by Michael Bond
When he entered the shop the man looked at him doubtfully over the top of the counter. “Fireworks?” he said. “I’m not sure that I’m supposed to serve young bears with fireworks.”
Paddington gave him a hard stare. “In Darkest Peru,” he said, remembering all that Mr Gruber had told him, “we had fireworks every fête day.”
“I dare say,” said the man. “But this isn’t Darkest Peru – nor nothing like it. What do you want – bangers or the other sort?”
“I think I’d like to try some you can hold in the paw for a start,” said Paddington.
The man hesitated. “All right,” he said. “I’ll let you have a packet of best sparklers. But if you singe your whiskers don’t come running to me grumbling and wanting your money back.”
Paddington promised he would be very careful and was soon hurrying back up the road towards the Browns’ house. As he rounded the last corner he bumped into a small boy wheeling a pram.
The boy held out a cap containing several coppers and touched his hat respectfully. “Penny for the guy, sir.”
“Thank you very much,” said Paddington, taking a penny out of the cap. “It’s very kind of you.”
“Oi!” said the boy as Paddington turned to go. “Oi! You’re supposed to give me a penny – not take one yourself.”
Paddington stared at him. “Give you a penny?” he said, hardly able to believe his ears. “What for?”
“For the guy, of course,” said the boy. “That’s what I said – a penny for the guy!” He pointed to the pram and Paddington noticed for the first time that there was a figure inside it. It was dressed in an old suit and wearing a mask. It looked just like the one he’d seen in the shop window earlier that morning.
Paddington was so surprised that he had undone his suitcase and placed a penny in the boy’s hat before he really knew what he was doing.
“If you don’t like giving a penny for the guy,” said the small boy as he turned to go, “why don’t you get one of your own? All you need is an old suit and a bit of straw.”
Paddington was very thoughtful as he made his way home. He even almost forgot to ask for a second helping at lunch.
“I do hope he hasn’t hit on another of his ideas,” said Mrs Brown, as Paddington asked to be excused and disappeared into the garden. “It’s most unlike him to have to be reminded about things like that. Especially when it’s stew. He’s usually so fond of dumplings.”
“I expect it’s an Idea,” said Mrs Bird, ominously. “I know the signs.”
“Well, I expect the fresh air will do him good,” said Mrs Brown, looking out of the window. “And it’s very good of him to offer to sweep up all the leaves. The garden’s in such a mess.”
“It’s November,” said Mrs Bird. “Guy Fawkes!”
“Oh!” said Mrs Brown. “Oh dear!”
For the next hour Paddington enjoyed himself in the garden with Mrs Bird’s dustpan and brush. The Browns had a number of trees and very soon he had a large pile of leaves, almost twice his own height, in the middle of the cabbage patch. It was while he was sitting down for a rest in the middle of the flower bed that he felt someone watching him.
He looked up to see Mr Curry, the Browns’ next-door neighbour, eyeing him suspiciously over the fence. Mr Curry wasn’t very fond of bears and he was always trying to catch Paddington doing something he shouldn’t so that he could report him. He had a reputation in the neighbourhood for being mean and disagreeable, and the Browns had as little to do with him as possible.
“What are you doing, bear?” he growled at Paddington. “I hope you’re not thinking of setting light to all those leaves.”
“Oh no,” said Paddington. “It’s for Guy Fawkes.”
“Fireworks!” said Mr Curry, grumpily. “Nasty things. Banging away and frightening people.”
Paddington, who had been toying with the idea of trying out one of his sparklers, hastily hid the packet behind his back. “Aren’t you having any fireworks then, Mr Curry?” he asked, politely.
“Fireworks?” Mr Curry looked at Paddington with distaste. “Me? I can’t afford them, bear. Waste of money. And what’s more, if I get any coming over in my garden I shall report the whole matter to the police!”
Paddington felt very glad he hadn’t tested his sparkler.
“Mind you, bear” – a sly gleam came into Mr Curry’s eye and he looked round carefully to make sure no one else was listening – “if anyone likes to invite me to their firework display, that’s a different matter.” He signalled Paddington over to the fence and began whispering in his ear. As Paddington listened his face got longer and longer and his whiskers began to sag.
