Paddington 2

by Annie Wilson

  “ATTENTION, ALL UNITS!” he yelled.

  Phoenix panicked and caught the edge of the statue with his elbow. It teetered, and then toppled over, smashing into pieces.

  “AN UNUSUALLY ATTRACTIVE NUN IS CAUSING MAYHEM IN THE CATHEDRAL DOME!” the guard shouted as Phoenix ran, shedding his nun’s habit as he went. “CLOSE IN! CLOSE IN!” the guard bellowed.

  Phoenix was too quick, however. By the time he had arrived at the bottom of the steps, he had changed his disguise and was wearing an archbishop’s robes. He passed the guards quietly without attracting a second glance and disappeared into the night . . .

  CHAPTER 12

  Aunt Lucy’s Recipe Saves the Day

  The next morning the prison warden dragged a very sleepy Paddington out of bed and down the corridors to the canteen where Knuckles was waiting for him to report for marmalade duty.

  “Mr. McGinty?” Paddington said once the warden had left.

  “What do you want?” Knuckles growled.

  “Well, the thing is,” Paddington began, “I’m actually innocent—and I wondered if you had any advice on how to clear my name? Now that we’re friends . . .” He tailed off as he took in the look of amusement on Knuckles’s face.

  “Friends?” Knuckles exclaimed. “I’m your boss, not your buddy.”

  “In that case, after you,” said Paddington, holding the door open.

  “Why?” said Knuckles, looking suspicious. “So you can stab me in the back?”

  “No!” Paddington protested. “Because it’s polite. Aunt Lucy said if you’re kind and polite the world will be right.”

  Knuckles snorted. “You were in front of me and now you’re behind—that makes you a sap.”

  Paddington didn’t know what to make of this comment so he decided it was best not to comment. He followed Knuckles into the kitchen. “Where’s everyone else?” he asked, looking around the empty room.

  “I work alone,” said Knuckles. “‘Trust no one and expect the worst,’ that’s my philosophy.” He grunted. “Ingredients are over there,” he went on, pointing to the cupboards. “Get on with it then!” he said, as Paddington hesitated.

  “Aren’t you going to help, Mr. Knuckles?” he asked.

  “No!” Knuckles exclaimed, flopping into a chair.

  “But I can’t do this on my own,” Paddington protested. “There are five hundred hungry prisoners wanting breakfast! I’m going to need to squeeze one thousand juicy oranges.”

  Knuckles opened a copy of the Hard Times and said, “Rule number one—no talking.”

  Paddington nodded. He took an apron and began humming instead.

  “Rule number two—no humming, no singing, and no expressions of bonhomie,” growled Knuckles.

  Paddington stopped humming. He reached up to the top shelf and pulled at a heavy sack of oranges. It didn’t budge. He tried again, straining and heaving. Still it wouldn’t move. He looked at Knuckles, who was still reading his paper.

  Paddington gave one last tug at the sack. It moved a little way, but there was a worrying rumbling sound as the other sacks shifted as well. Paddington gasped and moved back, but he wasn’t fast enough. Every single one of the sacks came crashing down, falling on top of Paddington and covering him completely.

  “Ow!” he said in a muffled voice.

  Knuckles gave a heavy sigh, and then, rising to his feet, he came and took the sacks off.

  “I’m finding this working environment extremely stressful,” said Paddington, brushing himself down. “Aunt Lucy says that—”

  “AUNT LUCY!” Knuckles roared. “I’ve had it up to here with Aunt Lucy.” He threw his enormous hands in the air. “She sounds like a proper old bag to me.”

  Paddington looked up at Knuckles and said carefully, “I beg your pardon?”

  Knuckles took a deep breath and glared at Paddington. “Aunt Lucy sounds like the most naive, mushy-brained, gullible . . .” He paused.

  Paddington’s face had taken on rather a strange expression.

  “What’re you doing? What’s going on?” Knuckles asked with a puzzled frown.

  Paddington had locked eyes with the chef and was giving him a very firm look.

  Knuckles began to feel uncomfortable. He broke out in a cold sweat and pulled at his collar awkwardly. “It’s suddenly got very hot in here. Did I leave the oven on?”

