Washy and the Crocodile (4 page)

“Of course,” he said. “Mrs Wombat. And her children. The little wombats. Do you know, I was going to call them A, B and C? But it seemed a little-”

“A little what?” Asked Washy sharply.

“Oh, I don't know,” answered the Irishman. “A little presumptuous, I guess. Anyway, they're fine. Just fine. They've been having a good time. The mother was very interested in what we were doing, and asked lots of questions. In fact,” Ben said, pausing and scratching his chin,” she showed a much better grasp of the purpose of our research than any of my assistants: and she seemed quite disappointed when I said that we didn't have any vacancies at the moment. On our research staff, I mean.”

Washy toyed with his spear, jamming the point into the soft earth and then spinning it around.

“She said this - despite being kidnapped?” He asked casually, watching the other man's reaction out of the corner of his eye.

Ben looked astonished. “Kidnapped?” He exclaimed. “There's been no kidnapping around here! They were invited to visit for a day or two, and they've found the whole process fascinating.” He paused. “Somehow, I don't think there's whole lot of intellectual debate in the Wombat household,” he added tactfully. “Kidnapped, indeed! The idea!”

By this stage Mrs Wombat had joined them, and was still holding forth to her silent husband.

“Really, Wombat!” She said. “Didn't you see the picture that I left for you, telling you where we'd gone, and how to join us? Don't you ever think before you act?”

Wombat shuffled all four paws in the dust, and wondered what to say; for he had a feeling that whatever he said would be wrong. Was a feeling the same as a thought? He wasn't sure, and would have to ask Washy.

“I must have missed it,” he said. “I was so worried about you, I didn't know what I was doing.”

“Nothing new there,” said Mrs Wombat gently, with a touch of forgiveness in her voice: but then Wombat spoiled his chances. “Washy,” he said blindly, “when you have a thought, is it the same as a feeling, or is it-”

“I don't know,” said Washy quickly. He didn't know much about females, he realised: but he knew enough not to take sides in a domestic dispute. How was he to create a diversion, as the tribal elders would have recommended for just this situation? Suddenly, it came to him and he knew what to do.

“Ben,” he said, and the zoologist looked at him. “You may not have had time for breakfast this morning.”

“I may not,” agreed the Irishman and looked very interested. So did everyone else: and the three little wombats shuffled their twelve paws simultaneously, as if they were a dance troupe.

The aborigine paused for three seconds, for he knew the value of timing, and went on artlessly:

“You said something about rabbit pie, I think.”

They all licked their lips. Wombat might have acted impetuously; but rabbit pie was important.

***

“That was a lovely story, Uncle Otto,” whispered Annie gently, for the children had finally fallen asleep and she didn't want to wake them. After all, even James Bond needed to rest sometimes.

“Exactly,” said Uncle Otto, thus borrowing a word from his favourite marsupial.

Annie smiled at him, and touched his arm. “That wombat,” she said. “He's just so sweet.”

“Isn't he?” replied Uncle Otto, and scratched his head.

“He has such a sort of ... reckless impetuosity,” Annie went on: and she looked at Otto with a sort of loving curiosity. She was a woman, after all.

“You were never like that, Uncle Otto, were you?” She said. “You were always kind, and thoughtful, and generous: but you never did anything on impulse, did you?”

“Me?” Asked Uncle Otto. “Me? No. Never. I've always been like this. Since I was a lad. Careful. Predictable. Boring.”

Jack, who wasn't really asleep at all, but only pretending, risked opening an eye to check out his uncle. After all, he
was
training to be a secret agent. And how else could he obtain the practice?

Annie was twisting her wedding ring, which Daddy had given her and which she never removed. Uncle Otto was looking at nothing in particular, and rubbing his thick patch of white hair, which looked just like a pelt, when you thought about it; and for a moment he looked just like a wombat.

“You must try and consider other people, Jack. They have views too, you know. And try to be a bit more... accommodating. Don't always go off in a dream of your own.
Listen
to other people.
Listen
to what they're saying.”

It was a wet, rainy morning, and his mother was not in a good mood. She had just had a depressing conversation with Jack's teacher, Mrs Waldegrave, who was really very nice, and nothing like what her son had said about her. She—Mrs Waldegrave, whose husband was a businessman and often away from home—was so concerned about Jack, who had so much potential and just wasn't using it, that she had taken the trouble to call Annie about it on a Saturday morning! Wasn't that nice of her?

And
Jack had upset his sister's best friend Samantha, for no good reason at all.
And
—but that was quite enough for now, and she ruffled his hair, which he had just combed at her request.

Women, thought Jack bitterly. He would never understand them. They could never leave well alone. Take his mother, for example. She was nice enough, he supposed, and she cared about him, whatever that meant, and she was better than some other people's mothers, like his best friend Roger, whose mother was a complete waste of rations, but still—

When would Mum stop trying to improve him, and accept him for what he was? Never, he supposed. She was his mother. And as for this sudden alliance with Mrs Waldegrave — that was
really
unfair. It was a nice, wet morning, there was no school, and his mum had found something to worry about. Why? What was the point? And that reminded him of something else. Just the other day—

“Are you listening to me, Jack?” Annie was tapping her pencil on the table as if she were conducting an orchestra. Was the conductor really necessary, he wondered? The musicians all had the same music, didn't they? So what was the conductor for? Uncle Otto would know. He knew about everything. Why, only the other day, when they were talking about bush-fires, he was telling the two children how dangerous they were, and how the flames could leap from one tree to another over a distance of several hundred yards if the wind were in the right direction!—Or rather the wrong direction, as Jack thought of pointing out, but somehow didn't. And as if
that
were not enough, Uncle Otto knew of cases where—

“What did I just say?” His mother interrupted his reverie. Unfairly, he thought: but she was a woman.

