by Lissa Evans
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Fidge, examining the small graze on her elbow. It was bleeding slightly. She looked up.
The Wimblies were staring fixedly at the wound, their jaws sagging with horror.
‘It’s only a scrape,’ said Fidge, slightly surprised. ‘Look,’ she added, sticking the elbow out towards them.
They reared backwards as if she’d lunged at them with a snake, and then bolted away across the fairground, screaming as they ran.
Fidge watched them disappear into the distance and then hauled herself to her feet and started walking, rather painfully, in search of the Pink.
TWENTY-FOUR
Graham, Ella, Dr Carrot and the Oldest and Wisest of the Greys had reached the Wimbley Woo Library in the early hours of the morning, and Graham had fallen asleep, minutes later, on a large beanbag that he’d found in a comfortable reading area. He awoke to full daylight, the sound of his own stomach rumbling and the smell of toast.
The last time he’d eaten a piece of toast, he’d choked on a scratchy crumb and had been driven to casualty by his mother to have his throat checked; that had been a year and a half ago and since then, even the smell of it had been enough to make him cough.
Now, however, he was starving, and he followed his nose to a small staffroom where Ella was eating a slice spread with butter.
‘Good sleep?’ she asked. ‘Hungry?’
He nodded to both, and ate his way through four pieces of toast without so much as a single cough. Through the staffroom door he could see Dr Carrot and the Oldest and Wisest of the Greys standing together in a corner, apparently deep in conversation.
‘I have to say that although I don’t altogether share Dr Carrot’s rather rigid stance on manners, I very much admire her listening skills,’ said Ella. She picked up a marker pen with her trunk and turned to a large whiteboard. ‘I’ve been working on the prophecy and I’d be very keen to hear the views of an intelligent and sensitive young man such as yourself.’
Graham nodded. He’d been missing the amount of praise that he normally got, and it was good to hear that he was properly appreciated. He stood in front of the board and read out loud.
Underneath the poem, Ella had written:
‘I presume,’ she said, twirling the pen, ‘that when it says “a different word for each is true”, it’s saying that we have to look at the whole of each type of Wimbley, and appreciate its range of skills, rather than focus on the most obvious. I think that’s rather a lovely message, don’t you?’
‘Mmm,’ said Graham. ‘Except that it says “weaknesses” as well as “skills”, so the different word doesn’t necessarily have to be something impressive or clever. For instance, I’d say that the most accurate “different” word for Blues is “greedy”. They’ll do anything for sweets. On the other hand, Yellows cycle everywhere, and they push Wed Wabbit round in that stupid buggy, so I’d say that the word for them is “fit”. I haven’t met any Purples yet.’
‘Oh, they’re marvellous,’ said Ella. ‘Very deep and mystical and tremendously …’
She paused and then wrote THEATRICAL! next to PURPLE on the chart. ‘And of course,’ she continued, ‘we’ve discovered that Pinks are terribly “brave”.’ She wrote that too. ‘I don’t have any personal experience of Oranges,’ she added.
‘Me neither,’ said Graham. ‘Though they sound incredibly annoying.’
‘What about Greens?’
‘Loud,’ said Graham, emphatically.
Ella nodded agreement before writing it down.
‘And Greys?’ she asked, eyeing the last colour on the list.
‘I can actually think of two different words for Greys,’ said Graham. ‘They both begin with “B”. The first one’s “boring” and the second one’s “buoyant”.’
‘Buoyant?’
‘Yes, don’t you remember – the Grey floated when it fell in the moat? The Pink sank and the Grey floated.’
‘Let’s put “buoyant” then, shall we?’ said Ella. ‘If one has a choice then it’s always best to take the positive option.’
She had just finished writing, when Graham heard the squeak of wheels. Dr Carrot was approaching across the library, the Grey beside her.
‘We’ve been having a very interesting discussion,’ she said.
‘Really?’ asked Graham incredulously.
Dr Carrot gave him a hard look.
‘Really?’ he asked again, less sarcastically this time.
