by Michael Bond
She thought that because I came from South America I would be good at riding a horse; but I explained that South America is a big place, and she must be thinking of Argentina, where the famous gaucho riders live, and I didn’t know one end of a horse from the other.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Don’t tell my geography mistress. I’ve put you down to ride Black Beauty in the first event. It’s in aid of our new school swimming pool, and practically everyone, parents and all, are sponsoring you. The famous Olympic rider Gay Cheeseman has agreed to act as judge, and I’ve told all the other girls so much about you they can’t wait to see you come in first.”
After all that, I felt I couldn’t let her down.
You should have heard the cheer that went up when I climbed into Black Beauty’s saddle, and there was a louder one still when I disappeared over the other side.
But they were nothing compared to the cheering when I reappeared facing the wrong way. I suppose they all thought I was doing it on purpose.
It soon turned to groans when Mr. Cheeseman awarded me four hundred and fifty-two faults for allowing Black Beauty to knock down all the fences. Fancy putting them all in our way like that in the first place! You can’t blame her.
I don’t think it helped when she came back round and trampled over his best bowler hat that had been lying on the ground ready for the presentation of the prizes.
I don’t know how he got the name Gay. He was like Mr. Curry on a bad day.
Luckily Mrs. Bird had brought along a hamper full of goodies so we could all enjoy a picnic lunch. There was a huge selection of sandwiches—cucumber, cheese, ham, liver sausage—along with an endless supply of ingredients to make your own salad for the main course, followed by meringues.
But by then I was in such a daze I had no idea what I was eating; and by the time we got to the end, even Mrs. Bird’s meringues, usually so light they practically melted in your mouth, seemed harder than usual, and I had to work to get to the end of mine.
Judy had entered me for the last event. It was called Chase Me Charley, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t feel like chasing anyone.
However, as things turned out, I needn’t have worried.
When I climbed back into the saddle, I found Black Beauty was a changed animal from the word go. I can’t remember what I whispered in her ear, but I closed my eyes and clung on for dear life as she suddenly took off like the wind and literally sailed over anything that came her way. There was simply no stopping her, and in the background it sounded as though the whole school had erupted. Cries of “Good Old Paddington!” rang out from all directions.
It more than made up for my first time out, and I have no idea how long it might have lasted if Mr. Cheeseman hadn’t come to my rescue by blowing several blasts on his whistle.
“I have never seen anything quite like it before,” he said as he helped me down, and then he said something that sounded like “Cor blimey!” and dashed off as though he had a train to catch.
After that Diana Ridgeway, the head girl, came up to congratulate me.
She didn’t stay more than a moment or two because Miss Grimshaw, the headmistress, wanted to thank me.
“Stout effort!” she cried. “You’re a good egg, and you have given our new swimming pool an enormous fillip!” She looked as though she would like to have said more, but she asked to be excused and hurried on her way.
I wished I had brought my special stamp with me, because everybody else wanted my autograph, although, I must say, they all behaved very well and didn’t hang around afterwards asking questions.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Bird was packing up what was left in the hamper.
“Mercy me!” she cried. “I packed some garlic before we left. Not just a few cloves but the whole bulb, and it isn’t there anymore. What can have happened to it? And there is one meringue left over.”
The Browns exchanged glances as the penny slowly dropped.
“Black Beauty must have been trying to escape the fumes,” said Mrs. Brown.
“I must have eaten it by mistake,” I said. “I thought it didn’t taste as nice as usual.”
“Not as nice as usual!” echoed Mr. Brown.
“Paddington must have had quite a lot on his mind one way or another,” said Mrs. Bird gently as she handed me the last meringue. “We can’t really blame him. I suggest we have the car windows open on the way home.”
I must admit; it was the best idea I’d heard all day.
32 WINDSOR GARDENS, LONDON W2
Letter No. 11
Dear Aunt Lucy,
Since I came to live in England, I have heard people say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, and I don’t know whether that’s true or not. All I do know is it doesn’t apply to school Sports Days. I’ve been to two already this week.
I suppose it isn’t surprising. Schools break up for their summer holidays around the same time, and having been to Judy’s Sports Day, it wouldn’t be fair to give Jonathan’s a miss. At least his was different. Instead of having a gymkhana to raise money for a swimming pool, they played a game of cricket in aid of a new cricket pavilion.
Captaining a team of old boys, Mr. Brown had challenged a team made up of pupils from the sixth form, and the event was being umpired by Alf Duckham, a famous old-time cricketer who was known for his fairness.
Listening to all the talk taking place when we arrived, it sounded as though Mr. Brown’s team had a very short old boy, and I was beginning to feel worried in case he couldn’t see over the stumps when I realized they were in fact missing one old boy who’d had to drop out at the last moment.
It didn’t occur to me that I might be invited to take his place, although I did hear Jonathan’s headmaster say, “He’s not even an old bear, let alone an old boy.”
Which was when I heard Jonathan say, “Please, sir. He likes anything new, and he’s never played cricket before.”
I think Mrs. Bird was right when she said he was probably trying to outdo his sister.