“I think it’s disgraceful,” said Mrs Bird later on that day when she heard that Mr Curry had invited himself to the firework party. “Frightening a young bear like that with talk of police and such like. Just because he’s too mean to buy his own fireworks. It’s a good job he didn’t say it to me – I’d have told him a thing or two!”
“Poor Paddington,” said Mrs Brown. “He looked most upset. Where is he now?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs Bird. “He’s gone off somewhere looking for some straw. I expect it’s to do with his bonfire.”
She returned to the subject of Mr Curry. “When I think of all the errands that young bear’s run for him – wearing his paws to the bone – just because he’s too lazy to go himself.”
“He does take advantage of people,” said Mrs Brown. “Why, he even left his old suit on the porch this morning to be collected by our laundry for cleaning.”
“Did he?” exclaimed Mrs Bird, grimly. “Well, we’ll soon see about that!” She hurried out to the front door and then called out to Mrs Brown. “You did say the porch?”
“That’s right,” replied Mrs Brown. “In the corner.”
“It’s not there now,” called Mrs Bird. “Someone must have taken it away.”
“That’s very strange,” said Mrs Brown. “I didn’t hear anyone knock. And the laundryman hasn’t been yet. How very odd.”
“It’ll serve him right,” said Mrs Bird, as she returned to the kitchen, “if someone’s taken it. That’ll teach him a lesson!” In spite of her stern appearance, Mrs Bird was a kindly soul at heart, but she became very cross when people took advantage of others, especially Paddington.
“Oh well,” said Mrs Brown. “I expect it’ll sort itself out. I must try and remember to ask Paddington if he’s seen it when he comes in.”
As it happened Paddington was gone for quite a long time, so that when he did finally return, Mrs Brown had forgotten all about the matter. It had been dark for some time when he let himself into the garden by the back way. He pushed his basket up the path until he reached Mr Brown’s shed, and then, after a struggle, managed to lift a large object out of the basket, and place it in a corner behind the lawn-mower. There was also a small cardboard box marked GI FAWKES, which rattled when he shook it.
Paddington shut the door of the shed, carefully hid the cardboard box underneath his hat in the bottom of the basket, and then crept quietly out of the garden and round to the front door. He felt pleased with himself. It had been a very good evening’s work indeed – much better than he had expected – and that night, before he went to sleep, he spent a long time writing a letter to Jonathan in which he told him all about it.
“Gosh, Paddington,” exclaimed Jonathan, several days later, when they were getting ready for the display. “What a super lot of fireworks!” He peered into the cardboard box, which was full almost to the brim. “I’ve never seen so many.”
“Honestly, Paddington,” said Judy admiringly. “Anyone would think you’d been collecting in the street or something.”
Paddington waved a paw vaguely through the air and exchanged a knowing glance with Jonathan. But before he had time to explain things to Judy, Mr Brown entered the room.
He was dressed in an overcoat and gumboots and he was carrying a lighted candle. “Right,” he said. “Are we
all ready? Mr Gruber’s waiting in the hall and Mrs Bird’s got the chairs all ready on the veranda.” Mr Brown looked as eager as anyone to start the firework display and he eyed Paddington’s box enviously.
“I vote,” he said, holding up his hand for silence when they were all outside in the garden, “that as this is Paddington’s first November the Fifth, we let him set off the first firework.”
“Hear! hear!” applauded Mr Gruber. “What sort would you like, Mr Brown?”
Paddington looked thoughtfully at the box. There were so many different shapes and sizes it was difficult to decide. “I think I’ll have one of those you can hold in the paw first,” he said. “I think I’ll have a sparkler.”
“Dull things, sparklers,” said Mr Curry, who was sitting in the best chair helping himself to some marmalade sandwiches.
“If Paddington wants a sparkler, he shall have one,” said Mrs Bird, giving Mr Curry a freezing look.
