by Lissa Evans
There was a moment of silence.
‘As I was saying,’ continued Dr Carrot, ‘there was a king on the throne and all was peace and harmony until a recent coup, a word which means—’
‘Coup,’ interrupted Graham. ‘A violent or illegal change in government.’
‘Precisely. So instead of Good King Wimbley fair and true, they now have a dictator who is making things rather unpleasant for all concerned, and is protected by the Blue guards. The Greens have formed what you might call a rebel army.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘They’re planning to storm the castle.’
‘I said I don’t care. I hate this place, whatever it is. Where ever it is. I want to go home.’ He could hear the group of Greens bellowing on the other side of the platform; their conversation had to be audible for miles. It wouldn’t be long before the Blues arrived yet again, and then he’d be shoved into a bag and whirled around and the thought of it made him feel ill. ‘I just want everything to be back to normal. You’re my transitional object, you’re supposed to help me cope with changes. Get me back home. Now.’ He swallowed. ‘Please.’ The last word came out as a desperate wail.
There was a squeak and Dr Carrot’s wheels gently nudged his shoulder. When she spoke, her voice was a little less clipped, a little softer.
‘So you want to go home? Back to your usual life?’
‘Yes. Yes yes yes.’
‘Back to living on the ground floor because you’re frightened of climbing stairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Back to never going into the sunshine? Never being around other children? Bad dreams? Phobias? A life behind closed curtains?’
Graham paused very slightly. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘And what if I told you that at present I don’t actually know how to get you home.’
‘Then get me off this tree. It would be a start. And then we can go and phone my parents or order a taxi or … or …’ Somewhere in the back of his head lurked the thought that a land populated by abseiling dustbins was unlikely to have a phone signal. ‘Or maybe I can just think myself back home.’ He closed his eyes and tried very hard to visualize his bedroom, but his thoughts were jumping around like fleas and all he could see was the sunlight turning his eyelids red. And then the volume of the shouting went up another notch.
‘The Blues have found us yet again!
Let’s head towards our secret den
It’s just north-east of Wimbley Fair
I’m sure they’ll never find us there!’
‘OK,’ said Graham, scrambling to his feet. ‘I’m getting off this tree. Now.’
TWELVE
In front of Wimbley Tourist Information Office there was a taxi rank. Eight bicycle trailers were parked next to each other, a Yellow Wimbley standing beside each, and as Fidge approached, the Yellows edged closer and closer together until they formed a nervous, shifting clump.
‘Hi,’ said Fidge, awkwardly.
Eight pairs of eyes stared at her. The Yellow at the front started to speak and then panicked and elbowed its way to the back of the clump; there was a bit of shoving and nudging before the new front Wimbley cleared its throat. Its voice was wobbly with nerves.
‘Hello stranger, how are you?
Welcome, please to Wimbley Woo.
We’re here to help, just tell us where,
And let a taxi take you there.’
‘I need to go and see the Purples,’ said Fidge. ‘I was going to ask the Tourist Information Office where I can find them, but maybe you can tell me?’
‘The Mystic Grove. It won’t take long.
Just pay me and we’ll speed along.’
‘But I don’t have any money on me.’
‘A song, a joke, a dance, a cake,
Are payments that we like to take.’
‘Oh, OK. I’ll tell you a joke, then. Knock Knock.’
There was a pause.
‘Knock knock,’ repeated Fidge. ‘And now you say “Who’s there?”’
There was another pause.
‘Go on,’ said Fidge. ‘Say “Who’s there?” otherwise I can’t tell the joke.’
The Wimbley at the front shifted anxiously from foot to foot and then one of the other Yellows raised a hand.
‘Yes?’ said Fidge.
‘“Who’s there?” will have to be a rhyme
We speak in verses all the time.’
‘Oh right,’ said Fidge, ‘I see what you mean. I’ll do a different sort of joke, then. I warn you, it’s a bit feeble – my sister Minnie loves it, but she’s only four. Here goes: What did one wall say to the other wall?’
The Wimblies looked at her blankly.
