering died down as Great Uncle Bulgaria and Tobermory came in and everybody looked at them expectantly.

'Fellow Wombles,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria, who had forgotten that he had put Tobermory in charge of everything: he never could resist making a speech. 'It has come to our ears that some concrete is available on the other side of the Common. We intend to buy it.'

'Oh,' said Bungo, light dawning on him. Tobermory gave him a look, and Bungo sank out of sight behind Tomsk.

'Tobermory has worked out exactly how much it will cost and furthermore we are going to leave a present of fifty pence for any inconvenience we may cause. You will form yourselves into a line everyone has a bucket and spade, I take it?'

A whole forest of buckets and spades were raised above the sou'westers.

'Good. I must impress upon you all that silence, efficiency and obedience are vital. Tobermory will be in command on the site.'

Tobermory nodded gravely and led the way down the pa.s.sage. Not to another living Womble would he have admitted that in his raincoat pocket he had a small booklet called Everything A Concrete Worker Should Know. But as he walked rapidly down the winding corridors he kept taking little looks at it, and as he was a technician at heart he felt that by the time they emerged on to the Common he would know how to work a mixer. He hoped.

The evening rush of traffic was long since over and as it was a nasty cold damp night there were few people about. With their buckets hung over one arm, their shovels over their shoulders, the Wombles squelched across the gra.s.s and then over the crossing.

Flickering red lamps had been placed round the building site by a night.w.a.tchman and Tobermory's eyes gleamed as he saw the stacks of timber and tools. Still, this was not the moment for idle dreams.

'Wombles, s.p.a.ce yourselves out,' Tobermory said in a low whisper. 'Tomsk, come with me, and remember to keep quiet whatever happens!'

Tomsk nodded violently, so violently that his sou'wester slid down over his eyes and he nearly walked straight into the mixer. Tobermory took a quick glance at his booklet, and then studied the fat bags of double brown paper which were stacked under a tarpaulin, each of them neatly labelled.

'One-to-three-to-six,' muttered Tobermory, reading one of the labels.

'What does it mean?' whispered Tomsk, almost treading on Tobermory's heels.

'One part of cement to three parts of sand and six parts of stone. It's a mixture which is right for foundations of ma.s.s concrete and similar work where great strength is not required,' replied Tobermory, who had learnt this bit by heart out of the booklet.

'Oh my,' breathed Tomsk, his admiration for Tobermory growing even greater than before.

'One-to-two-to-four is generally appropriate for reinforced concrete building construction and one-to-one-to-two is the richest of all and suitable for marine work and for reinforced conduits to convey water under pressure,' went on Tobermory, unable to resist the chance to air his brand new knowledge.

'Fancy,' said Tomsk, who hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about, but who was enormously impressed all the same.

'Ho-hum,' said Tobermory. 'Well, well. We must get on with the job in hand, young Womble. One-Three-Six "Easy Mix" is the stuff we want. Give us a paw.'

They carried the bags over to the mixer one by one, and then Tobermory filled a bucket with water from a tap at one side of the site and gave it to Tomsk, with orders to pour it into the mixer slowly once he was given the signal. Then he lined up all the other Wombles with their empty buckets, took a deep breath and cranked the engine.

Nothing happened.

A line of hopeful faces shadowed by sou'westers gazed trustingly at Tobermory, who felt a shiver of doubt run all the way up his back.

He cranked again, and this time the engine rumbled into life and Tomsk, who was standing right beside it, nearly jumped out of his fur. But he held his ground as the great barrel-like mixer slowly began to revolve and Tobermory poured in the contents of the bags and then ordered Tomsk to add the water. Just enough, not a drop too little or a trickle too much.

Rumble, rumble, rumble went the mixer, chewing its thick porridge and making a great deal of noise about it. More than one pair of Womble eyes slid sideways, wondering if the din would attract some human attention, and it says a great deal for their self-control that not one of them moved so much as a paw as the row went on and on, shattering the silence of the night.

