Bungo was feeling a bit lonely these days, what with Orinoco forever tapping and tinkering away at his stove and Tomsk spending all his time down at the Serpentine or the Round Pond. And as for old Wellington, he sometimes forgot to come into meals and, for a Womble, that was quite extraordinary.
Bungo went off slowly to have another look at the star chart to reassure himself that all was still well with the world; and then, passing the great mound of white stuff which now had a part of the burrow to itself and a notice saying, 'Compressed Plastic Foam (Polystyrene) Please dump here. Signed. Tobermory W.' he suddenly made up his mind and went to see Great Uncle Bulgaria.
The old Womble listened to Bungo in silence and then said gruffly:
'All work and no play makes a dull Womble, eh? Never mind, young Bungo, we'll have a big party in the summer when I make my little speech and present the Gold Medal, so you've got that to look forward to. But you're quite right to tell me about Wellington and perhaps he is overdoing it. Leave it to me...'
***
'Come in. Door's not locked.'
Things had changed quite a bit since Tomsk had called in on Wellington. The lemonade bottles had been reduced to two, Dis A/3 and Dis Y/2, and the white mud had stopped bubbling. All the seedlings and cuttings had grown enormously and the sweet, summery smell was very strong indeed and seemed to have attracted a large number of early bees. Some of them were crawling sleepily along the shelves while others crept with most un-bee-like slowness along the work bench.
Great Uncle Bulgaria took all this in at a glance but, what really caught his attention and made a shiver of horror run through his white fur, was Wellington. For Wellington had his face buried in his front paws and his shoulders were shaking.
'My dear, dear Womble,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria, gently but firmly clasping Wellington's arm, 'what is it? Are you ill? Has something dreadful happened?'
'Yes,' said Wellington in a husky whisper. 'I'm finished, done, defeated. My experiments have all gone wrong.'
'Suppose you stop feeling quite so sorry for yourself, blow your nose and try to explain calmly and clearly, instead of like a silly cry-Womble. I thought you were a scientist!'
At these harse words Wellington sat up, wiped his misted spectacles and blew his nose on the end of his scarf. He drew a deep breath, frowned and thrust his front paws into his pockets.
'Sorry,' he said gruffly and then cleared his throat and went on in a more normal voice. 'I really thought I was making a great discovery. I was discovering two things. First how to make plants extra strong so they wouldn't catch germs or be attacked by pests: and secondly how to make them smell even nicer to the bees.
'You certainly succeeded there,' said Great Uncle Bulgaria. 'I haven't seen so many bees in years.'
Wellington heaved up an enormous sigh which shook him from head to toe.
'Oh yes,' he agreed mournfully. 'But I've made it too strong. It sends them off to sleep, and it takes them ages to wake up again because my SS3...'
'"SS3" - what's that?'
'Sweet scent, third attempt. Scientists always give their discoveries numbers instead of names. It's shorter and... and...'
'More scientific altogether. I see. And?'
'It's sort of sticky. Well, very sticky actually, so it sticks to the bees. While as for my Dis A/3 and Dis Y/2 - well Great Uncle Bulgaria, just look!'
Great Uncle Bulgaria turned his full attention to the pots of geraniums... swallowed... adjusted both his pairs of spectacles... put his face close up to the flowers and then turned very slowly and stared at Wellington.
'Yes.' said Wellington, more miserably than ever. 'It's true all right. I've grown the first blue geraniums in the world. And green alyssum and orange lobelia and yellow salvias and purple daisies and white dandilions and I've got some pinky-white buttercups if you'd care to look...'
'No thank you.' said Great Uncle Bulgaria. 'Oh my dear, dear Wellington! But tell me just one thing more. What do you think would happen if you mixed Dis A/3 and Dis Y/2?'
'I don't know. Oh I daren't, Great Uncle Bulgaria, I just daren't!'
'And you call yourself a scientist! What's in those two bottles anyway?'
'Lots and lots and lots of things. Stewed elm bark, conifer needles, dried chestnut leaves, moss, mud from the Round Pond, peat, holly berries, sycamore...'
'Stop, stop that's enough. Nothing harmful then?'
'Well no, not in a way. I mean it's all grown naturally. That was the whole point, you see. I was discovering something good to help the plants. Something without any chemicals in it. I was fighting plant Pollu.'
'Then go ahead and mix 'em. It's not good stopping now. You might be on the brink of something really important. Use that bucket.'
With somewhat trembling paws Wellington reluctantly did as he was told... Nothing happened at all, apart from a few rainbow-coloured bubbles rising to the surface.
***
...Wellington set to work and Great Uncle Bulgaria, who knew that there's nothing like keeping busy for taking your mind off your troubles, let him get on with it. He felt very, very sorry for Wellington, who had laboured so hard and so long, and then been defeated, but he knew also that to say this aloud might only make the young Womble full of self-pity, so he held his tongue...
***
'Lumme!' said Great Uncle Bulgaria. It was not a word he normally used, but it was surprised out of him...
'Wellington, come here.'
'Yes. Great Uncle Bulgaria,' Said Wellington dolefully.
'And look there...'
The old Womble pointed with his stick at the ground before them. It was a perfectly ordinary piece of ground, apart from a small puddle which even now was drying out in the warm sunshine. Wellington looked at it dutifully, frowned and then looked up at Great Uncle Bulgaria, who said slowly:
'And where is that plastic bucket, pray? Not to mention the oil?'
'Gone!' said Wellington. 'Vanished! Dissolved!... LUMMEE!'
'What a very vilgar expression, young Womble. Please try not to use it.' said Great Uncle Vulgaria at his most serene. 'I trust, Wellington that you have your notes safely?'
But Wellington, in a most un-Womble like way, was beyond speech.
[ooc: Extracted from The Wombles at Work, Elizabeth Beresford, p108-15]
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