Mr Brown handed Paddington the candle, taking care not to let the hot wax drip on to his fur, and there was a round of applause as the sparkler burst into life. Paddington waved it over his head several times and there was another round of applause as he moved it up and down to spell out the letters P-A-D-I-N-G-T-U-N.
“Very effective,” said Mr Gruber.
“But that’s not how you spell Paddington,” grumbled Mr Curry, his mouth full of sandwich.
“It’s how I spell it,” said Paddington. He gave Mr Curry one of his special hard stares, but unfortunately it was dark and so the full effect was lost.
“How about lighting the bonfire?” said Mr Brown hurriedly. “Then we can all see what we’re doing.” There was a crackle from the dried leaves as he bent down to apply the match.
“That’s better,” said Mr Curry, rubbing his hands together. “I find it rather draughty on this veranda of yours. I think I’ll let off a few more fireworks if there are no more sandwiches left.” He looked across at Mrs Bird.
“There aren’t,” said Mrs Bird. “You’ve just had the last one. Honestly,” she continued, as Mr Curry moved away and began rummaging in Paddington’s box, “the cheek of some people. And he never even brought so much as a Catherine wheel himself.”
“He does spoil things,” said Mrs Brown. “Everyone’s been looking forward to this evening. I’ve a good mind…” Whatever Mrs Brown had been about to say was lost as there came a cry from the direction of the garden shed.
“Crikey, Paddington,” shouted Jonathan. “Why ever didn’t you tell us?”
“Tell us what?” asked Mr Brown, trying to divide his attention between a Roman candle which had just fizzled out and the mysterious object which Jonathan was dragging from the shed.
“It’s a guy!” shouted Judy with delight.
“It’s a super one too!” exclaimed Jonathan. “It looks just like a real person. Is it yours, Paddington?”
“Well,” said Paddington, “yes… and no.” He looked rather worried. In the excitement he had quite forgotten about the guy which he’d used when he’d collected the money for fireworks. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted the others to know about it in case too many questions were asked.
“A guy!” said Mr Curry. “Then it had better go on the bonfire.” He peered at it through the smoke. For some odd reason there was a familiar look about it which he couldn’t quite place.
“Oh no,” said Paddington hurriedly. “I don’t think you’d better do that. It’s not really for burning.”
“Nonsense, bear,” said Mr Curry. “I can see you don’t know much about Guy Fawkes Night. Guys are always burned.” He pushed the others on one side and with the help of Mr Brown’s garden rake placed the guy on top of the bonfire.
“There!” he exclaimed, as he stood back rubbing his hands. “That’s better. That’s what I call a bonfire.”
Mr Brown removed his glasses, polished them, and then looked hard at the bonfire. He didn’t recognise the suit the guy was wearing and he was glad to see it wasn’t one of his. All the same, he had a nasty feeling at the back of his mind. “It… it seems a very well-dressed sort of guy,” he remarked.
Mr Curry started and then stepped forward to take a closer look. Now that the bonfire was well and truly alight it was easier to see. The trousers were blazing merrily and the jacket had just started to smoulder. His eyes nearly popped out and he pointed a trembling finger towards the flames.
“That’s my suit!” he roared. “My suit! The one you were supposed to send to the cleaners!”
“What!” exclaimed Mr Brown. Everyone turned to look at Paddington.
Paddington was as surprised as the others. It was the first he had heard of Mr Curry’s suit. “I found it on the doorstep,” he said. “I thought it had been put out for the rummage sale…”
“The rummage sale?” cried Mr Curry, almost beside himself with rage. “The rummage sale? My best suit! I’ll… I’ll…” Mr Curry was spluttering so much he couldn’t think of anything to say. But Mrs Bird could.
“To start with,” she said, “it wasn’t your best suit. It’s been sent to the cleaners at least six times to my knowledge. And I’m quite sure Paddington didn’t know it was yours. In any case,” she finished triumphantly, “who was it insisted it should go on the bonfire in the first place?”
