Figaro and Rumba and the Crocodile Cafe (6 page)

‘Well, my uncle got to thinking. As you know, my family is very musical and we have all had singing lessons. Only my uncle is a baritone, which means he has a very low voice.

He told Stalk-Eyes this – he was sorry, but he didn't think a high Sea was in his singing range.

‘“Practise,” said Stalk-Eyes, “or you'll be looking at me for the rest of your life.” Stalk-Eyes goggled at him and did something nasty with his behind.

‘So every day Uncle practised. And every day he climbed a higher note. Soon the ballroom was empty. Uncle's singing got on everyone's nerves. Except for Stalk-Eyes. His nerves were in his behind.

‘Well, it's amazing what you can do if you practise. Because one day, Uncle hit that high note. “
SEA-SEA-SEA!
” And as soon as he did, the ballroom walls turned inside out and the ceiling fell down to the floor. Uncle felt himself being spurted along, back up the dark tunnel and out, out into the wide blue sky.

‘And that is the story Uncle told us kittens every time we said we didn't want to practise our singing. “One day it may save your life,” he said. “Just like it did mine.”'

Rumba looked at Figaro. His eyes were closed. So Rumba got up and turned him the right way, onto his side. Then he went to bed himself. It had been a long, tiring day.

Chapter 4

Mrs Foozy and the Motorbike

F
igaro and Rumba were going on the Very Fast Train.

‘This time it is really going to happen,' said Figaro. ‘Everyone says it's fabulous. Like a speeding bullet.'

‘That's the hundreth time you've told me,' said Rumba. ‘Soon we'll see for ourselves.'

Figaro thought Rumba was taking forever packing their bag. And they had to catch a bus to the station. Figaro knew that Ernie the bus driver hated waiting. Ernie had a temper like a flash storm, and any kind of dilly-dallying set him off.

So Figaro ran ahead up the street. When he reached the bus stop, he saw Ernie and the bus were just leaving. Figaro waved wildly, but Ernie pretended not to see.

‘You're too
EARLY
!' shouted Figaro. ‘It's not
FAIR
!' But the bus just chugged away down the street.

Figaro sat down in the middle of the footpath. Drool dripped onto his new red shirt. Rumba came hurrying up to him, juggling the heavy bag.

‘Now we'll never catch the Very Fast Train,' said Figaro.

‘We can walk to the station,' said Rumba. ‘That's if we get a move on and stop sitting on the footpath.'

‘No, it's too far.' Figaro watched a fly land on his leg. ‘All that stupid packing business.'

Just then there was a loud
BANG!
and Mrs Foozy drove up on her motorbike.

‘Excuse me,' she said. ‘My bike is always backfiring.'

‘Sounds like Figaro after bean stew,' said Rumba. ‘That will be your exhaust pipe, Mrs Foozy. There's a hole in it, I expect.'

‘Hello, Mrs Foozy!' cried Figaro, his tail thumping. ‘Can we get a lift to the station with you?'

‘Why, yes, Figgy dear, I'm going that way myself. Forgot to buy the spinach.'

‘Spinach is easy to forget,' said Figaro. ‘Can we go now?'

Mrs Foozy started up the motorbike. Figaro and Rumba clung on behind her. Mrs Foozy always drove fast. ‘You ride like a wasp's on your tail,' Nate once told her. ‘
You
can't talk,' Mrs Foozy had said, and gave him one of her looks, so Nate shut up.

But they had only gone two blocks when the bike gave another loud cough and stopped.

‘Oh, beetle bums in
mud
!' said Figaro.

Rumba got off to take a look at the long silver pipe sticking out of the back. ‘Don't touch,' he cried suddenly as Figaro reached over. ‘It's boiling hot right now. Mrs Foozy, it's just as I thought. There's a large hole in the exhaust. You have a problem of compression. But if we wrap something tight around the hole we might just make it to the station.'

‘What can we use? Hey, what about my tail? I can fly off the end, like Superdog!'

‘You'd burn like a lamb chop, Fig! No, we'll try the leather strap on this bag – that might hold.'

Mrs Foozy was wringing her paws. ‘Oh, Rumba, you'll ruin that nice bag of yours. Didn't you get it from that foreign place where music plays all night and the sea comes right up to your front door?'

‘Yes,' sighed Rumba. ‘Cuba. Where I was born.'

‘That's where we met,' Figaro told Mrs Foozy while Rumba unpacked the bag. ‘I was on holidays. I was supposed to go to America but I went the wrong way. It didn't matter because one day I was at this market and there was Rumba, all skinny and scared and hungry. I felt so sorry for him. He was looking at the fish fillets.'

‘I hadn't eaten for two days. You see, I'd been in a spot of trouble –'

‘But let's fix this exhausted thingy and go, go, go!' cried Figaro. ‘I'll find you another bag, Rumba. A red one. That's my favourite colour,' he told Mrs Foozy.

‘Have you got any scissors?' Rumba asked her.