“You think of everything,” grimaced Millicent, imagining the thick ring of scum round Mr. Curry’s bath.
“Just one more thing, Honeypot,” he called up as she lifted herself through the hatch in the roof. “This is all . . . humane, isn’t it?”
“Of course, Mr. Curry.”
Millicent kicked the hatch shut and slipped off her long coat to reveal full hunting gear. Armed with a dart gun and smoke grenades, she stepped over to the Browns’ roof and attached an electronic pulley system to their chimney.
Down below, Paddington was far too occupied to notice the goings-on up above. He’d torn the corner off a phone book and, keen to mend it, had found Henry’s heavy-duty sellotape dispenser. Unfortunately, the sticky end got stuck to his fur and as he whirled round to find it, the dispenser let out more tape, wrapping itself round him until he looked as if he’d been mummified.
As he tried to unravel himself, Millicent lowered herself silently into the stairwell on the end of the steel cable, headfirst. Spotting the Browns’ telephone in the hallway, she raised a monocular to one eye and read the number on it, then dialed it on her mobile.
It was the perfect lure. Hearing the phone ring, Paddington struggled over to answer it. He was still attached to the dispenser and, stretching the tape to its limit, he strained forward to pick up the receiver. As Millicent took aim and fired, the tape suddenly jerked Paddington backward. She cursed as the tranquilizer dart missed him by millimeters.
Heaving at the sellotape, Paddington shuffled back toward the phone again. Millicent took aim, but just as she was about to shoot, the dispenser gave way, whistled over Paddington’s head, and hit her control switch. She zipped chaotically back up the wire and thumped into the skylight. The jolt loosened a smoke grenade from her belt, which fell, landed at the foot of the stairs, and began to belch clouds of smoke. Millicent hastily put on her gas mask. Recovering his balance, Paddington turned and stared in horror at what looked like a monstrous elephant dangling on a wire and waving a gun. He screamed and ran into the kitchen, jamming the chair against the door and looking frantically for somewhere to hide. He saw the oven door was open and dived in, not realizing as he did so that he’d knocked the gas on with his shoulder.
Listening through the walls, Mr. Curry had heard the scream from next door. He shot up the ladder on to the roof and began scrambling across to the Browns’ to rescue his beloved.
“Honeypot? I’m coming!” he bellowed.
With one swift move, Millicent had broken the door down and burst into the kitchen, but to her anger, there was no sign of the bear. She began opening cupboards and the tumble dryer, but then suddenly caught sight of Paddington’s blue duffel coat sticking out of the oven door. Creeping up silently, she flung it open—but he wasn’t there either! Mr. Curry stuck his head down through the skylight in the hallway.
“Fierce Eagle’s here. Need a hand?”
A single petal fell from his carnation into the stairwell, where it landed on a mousetrap and set it off. The spring pinged its cheese into the air with such force that it ricocheted off the kitchen lightshade and knocked Mrs. Brown’s best vase off a shelf. The vase fell onto the oven and hit the ignition button. There was a small spark, then an almighty BOOM!!! as the escaped gas exploded, blowing Millicent right off her feet.
The house was on fire! An alarm bell began shrieking and Millicent came round again to the sound of a concerned neighbor knocking on the front door.
“Hello? Is everything all right?” she called.
Hearing a fire engine approaching, Millicent grabbed the grenade, raced back up the zip wire, and disappeared through the skylight.
Paddington fell from the kitchen ceiling where he had climbed when he decided that the oven wasn’t safe enough. The sellotape had held him in place there like a giant chrysalis. The Browns and Mrs. Bird arrived home shortly after to find him sitting in the middle of the rug in a pool of fire-extinguisher foam. Henry stared in dismay at the sooty wallpaper and the melted television.
“Don’t worry about me, Mr. Brown. Have a nice day, Mr. Brown!” he mimicked. “I told you we shouldn’t have left him, Mary!”
“It wasn’t my fault, Mr. Brown,” said Paddington pleadingly. “There was an elephant!”
