by Michael Bond
“I do hope he’s not doing the undercliff walk,” said Mrs. Brown anxiously. “There isn’t a way up for miles and he’ll be most upset if he misses lunch—especially today of all days.”
“Perhaps we could try asking the deck-chair attendant?” suggested Judy. She pointed to a figure a little way along the front. “I bet he’s good at remembering faces.”
The deck-chair attendant was hovering on the edge of a crowd who were leaning on the railings watching something that was taking place far out to sea, and he didn’t look best pleased at being interrupted.
“A bear?” he said. “Wearing a duffle coat and carrying an umbrella. I expect that’ll be the one I moved on about half an hour ago.”
“You moved him on!” exclaimed Mrs. Bird severely. “I’ll have you know it’s his birthday!”
“I daresay,” said the man, wilting under her gaze, “but I never intended to move him on that far.”
He pointed to a spot beyond the end of the pier, where a speedboat was bobbing up and down in the water. As the Browns turned to follow the direction of his arm, there was a roar from his engine and the boat moved off. Almost immediately a small, but familiar figure rose up out of the water a little way behind. It hovered on the surface for a moment or two and then, to a groan of disappointment from the crowd, slowly disappeared into the sea again.
It was only a fleeting glimpse, but brief though it was, the Browns gasped with astonishment.
“Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bird. “What on earth’s that bear doing now?”
Mrs. Bird’s question wasn’t unreasonable in the circumstances, but it was one which even Paddington himself would have been very hard put to answer. In fact, he’d been asking himself the very same thing a number of times over the last half hour. Although he had to admit that he’d enrolled for one of Signor Alberto’s special “crash” courses, he hadn’t expected there to be quite so many crashes. As far as he could make out, every time he tried to do anything at all it ended in disaster.
But if Paddington was taking a gloomy view of the proceedings, Signor Alberto looked even more down in the mouth. The change in the weather had brought about a big enough drop in his takings as it was, but with what seemed like the whole of Brightsea watching his attempts to teach Paddington to water-ski he was beginning to think that trade might never pick up again. As he sat huddled in the back of the boat he looked as if he very much wished he was back on the sunny shores of his native Mediterranean again.
“Please,” he called, making one last despairing effort, “we will try once more. For the very last time. Relax. You are toa da stiff. You ava to relax. You are like a stick in zee water.”
Listening to Signor Alberto’s instructions, Paddington suddenly realized that one of his problems was the fact that he still had Mrs. Bird’s umbrella under his duffle coat, so while the other’s back was turned he hastily withdrew it, made some last minute adjustments to the tow rope, and then lay back in the water again with the skis pointing upwards as he’d been shown.
Signor Alberto looked back over his shoulder, but if he felt any surprise at seeing Paddington’s latest accessory, he showed no sign. In fact, he looked as if nothing would surprise him ever again.
“Now,” he called. “When I open zee throttle and we begin to move, you ’ave to pull on zee rope and push with your legs into zee water. Remember, whatever you do . . . watch zee ’eels.”
Paddington looked most surprised at this latest piece of advice. He’d never actually seen a real live eel before, and as the boat moved away from him and took up the slack, he peered into the water with interest.
Slowly and inexorably the boat gathered speed as Signor Alberto pushed home the throttle. Suddenly the rope tightened, and for a second or two it seemed as if he was about to be cut in two. Then gradually he felt himself begin to rise out of the water.
He’d never experienced anything quite like it before, and grasping Mrs. Bird’s umbrella, he began to wave it at Signor Alberto for all he was worth.
“Help!” he shouted. “Help! Help!”
“Bravo!” cried Signor Alberto. “Bravo!”
But there was worse to follow, for no sooner had Paddington become accustomed to one motion than there was a click and a sudden tug; and to his alarm Mrs. Bird’s umbrella suddenly shot open, and he felt a completely new sensation as he rose higher and higher into the air.