However, the inhabitants of Wimbledon were so used to the roar and rumble of roadworks all around them, that they didn't even bother to draw their curtains and glance out. They just turned up their televisions and their radios and left the Wombles in peace.

'Time's up,' said Tobermory, whose eyes had been fastened to the enormous watch on his wrist. 'Tip it up, Tomsk. Slowly. You there, Bungo, put your bucket by the lip of the mixer.'

Tomsk did as he was told and a great sludgy flood of white stuff went slurp, slurp, slurp into Bungo's bucket.

'Shovel it in, shovel it in,' ordered Tobermory. 'Gently does it. Oh lovely, glorious concrete. Next please. Now then, Bungo, back to the burrow, but carefully, don't you dare spill a drop.'

Into the waiting buckets went the wet, slodgy concrete. It went into plastic buckets and tin pails and jam jars with handles on them. And when it came to Orinoco's turn it slopped into a pudding basin, which had been the only thing he could find. Bungo had a very fancy tin pail with A PRESENT FROM RAMSGATE on the side, and Tomsk had an enormous galvanized bucket with WBC* on it. Tobermory himself had a red bucket with SAND on the side.

* Wimbledon Borough Council.

Great Uncle Bulgaria, with his paws clasped on his stick, watched his Wombles at work and felt proud of them. A small, elderly man who was hurrying home through the wet dark night almost walked full tilt into him.

'So sorry,' he said.

'Don't mention it, my dear sir,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria.

'Working late, aren't you?' said the man timidly. He lived by himself and was often rather lonely, so he liked to exchange a few words with somebody if he got the chance.

'Rush job,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria. 'All this rain's done a lot of damage.'

'Too true,' said the man. 'It never rained like this when I was young.'

'I quite agree with you,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria. 'Well, I mustn't detain you, sir. Good evening.'

'Good evening to you, sir,' said the elderly man, and walked on, much impressed by the quick, efficient way in which the work was being done.

'That's it,' said Tobermory, switching off the mixer for the last time and shaking his paws, because his fur was full of sticky pieces of wet concrete. 'Home, everyone, fast as you can, before it sets fast.'

But he spoke to the empty air, for the last of the Wombles was even now vanishing across the black and white path, and there was only Great Uncle Bulgaria left, and he silently handed up a large brown paper parcel which Tobermory placed carefully beneath the tarpaulin. Inside it was the money, a list of the bags used, and a short polite note explaining what had happened. It was signed, Your respectful and obedient servant, Bulgaria Coburg Womble and to this day the foreman on that building site hasn't been able to make head or tail of what it was all about.

It was an extremely busy night for the Wombles, for under Tobermory's directions they dug up the badly cracked floors to make long, shallow pits which they lined with rubble and then filled with the concrete.

'Keep going, keep going,' urged Tobermory, one eye constantly on his watch, for he knew that the concrete would start to set within two hours, although it wouldn't become completely hard for forty-eight hours. The younger Wombles, including Orinoco and Bungo, were busy on the walls, filling in the cracks and smoothing them over, while Tomsk, as the tallest Womble, was given the job of dealing with cracked ceilings. To keep their strength up the kitchens were kept open all night and Alderney, with her bell ringing furiously on the trolley, was kept trotting backwards and forwards with hot drinks and snacks.

The whole burrow, in fact, was a humming, buzzing, busy hive of activity as bucketload after bucketload of concrete was used to make it strong and waterproof again. Tobermory somehow managed to be everywhere at once, directing, explaining and encouraging. And not one Womble, not even Orinoco, stopped working for a single minute, because every second was important.

The thin pale light of dawn was creeping silently across the Common by the time the last bucket had been emptied and the last shovel wiped clean and put away. As the Wombles, yawning and weary, made their way to bed, Great Uncle Bulgaria stood in his doorway, his paws clasped on his stick. He was very proud of them and for each one he had a kind word until at last only Tobermory was left.

'Well, old friend,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria, 'well done. Congratulations on a job magnificently planned and carried out. And now perhaps you'll believe me when I say it doesn't do to meet trouble halfway.'