Mr Brown tried hard not to laugh, and then he caught Mr Gruber’s eye looking at him over the top of his handkerchief. “You did, you know,” he spluttered. “You said put it on the bonfire. And Paddington tried to stop you!”
Mr Curry struggled hard for a moment as he looked from one to the other. But he knew when he was beaten. He gave one final glare all round the party and then stalked off into the night. A moment later the sound of a front door being slammed echoed around the houses.
“Well,” chuckled Mr Gruber, “I must say that when young Mr Brown’s around there’s never a dull moment!” He felt underneath his chair and brought out a cardboard box. “Now I vote we get on with the display. And just in case we run out of fireworks – I’ve brought a few more along.”
“You know, it’s funny you should say that,” said Mr Brown, feeling under his chair. “But I have some as well!”
Afterwards everyone in the neighbourhood voted it was the best firework display they had seen for many a year. Quite a number of people turned up to watch, and even Mr Curry was seen peeping from behind his curtains on several occasions.
And as Paddington lifted a tired paw and waved the last sparkler in the air to spell out the words T-H-E E-N-D, everyone agreed they had never seen such a successful bonfire before – or such a well-dressed guy.
That evening, after the bonfire had died away, the weather suddenly became even colder. When Paddington went upstairs to bed he opened his window a few inches and peeped out in case there were any more fireworks to see. He sniffed the cold night air and then hastily shut the window, diving into bed and pulling the blankets over his ears.
In the morning he woke much earlier than usual, shivering with cold, and found to his surprise that the ends of his whiskers, which had become uncovered during the night, were quite stiff. Having listened for a while to make sure breakfast was being cooked, he put on his duffle coat and went along to the bathroom.
When he reached the bathroom, Paddington made several interesting discoveries. First, his flannel, which he’d left folded over the towel rail the night before, was as stiff as a board, and it made a funny crackling noise when he tried to bend it straight. Then, when he turned the tap, nothing happened. Paddington decided quite quickly that he wasn’t meant to wash that morning and hurried back to his own room.
But when he got there he had yet another surprise. He drew the curtains and tried to look out of his window, only to find that it was all white and frosted – just like the one in the bathroom. Paddington breathed heavily on the glass and rubbed it with the back of his paw. When he had made a hole big enough to peer through, he nearly fell over backwards with astonishment.
All traces of the previous eve
ning’s bonfire had completely vanished. Instead, everything was covered by a thick blanket of white. Not only that, but there were millions of large white flakes falling out of the sky.
He rushed downstairs to tell the others. The Browns were all sitting round the breakfast table when he burst into the dining-room. Paddington waved his paws wildly in the air and called for them to look out of the window.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr Brown, looking up from his morning paper. “What is the matter?”
“Look!” said Paddington, pointing towards the garden. “Everything’s gone white!”
Judy threw back her head and laughed. “It’s all right, Paddington – it’s only snow. It happens every year.”
“Snow?” said Paddington, looking puzzled. “What’s snow?”
“It’s a nuisance,” said Mr Brown crossly. Mr Brown wasn’t in a very good mood that morning. He hadn’t expected the weather to change so quickly and all the upstairs water pipes had frozen. To make matters worse, everyone had been blaming him because he’d forgotten to stoke the boiler before going to bed.
“Snow?” said Judy. “Well, it’s… it’s sort of frozen rain. It’s very soft.”
“Jolly good for snowballs,” exclaimed Jonathan. “We’ll show you how to make them after breakfast. We can clear the paths at the same time.”
Paddington sat down at the breakfast table and began undoing his napkin, hardly able to take his eyes off the scene outside the window.
“Paddington!” said Mrs Brown, suspiciously. “Did you wear your duffle coat when you washed this morning?”
“A lick and a promise,” said Mrs Bird, as she handed him a steaming bowl of porridge. “And more promise than lick if you ask me.”
But Paddington was much too busy thinking about the snow to hear what they were saying. He was wondering if he could speed up the breakfast by having all his things on one plate. But just as he reached out for the bacon and eggs and the marmalade, he caught Mrs Bird’s eye and hurriedly pretended he was only conducting to the music on the wireless.