Washy and the Crocodile Read Online Free PDF Page B

didn’t match what they said. Far from it. Jack could only remember one occasion when he thought that Roger’s mother was showing signs of being human, and then she blew it by—
    Grown-ups were like that, said Roger, who appeared to be able to read his best friend’s mind — or perhaps there wasn’t very much to read, thought Jack. They were inconsistent, said Roger, ruminatively. Roger liked the word inconsistent. He had been waiting to use it for a long time. Roger liked words. Jack sometimes thought he liked them more than people. Which wasn’t really surprising, when you considered his mother. Roger wanted to be a writer when he grew up, but Jack thought it was a very silly ambition. What would Roger have to write about? Roger had never had any adventures. Not real adventures. Not like James Bond.
    Roger said that James Bond wasn’t a real person, but the creation of a writer; and Jack was appalled by this heresy. Heresy was another word to which Roger had introduced him, and which apparently meant something to do with religion. That didn’t mean very much to Jack. After all, James Bond never went to church, did he? And if James Bond didn’t go to church, what did he do? Was he a Buddhist?
    This fascinating thought opened a cascade of possibilities in Jack’s mind, for he didn’t know very much about Buddhism—all right, fair enough, he knew nothing at all about Buddhism—and that left him free to make it up. Roger would have said, to extemporize. But Jack didn’t know that word yet. Nor did he know that he did not yet know that word. He was in a state of perfect ignorance, as Mrs Waldegrave had once put it; and ignorance was supposed to be bliss, wasn’t it? Where had he come across that very pithy remark? Was it—but he had forgotten where this chain of thought began. He needed to be able to concentrate.
    â€œI’m going to see Roger,” he said firmly to his mother. “He’ll help me to sort things out. In my mind. You know. Come on, Tommy!” And he left before she could say a word, which was most unlike Mummy.
    ***
    â€œWhat shall I do about Mum? She says I’ve got to learn to concentrate!” Asked Jack, as the two boys sat by the pond later that morning, and Tommy chased the scent of a rabbit. Tommy appeared to have no problem in concentrating. The only trouble was that he wasn’t going to catch the rabbit, which was long gone. Were dogs optimistic by nature, mused Jack, or was it that—
    â€œI don’t know,” said Roger. It wasn’t his job to do things. His job was to write about them, afterwards.
    â€œI know,” said Jack. “If I think about something really hard, that’s concentrating, isn’t it?”
    â€œI suppose so,” said his friend. “What are you going to think about?”
    â€œAbout how to go to Australia and speak to Washy and find out from him how to sort out my mother and keep Mrs Waldegrave happy and get my sister to treat me properly and stop her best friend Samantha from knowing everything and always being the first to answer in class and generally being a stuck-up little so-and-so,” said Jack promptly. Roger looked at his friend with interest.
    â€œThis has really got to you, hasn’t it?” he said.
    â€œDefinitely,” said Jack, and so it had. Uncle Otto kept talking about Washy, and Washy lived in Australia, and Washy was very clever. Apparently. And if Washy couldn’t help him, he could introduce him to Wombat, who was married to Mrs Wombat; and she was really clever! His solution was infallible, thought Jack, pleased that he had thought it all out so clearly. Perhaps he had already learned to concentrate!
    â€œHow do we get there? To Australia, I mean.” Asked his friend.
    â€œWe?” Uttered Jack in surprise.
    â€œYou don’t think I’d let you go on your own, do you?” Roger smiled. “You’d