by Michael Bond
Mr. Curry took a deep breath and pounded his chest. “There’s nothing like a spot of limbering up before the real thing.”
Whatever else he might have said was lost in a burst of coughing, as he staggered out of the room and disappeared down the stairs. A moment later there was a loud bang from the direction of his front door and all was quiet again.
Heaving a deep sigh, Paddington turned his attention to the matter in hand. He wasn’t at all keen on doing jobs for the Browns’ neighbor, for they had a nasty habit of going wrong, and it was with a distinct lack of enthusiasm that he picked up Mr. Brown’s drill and set to work on the first hole.
Paddington had drilled holes in walls on several previous occasions and he’d always found it much harder than it looked when other people were doing it, but for once he had a pleasant surprise. Either Mr. Curry’s plaster was unusually soft, or Mr. Brown’s drill was extra sharp, for it went into the wall like a knife through butter and in no time at all, he had four neat, round holes ready to take the plugs for the screws.
However, if Paddington had learnt one lesson in life it was that there is a reason for everything, and it was when he pushed a plug into the first hole that he discovered why it had been so easy. Mr. Curry’s boxroom wall wasn’t made of brick at all, but some kind of soft plasterboard. No matter how many plugs he pushed into the hole they simply disappeared from view, falling down behind as if into some bottomless pit. Mr. Brown’s box of plugs was a big one, but even so it was only a matter of moments before it was completely empty.
Paddington surveyed the scene with growing dismay. After Mr. Curry’s dire warnings there was only one thing he could picture which would be worse than making a poor job of fixing the springs to the wall, and that was leaving four unfilled holes instead.
As a last resort he tried using some extra-long screws in the hope that they would go right through into the other side, but as he contemplated the drunken way the apparatus was hanging he had to admit at long last that he was beaten.
Paddington took another look inside the box. Considering the number of different walls Mr. Stalwart seemed to use for his equipment he felt sure he must have come up against the same problem at some time in his life; and sure enough, attached to the inside of the lid was a small packet he hadn’t noticed before, and which had been there to deal with just such a situation.
When he opened the packet, four screws fell out, and each had spring-loaded side pieces, especially made to pop out behind hollow walls as soon as they reached the other side.
It needed only a few seconds’ work with a screwdriver and the plate was safely in place. He was only just in the nick of time, for as he was putting the finishing touches to the last screw he heard the front door bang, and Mr. Curry’s footsteps began to draw near.
As he entered the room he eyed Paddington’s handiwork approvingly. “Very good, bear!” he exclaimed, removing his coat. “Stand well back. I’ll just show you how it should be done before I get in touch with the manufacturers.”
Rubbing his hands together, Mr. Curry picked up the handles, closed his eyes, and gave the springs a sharp tug.
If he didn’t actually look like Grant Stalwart, it wasn’t for want of trying. With his lips tightly compressed, he struggled to gain a foothold on the linoleum. Paddington did as he was told and stood well back, for he had no wish to be in the way if his screws did come out. But Mr. Stalwart’s special expanding screws were more than equal to the task. The plate was firmly fixed.
“I think, Mr. Curry,” he announced, “that the wall may come away before my springs do.”
In the past, Paddington had often noticed that many a true word was spoken in jest, but even so, he was even less prepared than Mr. Curry for what happened next.
The words had hardly left his mouth when there was a splintering noise and the Browns’ neighbor suddenly shot past. Taking with him a sizeable part of the wall as well, he disappeared through the open doorway like a bullet from a gun.
In the silence that followed there was a sound not unlike dried peas raining down as Mr. Brown’s plugs fell through the gap in the wall and rolled across the floor. But Paddington was oblivious to them. He did the only thing possible under the circumstances. Hurrying across the room he hastily locked the door before Mr. Curry had time to recover. Then he sat down on his box and gloomily contemplated the hole in the wall while he waited for the storm to break.