The promenade loomed up and then disappeared as they turned at the very last moment and headed out to sea again. The cheers from the watching crowd almost drowned the noise of the engine, but Paddington hardly heard, for by that time there was only one thing uppermost in his mind—and that was to get safely back onto dry land again.
Mrs. Bird had said that he might need her umbrella in case he got taken unawares, but as far as Paddington was concerned, he’d never been taken quite so unawares in the whole of his life, for as he glanced down, he saw to his horror that the sea, which a moment before had been skimming past his knees, was now a very long way away indeed.
Mrs. Bird opened and closed her umbrella several times. “They certainly knew how to make them in those days,” she said with satisfaction.
“I bet they never thought it would be used for a bear’s parachute skiing,” said Judy.
“Perhaps Paddington could write a testimonial?” suggested Jonathan.
“I think we’ve had quite enough testimonials for one day,” said Mrs. Bird.
The Browns were enjoying a late lunch in a restaurant overlooking Signor Alberto’s skiing school.
Paddington in particular was tucking in for all he was worth. Although he was looking none the worse for his adventure, there had been a moment when he’d thought he might never live to enjoy another meal, and he was more than making up for lost time.
He’d fully expected to be in trouble when he got back, but in the event the reverse had been true. The Browns had been so relieved to see him safe and sound they hadn’t the heart to be cross, and Signor Alberto had been so pleased at the success of his lessons he’d not only refused any payment but he’d even presented him with a special certificate into the bargain. It was the first time anyone in Brightsea had seen parachute skiing, and if the size of the queue on the promenade was anything to go by, there would be no lack of customers at his school for some time to come. Even a man who ran an umbrella shop nearby had come along to offer his congratulations. Despite the fact that the sun had come out again, he was doing a roaring trade.
“What beats me,” said Mr. Brown, “is how you managed to stand up on the skis at all. I didn’t think you’d ever make it.”
Paddington considered the matter for a moment. “I don’t think I could really help myself, Mr. Brown,” he said truthfully.
In point of fact, he’d wrapped the rope around himself several times just to make sure, but he’d had such a lecture from Signor Alberto afterwards about the dangers of doing such a thing ever again he decided he’d better not say anything about it, and wisely the Browns didn’t pursue the matter.
“Perhaps you’d like to round things off with a plate of jellied eels?” suggested Mr. Brown, some while later as they took a final stroll along the promenade.
Paddington gave a shudder. What with the ice cream, the water-skiing, and an extra large lunch into the bargain, he decided he’d had quite enough for one day, and eels were the last thing he wanted to be reminded of.
All in all, he felt he would much rather round off his birthday treat in as quiet a way as possible.
“I think,” he announced, “I’d like to sit down for a while. Perhaps we could all go to Sunny Cove Gardens. Then you can watch the gnomes while I read my birthday cards.”
Chapter Five
KEEPING FIT
Clenching his paw as tightly as he could possibly manage, Paddington slowly raised his right arm until it was level with his shoulder. Then he bent it at the elbow until the paw itself was only a couple of centimeters or so away from the top of his head. Breathing heavil
y under the strain, he held the pose for several moments while he peered hopefully at his reflection in the bedroom mirror; but apart from a few slight trembles there wasn’t really much to see, and as the glass began to steam up he let out his breath and relaxed again.
Mopping his brow with the end of the counterpane, he collapsed onto his bed and gazed disconsolately at a large pamphlet spread out in front of him.
It was full of brightly colored pictures, most of which showed a day in the life of a gentleman called Grant Stalwart. Mr. Stalwart, who seemed to spend most of his time dressed only in a pair of mauve tights, was shown in a variety of poses, a number of which were not unlike the one Paddington had just attempted.
However, looking at the pamphlet did nothing to dispel Paddington’s feeling of gloom. In fact, the more he studied it, the more downcast he became.
