Washy and the Crocodile (2 page)

“I'm going! I'm going!” Said Washy, and he began to swim.

The crocodile rolled his eyes.

“Not that way,” he said. “Go to the girl. She's waiting for you on the spit. Haven't you got any common sense? Don't they teach you anything at school, nowadays?”

“Gosh. Thanks. Sorry,” said Washy. He swam quickly to the bank, and scrambled out of the pool and ran towards the girl who was waiting for him. When he was close, she put her hand in his, and smiled. She was very beautiful.

“You need looking after,” she said.

“I know,” said Washy.

***

Otto paused to put another log on the fire, and the door opened behind him and Mummy came in, shaking her hair and looking very pleased to be home, but the two children didn't really notice. They were too absorbed in the story.

“What was the girl's name?” Asked Jack. “You never told us that.”

“No, I didn't, did I?” Otto answered. “You do ask a lot of questions.”

And just for a moment he looked a little sad.

“Come along, everyone,” said Mummy. “Time for tea.”

What's for tea, Mummy?” Asked Evie.

“Crumpets.”

“Come with me, Uncle Otto,” said Jack. He took his uncle by the hand. “Crumpets. You won't need your tooth-pick.”

Jack could be a very nice little boy. Sometimes.

James and John Maguire

“Wombat was worried. And he wanted to tell Washy all about it.” Said Uncle Otto, who had stretched himself out at full length beside the fire, pushing Tommy the dog to one side (it was much too hot for a dog, and might do him harm). Otto was beating time to a remembered rhythm on his chest, as if he could launch straight into a story just like that. But the children weren't going to let him get away with it.

“Who's Wombat?” Asked Jack. “You've never mentioned him before.” Jack could be a very meticulous little boy.

“That's right,” echoed his sister. Evie was always ready to follow up her brother's initiative—when it suited her. “You've never talked about Wombat before. And what is a wombat, anyway?”

“Oh, Evie,” exclaimed Jack disloyally. “You should know what a wombat is. We did them last year at school. It's a marsupial.”

“A whatial?” Asked Evie.

“You heard,” said her brother, who wasn't quite sure what it meant, and didn't want to be questioned any further. He thought it meant that the mother wombat carried its young in a pouch, like the mother kangaroo. But he wasn't quite sure.

“Wombat was worried,” said Uncle Otto again, as if the two children hadn't spoken at all; and all three of them grinned.

“Why was he worried?” Asked Jack.

“Because he'd lost his wife,” answered Otto promptly.

“Mrs Wombat?” Queried Jack, who liked things to be accurate.

“I suppose so,” said Uncle Otto—who could be distressingly vague at times.

“And when you say he'd lost her, do you mean that he couldn't find her? Or that she'd passed away?” Asked Jack, who knew all about people passing away—and going missing, come to that. Why, only last week his mother had promised that she would be only away for an hour, having coffee with a friend, and as it happened—

“I mean, that he couldn't find her,” said Otto succinctly.

“How did Wombat know Washy, in the first place?” Asked his nephew.

“That is one of the mysteries of the outback,” said his uncle; but Jack knew that James Bond would be far from satisfied with this answer.

“Were they friends?”

“They
became
friends,” said his uncle, grinning, so that his dark, sun-stained features drew together and he looked even more like a wizened walnut. “Just like we three.”

“And Tommy,” added Evie, who didn't want the dog to feel left out.

“And Tommy,” agreed her uncle. “And if you listen to the story, you'll find out why.”

***

“One day” (said Otto) “Washy came out of his hut in the early morning—before he cleaned his teeth, Jack, as I know you were about to ask—and found a funny, stumpy little animal scratching itself against the eucalyptus tree in the yard. It had black eyes and was covered in a dense pelt of hair, like the hearth-rug that Tommy's lying on”—at which point, Tommy thumped his tail on the said hearth-rug, as if it had his full approval, which it did—”and it looked at Washy very alertly. It didn't seem frightened at all, although Washy was far taller than the wombat: and not did it look as if it were going to attack him. It just looked interested.

“Hullo,” said Washy. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my yard?”

“I'm a wombat,” answered Wombat, who was clearly a creature of very few words; and even those he unleashed unwillingly, as if they were prize possessions that he would have preferred to keep to himself.

“Are you,” declared Washy. “I've never met a wombat before. What's your name?”

Wombat looked puzzled, and scratched his stumpy little head with a convenient forepaw. “What do you mean?” He asked.

“I mean, what do you call yourself?” Asked Washy helpfully.

“I don't,” said Wombat. And sniffed.

Washy scratched his own head with the tip of his spear, and pondered what to say next. This was proving very difficult!

“What do other people call you?” He asked.

“Other people?” Queried the wombat, doubtfully.

“Your friends,” said Washy.

Wombat looked even more puzzled, if that were possible.

“Didn't Wombat have any friends?” Asked Evie, her eyes wide with astonishment. “I have lots!”

“That's what you think,” said Jack. who could be a very sharp little boy when he chose. “Do be quiet, fathead, and let Uncle Otto get on with the story!”

Evie was about to cry when she suddenly decided not to. This story was far too interesting, and she wanted to know lots more about Wombat. Where did he go to school? What was his best subject? Who was his favourite teacher? How had he met Mrs Wombat? There was so much to learn!

“All right,” said Washy. “What do your family call you?”

At the mention of his family, Wombat the wombat looked very worried, and dismissed all further discussion of names from the agenda.

“They don't,” he said. “They can't.”

“Why not?” Asked the tall aborigine, who was becoming very intrigued by this encounter with a nameless wombat and his uncommunicative family.