Mr. Curry held out a sheet of typewritten paper. “Sign here, bear,” he growled.
Paddington looked round at the Browns for guidance and then, at a nod from Mrs. Bird, he picked up a pen and carefully wrote down his name, adding his special paw mark for good measure in order to show that it was genuine.
“Good,” said Mr. Curry. “I hope this will teach you a lesson, bear.
“This piece of paper,” he reminded his audience, “makes over all rights in the apparatus to me.
“That means,” he continued, “that any money due back under the guarantee will now come straight to me. I had intended,” he said meaningly for the Browns’ benefit, “to share the proceeds, but in the circumstances I feel quite within my rights to keep it all. Good day!”
Mr. Brown looked from one to the other as Mr. Curry left the house. He’d come back from his office rather late in the proceedings and so far he had only received a garbled version of all that had taken place.
“You’re not letting him get away with it, are you?” he said. “If you ask me, seeing how he more or less browbeat Paddington into lending him the springs in the first place, it would serve him right if he lost the thirty pounds and had to keep them.”
“Thirty pounds?” echoed Mrs. Bird, with a twinkle in her eyes. “Who said anything about thirty pounds?”
Mrs. Brown held up a copy of her magazine and pointed to Grant Stalwart’s advertisement. “They may be worth that much,” she said, “after they’ve been paid for. But I’m afraid the five pounds Paddington sent in was only a deposit. There are another twenty-five to go.”
Paddington nearly fell off his chair with surprise. “I’ve got another twenty-five pounds to go!” he exclaimed in alarm.
“No, dear,” said Mrs. Brown. “You haven’t, but Mr. Curry has.”
As the full meaning of the situation sank in, Mr. Brown began to chuckle. Then he felt in his wallet and took out a five pound note.
“I think,” he said, “that Paddington ought to have his deposit back. It’s worth every penny just to see right triumph over wrong for a change.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Brown,” said Paddington gratefully.
“I should be careful how you spend it this time,” said Mrs. Bird. “And always read the small print at the bottom of any advertisements.”
Paddington locked the note away in his suitcase and then put the key inside his hat for safety. “Oh, I shall, Mrs. Bird,” he said earnestly.
“Perhaps,” he added, as he considered the matter, “I could buy myself a magnifying glass just to make sure.”
He reached out in order to help himself to some much-needed toast and marmalade, and as he did so, he caught sight of his reflection on the side of the teapot.
“And if I have any change,” he added thoughtfully, “I may buy some nutcrackers. I don’t think my muscles will ever be big enough to manage your Christmas walnuts.”
Chapter Six
PADDINGTON IN TOUCH
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Brown, as he opened the post at breakfast one morning. “Fancy that!”
“Fancy what, Henry?” enquired Mrs. Brown.
Mr. Brown held up a short, handwritten note for everyone to see. “We’ve been invited to a rugby match,” he replied.
Mr. Brown’s announcement had a mixed reception from the rest of the family. Mrs. Brown looked as if she didn’t fancy the idea at all. Jonathan and Judy, who were enjoying the first day of their Christmas holiday, obviously fell in opposing camps. Mrs. Bird passed no comment, and it was left to Paddington to sway the b
alance.
“A rugby match!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to one of those before, Mr. Brown.”
“Well, it’s really through you we’ve been asked at all,” said Mr. Brown, as he reread the note. “It’s from the headmaster of your old school. It seems they’re having an end-of-term game in aid of charity. It’s between the sixth form and a touring side from South America—the Peruvian Reserves. I expect that’s why they thought of you.”
“I didn’t even know they played rugby in Peru,” said Mrs. Brown.
“Well, there must be at least twenty-six of them,” said Mr. Brown, “if they’ve managed to send over their reserves.”
“You can borrow one of my old rattles if you like,” said Jonathan.
“It had better be one that works both ways,” broke in Judy. “Don’t forget, Paddington’s loyalties are going to be divided.”
