Paddington Races Ahead (3 page)

The assistant didn’t actually say ‘we’ve got the last of the big spenders here’, but his look said it all. “I’ll have to ask the manager,” he said.

“He wants two!” he called. “One for going and one for coming back. I think it’s some kind of outing.

“We usually sell them by the dozen,” he explained, addressing Paddington, “and the only returns you get is if there’s a bad one, and if that happens you’ll wish you’d never gone wherever it was in the first place. Ho! Ho! Ho!”

“Tell him there aren’t many around at the moment,” shouted a voice from the back of the shop. “And there won’t be any at all soon when there isn’t an R in the month.”

The assistant repeated the message for Paddington’s benefit.

Paddington gave him a hard stare. “There isn’t an M in a lot of months,” he said. “But that doesn’t stop Mrs Bird giving me marmalade for breakfast.”

“Tell him we’ve got some kippers,” shouted the manager. “Fresh in this morning.”

“Can you get very far on a kipper?” asked Paddington hopefully.

“You can if you set light to its tail and hang on tight,” said the assistant. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

“We don’t normally have oysters all through the summer,” said the manager, as he emerged from a back room to see what was going on. “It’s the breeding season.”

“It must make travelling difficult in August,” said Paddington.

“Er… yes,” said the manager, not wishing to commit himself.

“As a matter of interest,” he continued. “Where are you from exactly? I only ask because we don’t get much call for oysters at this time of the year. They aren’t at their best and if it’s for some kind of national celebration…”

“I’m from Peru,” said Paddington. “Darkest Peru.”

“Darkest Peru!” repeated the manager. “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t get many oysters in the jungle.”

“I saw a film about Peruvian bears on television the other night,” broke in the assistant. “They were going through people’s dustbins after dark. But I don’t think they were after oysters.”

Paddington gave the assistant another hard stare. “I’ve never, ever, gone through anyone’s dustbin after dark!” he exclaimed hotly. “Mrs Bird would be most upset.”

“Mrs Bird?” repeated the manager. “Of number thirty-two Windsor Gardens? Why ever didn’t you say so in the first place? She’s one of our best customers.

“Seeing he knows Mrs Bird, you’d better stretch a point and give him a couple,” he continued, addressing his assistant. “Anything for a quiet life,” he added in a whisper.

“Two pounds five each . . . that’ll be four pounds ten pee.” said the assistant.

“Four pounds ten pee,” repeated Paddington, nearly falling over backwards with alarm.

“Don’t worry,” said the manager hastily. “I’ll put it down on her account.”

“Would you like them gift wrapped?” asked the assistant.

“Shh,” said the manager, glaring at him.

“Thank you very much,” said Paddington, “but I shall need one straight away.”

Only seconds before he had seen a red bus go past, and sure enough, it had stopped a little way along the road. A small queue of people were already boarding it through a door near the driver.

“Wait for me!” he called.

Luck was with him, for just as he heard a by-now familiar voice calling out, ‘Stand Clear. Doors Closing’, he caught sight of another opening in the side of the bus and before the message was repeated, he scrambled through it in the nick of time.

“Dear me,” said a lady on a seat just inside. “Are you all right?”

Paddington raised his hat. “I think so,” he said. “But I was in a hurry because I want to test my oysters.”

“I think you will find there are some seats upstairs,” began the lady haughtily, but before she had a chance to say any more a rather less than friendly voice made an announcement.

“Will the person who has just boarded the bus through the door marked Exit kindly report to the driver!”

Paddington made his way to the front of the bus. “I was wanting to test one of my oysters,” he explained. “I’ve never used one before and I need to do it while there is still an R in the month.”

“Well, hurry up,” said the driver. “At this rate it won’t be long before it’s May.” He pointed to a large yellow button on the side of his cabin. “Show it to the electronic reader.”

“I didn’t know oysters could read,” said Paddington.

“You learn something new every day,” said the driver. “Now, hurry up so we can get on our way.”

“Hear! Hear!” came a voice from the back of the bus. “Some of us have got trains to catch.”

“I won’t report you on this occasion,” continued the driver, “but don’t do it again. I haven’t got all day.”

Carefully undoing the wrapping on his package, Paddington removed one of the oysters and pressed the inside of it against the button as hard as he could, twisting it first of all in a clockwise direction, so that it made good contact. Then, because despite the hard shell it felt rather softer than he had expected, he tried turning it the other way.

As he stood back and removed the shell a stream of liquid oozed on to the floor.

“I’m afraid your bus doesn’t seem to be moving,” he said. “I think there must be something wrong with it.”

“I said show it to the reader, not grind it into the works,” said the driver.

His nose twitched as he leaned over the side of his cabin to take a closer look.