  “No,” said Paddington. “I’m giving you a Hard Stare. Aunt Lucy taught me how to do them when people have forgotten their manners.”

  “Phew. Pretty impressive for a bear, I’ll give you that,” said Knuckles, shifting uneasily under Paddington’s gaze.

  “Now, Mr. McGinty, I may look like a hardened criminal to you,” said Paddington, relaxing his stare a little, “but the fact is I’m innocent. My family is working hard to clear my name so if you want me to make you some marmalade before I leave this place, you’d better give me a hand. I can’t do it all on my own. Everything takes longer with paws,” he added in explanation.

  “All right, I’ll help,” said Knuckles. The hard stare had clearly worked. “I doubt I’ll be much use to you, though.” He held up his huge fists. “These weren’t exactly made for cooking either.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Paddington. “They look like a great pair of orange squeezers to me.”

  “Orange squeezers?”

  Paddington handed Knuckles an orange and a bowl. “Have a go,” he said.

  The huge man took the orange and crushed it in one go. Juice poured out into the bowl.

  Paddington beamed. “We’ll soon have this lot done,” he said.

  They got into a rhythm then, with Paddington sniffing out the ripest oranges and Knuckles squeezing them into a pan.

  “You have to be careful with knives, Aunt Lucy says,” said Paddington.

  Knuckles took a knife and chopped the rind into pieces with the speed of machine-gun fire.

  “Where did you learn how to do that?” Paddington asked, his eyes wide in wonder.

  “Trust me. You don’t want to know,” said Knuckles with a sly grin.

  Soon the oranges were ready. Paddington added spices and lemon and lots and lots of sugar.

  Knuckles leaned in and sniffed. “Well?” he asked Paddington. “Is it any good?”

  “We’ll only know when it’s set,” said Paddington, settling down to wait. He hoped it would be perfect. He didn’t like to think what Knuckles might have to say to him otherwise.

  CHAPTER 13

  Read All About It!

  Judy had managed to print a pile of newspapers at school featuring her article and some of her mother’s sketches of the thief. She was determined that people should read the truth about Paddington because all the other papers were spreading lies about him.

  “I’m going to take them to the kiosk,” she told her parents one morning. “Miss Kitts might be able to sell them for me.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Jonathan.

  They arrived at the kiosk to find the Colonel having a cup of coffee with Miss Kitts.

  Judy showed them her newspapers. The headline read “NEW THEORY EMERGES IN PADDINGTON CASE.”

  “Would you mind selling these for me, Miss Kitts?” Judy asked. “I thought I’d write my own report on the case,” she explained.

  “Did you do this yourself?” the Colonel asked. He took a copy and flicked through it, impressed.

  “Jonathan gave me a hand,” Judy replied.

  Jonathan was about to agree when he caught sight of a group of boys in shades approaching the kiosk. He pulled his own shades down and said to his sister, “It’s J-Dog, okay? And don’t tell anyone about the paper—not cool.”

  Judy rolled her eyes.

  Miss Kitts smiled. “I’ll do my best to shift them, darling,” she said, “but we’ve got a lot of competition this morning.” She gestured to the other papers, which all had the news of the strange goings-on at St. Paul’s the night before.

  “Terrible business at the cathedral,” said t
he Colonel.

  Judy read the story. “This is weird,” she said.

  Miss Kitts agreed. “’Specially after the shenanigans at Tower Bridge.”

  Jonathan forgot about being cool for a second. “Wow,” he said. “Aren’t they two of the places in the pop-up book?”

  “Maybe Mum IS on to something—maybe the book does have clues in it!” Judy said. “Come on, let’s go and tell her.”

  And they ran back to 32 Windsor Gardens, chattering excitedly.

  As soon as they arrived back home, Judy and Jonathan explained their theory to their mother.

  “I think you’re right,” said Mrs. Brown, “the goings-on at Tower Bridge and the cathedral have to be linked!”

  “But what can we do, Mum?” Judy asked.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” said Mrs. Brown. “We’ll have to go to St. Paul’s right away to see if we can find any evidence. Come on!” she said, grabbing her coat.