If the picture was anything to go by, Grant Stalwart was able to do the most extraordinary things with his muscles. Bags of cement, iron bars; nothing was too heavy for him to lift, or too strong for him to bend in two. One picture even showed him standing alongside a gaily decorated Christmas tree, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers in paper hats who watched admiringly as he cracked some after-dinner nuts for them between his biceps.
Having fur didn’t exactly help matters, but looking at his own arms, Paddington had to admit that he couldn’t see any muscles large enough to dent a soft boiled egg, let alone crack walnut shells.
It was all most disappointing and after one more glance at the pamphlet, he bent down and began to open a large cardboard box.
The box was labeled GRANT STALWART’S WORLD FAMOUS HOME BODY-BUILDING OUTFIT, and on the lid was yet another picture of Mr. Stalwart himself.
Paddington’s interest in the subject had begun soon after his visit to the seaside. While at Brightsea, he’d noticed some lifeguards doing their exercises on the beach, and at the time he’d been most impressed by the things they were able to do. Then, shortly afterwards, he’d come across an article in one of Mrs. Brown’s magazines about the dangers of taking oneself for granted, and his interest had been aroused again.
After reading Mrs. Brown’s article, he’d spent several mornings doing press-ups on the bathroom floor, carefully testing himself on the scales both before and after. But either there was something very wrong with the scales at Number thirty-two Windsor Gardens, or the marmalade sandwiches he’d eaten afterwards in order to restore his energy had more than made up for any lost weight, for if anything the needle had gone up slightly each day rather than down.
It was when he’d been glancing through the magazine again in the hope of seeing where he might have gone wrong that he’d come across Grant Stalwart’s advertisement.
Not even his worst enemy could have accused Grant Stalwart of taking his body for granted, and the advertisement was ringed with pictures of cups and medals he’d won in nearly every country in the world. According to Mr. Stalwart, the apparatus which had turned him into such a strong man was worth thirty pounds of anybody’s money, but notwithstanding that he seemed more than eager to share the secret of his success with anyone who cared to write in, provided they enclosed a five pound note. However, the thing which really clinched matters for Paddington was the solemn promise to any of his customers that if by the end of the first week they weren’t filled to the brim with boundless energy, he would refund their money without question.
There was a lot more in small print at the bottom of the advertisement, but Paddington didn’t bother to read it; instead, he turned his attention to a section marked “Testimonials from Satisfied Customers.” Although none of them seemed to be from bears, it still struck him as a very good bargain indeed, and he lost no time in completing his application form and sending it in.
But far from being filled with boundless energy, Paddington felt so worn out after his exercises it was as much as he could do to read through the instructions again, let alone ask for a refund.
The apparatus consisted of two tightly coiled springs which were attached at one end to a large metal plate. Each spring had a wooden handle at its opposite end, and the plate itself came ready-drilled with four holes and some special nonslip screws, so that it could be fixed to a convenient wall.
There were a lot of walls at Number thirty-two Windsor Gardens, all of which looked only too convenient by Mr. Stalwart’s standards, but somehow Paddington couldn’t picture the Brown family being very enthusiastic about having any springs screwed to them.
He tried jamming the plate between the bedrails, but after pulling the bed round the room several times without the springs giving so much as a creak let alone showing any signs of expanding, he gave up in disgust and decided to try his luck in the garden.
A few moments later he hurried outside armed with Mr. Brown’s bag of tools and was soon hard at work screwing the plate to a part of the fence that was safely hidden from the house by the garden shed.
After testing it several times in order to make sure it was firmly fixed, Paddington consulted his instructions again.
Mr. Stalwart seemed to have no trouble at all with his apparatus. Muscles rippling, his tanned body gleaming, he scarcely batted an eyelid as he extended the springs to almost double their normal length; but however hard Paddington tried, he couldn’t manage to pull his own springs apart by more than a centimeter or two, and when he did let go for a quick breather they shot back, catching his fur in the spirals and pinning him to the fence.