‘Meet you at the corner!’ supplied Fidge.
For a moment there was total silence, and then from behind the taxi rank came a series of familiar shrieks. The Yellows turned to look, and between them, Fidge glimpsed the open door of the Tourist Information Office. Inside, she could see two Orange Wimblies sitting behind a desk, leaning against each other, laughing hysterically.
‘Right,’ said Fidge. ‘Can I go to the Mystic Grove now, please?’
The Yellow hurried over to one of the bikes and started to manouevre it out onto the road. Fidge was about to climb into the trailer when she hesitated; something had caught her eye just a moment ago, and she wanted another look. She walked over to the window of the tourist office and peered through the glass. Above the desk, where the Oranges were still hiccuping at her terrible joke, was a map of Wimbley Woo and a printed list of outings and excursions:
The entire list had been crossed out and the words ALL EXCURSIONS CANCELLED scrawled across it, but that wasn’t what had caught her eye. It was the large framed picture that hung beside it, with OUR LEADER written on the frame. Above the words was a portrait. Fidge stared at it – at the tiny black eyes, the huge ears, the dark, dark red of the plush.
‘But that’s Wed Wabbit!’ she said, incredulously.
There was a commotion behind her, and she turned to see Yellows running in all directions, panicking, yelping, bumping into each other, waving their hands in the air, heading for doorways and side-roads, dust puffing from under their feet. In seconds, the street was completely empty. Half a minute went by, and then one of the Yellows peered out from the shadows of a porch.
‘Wed Wabbit,’ repeated Fidge, experimentally.
The Yellow disappeared again.
‘No, please don’t go,’ she called, quickly. ‘Sorry, I won’t say it again. Though I don’t know what you’re scared of, he’s just a stupid toy.’
She waited for a while, but there was no answer, and no sign of any of the taxi drivers returning and with an inward groan, she entered the Tourist Information Office.
The Oranges straightened in their seats and nudged each other, looking at Fidge expectantly, like an audience waiting for a comedian to begin.
She took a deep breath. ‘I have to get to the Mystic Grove,’ she began, trying to speak in a calm, measured way so as not to set them off again, though the one on the left was already making a bursting noise. ‘I need some directions, please, or a map. Like that one on the wall over there.’
The Orange on the right turned round to see where Fidge was pointing, leaned over a bit too far, fell off its chair, hit the floor with a rubbery thud and rolled across the room, screaming with laughter.
‘I’ll get it myself,’ said Fidge. She climbed over the desk, squeezed between the honking, bleating Oranges, unpinned the map and took it outside. The street was still deserted.
The map was large and showed a web of white roads radiating across the green of the Wimbley landscape. There was a sticker saying YOU ARE HERE beside an illustration of the Tourist Information Office, and not too far to the north-west was a dark green patch labelled MYSTIC GROVE, with a drawing of a Purple Wimbley poised beside it. There was a dirty mark on the Purple Wimbley’s face and Fidge idly picked at it with a finger nail. It didn’t come off.
‘I’m just borrowing
a taxi,’ called Fidge, to the empty street. ‘I’ll try to bring it back, I promise. Unless someone would like to take me?’
There was no reply. She climbed onto the nearest bicycle, spread the map across the handlebars, and set off.
The first thing that occurred to her, as she pedalled along the lane, was that the Yellow Wimblies must be pretty fit. The trailer was heavy and awkward, pulling the bike off-course every time it went round a corner, and after a mile or so, she dismounted and had a look at the fittings to see whether she could detach the bike from the trailer. She couldn’t manage it without a spanner, and she was about to resume cycling when the second thing occurred to her, a thought so weird that she heard herself gasp. She flattened out the map again, and peered closely at the tiny picture of the Purple Wimbley. The dirty mark on its face wasn’t a dirty mark at all – it was a moustache. It looked exactly like the moustache that Minnie had drawn on every single Purple Wimbley in her copy of The Land of Wimbley Woos.