‘I enquired how the current political situation arose,’ she continued. ‘And I now have the facts at my disposal, which I think it would be useful to share. Apparently it all began on the king’s birthday, when he traditionally has a picnic.’
The Grey raised its hand.
‘Except, of course, as I explained,
Three years ago, because it rained.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dr Carrot. ‘Anyway, this year, the Wimblies decided to amuse the monarch with a giant game of Hide and Seek.’
The Grey raised a hand again.
‘To get the facts all straight and true
Is something Greys prefer to do.
So I should like to make it clear
That Hide and Seek was my idea.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dr Carrot again, slightly less gratefully this time.
‘This is going to take for ever,’ muttered Graham.
‘I have a wonderful idea,’ announced Ella. She drew a line across the bottom of the whiteboard and handed the marker pen to the Grey. ‘It would be so much more helpful if you could write your notes down as you go along, and then give them all to us at the end, so we can really absorb them.’
‘Excellent thought,’ said Dr Carrot.
Ella smiled modestly.
‘Right,’ continued the carrot. ‘So a huge picnic rug was laid out just in front of the castle and covered in cakes and sweets and sandwiches, and on it was a note to tell the King that all the Wimbley Woos were hiding, and the picnic would begin when he’d found them. Unfortunately, when the King read that, he decided he wanted to have a little rest first, so he lay down and went to sleep.’
‘Typical,’ said Graham.
‘All the Wimblies waited in their hiding places – the Yellows were in a large cornfield, the Greens were up trees and the Greys had gone for quite a clever idea—’
The Grey raised a hand.
‘Notes at the end,’ said Ella, brightly. ‘Write it down.’
‘—which was to hide on board the train. The Blues, meanwhile, had decided to hide very close to the picnic, so that the king would find them first, and then they’d be able to—’
‘Eat all the sweets!’ interrupted Graham.
‘Correct. But’ – Dr Carrot looked at them gravely – ‘while the king was asleep, Wed Wabbit suddenly arrived at the castle.’
‘Just the way that I suddenly arrived on a hillside, and Fidge suddenly arrived in a tunnel,’ said Graham.
‘And Wed Wabbit suggested to the Blues that they take all the sweets back to the castle to stop the other Wimblies from getting them. Since then, he’s been using the Blues’ greed to control the country.’
‘But why?’ asked Graham. ‘What does he get out of it? OK, so he’s the boss and the whole country’s terrified of him and everyone rushes about obeying his orders, but he’s stuck in the castle, he never gets out, he never does anything, or talks to anyone or has any fun or …’ He suddenly became aware that Dr Carrot was looking at him in a significant way. ‘What?’ he asked, defensively. ‘You’re not trying to say that’s like me, are you?’
Dr Carrot remained silent, but Graham found himself blushing uncomfortably and he turned away from her gaze. ‘Wonder where Fidge is,’ he muttered. ‘I might go and look out of the window, see if she’s anywhere near.’
‘I rather think there’s something we need to do first,’ said Ella, flicking a glance towards the Grey. It was standing, pointing at the whiteboard, which was completely covered in tiny, densely written n
otes.
With a groan, Graham began to listen.
TWENTY-FIVE
Fidge limped through the fairground towards where she’d last seen the Pink.
She rounded the corner of the hall of mirrors, and though she’d been half-expecting it, the view was still startling.
Ahead of her, across a stretch of grass, and just beyond the row of food stalls, all colour stopped. It was as if the paint had suddenly run out: pallid trees, an ashen hedge, a meadow the colour of an overwashed white sheet. And standing with its back to Fidge, right on the line between blank and colour, was the Pink Wimbley – except that now it was pink-tinged rather than pink – the colour of a plastic toy that’s been left in the sun for too long.
‘Hey,’ called Fidge, hobbling towards it. ‘Are you OK?’
It turned slowly.
‘Oh hi,’ it said, tonelessly.
She waited for the rest of the rhyme, and when it didn’t come, her heart gave a lurch. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Oh nothing. I was just thinking about whether it’s time to read my gas meter.’
‘What?’
‘And my hedge needs trimming.’