After a short rest, Paddington decided to have one more go. He freed himself from the springs and then gathered some spare stones from Mr. Brown’s rockery and placed them in a row along the ground so that he would have a good foothold.
This time he had much more success. After he’d got beyond a certain point it became easier, and he was just glancing round to see if there were any more stones when he nearly jumped out of his skin as a loud cry rang out.
“Bear! What are you doing to my fence, bear?”
Paddington wasn’t at all sure what happened next, but in his fright he let go of the springs, and as he toppled over he heard a loud crash from somewhere behind him.
When he picked himself up and looked round he saw to his horror that Mr. Curry was dancing up and down on the other side of the fence clutching his nose.
Ever since the unfortunate incident with the vacuum cleaner, Paddington had managed to avoid meeting Mr. Curry. In fact, had he been asked to produce a short list of the people he least wanted to see, Mr. Curry’s name would have occupied the first three places.
Anxious to make amends, Paddington hurried across the garden and peered over the top of the fence at the Browns’ neighbor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Curry,” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were poking your nose into my business.”
Mrs. Bird was always going on about Mr. Curry, and the way he poked his nose into other people’s affairs, but as soon as the words had left his mouth Paddington realized he had said the wrong thing.
He held up the springs. “I was only testing my new body-builder, Mr. Curry,” he exclaimed. “If I’d known you were there I would have waited until you had gone.
“Perhaps you would like to have a go?” he added hopefully, picking up Mr. Stalwart’s brochure and opening it at a page where a particularly skinny-looking man was shown struggling with a dumbbell. “It’s meant for seven-stone weaklings. There’s a letter here from one just like you.”
“What!” Mr. Curry grew purple in the face. “Are you calling me a seven-stone weakling, bear?”
Paddington nodded, oblivious to the gathering storm clouds on Mr. Curry’s brow. “He’s written a testimonial saying how good they are,” he continued eagerly. “I expect if you had a go every day you could become an eight-stone weakling in no time at all. It’s worth over thirty pounds, and if it doesn’t work you get your money back.”
Mr. Curry had been about to launch forth into a long tirade on the subject of bears in general and the one living next door to him in particular, but he sudden
ly seemed to change his mind.
“Thirty pounds?” he mused. “And you say there’s a money-back guarantee?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Curry,” said Paddington earnestly. “I wouldn’t have got them otherwise.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Curry briskly, “they certainly need a proper trial. I suggest you use the wall in my boxroom.”
Paddington looked at Mr. Curry rather doubtfully. “I think I would sooner use one of Mr. Brown’s walls, if you don’t mind . . .” he began.
“Nonsense, bear!” snorted Mr. Curry. And to avoid any further argument he reached over the fence in order to assist Paddington over.
“I shall test them myself,” he announced grimly. “And if they don’t work I shall lodge a complaint with the manufacturers. Don’t you worry—I’ll make sure we get our money back.”
“Our money, Mr. Curry?” repeated Paddington. “But . . .”
Mr. Curry held up his hand. “Don’t say another word, bear!” he exclaimed. “Fair’s fair. I shall have to deduct the cost of making good the damage you did the other day in my dining room, of course. But I see no reason why you shouldn’t receive a small percentage as well . . . if there’s any left over.”
Paddington began to look more and more unhappy as he carried his belongings into the house and followed Mr. Curry up the stairs leading to his boxroom.
The Browns’ neighbor had a way of twisting words so that even the most outrageous things sounded perfectly reasonable. All the same, he knew better than to argue for fear of making an already bad situation even worse, and he watched carefully while Mr. Curry cleared a space and demonstrated exactly where he wanted the apparatus fixed.
“If you make a good job of it, bear,” he growled, “I may not report our little upset just now. I shall be out for a while doing my shopping. I have to go to the chemist to get some ointment for my nose. You can have it ready for me to test when I get back.”