Even Jonathan was struggling to believe him.
“It’s true,” said Paddington. “It had an elephant’s head and a snake’s body.”
Mrs. Bird put a hand on her forehead.
“Have you been drinking seawater?” she said.
Mary knelt down beside him.
“Paddington, tell us what really happened. We won’t be cross.”
“Speak for yourself,” muttered Henry.
Paddington looked at the sea of accusing faces.
“I promise, I would never lie to you,” he said earnestly.
Even if they didn’t say it to his face, it was obvious that nobody believed him, and as Paddington lay in bed that night, he heard Mr. and Mrs. Brown arguing.
“That was the final straw, Mary. Think of the children.”
“It was an accident, Henry,” she said. “Paddington’s the best thing that’s happened to them! They don’t argue, Judy’s finally talking to us. They’re happy!”
“The fact is, that bear is putting them in danger,” said Henry. “And he didn’t tell us the truth. How can he possibly stay here if we can’t trust him?”
Paddington sat on the edge of the bed and waited anxiously for Mrs. Brown’s reply.
“I don’t know, Henry. Perhaps when I first asked Paddington to stay, I hadn’t really thought it through. . . .”
Paddington had heard enough. He grabbed the list he’d made of all the M. Clydes, hung Aunt Lucy’s luggage label back round his neck, and, with one last look around the room, he put his hat on and crept out of the front door with his suitcase.
With no particular place to go, Paddington wandered out into the rainy London night. Having plodded past the trees in St. James’s Park, he found himself outside Buckingham Palace, where a kindly sentry guard offered him a cake and hot drink from under his bearskin hat. “I’m sure Her Majesty would put you up for the night,” said the guard. But Paddington wasn’t a royal bear, and although Buckingham Palace was a lot bigger than the Browns’ house, he couldn’t call it home, so, tipping his hat to the guard, he moved on.
Paddington made his way along the riverbank opposite St. Paul’s Cathedral. By now he was exhausted, and, seeing a bench, he curled up and went to sleep in his duffel coat, shivering under the stars.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wrong Number
The next morning, Mrs. Brown went upstairs to wake Paddington only to find that his room was empty. His duffel coat and hat were nowhere to be seen, his suitcase was missing, and his photo of Aunt Lucy and Uncle Pastuzo was gone. There was a note on his pillow.
“Oh, Paddington,” she sighed. “How am I going to tell the children?”
She went down to the kitchen to break the news.
“Why did he go?” said Jonathan. “What does the note say?”
Mary read it out.
“Dear Browns, thank you so much for having me to stay. You are a lovely family. I am very sorry about Mr. Brown’s toothbrush and the flood and the fire and the incident at the Geographers’ Guild. I hope that now I have gone, things will be better for you all. Yours, Paddington.”
Judy shook her head in disbelief.
“Better? It was so much worse without him. We’re going to find him, right?”
Mary opened her mouth to reply, but Henry jumped in first.
“It’s better this way,” he said. “He didn’t really belong here.”
The children looked at him in disgust.
“How can you say that?” cried Jonathan, running out of the room.
“I’m going to my room!” said Judy, storming after him.
Henry choked on his cornflakes as his wife followed the children out of the kitchen without a backward glance.
�
�Mary, where are you going?”
“I just need to know that he’s OK,” she said, heading out of the front door.
Mrs. Bird folded her arms and harrumphed.
“Looks like my intuition let me down for once,” she said.
“What?” said Henry dully.
She picked up the unopened jar of marmalade on the breakfast table and waved it at him.
“You just don’t get it, do you? This family needed that wee bear every bit as much as he needed us. But what do I know? I’m just a silly old woman.”
“You’re not that old,” said Henry, realizing that he was the silly one.
Mrs. Bird cleared away the breakfast things.
“I’ll put this marmalade back in the cupboard,” she said. “In case of emergencies.”
“Quite,” said Henry.