Fidge straightened up, frowning. She got back on the bike and set off again, but her thoughts were revolving faster than her legs. Fact: she had just seen a portrait of Wed Wabbit. Fact: Wed Wabbit was not a character in the Wimbley Woo books. Fact: this wasn’t just Wimbley Land, this was Minnie’s version of Wimbley Land. Fact: when Fidge had thrown all Minnie’s toys down the stairs at Graham’s house, the thing that had happened next – the huge, soundless static explosion – must have somehow churned them together, and who knew what might—
‘Taxi!’
Fidge braked and looked round. And was speechless.
‘Room for a little one?’ asked a fruity, fluting voice.
And as Fidge watched, unable to croak out a single syllable, a purple cloth elephant, the size of a carthorse, climbed into the trailer, smoothed down its pink skirt, batted its long pink eyelashes, tossed back its fluffy pink hair and smiled.
THIRTEEN
‘Breathe, darling,’ said the elephant. ‘You’re not breathing.’ Fidge took a gulp of air. ‘You’re Eleanor Elephant,’ she said.
‘Oh, you recognize me!’ The elephant looked delighted. ‘Have we met professionally?’
‘You’re my sister’s toy.’
‘Life Coach,’ corrected the elephant, using her trunk to extract a small card from a pocket in her skirt. ‘Also available for Voice Development, Audition Technique and Confidence Workshops.’ She flourished the card in front of Fidge; it showed the elephant in three different poses: looking wistfully into the distance, laughing wildly, and wearing glasses in front of a PowerPoint presentation. ‘“Eleanor Elephant” is my professional name though – all my friends call me Ella. Breathe, remember. In, then out.’
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Fidge, her voice a strangled squeak.
‘You’re speaking from the throat, darling. You need to speak from the lungs for a deeper, richer tone.’
Fidge took another gulp of air. ‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated, in a deeper, richer tone.
‘Doing is such a frantic, breathless sort of word,’ said Ella. ‘At the moment I’m simply being. I’m absorbing and observing. When you find yourself unexpectedly in a new situation you need to be like a leaf in a stream, floating lightly on the current.’
‘No you don’t, you need to find out exactly what’s going on. If I’d floated lightly on the current I’d have been arrested by a bunch of Blue Wimblies by now. They’re everywhere and they’re really strong and really nasty. And they seem to be working for Wed Wabbit, who belongs to my sister and I’m desperate to get him back to her and I also have to rescue a Pink who got into trouble because of me and I’ve also got to find the Mystic Grove because the Greys have asked me to sort everything out.’
The inside of Fidge’s skull felt like a gridlocked traffic jam, full of bleeping, revving cars; her forehead was throbbing and she gave it a rub.
‘Let’s play catch!’ said Ella, brightly.
‘What?’
‘You’re very tense. So roll all of those tensions into a great big ball and throw it to me.’ She stretched out her trunk invitingly.
‘I’ve got to get going,’ said Fidge. ‘I’ve got stuff to do.’
‘Try it, darling. You’ll feel so much better. Roll up those tensions! Roll, roll, roll!’
Fidge made a half-hearted rolling gesture and then lobbed the invisible ball to Ella, who mimed catching something incredibly heavy.
‘Such a huge weight, darling. And now do you feel better?’
Fidge was about to say no and then realized that she did feel a tiny bit better. She nodded, grudgingly. ‘And now I really have to go. I’ve got to find the Purples.’
‘Oh, a little trip to my absolute favourite colour,’ said Ella, settling down in the trailer. ‘How lovely!’
‘But I don’t know if I can move this thing with you in the back,’ said Fidge.
Ella’s smile faded, and she looked away and smoothed down her skirt. ‘That was a little bit personal, darling,’ she said, with quiet dignity. ‘Size is something that I struggle with.’
‘I just mean it’s heavy anyway,’ said Fidge, hastily. ‘Even without a passenger. I’ll give it a go.’ She stood up on the pedals and managed, with a lot of effort, to get the taxi moving. The lane was on a slight downward slope, and they soon picked up speed, slaloming through a set of curves, crossing a hump-backed bridge with a crash that shook the axles and then rounding a corner to see a crossroads ahead.