‘But we’re on a quest to free Wimbley Land from the rule of Wed Wabbit! You went to prison because of it!’
‘I ought to get home and boil-wash some tea towels first.’ The round eyes were half closed with apparent boredom.
‘But …’ Fidge cast desperately around for something that might restore the Pink to its usual self. ‘But when we free Wimbley Land, everyone will want to hug you. You’ll get loads and loads of hugs. Won’t that be great?’
‘No,’ said the Pink, listlessly. ‘I don’t really like hugs.’
Fidge stared at it, shocked. She tried to work out what was going on, but her brain was feeling oddly sluggish. In fact her whole body felt weighty and peculiar, as if she was growing roots, and her thoughts seemed to be stuck in the same, dull place.
I ought to get away from here, she thought, staring at the monochrome landscape, but I don’t know whether I can be bothered. Maybe I’ll just stand and think about whether I ought to open a high-interest savings account or not. Maybe I should read a leaflet on the financial services available in this branch.
And then, distantly, she heard a noise: a tinny, electronic, irritating, utterly familiar noise.
It was the unmistakable ring tone of Minnie’s toy mobile, and it seemed to jerk Fidge back to herself again.
She took a step backwards, and it was like ungluing herself from waist-deep mud. ‘Come on, we need to get away,’ she said, urgently, grabbing the Pink’s hand and half-dragging it across the grass and past the hall of mirrors.
‘Can I go home and descale the kettle?’ asked the Pink.
‘No time,’ said Fidge. She hauled the Wimbley as far as the entrance to the rollercoaster, and then let go of its hand. ‘Wait for me, OK?’
She looked up, craning her head back; the six linked cars of the rollercoaster were parked near the top of the first long slope, the front car just inches from a near-vertical downward swoop. ‘Hope the brake’s on,’ she muttered, and then stepped over the barrier labelled DANGER, DO NOT STEP OVER THIS BARRIER and began to walk up the track.
Her feet thudded solidly on the wooden struts. It was an easy, gradual climb, not frightening as long as she avoided looking down at the growing drop. The phone stopped ringing just as she’d reached the last of the six cars, and she steadied herself and turned round to look at the view. What she saw made her turn cold: Wimbley Land was shrinking. In the few minutes since she’d last seen it, the Whiteness had crept onward, swallowing up the candyfloss stalls and advancing as far as the hall of mirrors. And as she stared, she realized that she could actually see the colour disappearing, inch by steady inch. It reminded her of something – something she’d seen, not long ago, in another world. It reminded her of the pool of spilled orange juice being soaked up by Wed Wabbit in Minnie’s bedroom.
‘It’s him,’ she said, with absolute certainty. ‘He’s doing it.’
The phone started to ring again, and she began to scramble from one car to the next, popcorn and scattered crisps crunching under her feet. By the time she reached the front one, the noise was almost deafening, and she crammed herself into the seat beside the vast mobile and thumped the sparkling purple button marked ANSWER.
The ringing stopped abruptly.
‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ she asked, into the silence.
‘It’s me,’ replied a little voice, and Fidge felt as if someone had reached into her chest and punched her heart. For a long moment she couldn’t manage to say anything at all and when she at last spoke, her throat was so tight that her voice was a husky mutter.
‘Oh, Minnie.’
‘You’re all cwackly.’
‘Yes, I’m … it’s a bad line,’ said Fidge. She took a deep breath; her whole body was trembling. ‘Are you really all right?’ She asked. All she could think of was the terrible smash and thud of the accident.
‘I bwoke my leg and I banged my head.’
‘It was my fault,’ said Fidge.
‘It wasn’t. I didn’t look wight and then I didn’t look left.’
‘But …’
‘I had some medicine to stop it hurting, but I need Wed Wabbit to make me all better. When are you bwinging him?’
Fidge struggled to find an answer. ‘Soon. As soon as I possibly can. Listen, Minnie, I have to ask you something. How do I get—’
‘But I’m talking to Fidge,’ said Minnie, interrupting, her voice a little distant, as if she’d just turned her head. ‘I’m pwetending the wemote contwol’s a phone. Do you want to talk to her?’