Anyway, before I had time to sit down, I found myself standing on what they call the “boundary,” waiting for something to happen. Luckily I had thought to pack a marmalade sandwich under my hat in case I had an emergency, which is how I came to miss my first catch. I think they might have waited!
The ball didn’t come my way again before the interval, when the sixth form declared, leaving the old boys and myself one hundred and fifty runs to get before the end of the afternoon.
During the first half the sports master had found a pair of old pads he had cut in half so that I could wear them when I went out to bat. It was very kind of him, but it was hard to picture myself doing much running in them, because I couldn’t bend my legs at the knees. I suppose that’s why you don’t see many bears playing cricket.
One way and another things were getting gloomier in the old pavilion, and I could see why it might be nice to have a bright new one. Even Mrs. Bird, who admits she doesn’t know anything about cricket, could see that all was not well as one by one old boys came and went.
“Perhaps Paddington will be able to score a run or two,” she said, glancing up from her knitting.
“He’s last man in,” said Jonathan. “And with just over twenty runs to get, I doubt it. ‘Smasher’ Knowles, the Demon of the Upper Sixth, is bowling, and he’s so fast Paddington won’t even see the ball. He’s like an express train in his run up. Look . . . there goes Dad’s wicket!”
I made my way out to the crease as fast as I could in the circumstances.
“Best of luck, Paddington,” called Mr. Brown as we passed. “Don’t forget; whatever you do, keep a straight bat and keep an eye on the field. Watch where the captain has placed his men. There’s a silly mid-off, and he has a short leg.”
“Say when you’re ready,” said Alf Duckham when I reached the wicket.
“I’m all right, Mr. Duckham,” I said. “But I’m a bit worried about the silly mid-off.”
Having said that, I must say I di
dn’t like the look on Smasher Knowles’s face, so made sure I held my bat straight up in front of myself and closed my eyes. I heard the pounding of feet, and seconds later the bat was nearly knocked out of my paws. It was followed by a roar from the crowd.
I opened my eyes, and something wonderful had happened. The ball must have gone over the boundary in a direction nobody else had expected.
Smasher Knowles was glaring at me. “I can’t bowl that bear if he hides behind his pads,” he exclaimed crossly. “I can’t even see him, let alone the wicket.”
Mr. Duckham signaled him back to his place. “Everyone has their own way of playing,” he said sternly. “This young bear is entitled to his.”
It took them a little time to find the ball, and the minutes ticked away; but when play began again, I went through the same routine. I closed my eyes, there was a pounding of feet, the bat was nearly knocked out of my paws, and a roar went up the crowd.
The ball must have gone in a completely different direction, but once again it was outside the ground, and Smasher Knowles was dancing up and down with rage.
“Look at him!” he cried. “He’s holding his bat the wrong way round. He’s got the curved side facing outwards. He doesn’t even try to hit the ball. I hit the bat.”
“That bear has his methods,” said Mr. Duckham, signaling another six runs. “I don’t know of any rule to say he shouldn’t hold it that way.”
I expect you are wondering who came out on top. Well, it got so complicated even Smasher Knowles agreed the only answer was to call it a draw, and Mr. Duckham suggested I retire at my peak, then not many other batsmen in the world could say they had a batting average like mine.
Mrs. Bird says he is such a nice man, and she can see now why he was known for his fairness. I think she might take up cricket!
32 WINDSOR GARDENS, LONDON W2
Letter No. 12
Dear Aunt Lucy,
You will never guess what happened last week. To celebrate Jonathan and Judy coming home for the summer holidays, Mr. Brown took us all to the theater. As you know, I have never been to a theater before, and I don’t suppose I ever shall again after what happened.
I heard Mr. Brown on the telephone booking our seats, and he was asking them for a box. I thought how nice it was of him. I expected it would be for me to stand on so that I didn’t miss anything. But it turned out to be a very small room high up in the theater and I didn’t need one, anyway.
English is a funny language. They don’t waste words—they make them have lots of different meanings instead. But it can be complicated.
They wouldn’t let me in at first because I had my suitcase with me. As you know, I’m never without it. I opened it up to show there was nothing to see inside apart from some marmalade sandwiches, and I gave them a hard stare, so they relented.
It reminded me of the time when I was helping Mr. Curry with some plumbing. Having given me a hammer to hold, he pointed towards a join in the piping and said, “When I nod my head, you hit it.”
You wouldn’t believe the fuss he made when I did what he said!
Anyway, as it was Mr. Brown’s birthday, I thought it would be nice to do something for him, so when we were all seated, I opened the secret compartment in my suitcase and took out those centavos you gave me in case I had an emergency. I haven’t spent any, but I have been keeping them polished.
So when a girl came into our box, I seized my chance. She was called an usherette and I thought at first it meant she went around telling people to hush if they were making a noise; but it was another of those words I was telling you about, and she was selling programs, so I ordered six—one for each of us.
“That will be twenty-four pounds,” she said. “And I don’t take foreign coins.”
Would you believe it? It’s a good job I wasn’t standing on a box—I would have fallen off it with the shock.