‘I’m a leaf!’ called Ella. ‘A leaf whirling through the rapids!’
‘I think it’s left here,’ shouted Fidge over her shoulder, the map flapping unreadably in her grasp.
They hurtled into a narrow lane, overhung by trees, dipping through cool shadows before emerging suddenly into sunlight so strong that for a moment Fidge could barely see. And then her vision cleared and she could see only too well: a long, wide, straight road heading down into a valley, and at the bottom, a cluster of Blues standing behind a red-striped barrier.
‘It’s a roadblock,’ she shouted, ‘hold on tight!’
‘See me twirl! See me spin! See me skip lightly over the twinkling currents!’
Fidge braced her arms against the handlebars and steered straight down the centre of the road. As the bike sped downhill, the map escaped from her grip and went flapping over the hedgerows and Fidge found herself yelling: a battle cry, fierce and loud. And ahead of her, the Blues were starting to realize what was coming towards them. There were five of them standing behind the roadblock. And then one of them dived behind the hedge and there were four. And then another three lost their nerve and ran to the side and finally there was only one Blue left, a megaphone held to its mouth.
‘Our Leader made our orders clear
All strangers are to stop right—’
‘Get out of the way, you idiot!’ screamed Fidge.
With a wumphhh the taxi smashed straight through the barrier, sending chunks of wood cartwheeling through the air. As they thundered onwards, Fidge risked a glance over her shoulder and saw the Blue still upright, waving a megaphone that was now just a plastic handle.
‘Darling, there’s a crossroads coming up,’ called Ella.
Fidge wrenched her attention back to the road. A signpost flashed by and then they were in another high-hedged lane, the bike slowing a little as the road began to rise, and suddenly there was a tight corner coming up and Fidge crammed on the brakes and hauled the handlebars round to the right and the taxi skidded in a complete circle, tyres screaming, before jolting to a halt with the front wheel jammed into a hedge.
She scrambled off the saddle and tried to pull the bike free. Twigs snapped and pinged; the trailer rocked.
‘No offence, but you’ll have to get out while I do this,’ said Fidge, breathlessly.
‘Just a moment, darling!’ From her perch on the trailer, Ella was looking over the hedge. ‘Did you say you were looking for the Mystic Grove?’
‘Yes, but I’ve lost the map.’
; ‘I can see it.’
‘The map?’
‘The Mystic Grove.’
‘How do you know it’s the Mystic Grove?’
‘Because there’s a sign over the entrance that says “Mystic Grove”.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘And I can also see a stile a little further along this lane. Shall we investigate?’
Ella climbed out of the trailer, and Fidge followed her. The stile was just a few metres away, and through the wooden bars she could see a hay meadow, and beyond it a dense clump of trees with a faintly misty look to them. A path wound across the meadow towards the grove, and just above the place where it disappeared between the tree trunks, a purple sign swayed in the breeze.
‘If I leave the taxi where it is,’ said Fidge, ‘the Blues might work out where we’ve gone.’ She went back and pulled the bike free, and wheeled it around the next curve. Beyond, the lane swooped down a steep hill. Fidge positioned the taxi, gave it a shove and watched it dwindle to a rattling speck, and then she turned to follow Ella.
FOURTEEN
It was odd but true, thought Fidge, as she walked through the field towards the Mystic Grove, that the presence of a six-foot-tall cloth elephant (in a skirt), walking just ahead of her was actually making her feel much better and more like her usual self. It was as if she’d glimpsed home. Ella was approximately ten times larger than she should have been, but apart from that, she was familiar in every detail: her fringe pinned back by Minnie’s glittery hair slide, her skirt stained with a streak of Minnie’s sticky cough medicine, her left ear creased and shrunken from Minnie’s habit of chewing it when tired.
Ella swung round and caught Fidge staring. ‘It’s nothing serious – a work-related injury,’ she said, tossing back the damaged ear. ‘Now, darling, we’re just about to meet some new people.’
‘I know,’ said Fidge.