'Be that as it may,' said Tobermory, who was so tired he was almost asleep on his paws, 'but don't you forget what I said. Troubles come in threes. Look.' And he pointed to a newly laid strip of concrete. Right across it was a line of pawmarks.

'That Bungo,' said Tobermory. 'I told him it was still soft, but he wouldn't listen.'

'And the third trouble?' asked Great Uncle Bulgaria.

Tobermory's usually dour face split into a smile.

'Orinoco,' he said. 'It was the pudding basin he was using that did it. He forgot that it was concrete he was carrying and he tasted some out of sheer force of habit. He thought it was some sort of cake.'

'Ho-hum,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria, 'perhaps that'll teach him to be less greedy in future, though I doubt it. Even his stomach won't take kindly to concrete. Well, goodnight, old friend.'

And very slowly, and with aching limbs but contented hearts, the two old Wombles made for their beds.

g*

Chapter 6.

g*Orinoco and the Rabbit Hole Orinoco did have a nasty stomach ache for a couple of days but he soon forgot all about it and went back to eating as much as ever. Perhaps even more, to make up for lost time.

'You're getting dreadfully fat,' said Bungo.

'I'm not. I'm a fine figure of a Womble,' replied Orinoco. 'I wouldn't like to be skinny.'

And he glanced meaningly at Bungo who, like all the other Wombles, was a nice, comfortable, round shape. This was because they were lucky enough to have an excellent cook called Madame Cholet. She wasn't really French, but when years ago the time had come for her to choose her name, she had picked out a town in France because she had once heard that was the country where the cooking was wonderful. She was small and round and cheerful, and she loved her work so much that she was always in the kitchen doing something. Orinoco had once offered to go and help her, but Madame Cholet had dug him in the ribs with a wooden spoon and said, 'Oh no. Your paws would be into everything.'

'No, honestly not,' said Orinoco, making his eyes look as large and truthful as he could. 'I really would help.'

'Hum,' said Madame Cholet, 'in that case we will give it a try. You shall help me for one week. It is agreed, yes?'

'Rather,' said Orinoco. 'Where do I start?' And he looked hopefully at a delicious stew which Madame Cholet was stirring. 'Shall I do that for you?'

'No. You must begin by learning something more simple. You shall top and tail the hawthorn berries. Then you can chop up some gra.s.s. After that there are the nettles which must be stripped off their stalks. Then you can peel the mushrooms and finally you must help Alderney with the washing-up. Here is an ap.r.o.n my word, what a splendid waist you have now please to begin.'

Poor Orinoco! He stuck it as long as he could, but no matter how hard he peeled and cut, stripped and chopped, there was always another job for him to do and none of the food with which he was working tasted at all nice till it was cooked.

The funny thing was that by the end of that week in the kitchen with Madame Cholet he was actually thinner than when he started. And what was more there was never a chance to slip off to the pantry or the larder to have a nice forty winks, because Madame Cholet seemed to have her eyes in the back of her head and she would whisk him off to the next job.

So Orinoco admitted that he was beaten and Madame Cholet cuffed him affectionately round the ears and gave him half a bar of chocolate and sent him back to Tobermory. It was really quite a relief to get out on to the Common again, and it took Orinoco another week to recover his strength. He was still recovering with his battered old hat tied over his head with the long woollen scarf when Bungo came bouncing up to him and said, 'Look what I've found.'

'It's an egg,' said Orinoco, opening one eye. It was really quite a nice day for December, with plenty of bright, if not very warm, sunshine.

'At this time of year?' said Bungo. 'No, it's a ball, but it won't bounce much. Look . . .' and he threw it hard on the gra.s.s, which it hit with a thud, bounced just a little and then rolled away.

'It's a goluff ball,' said Orinoco.

'What's that?'

'There's a game called goluff. Human Beings play it. They hit those little b.a.l.l.s with sticks and shout at each other. Tobermory's got hundreds of those things, and the sticks too.'

