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Paddington 2

Page 2

by Annie Wilson


  Paddington growled in interest. “What a lovely idea!” he said. He took off his hat and put it on the table. He had spotted an old Van de Graaff generator that rather took his fancy, but when he went to touch it, it made his fur stand on end. He quickly withdrew his paw.

  “Oh, look at this!” Mr. Gruber was holding up a mechanical monkey on a trapeze.

  Paddington put his head on one side. “It’s very nice, but—”

  Mr. Gruber replaced the monkey and smiled. “I know, it has to be perfect.”

  Paddington nodded. “Since Uncle Pastuzo died I’m the only relative Aunt Lucy’s got left. And it’s not every day a bear turns a hundred.”

  “Quite so,” Mr. Gruber agreed.

  Paddington rummaged in another trunk and found a wig and some glasses. He took off his hat and put them on, modeling them for his friend.

  Mr. Gruber laughed. “And how about some rolling shoes to go with the outfit?” He handed Paddington some roller skates.

  Paddington peered over the top of the glasses and said, “Please, Mr. Gruber. Be serious.”

  Mr. Gruber bit his cheeks and forced himself to stop grinning at his funny friend. “Yes, perhaps her rolling days are behind her,” he said with a nod.

  Paddington carried on sifting through the contents of one of the packing cases. “Oh, what’s this?” he asked, fishing out an old book. “It’s beautiful! Look at the picture on the cover. It’s a book about London—oh!” he cried again as he opened the pages and the pictures jumped out at him.

  Mr. Gruber laughed. “It’s a popping book, Mr. Brown,” he said.

  “It certainly is,” said Paddington. He opened and closed the book, marveling at the way the pictures popped up into intricate three-dimensional scenes.

  Mr. Gruber came and stood over his shoulder. “That must be the special popping book Madame Kozlova has told me about. Her great-grandmother was an artist, you see. Every time she visited a city she made a popping book. This must be the one she made of London.”

  Paddington’s eyes lit up as he opened page after page, all of them popping up to reveal different famous London landmarks. “There’s Tower Bridge . . . and St. Paul’s Cathedral . . . and Buckingham Palace . . . This is wonderful, Mr. Gruber! Aunt Lucy always wanted to visit London but she never had the chance. If she had this book, it would be as though she was really here.”

  Paddington peered closely at the detail in the pop-ups. He imagined himself shrinking to the size of one of the tiny people in the illustrations. Then he pictured himself with Aunt Lucy. He would take her on the underground and to Piccadilly Circus and the Houses of Parliament. She would clap her paws together in delight and cry, “Oh, it’s just as I always dreamed! Thank you, dear nephew.”

  Mr. Gruber cleared his throat, bringing Paddington back to reality with a jolt. Paddington’s eyes were glistening with emotion. He pointed to a line on the book jacket that read “Where All Your Dreams Come True.”

  “This is the perfect present, Mr. Gruber. Aunt Lucy’s going to love it,” he said.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Gruber, consulting the price list. His face fell. “Ah. This is the only one of its kind. I’m sorry to say they want rather a lot of money for it.”

  Paddington fished out the coin Mrs. Bird had found that morning. “Would this be enough? Mrs. Bird pulled it from my ear. Perhaps there’s more where it came from?” He rummaged enthusiastically in his ear to check, but had no luck.

  Mr. Gruber sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re going to need rather more than one earful—a thousand earfuls would be nearer the mark.”

  “But that’s two thousand iced buns!” exclaimed Paddington.

  “Let’s take another look at the monkey,” said Mr. Gruber kindly. “I think he’s super-duper.” He turned the handle and it came off in his hand. “I can fix that,” he said hastily.

  Paddington smiled sadly. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Gruber, but Aunt Lucy did a lot for me when I was younger. I want her to know I have made a special effort for her hundredth birthday.” He put his hat back on and made for the door. Then, turning back to his friend, he said, “I’ve decided what I need to do. I’m going to get a job and buy Aunt Lucy that book.”

  “Very good, Mr. Brown,” said Mr. Gruber. “Very good indeed.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Paddington and the Close Shave

  Paddington lost no time in looking for employment. He went into the first place that he saw on leaving Mr. Gruber’s—Giuseppe’s barber’s shop.