He stared at the object in Paddington’s paw as though he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“That’s a blooming oyster!” he bellowed. “Ugh! Look at it! No wonder it didn’t work! Wait till the inspector sees what you’ve done! He’ll have your guts for garters!

“That settles it. We can’t go any further. Everybody off! Everybody off!” He pressed a button, and the disembodied voice began uttering the words, ‘Stand Clear. Doors Opening. Stand Clear. Doors Opening’.

A moment later all was chaos.

Being in pole position, Paddington was the first to leave, and he didn’t stop running until he reached the safety of the Portobello Road.

Mr Gruber looked most concerned as Paddington burst into his shop, and having made sure there was no one else behind him, stood there mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

“Whatever is the matter, Mr Brown?” he asked. “You look as though you’ve been in an earthquake.”

“I’ve been having trouble with my oysters,” said Paddington.

“What are garters, Mr Gruber?” he gasped as soon as he could get his breath back.

“They are things gentlemen use to keep their socks up,” said Mr Gruber. “Why do you ask, Mr Brown?”

“Well,” said Paddington. “The driver of the last bus I was on said his inspector would have my guts to make a pair of them if he ever caught up with me.”

“Oh dear,” said Mr Gruber. “You had better tell me all.”

And while he set about making the second helping of cocoa that morning, Paddington related all that had happened to him since they had last seen each other.

“I would say it isn’t so much the oysters that have been the cause of all the trouble,” said Mr Gruber, when Paddington had finished. “It’s the English language again. We live in an age when people will insist on shortening things. In your case, I’m sure with the best of intentions, your driver suggested you should buy an oyster rather than an Oyster
card
. I will show you one.”

Reaching into his wallet he produced an old card to show what he meant.

Paddington looked very downcast by the time Mr Gruber had finished. “It’s no wonder people didn’t know what I was talking about,” he said. “Now I’ve got my return oyster left over and I don’t suppose anyone will ever want to eat it.”

Mr Gruber stirred his cocoa thoughtfully. “All is not lost, Mr Brown,” he said. “I have a suggestion to make…”

“I think,” said Mrs Bird, a few days later, “before you are very much older, Paddington, you had better bring whatever you have made downstairs to show the rest of us.”

It being the weekend, all the family were present and at her suggestion they gathered together on the lawn.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr Brown, as Paddington held up his handiwork. Don’t tell me you made that all by yourself. Er…what is it?”

“Whatever it is, it’s better out than in if you ask me,” said Mrs Brown.

“It’s what’s known as a
collage
,” said Paddington, knowledgeably. “A
collage
with an overlay of some eggs and graphite
tempera.
”

“Good gracious,” said Mrs Bird. “Whatever next? As for using eggs… I thought I was running low.”

“No wonder you wanted to borrow my bicycle puncture outfit,” Jonathan chimed in. “There I was, thinking your hot-water bottle must have sprung a leak.”

“It looks wonderful,” said Judy loyally. “Whatever gave you the idea?”

“It’s a long story,” said Paddington vaguely. “It’s to do with not going anywhere on a bus.”

“But what is it meant to be?” persisted Mr Brown.

“Mr Curry on a bad day?” suggested Jonathan.

“The oyster in the middle looks so real,” said Mrs Brown. “And the inside of the shell is so shiny it looks good enough to eat.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you, Mrs Brown,” said Paddington.

Mrs Bird sniffed the air. “If I might make a suggestion,” she said. “It’s like a lot of modern paintings. They are at their best if you stand well away from them. Why don’t we hang it down the end of the garden for the time being?”

But it was Mr Gruber who paid Paddington the best compliment of all. He stood it on the table in his shop alongside the picture that had started it all.

“It bears out what I have always said about there being no such word as
can’t
,” he said. “I doubt if Picasso at his peak could have produced anything better.”

“So it could be worth a lot of money,” said Paddington excitedly.

“Not just yet, I’m afraid,” said Mr Gruber. “Very often it’s a matter of waiting until the creator is no longer with us.”

“I could do the rest of my shopping, if you like?” said Paddington.

“I think it might take even longer than that, Mr Brown,” said his friend tactfully.

For a while lots of passers-by dropped in to admire Paddington’s handiwork, but as the weather grew warmer it was noticeable that fewer and fewer actually entered the shop and if they did, they didn’t linger.

There came a time when even Mr Gruber began to have second thoughts.

“If you have no objection, Mr Brown,” he said. “I may find another home for your masterpiece.” And he hung Paddington’s work on a tree in the tiny patio behind his shop.

First of all he made a photocopy of it for his shop window, and alongside it was a notice saying: VIEWING BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

Acting on Mr Gruber’s advice, Paddington added his special paw print in the bottom right hand corner, just to show it was a genuine original.