'Why do they shout at each other?' asked Bungo. His basket was full and he felt he could take it easy for five minutes. Not like Orinoco, who worked the other way round and took it easy for fifty-five minutes and then worked like mad in the remaining five.

'Human Beings like shouting,' said Orinoco through his hat. 'Haven't you noticed that yet? They shout when they play goluff and they shout at their dogs and they shout at their children. They like it.'

'Very odd,' said Bungo, wrinkling his forehead, for Wombles, although they are great talkers, are quiet creatures by nature. 'I wonder if we could play goluff?'

But Orinoco's only answer was a gentle snore, so Bungo put the question away to the back of his mind and waited until he caught Tobermory in a good mood.

'Goluff?' said Tobermory, who was working on a bicycle that a Human Being had dumped behind a bush. 'Oh, you mean golf. They play it for exercise, even quite old people. You take one of these little b.a.l.l.s hold on and I'll show you.'

And Tobermory disappeared into one of his small storerooms and then reappeared with a wicker hamper that was full to the brim with small golf b.a.l.l.s. Under his arm was a stick with a metal piece sticking out at the end.

'Like this,' said Tobermory, putting a ball down on the floor and swinging the stick over the top of it. 'This is called addressing the ball.'

'What do you address it as?' asked Bungo, deeply interested. It really was astonishing how little one knew about Human Beings even if one had been a Womble of the world for three months.

'Ball, I suppose,' said Tobermory. 'Now then, ball, I'm going to hit you,' and he gave it a gentle tap and the ball rolled across the floor and into a milk carton which was lying on its side.

'Let me, let me,' pleaded Bungo, wriggling down from the work table.

'Not in here you don't,' said Tobermory. 'Try outside in the pa.s.sage. And before you hit it, shout "four".'

'Why?'

'Why, why, why; you and your questions, young Womble. Because you do, that's why. Off with you, I'm busy.'

And Tobermory returned to his bicycle and began to unscrew it and take it to pieces. He was always short of bolts, nuts and bits of wire. So Bungo took the stick out into the corridor and put the ball down on the ground and shouted 'four', which seemed a bit silly, and then he swung the stick with all his might. The next thing he knew he was sitting on the ground and the ball was still in the same place.

'Missed,' muttered Bungo, scrambling to his feet.

'Hallo, what are you doing?' asked Tomsk, coming round the corner. He had finished his exercises and he wasn't on duty until the evening, so like Bungo he had some time to spare.

'Playing golf.'

'Can I play too?'

'Yes, if you like,' said Bungo in an offhand way. 'Go and get a stick from Tobermory. And your own ball.'

Tomsk did better than that, for Tobermory had gone to his office and found a tattered little book called How To Play Good Golf In Six Easy Lessons! and he handed this over as well.

'It's early yet,' said Bungo, who had just succeeded in hitting the ball and had narrowly missed breaking an electric light bulb into the bargain, 'so there won't be any Humans about. Let's go and play outside.'

They found the place where the Humans usually played and settled down to have a go themselves. Although the pictures in the book made it seem quite easy to do, Bungo and Tomsk soon found that it was extremely difficult.

'The ball's too small,' grumbled Bungo, when he missed it for the third time. He was getting rather tired of sitting down with a thump on the frosty ground.

'Oh, I don't think so,' said Tomsk in his slow way, and he planted his paws apart, just like the picture in the book and swung back his stick and hit the ball with all his might. As he was very strong the ball lifted up into the air and fairly sailed along until it finally came down in some bushes beside the course. There was a howl and a moment later a very indignant face appeared underneath an old straw hat.

'That hit me!' said Orinoco.

'Sorry,' said Tomsk.

'What are you doing there?' asked Bungo.

'Nothing much,' said Orinoco, twisting round in a rather uneasy fashion.

'I'm coming to see,' said Bungo, and went lolloping across to Orinoco, who dived back into the bushes, which quivered slightly. Tomsk thudded over to look for his ball and arrived just after Bungo, who was ferreting around with his stick.