  “You are-a in-a luck!” cried the flamboyant Italian as Paddington set out his request. “I am in-a need of an assistant. I have-a much to do this afternoon. Please start by sweeping up-a. I shall be back in-a few-a minutes. Ciao, ciao!” And with that he threw Paddington a broom and left.

  “Ciao, ciao, Giuseppe!” Paddington called after him.

  He was about to set to and sweep up all the hair clippings when he spotted a white barber’s coat hanging on the back of a door.

  “It can’t hurt to try it on,” he said to himself. “After all, I may as well look the part.”

  Slipping out of his own coat, he took the barber’s coat from the peg and put it on. Then he stood back and admired his new look in the mirror. Taking a comb, he parted his fur into a neat side parting.

  “Ah, sir. Good afternoon,” he said to his reflection, pretending to be a real barber. “Now, what can I do for you today?”

  “Just a quick trim please,” said a voice.

  Paddington whirled round in surprise to see that a customer had walked in and was already installing himself in one of the barber’s chairs. He was a large, pompous-looking man with a magnificent mane of gray hair.

  “Come along, man, I haven’t got all day,” said the customer sharply.

  “Oh, I—I’m not the barber,” said Paddington. “I just tidy up.”

  “That’s all I want,” said the man, flicking his hand impatiently around his hair. “Tidy up at the back and sides and nothing off the top.”

  “Yes but—” Paddington began.

  “No buts!” cried the man. “Come on, man. Chop, chop!” He settled back into the chair and immediately went to sleep, snoring softly.

  “Chop, chop?” Paddington repeated. “If you say so, sir.”

  He fetched a cape and draped it over the sleeping man, then went to pick up some scissors. Unfortunately bears are not very good at holding scissors. Paddington found that out straightaway—his paws fumbled, the scissors slipped from his grasp and off they flew, out of his reach. They flew through the air like a dart and got stuck in one of the ceiling tiles.

  Never one to give up, Paddington looked around for a different implement.

  “I’ll try the clippers instead,” he said to himself.

  The clippers were electric and had a long cable attached to them. Paddington went to a socket on the wall to plug them in; then he pressed the button on the clippers. To his horror, they were on such a high setting that the vibrations made him jump and judder around the room! He tried to make his way over to give the customer a trim, but began spinning in circles instead.

  The cable on the clippers got caught in his legs. It began to wind itself tightly around him! Paddington was completely tangled up now. He was spinning round and round, totally out of control.

  Just as things couldn’t possibly get any worse, the phone rang. Paddington hopped over to answer it and knocked into a potted plant. It landed on his head. Anyone walking past would have seen a bear wearing a spiky green wig!

  At last Paddington managed to reach the phone. He flipped it up with his mouth. The cable was still tight round his legs, and the juddering from the clippers made his voice rather shaky.

  “G-g-g-good aft-t-t-ternoon. A c-c-cut and bl-bl-blow-dry, you s-s-s-ay? I’ll have to ch-ch-ch-check the diary, b-b-but—” He stopped abruptly as he saw the electric cable had caught on the customer’s seat. The man lurched sharply backward, still deeply asleep. At the same time Paddington was
pulled paws-first straight toward the sleeping customer—and the clippers were aiming right at the back of the man’s head!

  “I sh-shall have to c-c-call you back,” Paddington said in a panic. “I think I m-m-may be about to sh-sh-shave a c-c-customer . . .”

  Just as he said this, the clippers connected with the man’s hair and mowed a neat stripe right down the middle of his head.

  “Oh!” cried Paddington.

  He didn’t have time to think, however, as the plug from the clippers had shot out of the wall socket and up into the air. Now it was caught in the ceiling fan! As the fan started whirring, faster and faster, Paddington struggled harder than ever to free himself. But he was tangled too tightly. Before he knew it, Paddington was pulled right up to the ceiling, spinning around at an alarmingly high speed.

  Outside the shop, a mother and her little boy were having an argument.

  “I don’t want to!” the boy was shouting. “You can’t make me!”

  “Now you stop making a fuss, Nelson,” the mother said sternly. “It’s only a haircut. Nothing at all to be afraid of.”