  The three of them arrived at the cathedral just as a group was setting off on a tour of the building. A guide was talking, so Mrs. Brown, Judy, and Jonathan slotted in behind the group and listened in.

  “Designed by Sir Christopher Wren, St. Paul’s is one of London’s most famous landmarks,” the guide was saying. “Follow me to the Whispering Gallery . . .”

  They went up the stairs into the circular room.

  “Around the Whispering Gallery there are eight—” The guide paused. The area was closed off with police tape. “Oh,” he said, counting the angels. “Sorry, seven priceless angels,” he corrected himself.

  Judy broke away from the tour group and went up to a guard. “Excuse me,” she asked, “what happened here?”

  “A nun went berserk—it happens,” the guard said airily. He nodded to a chapel where one hundred nuns were being held. One elderly nun came out with a walker.

  The guard saw her and called out, “Hold it, Sister!” He held up his hand. “No one leaves until the detective says they can.”

  The old nun made a face and went back into the chapel.

  The guard turned back to Judy. “The police have rounded them all up, but if you ask me the culprit has already slipped the net.”

  Jonathan and Mrs. Brown had joined Judy. “What makes you say that?” Jonathan asked.

  “Because I saw her, that’s what,” said the guard. His expression became dreamy. “And she had the face of an angel,” he added with a sigh.

  Mrs. Brown took a pencil out of her hair. “Can you describe her?” she asked, getting ready to sketch.

  The guard gave a silly grin. “With pleasure,” he said.

  CHAPTER 14

  Marmalade Is Served

  Back in the prison, Paddington and Knuckles were getting ready to serve breakfast to a canteen full of hungry men.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Paddington, addressing the room. “Chef McGinty would like to propose for your delight an orange marmalade served on a warm crustless slice of bread, topped with another slice of crustless bread. Bon appétit.”

  The prisoners did not move. They sat in silence, staring at their plates.

  Knuckles stuck his head through the hatch and yelled, “Take it or leave it!” before disappearing from view, slamming the hatch shut behind him.

  Paddington stared after the chef as the men began muttering to one another.

  “Please excuse me,” Paddington said to the prisoners. He went into the kitchen to find Knuckles sulking.

  “Why don’t you come and join the others?” Paddington said in an encouraging tone.

  “Don’t want to,” Knuckles mumbled.

  “Why not? Are you scared what they might think?” Paddington asked.

  “NO!” Knuckles shouted. His expression then immediately crumpled and he asked anxiously, “What do they think? Did they like it? What did they say?”

  “Well—” Paddington began.

  Knuckles didn’t give him a chance to finish. He flew into a tantrum, kicking over pans and knocking over tins and packets. “I knew it!” he yelled. “They hate it, don’t they? My father always said I would amount to nuthin’ and he was right!”

  Paddington peeped out of the hatch and put a paw out to calm the chef down. “Knuckles, Knuckles!”

  “WHAT?”

  “Come and look!” said Paddington, gesturing through the hatch to what was going on in the canteen.

  Knuckles came over to join Paddington. He looked out to see every single one of the prisoners devouring their sandwiches. They were making ecstatic noises, smiling, licking their lips and groaning with delight. The marmalade sandwiches were clearly the most delicious food the men had tasted in years.

  “Come on.” Paddington held out his paw. “You need to let them thank you.” Paddington led a reluctant Knuckles into the room. The prisoners immediately leaped to their feet and gave the chef a raucous standing ovation, cheering and clapping and stamping. “Three cheers for Knuckles!” one of them cried. “Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!”

  Everyone joined in.

  Knuckles glowed with pride and happiness.

  Phibs, the Australian, called out, “Great tucker, mate. You got anything else? For pudding?”

  Knuckles’s face began to rearrange itself into its usual expression of anger.

  Paddington saw it and, thinking on his paws, he stepped in quickly to prevent another explosion. “We only know how to make marmalade, I’m afraid. Unless you know any recipes . . . ?”

  “This lot doesn’t know their paprika from their pectin, Paddington,” Knuckles snarled.