There was a pause, and then someone else said, ‘Hello Fidge.’
It was her mum. And to hear that ordinary, lovely voice in this strange and dangerous world was almost painful.
‘Yes, she’s longing to see you too,’ continued Fidge’s mum, who was well-practised at having imaginary phone conversations, ‘and of course she’s desperate to get Wed Wabbit back as well, so tell Auntie Ruth to get here as soon as she can. Have you had your lunch?’
I can’t answer, thought Fidge. I can’t talk at all, because if my mum hears my voice coming out of a television remote control, she’ll think she’s gone mad.
‘Ooh that sounds nice,’ said her mum, as if listening to Fidge chattering away. ‘With custard? Lovely. Well, I’ll hand you back to Minnie now. Bye lovely girl, see you very, very soon.’
And Fidge mouthed the word ‘bye’ and gave her eyes a swipe because her vision was suddenly rather blurry.
‘Hello,’ said her little sister again. ‘There’s a telly on a bendy arm just by my bed.’
‘Listen, Minnie,’ said Fidge, urgently, before Minnie could go off on another topic, ‘you’ve got to talk to me about Wed Wabbit. Tell me everything you know about him.’
‘About Wed Wabbit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well … He’s a wabbit.’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’s wed.’
‘Yes. And …?’
‘I might watch a DVD now. They’ve got Fwozen.’
‘Hang on. Hang on just a few seconds.’ Fidge rubbed her forehead, and tried to think quickly. ‘OK. What if – just imagine this, Minnie, pretend it’s a proper story, like in a book we’re reading – what if Wed Wabbit went to Wimbley Land? What if he made himself king and bossed everybody around and formed the Blues into his army and soaked up all the colours? What would you do?’
‘I’d have a little word with him.’ ‘But what if he was as big as a house?’
‘I’d have a BIG word with him.’
‘But how would you fight the Blues?’
‘I wouldn’t fight them. I don’t like fighting, I like playing games.’
Fidge nearly groaned; this was absolutely hopeless. She realized that she’d been relying on Minnie to instantly solve everything, somehow forgetting that her sister was a)
recovering from a serious road accident and b) four years old. She had to approach the whole thing differently.
‘OK, just imagine that I was in Wimbley Land as well. Imagine I was stuck there with Wed Wabbit. How would we both get home to you and Mum again?’
There was a pause.
‘By bus,’ said Minnie, decisively. ‘A big silver bus with pink wheels like the one I’ve got at home. But you’re not stuck, are you?’
‘No,’ lied Fidge.
‘And Wed Wabbit’s not stuck either, is he?’ Minnie’s voice began to tremble.
‘No,’ lied Fidge again.
‘I don’t want him to be stuck, I want him back.’ Her sister started crying. ‘I want Wed Wabbit, he’ll be all sad and lonely without me.’
‘I’ll get him,’ said Fidge, ‘I promise.’
‘But I want him back. I want my Wed Wabbit, I want my Wed—’
And there was a click and the line went dead.
Fidge groaned with frustration and punched the purple glittery button again, but nothing came from the phone but a faint hiss. Panic was beginning to ripple through her. The conversation with Minnie hadn’t yielded a single useful answer, and without answers, how could she get back home again? And then, through the panic, a single, chilling thought emerged: she’d been in Wimbley Land for two whole days, but back in the real world, no time had passed at all. Her mum hadn’t been anxiously wondering where she was because her mum hadn’t even noticed that she’d gone.
Which means, thought Fidge, that I could be trapped in Wimbley Land for twenty years, or a hundred years, or for all eternity and no one, no one, would ever miss me.
She had never felt so terrified, or so alone, and she was struck by a sudden, desperate wish to see the others again – Ella, Dr Carrot, even Graham …
From far below, she heard voices, and she peered over the side of the car and then immediately ducked down again. A Blue patrol was marching through the fairground; if they saw her, she’d be arrested and dragged off to jail again. She crouched, silent, hardly daring to breathe.