Chapter Three

S
PRING-CLEANING

A
LTHOUGH
M
RS
B
IRD
ran what Mr Brown often called ‘a tight ship’ (usually brought on by her sighs when he came in from the garden and deposited mud all over her newly polished kitchen floor), it would have been nearer the truth to say that she did her best to keep everything shipshape and tidy at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens, which wasn’t always easy.

Not that she was in the habit of laying down the law on such matters. In her view a happy household was one where everyone felt free to do as they wished; within reason of course. Also, it was a matter of territories.

That said, very little untoward escaped her eagle eye and she was a past-mistress in the art of raising her eyebrows to good effect. The Browns could tell at once by the look on her face when things were not to her liking.

So when she happened to glance into Paddington’s bedroom one morning and her eyebrows soared heavenwards to their fullest extent, he wasn’t at all surprised. In fact, for a moment or two he thought they might disappear altogether over the back of her head.

His own eyebrows had recently been doing much the same thing when he woke in the morning and he saw the state of his room. It always looked much worse by daylight, but by the time he reached his dressing table mirror his brows were usually in their normal place and try as he might he couldn’t see any joins.

The simple fact was that ever since the debacle over Mr Curry’s birthday present, followed by his efforts at creating the oyster montage, he had been putting off tidying up.

His Aunt Lucy, who in many ways was not unlike Mrs Bird, would have recognised the signs immediately. It was what she would have called a bad attack of the
mañanas
– the Spanish word for tomorrow, and as everyone knows, there are times when ‘tomorrow never comes’.

Paddington braced himself for the worst, but for once Mrs Bird seemed at a loss for words. Pursing her lips, she closed the door and disappeared downstairs, only to return a few minutes later armed with a dustpan and brush and a bucketful of cleaning materials.

“It’s the first day of the summer sales,” she said, “and Jonathan and Judy are coming home for the school holidays tomorrow, so Mrs Brown and I are going out to look for some new curtain material while we have the chance.

“That being so, I’m afraid lunch will be later than usual, which may be no bad thing. It will give you more time to make your room spick-and-span by the time we get back. And when we do, I don’t want to see any marmalade stains or dried oyster juice, and none of that dreadful shaving cream which seems to have gone everywhere except where it’s supposed to.

“I don’t know what Mr Brown will say if he ever gets to see the state your room is in.

“And don’t forget to clean under the bed!”

With that parting shot she closed the door.

“Do you think it wise leaving Paddington to his own devices for such a long time?” asked Mrs Brown, as they left the house. “Remember the old saying – ‘the devil finds work for idle paws’?”

“You haven’t seen the state of his room,” said Mrs Bird, “it’s worse than that of an average teenage boy, and that’s saying something. Remember what Jonathan’s room used to look like before he went off to boarding school?”

Mrs Brown gave a sigh. “You couldn’t see the floor for junk. He used to stand all his jeans in a row by the side of the bed and step into the pair he fancied most next morning.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Mrs Bird. “At least Paddington hangs his duffle coat on its proper hook at night. As for being left to his own devices, that bear’s paws won’t be idle for the rest of the day. It’s a long time since his room had a thorough going-over, and he can’t come to much harm with a dustpan and brush and a few old scrubbing brushes. Besides, the exercise will do him good.”

“How about the vacuum cleaner?” asked Mrs Brown, recalling the time when Paddington had put the tube in the wrong end and blown soot all over the dining room carpet.

“Locked away in a cupboard,” said Mrs Bird. “And the key’s in my handbag.

“As for the carpet… if you remember, when it was first laid it was done in a rush by Mr Briggs, and he didn’t even bother with any proper underlay. He left the old newspapers in place and added a few more for good measure. One way and another the room needs a good going-over by a proper decorator.”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs Brown. “I keep asking Henry to do something about it, but he can be very forgetful when it suits him.”

“That’s as may be,” said Mrs Bird, “but as for taking Paddington with us, he would be bored stiff in no time at all. Besides, he’s probably hard at work already.”

Mrs Bird spoke with the voice of experience, although for once she failed to take account of a bear’s priorities.

The sound of the front door being closed had hardly died away before Paddington hurried downstairs in order to make a plentiful supply of marmalade sandwiches ahead of the day’s work.

Once he was back in his room, he looked for a safe place to put them in case any dust clouds landed on top while his back was turned.

Only then did he fill the bucket with hot water from the bathroom, and having put his pyjamas back on in case he got his fur wet, he rolled up the sleeves and began work on his bedroom walls with a scrubbing brush and a bar of soap.