Wombat snuffled, scratched the earth with his mighty forepaw, turned round very quickly in a complete circle, did it again, did it again, and—

“What happened?” Said Washy.

Wombat came to a complete standstill.

“They've been captured,” he squeaked. “By a group of zoo—a group of zoo—”

“Zoologists?” Said Washy, who had been warned about this nuisance at a tribal gathering.

“Exactly,” answered Wombat the wombat, who was always prepared to accept help with his vocabulary.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Washy, and selected a eucalyptus leaf on which to clean his teeth. “But they can't have gone far. And the zoologists won't have harmed them. Even the tribal elders said that. So we'll go and find them and bring them back, shall we? After we've had breakfast, of course.” Washy wanted to help Wombat, because Wombat had that effect on people. But he wanted his breakfast too.

Wombat looked surprised. He hadn't thought about breakfast. And now that Washy had mentioned it—

“No,” he said. “We have to go right now. I'm worried.” And he snuffled.

“All right,” said Washy kindly. “We'll forget all about breakfast. We won't have breakfast at all. We won't even think about breakfast. We'll go and find them right now.”

“Exactly,” said Wombat the wombat, thus cleverly using the same word twice and not exhausting his vocabulary: but there was a slight quaver in his voice. He hadn't had breakfast either, and the thought was a slight temptation—even for a wombat that had lost his family. For the time being, that was.

“Come on,” said Washy, rising to his full height, from which he towered over the squat and muscular little wombat, and picked up his spear, his toothpick (in case they had breakfast later on), and a spare war boomerang, which looked extremely fearsome and which he could throw at least a hundred yards: more than enough to deal with any city-dwelling zoologist. “Let's go.”

“Exactly,” replied Wombat, who never believed in wasting a word. “Um... Where to?”

Washy considered the shy little animal with affection. Wombat had that effect on people. “Back to where you last saw them,” he said.

Wombat scratched his head with his rear left paw. “What would be the point of that?” He asked. “They aren't there any more.”

“No, they're not,” answered Washy. “But their tracks are.”

The wombat looked depressed, and screwed up his little eyes in shame. “I don't do tracks,” he said dolefully. “I can't. I'm only a wombat.”

Washy smiled. “No,” he said. “You don't. But I do. And you're going to be a great help to me.”

“Am I?” Asked the wombat, cheering up immensely. “Oh, goodie!” And the two trotted off together. “Shall I carry your spear?” Asked the wombat politely. He would have found it almost impossible to do so; but he would have tried his hardest. Wombat didn't give up easily. In fact, he didn't give up at all. There was one occasion when—

“No, really, thanks awfully,” replied Washy, with equal politeness. (The wombat had that effect on people.) “I wouldn't feel fully dressed without it.”

“I see,” said Wombat, who didn't, but would never have admitted it. If a naked aborigine needed to carry a spear to feel fully dressed, that was fine with Wombat. Live and let live, he thought: a very profound thought, and quite enough for one day or possibly the whole week.

The wombat didn't do much thinking. He left that to Mrs Wombat. She was the thinker in the family. Why, only last night, she had looked up from the Financial Times, which she had been reading with her little glasses perched precariously on the end of her shiny nose, and had said—but what Mrs Wombat had said will never be known, except to those who were present at the time, for Wombat suddenly realised that the aborigine was leaving him behind, and he trotted faster. How those long legs could cover the ground! For a moment, the wombat wished that he had long legs. But then, how would he be able to burrow? Thinking was very confusing, and he decided to give it up.

***

“Here,” said Wombat. And stopped.

“Here is where you last saw them?” Asked Washy, squatting on his heels and looking at the ground very carefully, as if it were a rare and much admired manuscript in a museum.

“Exactly,” said Wombat for the fourth time. “Right here.”

Washy looked around. There was a small shelter, which might have hidden the entrance to a burrow. There were a few burnt twigs on the ground where Mrs Wombat would have been cooking; and nothing else. There was certainly no sign of any wombat. There was, however, a faint but lingering smell of rabbit pie in the air: and Washy was extremely found of rabbit pie.

“What's that smell?” He asked.

“Rabbit pie,” answered the wombat, who remained a creature of very few words. “Good, isn't it?”

“I'll say!” Said the other. “Um... Your wife makes it... Does she?”

“Of course,” said the wombat proudly, and stuck out his chest like a miniature Napoleon. “She's my wife.”

“Good,” said Washy. He was beginning to really like the wombat. “So... what happened?” He asked.

The wombat looked puzzled. “When?” He replied.

“When your wife went missing,” answered Washy.

Wombat looked embarrassed. It is not easy for a wombat to look embarrassed, for its face tends to remain expressionless whatever it may be feeling; but Wombat managed it.

“I don't know, exactly,” he said, thus cleverly using his favourite word in a slightly different way, and embarked on the longest speech of his life. “I woke up in the early morning and went outside to—to—well, you know,” said Wombat, who was a very modest little beast, and didn't want to refer to his bodily functions in front of the aborigine, who was still a stranger, after all. Even if he were going to help him find Mrs Wombat. And the little wombats.

“I know,” said Washy, and tried not to smile. “And after you'd—you know, what happened?”

“I came back,” said Wombat simply. “And they were missing.” He rubbed his eyes. He was a brave little wombat; but there was only so much that a furry marsupial could take. “They must have been abducted by the zoo people, because we'd seen them in the area on the previous evening. Mrs Wombat said not to worry, so I didn't,” added Wombat almost but not quite thoughtfully. “She knows best. She's the thinker. I'm not. I leave all that to her.”