“That I must try and concentrate,” said Jack confidently. It was probably the right answer, and it was better to be confidently wrong than to blather and gabble and appear a complete fool. He knew that from his experience with Mrs Waldegrave, who had done so much to reduce his self-confidence. And as for that little fiend Samantha! Why did she have to be so clever? Why did she have to know all the answers? And why did she never have to go to the toilet? Roger and he had timed her once to see how long she could last and they could not believe the result. Starting at nine o'clock—

His mother sighed. “And will you?”

“Will I what?” Said Jack vacantly, and then smiled just in time. “Of course I will! Only joking, Mummy!”

Jack thought it was a good idea. To concentrate, he meant. (The rest of what is mother had said, he put away to one side. He could accommodate it later.) After all, he wanted to be a secret agent, and he was sure they had to be able to concentrate. But how was he supposed to do it? Jack felt puzzled. None of his friends knew how to concentrate. Not one. Except, perhaps, for Roger, who was odd. Yes. He would need to talk all this over with Roger. Roger was his best friend. Roger would be a help. Possibly. And if he weren't, Jack would have someone to blame. Which was always useful.

Roger lived in the next street. With his dog, Jasper Jeremiah. And a cat, which was called Cat. And his mother and father and sister, whom Jack knew and wished he didn't. It was, supposedly, a happy little household, in which everyone loved each other: but Jack would not have liked to live there. Roger was the only son; and he was special; and his parents loved him very much. They kept telling him so. Only their behaviour didn't match what they said. Far from it. Jack could only remember one occasion when he thought that Roger's mother was showing signs of being human, and then she blew it by—

Grown-ups were like that, said Roger, who appeared to be able to read his best friend's mind — or perhaps there wasn't very much to read, thought Jack. They were inconsistent, said Roger, ruminatively. Roger liked the word inconsistent. He had been waiting to use it for a long time. Roger liked words. Jack sometimes thought he liked them more than people. Which wasn't really surprising, when you considered his mother. Roger wanted to be a writer when he grew up, but Jack thought it was a very silly ambition. What would Roger have to write about? Roger had never had any adventures. Not real adventures. Not like James Bond.

Roger said that James Bond wasn't a real person, but the creation of a writer; and Jack was appalled by this heresy. Heresy was another word to which Roger had introduced him, and which apparently meant something to do with religion. That didn't mean very much to Jack. After all, James Bond never went to church, did he? And if James Bond didn't go to church, what did he do? Was he a Buddhist?

This fascinating thought opened a cascade of possibilities in Jack's mind, for he didn't know very much about Buddhism—all right, fair enough, he knew nothing at all about Buddhism—and that left him free to make it up. Roger would have said, to extemporize. But Jack didn't know that word yet. Nor did he know that he did not yet know that word. He was in a state of perfect ignorance, as Mrs Waldegrave had once put it; and ignorance was supposed to be bliss, wasn't it? Where had he come across that very pithy remark? Was it—but he had forgotten where this chain of thought began. He needed to be able to concentrate.

“I'm going to see Roger,” he said firmly to his mother. “He'll help me to sort things out. In my mind.
You
know. Come on, Tommy!” And he left before she could say a word, which was most unlike Mummy.

***

“What shall I do about Mum? She says I've got to learn to concentrate!” Asked Jack, as the two boys sat by the pond later that morning, and Tommy chased the scent of a rabbit. Tommy appeared to have no problem in concentrating. The only trouble was that he wasn't going to catch the rabbit, which was long gone. Were dogs optimistic by nature, mused Jack, or was it that—

“I don't know,” said Roger. It wasn't his job to do things. His job was to write about them, afterwards.

“I know,” said Jack. “If I think about something really hard, that's concentrating, isn't it?”

“I suppose so,” said his friend. “What are you going to think about?”

“About how to go to Australia and speak to Washy and find out from him how to sort out my mother and keep Mrs Waldegrave happy and get my sister to treat me properly and stop her best friend Samantha from knowing everything and always being the first to answer in class and generally being a stuck-up little so-and-so,” said Jack promptly. Roger looked at his friend with interest.

“This has really got to you, hasn't it?” he said.

“Definitely,” said Jack, and so it had. Uncle Otto kept talking about Washy, and Washy lived in Australia, and Washy was very clever. Apparently. And if Washy couldn't help him, he could introduce him to Wombat, who was married to Mrs Wombat; and she was really clever! His solution was infallible, thought Jack, pleased that he had thought it all out so clearly. Perhaps he had already learned to concentrate!

“How do we get there? To Australia, I mean.” Asked his friend.

“We?” Uttered Jack in surprise.

“You don't think I'd let you go on your own, do you?” Roger smiled. “You'd probably get lost. It's a big place, you know.”

“I know,” said his friend. “Otto told me. He told me it was as big as—as big as”— Jack was lost for a comparison. “Very big, anyway. So I suppose there might just possibly be room for you,” Jack conceded generously. “If you keep very quiet. And don't get in the way.”

“I'm a writer,” said Roger. “We don't get in the way. In fact, half the time people don't even notice we're there! Until it's too late, of course!” Roger laughed at his own wit, and Jack remained silent. It was comforting to have a friend. But that didn't mean having to laugh at his jokes, did it? Even a friend like Roger, who wanted to be a writer, and didn't believe in James Bond.

“How we get there?” Asked Roger.

“Where?”

“Australia.” Jack was surprised. What had happened to his friend Roger? He was sounding practical!

“How does Otto travel to Australia?” Asked his surprising friend, practically. “Aeroplane? Boat? Camel?” All of these forms of transport were already presenting challenges to his writer's imagination, but he was stuck on C. What form of transport began with a D, he wondered. And what if—