In the end we settled for one program we could hand around, which Mr. Brown paid for himself, so I was glad I had brought a torch.
As soon as the lights in the theater went down, I switched it on to look for a sandwich. Some people in another box next door to ours began making shushing noises at us as though it was making a noise, so I pointed it in their direction, and several people in the back of the theater began to boo.
I think the interval, when the lights came back on and I could look down on all the other people, was the best bit.
Judy suggested I might like to try counting them. She promised to give me ten pence if I got up to a hundred before the lights went down again. I managed to get up to twenty-three, but I was so excited I was leaning over the side of the box, and I accidentally let go of a marmalade sandwich. It landed on a man’s head in the stalls. Luckily he was bald, so it didn’t make much mess.
“I expect he thinks a bird must have got into the theater,” said Judy.
“I expect it’s put him off going to the theater for the rest of the year,” said Jonathan as we hid ourselves from view.
I don’t suppose I shall be going again for a while, either.
32 WINDSOR GARDENS, LONDON W2
Letter No. 13
Dear Aunt Lucy,
My best friend, Mr. Gruber, likes what he calls “proverbs.” He says they are all tried and tested, and if you follow their advice you can’t go far wrong in life. So when I arrived at his shop extra-early yesterday morning and he said, “Ah, Mr. Brown, the early bird catches the worm,” I wasn’t at all surprised. I like being early anyway because I buy the buns on my way there, and they are still warm.
What did surprise me was he didn’t look up when I entered his shop, until I realized he was holding a china dish up to the light and trying to marry it with a small chip that had broken away from the rim.
Having listened to him dealing with customers as much as I have has taught me a lot about antiques, so I knew straightaway it was Italian blue bone china from the Second Spode period.
“I’m afraid there’s many a slip twixt cup and lip,” said Mr. Gruber glumly.
“I could try gluing it for you,” I said. “Bears are good at gluing things.”
“It’s very kind of you, Mr. Brown,” he said. “But I do have some more downstairs. What would really be of help, after we have had our elevenses of course, is if you could take the pieces round to a colleague of mine who specializes in adhesives. Tell him we need something that won’t set hard straightaway, which will give us a bit of leeway for the time being.
“I would go myself, but I daren’t leave the shop. We have an early-morning planeload of antique hunters from the other side of the Atlantic paying us a visit. Unfortunately they all seem to be down at the other end of the market, and I need to find some way of attracting them up here.”
While he was talking, Mr. Gruber placed several layers of soft material in my shopping basket on wheels and laid the china gently on top of it.
“I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this, Mr. Brown,” he said, “but I know you won’t let me down.”
A mug of cocoa and two buns later I was making my way down the Portobello Road when I happened to catch sight of an interesting-looking notice in Mr. Sloop’s barber’s shop window. However, it was a case of “first things first,” so I decided to take a closer look on my way back.
Mr. Gruber’s friend knew exactly what was needed, and he gave me a large tube of whatever it was, so I was back outside Mr. Sloop’s sooner than expected; and I saw exactly what Mr. Gruber meant when he said that end of the Portobello Road was already crowded. It was like a Saturday afternoon near Christmas.
The notice in his window said WILLING JUNIOR WANTED—URGENTLY, and I had only just finished reading it when the door opened and Mr. Sloop himself ushered me inside, shopping basket on wheels and all.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he said. “Short, back and sides, or would you like one of our ‘all-in specials’? Haircut, shampoo, and set—all for a fiver. You won’t know yourself when you look in the mirror.”
I
pulled my hat down tight in case he began work on my whiskers and announced I had come about the job.
“Blimey!” said Mr. Sloop. He looked me up and down. “I suppose I could stand you in the window like one of them ‘before and after’ advertisements. No prizes for guessing which you’d be.”
I gave him one of my hardest ever stares, and he immediately changed his tune.
“Hair all over the floor is my big problem,” he said. “It needs sweeping up all the time. If I was to give you a broom, perhaps you could have a go while I pop out and get a morning coffee.” He gave me a funny look. “Some people might think it’s a lot of work for five pounds a week.”
“Five pounds!” I repeated, hardly able to believe my ears. “Every week? That’s over forty buns.”
“Done then,” said Mr. Sloop. “Mind you, it’s only a trial. But if it works out I might let you have a go with the clippers in a day or two. Meanwhile, the broom is in the cupboard, so you can start by making yourself useful.”
And with that he left me on my own.
Apart from the broom, there were rows and rows of bottles and jars, and by the time I had unscrewed the caps on several of them to see what was inside, it was a while before I came out.
Much to my surprise a man was already sitting in the barber’s chair.
“I’d like a trim, please,” he said. “Not too little and not too much. Don’t touch the top, and make it snappy. I’ve been up all night.”
He gave a loud yawn followed by a gentle snore.
I must say, Aunt Lucy, Mr. Brown often goes to sleep very quickly after one of Mrs. Bird’s Sunday lunches, but never as fast as that. So, having unloaded Mr. Gruber’s china onto a shelf for safekeeping, I was looking for some scissors when I came across an electric razor, plugged in and ready to go.