The Wombles at Work by Elisabeth Beresford

Author:Elisabeth Beresford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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Chapter 8

Wellington Mixes Things

Wellington was only very dimly aware that the friendship between Orinoco and Bungo had become rather strained, because he’d got a lot of other things on his mind. Tomsk didn’t even realise that anything was wrong at all, as he had his own particular problem – or rather problems to deal with – the strange pieces of white stuff which he kept picking up by the armful from all round the edges of, and sometimes floating in, the Serpentine. Some of the sillier birds would keep thinking it was bread or sandwiches but, when they tried to eat it, it stuck in their beaks and they would go swimming round and round in circles, choking and spluttering, till Tomsk managed to catch them and shake it out of them.

Tomsk appealed to Tobermory for extra help, but after the short, sharp cold spell, spring had come early and with it crowds of Human Beings who seemed to be dropping more litter than ever. So every working Womble was at full stretch and Tobermory had no one he could spare.

‘It’s no good asking me,’ said Orinoco, who besides being on normal tidying-up duty was also working on what he rather grandly referred to as his ‘stove project’. ‘Why not ask you-know-who?’

‘If,’ said Bungo with chilly dignity, ‘if, a certain Womble is suggesting me – and my name by the way happens to be Bungo – then I am afraid I cannot assist you. I have a “heavy load project” which is taking up all my time.’

Tomsk thought this over for some while and came to the conclusion that it all added up to meaning ‘no go’.

‘OK,’ he said and lumbered off, pausing by the door. ‘But I do know your name, Bungo. I’ve known it ever since you’ve had it actually. Well, I’ll just have to try Wellington that’s all . . .’

Tomsk got quite a shock when he ran Wellington to earth in his little greenhouse.

‘You’ve been overdoing it,’ he said. ‘Your fur’s turned white!’

‘Has it?’

Wellington hit himself briskly and clouds of dust rose in all directions. When this cleared it became obvious that Wellington’s fur, although still rather grey, was its normal colour beneath this coating.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Tomsk.

‘Inventing.’

‘Inventing what?’

‘Well, I shan’t know till I’ve invented it, shall I?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

Wellington went back to stirring a pinky-brown liquid in what had once been a lemonade bottle. There was a whole row of these bottles on a shelf, all of them full of different coloured liquids and neatly labelled; while in one corner a scrubbed-out petrol drum contained something which looked like white mud. It was moving slightly and was making a funny squelch-squelch sound, and every few seconds a fat bubble would rise to the surface and then grow larger and larger until it burst with a faint plop. Next to this, was a stepladder which Wellington had neatly converted into a row of little shelves, on which reposed a line of seed boxes with small green seedlings already showing through the earth.

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