Paddington was an optimistic bear in many ways, but he had to admit it was a bit of a setback when no sooner had he applied a scrubbing brush to the paper than it began to come away from the wall. Worse still, the more he scrubbed the worse it became. In what seemed like no time at all, he was literally knee-deep in paper, and even allowing for the fact that bears’ knees were fairly near the floor, it was still a sizeable amount.

Having decided that perhaps it had been a mistake to use the hot tap rather than the cold, Paddington sat down on the edge of his bed and gazed around the room.

In many respects it was the reverse of what had happened soon after he went to live with the Browns and offered to help Mr Brown with the decorating.

On that occasion, apart from adding too much water to the paste, he managed to paper over the door by mistake and had been unable to find his way out. Now the same door was practically the only part left untouched.

Unfortunately he spent so much time wondering if perhaps his adding too much water to the paste all that time ago was the cause of his present problem, he failed to notice some large chunks of paper had somehow or other contrived to stick themselves back on the wall again. Some had done so at a very peculiar angle indeed, and when he tried to straighten out the worst of them, bits came away in his paw and stuck to his pyjamas instead.

Catching sight of his reflection in the dressing table mirror, Paddington decided to give cleaning walls a miss for the time being and concentrate instead on doing the dusting.

Pushing the bed to one side, he found Mrs Bird was right about one thing. The area of carpet where it had been looked particularly fruitful, and the pan was soon half-full of dust, not to mention several old Liquorice Allsorts into the bargain. They had gone missing some months previously, along with various other small items he had forgotten all about.

By then the dust was making his nose itch, and one of the Allsorts was on the point of going down the wrong way. Fearing if he didn’t do something quickly he might drop the pan, he glanced around the room and noticed that in moving the bed away from the skirting board the carpet had risen up at one point.

At first sight it seemed an ideal place to store the contents of the pan for the time being, especially as there appeared to be some newspapers lining the floorboards, so in desperation he opened up the gap still further and managed to upend the pan a split second before the inevitable happened.

A loud
tishoooo
echoed round the bedroom, and as it did so a small cloud of dust rose from the very spot where it had just landed.

He waited a moment or two for it to settle before bending down to brush it back into the pan and while he was doing so he glanced idly at the papers.

Paddington wasn’t normally a great reader of newspapers. On the whole he much preferred magazines. Newspapers were rather difficult with paws. Even if you did come across something interesting to read, more often than not the pages were stuck together, and no amount of blowing would make them come apart.

However, for once he had to admit the papers on the floor looked unusually inviting. Some of them were fairly up-to-date, whereas others must have been there for a very long time because in the pictures everyone was wearing a hat, and motor cars looked different; like a lot of boxes on wheels. Some were even drawn by horses, and in one picture there was a man on a bicycle that had one enormous wheel at the front and a tiny one at the back.

Those things apart, there wasn’t a coloured picture to be seen; everything, including the advertisements, was black and white.

Pulling back the carpet still further, Paddington couldn’t help thinking Mr Gruber might like some of the older newspapers for his antique shop, and he was wondering whether or not he should mention it to the Browns, when his eye was caught by an item on cookery in one of the more up-to-date editions.

But it wasn’t just any old cooking… it was all about food in foreign countries, and… Paddington grew more and more excited as he read on… It was about things people ate in South America… including… he nearly fell over backwards with excitement… there was a picture of a special cake they had sometimes been given for a treat in the Home for Retired Bears. It even had the recipe printed below it.

Having taken a quick look over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, he carefully removed the item from the newspaper, and as he did so he had another idea.

Paddington was very keen on cooking. Of late Mrs Bird often let him help out with things like stirring the batter when she was making a Yorkshire pudding to go with the Sunday lunch, and by general agreement he was a dab hand at making gravy. But she usually drew the line when it came to doing anything more complicated by himself, largely on account of the fact that he was always wanting to test the results long before they were ready, and she didn’t want him to singe his whiskers by opening the oven door too soon.

It struck Paddington that he might never again have such a golden opportunity to do-it-all-by-himself. After a hard day at the sales, what could be nicer for Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird than to arrive home loaded with shopping only to open the front door and be met by the smell of freshly-baked cakes?

It would also make a nice change from tidying his room.

He read through the list of ingredients: two cupfuls of self-raising flour, the same amount of cornflour, icing sugar, butter, the yolk of an egg, sugar, condensed milk… He wasn’t too sure about the condensed milk, otherwise he felt sure Mrs Bird would have all the other items in her larder.

Paddington didn’t believe in doing things by half, and it took him some while to assemble all the ingredients. In fact he soon lost count of the number of times he went up and down the stairs carrying them all, and he began to wish he had set to work on making it in the kitchen rather than his bedroom. Wide though his windowsill was, it now resembled the display counter in a grocery shop. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be caught in the act if Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird arrived back early.