  At that exact moment, Paddington was hurled against the window by the fan. He landed with a loud SPLAT against the glass, his eyes wide, his mouth open in panic. The plug was pulled from the socket by the force of the collision, and Paddington slid to the floor in a heap.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” said the woman, quickly turning her son to face the other way. “We’ll go somewhere else.”

  Paddington picked himself up and went back to the customer. He gasped when he saw the strip shaved into the back of the man’s head. It looked like a reverse Mohican!

  What shall I do? Paddington wondered. He glanced at the pile of hair on the floor by the man’s chair and had an idea. I’ll stick it back on, he thought, bending down and scooping up the clippings. He patted them into place, but the shaved hair just fell to the floor again.

  Paddington removed his hat to scratch his head while he thought what to do next. In so doing, he spotted the marmalade sandwich that he had placed there earlier. As he stared at it, another idea formed in his mind.

  He scooped some marmalade out of the sandwich and spread it on to the man’s head and then picked up the hair clippings and stuck them on top. It was working rather well.

  Paddington had stepped back to admire his handiwork when the customer stirred in his sleep.

  “What are you doing?” the man mumbled.

  “I thought you’d like some hair product, sir,” said Paddington, thinking on his paws.

  “Jolly good. Carry on,” said the man, going back to sleep.

  Paddington did as he was told.

  At last, when he thought he could do no more for the customer, he shook him gently awake. “All done,” he said. “Is sir happy with the trim?”

  The man surveyed his reflection critically. “I suppose so,” he said. “But what about the back?”

  Paddington grabbed a hand mirror and fleetingly showed the customer the back of his head. The man frowned. He reached up and patted the marmalade-glued patch of hair.

  “What’s this?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Marmalade, sir,” said Paddington in a matter-of-fact tone. “Hairy marmalade,” he added, thinking this sounded more the sort of product a barber might use.

  “Hairy marmalade?” exclaimed the man. “Well, get it off!”

  “Certainly, sir. Waste not, want not,” said Paddington. He stretched up on the tips of his paws and leaned over to lick the marmalade off.

  “WHAT-A ARE YOU DOING-A?” shouted a voice from the shop door.

  “Ah, there you are, Mr. Giuseppe,” said Paddington, glancing up. “This is not at all as bad as it looks,” he added hastily when he took in the look of fury on the barber’s face.

  Giuseppe opened his mouth to reply that it was possibly a lot worse, but his words were drowned out by the deafening blare of the fire alarm.

  Paddington looked up to see that sparks were flying out of the ceiling fan and smoke was filling the room! He looked around wildly for a way to stop the fire.

  He need not have worried, for almost immediately some sprinklers came on, putting out the fire.

  Unfortunately they also drenched everyone and Paddington decided that, under the circumstances, the best course of action was to beat a hasty retreat.

  “I’m sorry, but I think perhaps working in a barber’s shop is not my strongest suit,” he cried on his way out. “Ciao, ciao, Giuseppe!”

  CHAPTER 5

  All the Fun of the Fair

  That evening the Browns took the whole family to Madame Kozlova’s Steam Fair as promised.

  It certainly was a spectacular sight. Paddington didn’t think he had seen anything as wonderful since leaving Darkest Peru. Judy and Jonathan were as excited as he was. They chattered away, pointing out the rides to Paddington and asking him which he would go on first. However, Paddington was deep in thought. He had not been able to take his mind off the pop-up book since seeing it in Mr. Gruber’s shop and now that he was here, at the fair, he knew more than ever that he had to find a way of getting the book for Aunt Lucy. But how was he going to get another job after the disaster at the barber’s? he wondered.

  Mr. Brown had gone to buy some snacks. When he came back with cotton candy for Mrs. Bird and toffee apples for the others, Paddington asked Mr. Brown if he had ever been fired from a job.

  Mr. Brown looked uncomfortable. “Not exactly, but . . . I think you should be careful about entering the workplace, Paddington. Are you sure you’re ready? It’s a tough, competitive world out there, and I should know,” he added wearily. “I worry that a kind good-natured bear like you might get trampled underfoot.”