That dawn, Paddington woke on the park bench surrounded by noisy pigeons. Shooing them away, he took the list of M. Clydes out of his suitcase and counted the names. There were fifty. It was going to take some time to visit them all, so after a quick bite of sandwich, he set off along the Thames.
Reaching the nearest address in just under an hour, he rang the doorbell. A man opened the window, still in his pajamas.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Montgomery Clyde,” called Paddington.
“Oh, sorry, mate. I’m Morgan Clyde,” said the man.
Paddington crossed him off the list and studied his A–Z of London. Meanwhile, Mrs. Brown was giving his description to the desk sergeant at the local police station.
“He’s about three foot six,” she said. “He’s got a bright red hat on and a blue duffel coat. And he’s a bear.”
The sergeant shrugged.
“It’s not much to go on.”
“Really?”
“We’ll do what we can to find him—but it’s a big city.”
Nobody knew that better than Paddington. He had trudged several miles already searching for the explorer and his legs were aching, but he wasn’t about to give up. According to Big Ben, Mr. Gruber would be having his elevenses right now. Walking was hungry work and Paddington would have done anything for a sticky bun.
By the evening, he’d only crossed a third of the names off his list, so when he reached the next address and pressed the buzzer, he really hoped it would be the one.
“Montgomery Clyde?” he said as the door opened. It was on a short chain and there was a little old lady behind it.
“I’m Marjorie Clyde, dearie,” she said. “Are you from social services?”
“No, Darkest Peru,” said Paddington, turning away. “Sorry to have troubled you.”
Paddington crossed her address off his list. He was so tired. He sat down in a bus shelter and, as he nodded off, he thought about the Browns and wondered if they missed him at all.
If he only could have seen them, he’d have had his answer.
Jonathan was alone in his room, playing halfheartedly with his fairground model. Mrs. Brown was doodling bears all over her sketchbook; Judy wasn’t talking to her, and no one could even look at Henry. When he came home from work, he found Mary sitting on the stairs.
“There’s still no news. In case you’re interested,” she said dejectedly.
“Right,” said Henry.
Mary went upstairs to change the sheets on the little bed in the attic, but she couldn’t bear to wash the inky paw prints off.
Two days later, Paddington was also about to give up. He was tired and hungry, and by now he’d visited every address on his list except one. This had to be him—it had to be the explorer! Paddington set off in the drizzle down a dimly lit street, looking for flat number 36. It took him a while to find it as it was above a TV shop, and, shivering with cold, he pressed the buzzer.
“’Oo is it?” said a gruff voice.
Paddington called through the letterbox.
“Hello. I’m looking for Montgomery Clyde?”
“Never ’eard of him.”
Paddington’s whiskers crumpled.
“Oh, but you must have done. Please, I’ve . . .”
“Clear off!” yelled the man.
Paddington went back down the stairs. He crossed off the last M. Clyde on his list and scrunched up the paper, and as the wind snatched it away, he stood by the curb in despair. Cold and hungry, he was even wondering whether there was a spare bed at the Not An Orphanage when a passing car splashed him. Blinking water from his eyes, he noticed that there was another number 36 above the dry cleaners opposite.
He ran back up the stairs to have another look at the brass numbers on the flat above the TV shop: the 6 of 36 had come loose and turned upside down. He’d been buzzing number 39 by mistake! He flew back down the stairs and ran to the real number 36. With his heart thumping, he pressed the bell.
“Hello?” answered a woman’s voice.
Paddington stood on tiptoes and spoke into the entry phone.
“Hello. I’m looking for Montgomery Clyde.”
“That’s my father,” said the voice.
Paddington’s mouth fell open.
“The explorer, Montgomery Clyde?”
“That’s right. You must be awfully cold. Come in.”
The red light on the CCTV camera winked and as the door opened with a buzz, he entered and waited at the bottom of the stone staircase. The woman appeared on the stairs. She seemed pleased to see him. Paddington raised his hat.
“I’m sorry to bother you. Is Captain Clyde at home?”
Millicent ran her fingers through her short blond hair.