Paddington jumped up from the table clutching a half-eaten slice of toast and marmalade in his paw. “My loyalties are going to be divided!” he exclaimed in alarm.
“Well,” said Judy, “you won’t know which side to cheer. After all, it is your old school, and you do come from Darkest Peru.”
Paddington sat down again. “Perhaps I’d better have two rattles,” he said. “Just to be on the safe side.”
“Don’t you think a couple of flags might be better?” said Mrs. Brown nervously.
“Small ones,” agreed Mrs. Bird. “We don’t want any eyes poked out in the excitement. You know what rugby crowds are like, and there’s no knowing what might happen once that young bear gets worked up.”
With the memory of other sporting functions Paddington had attended still clear in her mind, the Browns’ housekeeper was beginning to wish she’d taken a firmer stand at the start of the conversation.
But it was too late. Paddington was already helping Mr. Brown compose a letter of thanks to the headmaster, and as soon as breakfast was over he made preparations to go down to the market in order to see his friend, Mr. Gruber.
Paddington had sometimes seen rugby being played on television, but it had always looked rather complicated and he’d lost interest after a moment or two. Going to see a real game, particularly one involving his country of birth and his old school, was quite a different matter, and he decided he ought to know something more about the game. Paddington felt sure that among his many books Mr. Gruber would have something on the subject, and as usual he wasn’t disappointed.
After a few minutes’ search his friend came up with one entitled RUGBY—ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW FOR A POUND, which seemed very good value indeed.
But Mr. Gruber waved aside both Paddington’s money and his thanks. “I’ve had that book for more years than I care to remember, Mr. Brown,” he said, “and if it helps you out then I shall be more than pleased.”
As Paddington got ready to leave, Mr. Gruber announced that he would be closing his shop the following afternoon so that he, too, could go and watch the match. “I’ll probably see you in the stand, Mr. Brown,” he said.
Paddington looked rather embarrassed. “I think we shall be sitting down, Mr. Gruber,” he said. “Mrs. Bird told me I would have to wrap up well and to take a cushion because the seats are very hard.”
Mr. Gruber laughed. “When you go to a rugby match, Mr. Brown,” he said, “they call the places where you sit ‘stands.’ I’m afraid it’s rather like the game itself—it’s a bit difficult to explain.”
As he took in this piece of news, Paddington felt more pleased than ever that he’d managed to get hold of a book on the subject, and he hurried home to study it.
After a quick lunchtime snack, he wasn’t seen again for the rest of the afternoon, but if the sounds emerging from his bedroom were anything to go by it was obvious that he was getting a good deal of value out of Mr. Gruber’s book. Some of the bangs and thumps were very loud indeed, and they were punctuated every now and then by piercing blasts from a whistle and a noise which sounded not unlike that of crunching gears.
“Thank goodness the Peruvians haven’t sent over a team of bears!” exclaimed Mrs. Bird, voicing everyone’s thoughts as Paddington’s rattles rent the air for the umpteenth time. “If it sounds like that now, goodness only knows what it’ll be like on the day.”
When Paddington eventually came downstairs again his forehead looked suspiciously damp and there were several pillow feathers sticking to his fur. He had reached a particularly interesting section of his book called TACKLES—AND HOW TO DO THEM, and for the remainder of that day the Browns gave him a wide berth, especially as he kept casting thoughtful glances at their ankles whenever they went past.
Paddington slept well that night. In fact, after all his exertions he overslept, and when he eventually came down, he was already dressed for the afternoon’s match. Remembering Mrs. Bird’s warnings, he was wearing not only his duffle coat and hat, but two enormous scarves into the bargain; a blue one in honor of the Peruvian side, and a red one in the school colors.
Apart from that, he was also carrying a large cushion, his suitcase, two rattles, a flag, a thermos of hot cocoa, and a pile of marmalade sandwiches—several of which he ate in order to pass the time while he was waiting to go.