  Paddington considered this as he took a bite from a toffee apple.

  “Dad’s right,” said Judy, suddenly sullen. “You can’t trust anyone.”

  Paddington tried to open his mouth to protest that this wasn’t true—he knew he could trust the Browns, for example—but he found the toffee apple had glued his teeth together, so he remained silent.

  Mrs. Brown put a hand on Judy’s shoulder. “Is this about Tony, darling?” she asked.

  “No,” Judy snapped.

  “Everything’s about Tony,” Jonathan teased.

  “At least I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not,” Judy retaliated.

  “Nor am I,” said Jonathan irritably. He moved away from his sister toward a group of boys who all appeared to be dressed in a similar fashion with cyber-shades and baseball caps. “Hey, G-Man!” Jonathan cried, slipping on his own shades and performing a complicated hand gesture.

  “J-Dog,” said the boy, walking over in a slouch, one hand raised. “Spud bounce, man,” he said, bumping his fist against Jonathan’s.

  Paddington had finally managed to work his mouth free of the toffee. “But, Mr. Brown,” he said, continuing the conversation from before, “I’m sure I will be fine in the workplace. Aunt Lucy said if you’re kind and polite, all will be right.”

  “Someone’s making sense at last,” said Mrs. Bird. She gave Jonathan and his friend a funny look.

  “You are kind and polite, Mr. Brown,” Paddington went on. “And you’ve made it to the top.”

  Mr. Brown grimaced. “I’m nowhere near the top, Paddington. I peaked in the middle. And now my hair’s going gray and my belly has popped out and I creak.”

  Mrs. Brown took her husband’s arm. “You don’t creak, darling,” she said. “When do you creak?”

  “When I sit down. When I get up . . . ,” said Mr. Brown.

  “I thought that was the chair,” said Mrs. Brown kindly.

  “Nope,” Mr. Brown said, looking miserable.

  Just then there was a burst of applause from the crowd and the family turned to see a handsome man bounce onto the stage in front of them. “Oh!” cried Paddington. “Doesn’t that man live in the big house on the corner of Windsor Gardens?”

  “Yes,” said Judy, taking a photo. “He’s on
e of dad’s celebrity clients—Phoenix Buchanan.”

  Mr. Brown nodded importantly. “He’s a Platinum Club member and a very famous actor.”

  “Or used to be,” said Mrs. Bird knowingly. “Now he does dog-food commercials.”

  Mrs. Brown smiled. “Mrs. Bird doesn’t like him, Paddington, because he can never remember her name.”

  “That’s not the only reason . . . ,” muttered Mrs. Bird.

  Paddington saw that behind the man there was a banner that read: “Kozlova’s Steam Fair—Where All Your Dreams Come True.”

  Just like the line on the cover of the pop-up book, Paddington thought dreamily. If only I could find a way of getting enough money to buy it for Aunt Lucy—then her dreams would come true as well.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Phoenix Buchanan’s voice ringing out from the stage.

  “Thank you. Oh please, stop it!” the actor was saying as the crowd continued to clap and cheer. He flapped his hands coyly, pretending to be embarrassed by the attention. The applause petered out and Phoenix cried, “No, no, please carry on . . . Oh, what am I like?” he simpered. “I’m at my absolute naughtiest tonight. I’m tickled to the deepest shade of shrimp to open this wonderful old steam fair.” The crowd cheered. “But let me tell you,” Phoenix went on, “when Madame Kozlova created it years ago she didn’t do it for the likes of me—‘celebrity,’ ‘star of stage and screen’ (I hate all that stuff, honest I do). ‘West End legend’—there’s another one. Ha-ha! No, she made it for the ordinary guys, like you lot.” He pointed at the audience. “And that’s why I’d like to ask one of you to come up here and help start things off. Any volunteers?” he asked, surveying the crowd.

  Paddington’s paw shot up. “Bears are good at volunteering,” he said.

  Phoenix looked out at the sea of hands. “Let me see . . . Eeny, meeny, miny—bear?” he said, looking puzzled as he spotted Paddington. “Yes, why not?” he said. “What about you, young ursine? Come on up.” He beckoned to Paddington to join him as the audience clapped.

 

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