“I’m afraid not. You see, my father is dead.”
All the joy drained out of Paddington’s face.
“Oh! Oh, dear.”
“Why do you want him?” asked Millicent.
“He once told my aunt that if we ever came to London, we’d be welcome,” said Paddington, “and I suppose I was hoping that he might give me a home.”
Millicent tried not to cackle. The marmalade bear she had been hunting had walked straight into her clutches.
“Oh, but I can do that,” she said in a syrupy voice.
Paddington’s eyes lit up.
“You can?”
She ran her hands through his fur. It felt kind and comforting. Perhaps it wouldn’t have felt quite that way if Paddington had realized she was feeling to see how much stuffing he’d need.
“Of course,” said Millicent. “A lovely specimen like you shouldn’t be out on the streets. You belong somewhere very special. And I know just the place. Come along, we’re going for a lovely ride.”
Relieved that he’d finally found a friendly face, Paddington followed her into a waiting van. It had TAXI written on one half of the sliding door, so he felt perfectly safe, but as she shut it, the second half of the word slid into place so it read: TAXIDERMIST. Millicent was about to drive off when Mr. Curry came hurrying toward the van waving a fistful of dead flowers that looked as if they’d been taken from a road accident shrine.
“Miss Clyde! Honeypot!” he called.
Millicent kept the engine running and wound the window down.
“What do you want?”
He thrust the bouquet at her.
“I found these tied to a lamppost and thought waste not, want not.”
Millicent turned her nose up and revved the engine.
“Charming. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“Where are you off to?” said Mr. Curry. “Only, I notice you’ve got the bear in there.”
“Hello, Mr. Curry!” called Paddington from the back.
“And?” said Millicent coldly.
Mr. Curry pointed uncomfortably to the sign on the van.
“It’s just, I, er . . . I thought you were sending him back to Peru.”
“I said I was sending him where he belongs,” said Millicent. “Which in his case is the Natural History Museum.”
Mr. Curry looked aghast.
“But Honeypot, that’s barbaric!”
“I am not your Honeypot, M
r. Curry. And I never was,” snarled Millicent. “Now take your rotten flowers and go!”
Mr. Curry backed away, terrified.
“Now!” screamed Millicent, almost reversing into him.
As Mr. Curry turned and fled, Millicent screeched off with Paddington in the backseat. Moments later, the telephone rang at 32 Windsor Gardens.
“Hello?” said Henry.
“Good evening. This is an anonymous phone call,” said a peculiar voice.
Henry recognized it straight away.
“Hello, Mr. Curry.”
“It’s not Mr. Curry, it’s Mr. . . . Burry. I have some news concerning the bear.”
Henry listened carefully, his eyebrows knitted in a deep frown.
“Good God!” he exclaimed.
“Who is it, Henry?” called Mrs. Brown.
He put his hand over the earpiece.
“It’s Mr. Curry pretending to be anonymous.”
“It’s Burry!” insisted the voice on the other end.
Mary took one look at her husband’s face and knew something awful had happened.
“What is it, Henry?”
“Paddington’s been kidnapped!” he said.
Jonathan and Judy overheard and came rushing into the kitchen.
“Is it true?” said Jonathan.
“Obviously,” wailed Judy as Mr. Brown fished his car keys out of the fruit bowl and headed for the front door, closely followed by Mrs. Brown. Judy rushed after them while Jonathan fetched his backpack.
“Where do you think you’re going?” said Mr. Brown as the children got into the back of the car.
“To save Paddington!” said Judy.
“No, we’re going to save Paddington,” insisted Henry.
The children refused to get out.
“You can trust us, Dad,” said Jonathan.
Mrs. Bird came running down the path.
“Anchors aweigh!” she said, clambering in with the children. “That wee bear’s going to need all the help he can get.”
“Put your foot down, Henry!” said Mary.
Her handbag shot off the seat as the car squealed off.
CHAPTER NINE
Get Stuffed
Paddington: The Junior Novel Page 6