  Spoon piped up, “My great-grandmother used to make a lovely chocolate roulade. I think I can remember the recipe.”

  “Charley Rumble makes a mean apple crumble,” said another prisoner.

  “I can do strawberry panna cotta with a pomegranate glaze,” offered T-Bone.

  Paddington beamed. “That sounds wonderful, doesn’t it, Knuckles?”

  Knuckles was beaming too. “Yeah!” he said. “Let’s get cooking!”

  Over the next month, Paddington got to work on the prison menu. Afternoon tea quickly became an institution. Every day at four o’clock, Paddington would walk the length of the canteen with a dessert trolley groaning with piles of delicious cakes. The canteen itself was transformed into a delightful tearoom with gingham tablecloths.

  “This is the life,” said T-Bone one afternoon. He was tucking into a giant slice of Victoria sponge filled to bursting with raspberry jam and whipped cream.

  “Why didn’t we think of this before?” said Spoon. He licked his lips and took a bite of a gooey Bakewell tart.

  “It’s the perfect way to spend the afternoon,” said another prisoner called the Professor. He picked up a piece of cake.

  “Ahem,” said Paddington, passing by with the trolley. “Excuse me, Professor, but what would Aunt Lucy say?” he asked, eyeing the Professor’s fingers.

  The Professor looked sheepish. “Always use a cake fork,” he said meekly.

  “Well then!” said Paddington.

  The Professor put the cake down, then, using the fork, he shoveled the whole slice into his mouth in one go.

  Paddington tutted. “It is going to take a while for you all to learn your manners,” he said.

  But learn them they did—over time the prisoners became very skilled at using cake forks, tucking napkins into the front of their uniforms and remembering to say “please” and “thank you.”

  The warden was so delighted with the prisoners’ behavior—and so full of cake himself—that even he slowly became more relaxed. In fact, it was not long before he was reading stories at bedtime through the loudspeakers.

  Everyone was happy.

  Except Paddington.

  The night before visiting day he sat in his cell and looked at the photo he had of himself with the Browns and Mrs. Bird.

  “I can’t wait to see you all,” he said with a sigh. He stared longingly at the picture of the family he missed so much. “It�
�s all very well having new friends and a lot of delicious food, but this place isn’t home. I only hope you will be bringing me good news.”

  The Browns did bring news—but it was not good news. They showed Paddington a newspaper with pictures of a nun, a beefeater, and a king. The pictures were accompanied by the words: “Three shadowy figures spotted snooping around London landmarks this week.” There was also another image of Paddington with a story underneath that told how he had broken into Mr. Gruber’s and was now getting his “just desserts.”

  “Well, the last part is true,” said Paddington. He wiped the remnants of some cream from his whiskers. “At least the food is good here now.”

  “Don’t worry, Paddington,” said Judy. She spoke through a microphone on the other side of a glass partition. “We’ll get you out of here. We think we’ve made a breakthrough—it looks as though the thief you saw is part of a criminal gang.”

  “And they’re using the pop-up book as a treasure map!” Jonathan added.

  Mr. Brown was the only member of the family who seemed unconvinced. “Well, it’s a theory,” he said begrudgingly.

  “Do you know who they are?” Paddington said, looking through the glass at the pictures.

  “Not yet, dearie,” said Mrs. Bird.

  Knuckles appeared suddenly behind Paddington. “Maybe I should take a look,” he said, leaning over the bear’s shoulder.

  Mr. Brown bristled. “Excuse me,” he said. “This is a private conversation.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Brown,” said Paddington. He turned and smiled up at the chef. “This is my friend Knuckles.”

  Knuckles grinned. “How do you do?” he asked the Browns.

  Immediately a host of other faces appeared with Knuckles.

  Paddington began a long introduction. “This is Phibs . . . Spoon . . .” He pointed to each prisoner in turn. “Jimmy the Snitch . . . T-Bone . . . the Professor . . . Squeaky Pete . . .”

  “Hello!” said Squeaky Pete in a high-pitched voice.

  “Double Bass Bob . . .”

  “Hello,” said Double Bass Bob in a very deep voice.