Because of the importance of the occasion, the school had taken over a small stadium next to their grounds, and when the Browns left the house a sizeable crowd was already beginning to make its way there.
Catching sight of some of his friends from the market, Paddington began to wave his flag, and by the time they joined Mr. Gruber in the stand and the moment for kickoff drew near, even Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Bird began to be infected by the general air of excitement.
Mindful of the nearness of Paddington’s rattles, Mrs. Bird handed round some pieces of cotton wool for their ears, and as the two teams trotted out onto the field they all settled back to enjoy themselves.
Paddington decided to keep one rattle in his right paw for St. Luke’s, who were at the far end of the field, and the other one in his left paw for the visiting team.
At first there was very little to choose between the two, but gradually the amount of noise issuing from his left paw grew less and less until eventually it petered out altogether.
It was clear from the start that, good though they were, the visiting side were no match for Paddington’s old school. The sixth form towered above their opponents and no matter how they tried, the Peruvian forwards couldn’t penetrate their defenses. In fact, the only good thing about it all was that for the most part, play took place at the end of the field where the Browns were sitting, so that Paddington had a good view of the game.
Despite reading Mr. Gruber’s book, he was hard put to follow what was going on. As far as he could make out, as soon as anyone picked up the ball, the referee blew the whistle and they had to put it down again, after which most of the players formed up in a circle with their heads together as if they were having some kind of discussion.
Paddington grew more and more upset as the game progressed, and when, towards the end of the first half, one of the Peruvian players was sent off the field for what seemed like no reason at all, he looked very unhappy indeed. Far from being divided, his loyalties were now almost completely on the side of the visitors.
“I’m afraid he’s been sent off because he’s got what they call a ‘loose arm,’” explained Mr. Gruber, when he saw the look on Paddington’s face.
Paddington gave the referee a hard stare. “I’m not surprised!” he exclaimed.
In his letter to the Browns the headmaster had said the match was to be a friendly one, but from where Paddington was sitting it looked as if the game was getting rougher with every passing moment. The way the Peruvians kept getting thrown to the ground, he wouldn’t have been surprised if some of them had been sent off with loose legs as well.
During the interval Mr. Gruber explained that having a loose arm simply meant the player in question hadn’t been holding on to the man next to him in the scrum, and that h
e’d been sent off because he’d been guilty of the offense more than once.
“A scrum,” said Mr. Gruber, “is when the players form up into a group with their arms round each other in order to restart the game. It’s very important to have it properly conducted.”
Mr. Gruber went on to list the various reasons for stopping and starting the game, but Paddington’s mind was far away; and when, just after the middle of the second half, yet another of the Peruvian players retired hurt, he could scarcely contain his indignation.
Mr. Brown glanced at his program. “That’s hard luck,” he said. “They’re only allowed two substitutes and it seems they still have several players on the injured list from the last game. That means they’ll be one short for the rest of the match!”
“Crikey!” said Jonathan. “They’re eight points down already. They don’t stand a chance.”
He looked round in order to sympathize with Paddington, but to his surprise the space next to Mr. Gruber was empty.
“I think young Mr. Brown is taking things rather to heart,” said Mr. Gruber. “He’s gone off somewhere.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Brown nervously. “I do hope he doesn’t get lost in the crowd.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth when Judy jumped up from her seat with excitement. “Look!” she cried, pointing towards the field. “There he is!”
Following the direction of her gaze, the Browns saw a familiar figure in a duffle coat and hat hurrying across the pitch.
“Oh, gosh!” groaned Jonathan. “Trust Paddington.”
The match was being refereed by the St. Luke’s Games teacher, and he’d been about to blow his whistle to restart it when something about the way the crowd was cheering made him pause. He turned and stared at the approaching figure in surprise.
“Excuse me,” said Paddington, “but I’ve come to offer my services. I’d like to join the Peruvian Reserves, please.”
The Games teacher looked at him uneasily. Although he hadn’t actually met Paddington before, he knew all about him from the other teachers.