by Michael Bond
“Eight feet,” said Paddington, almost before the Master of Ceremonies had time to start the clock.
“Eight feet?” repeated Ronnie Playfair. “You’re sure you won’t change your mind?”
“No, thank you, Mr Playfair,” said Paddington firmly.
“In that case,” said Ronnie Playfair as he triumphantly banged the gong, “I must ask for the five pounds back. The answer is one foot. If I had a piece of wood eight feet long and I cut it in half I would have two pieces four feet long. And if I cut those in half I would have four pieces two feet long. And if I cut each of those in half I would have eight pieces one foot long.”
Having finished his speech Ronnie Playfair turned and beamed a self-satisfied smile on the audience. “You can’t argue with that, bear,” he exclaimed.
“Oh no, Mr Playfair,” said Paddington politely. “I’m sure that’s right for your piece of wood, but I cut mine the other way.”
Once again the smile froze on Ronnie Playfair’s face. “You did what?” he exclaimed.
“I cut mine down the middle,” said Paddington. “So I had eight pieces eight feet long.”
“But if you’re asked to cut a plank of wood in half,” stuttered Ronnie Playfair, “you cut it across the middle not down the middle. It stands to reason.”
“Not if you’re a bear,” said Paddington, remembering his efforts at carpentry in the past. “If you’re a bear it’s safer to cut it down the middle.”
Ronnie Playfair took a deep breath and forced a sickly smile to his face as he handed Paddington a large bundle of notes.
“I think you’ll find they’re all there, bear,” he said stiffly as Paddington sat down on the stage and began counting them. “We’re not in the habit of diddling people.”
Ronnie Playfair looked anxiously at his watch. The programme seemed to be taking a lot longer than usual. Normally he would have got through at least five contestants by now.
“There are only five minutes left,” he said. “Do you want to go for the final prize of five hundred pounds?”
“Five hundred pounds!” exclaimed Judy in a tone of awe.
“If I were Paddington,” said Mrs Brown, “I’d stop now and make sure of what I’ve got.” The Browns grouped themselves even closer round their television screen as one of the cameras showed a close-up picture of Paddington considering the matter.
“I think I would like to carry on, Mr Playfair,” he announced at last amid a burst of applause.
Although Paddington was not the sort of bear who normally believed in taking too many chances as far as money was concerned he was much too excited by all that had taken place that evening to think clearly about the matter.
“Well,” said Ronnie Playfair in his most solemn voice, “Here, for a prize of five hundred pounds is the last question of the evening, and this time it’s a much harder one.”
“It would be,” said Mrs Brown, holding her breath.
“If,” continued Ronnie Playfair, “it takes two men twenty minutes to fill a fifty-gallon bath full of water using one tap, how long will it take one man to fill the same bath using both taps. This time you’ve got twenty seconds starting from. now!”
Ronnie Playfair pressed a button on the clock by his side and then stood back to await Paddington’s answer.
“No time at all, Mr Playfair,” said Paddington promptly.
“Wrong!” exclaimed Ronnie Playfair, as a groan came up from the audience. “I’m afraid this time you really have got it wrong. It will take exactly half the time.
“I’m very sorry, bear,” he continued, looking most relieved as he gave the gong a bang with his hammer. “Better luck next time.”
“I think you must be wrong, Mr Playfair,” said Paddington politely.
“Nonsense,” said the Master of Ceremonies, giving Paddington a nasty look. “The answer’s on the card. In any case it’s bound to take some time. You can’t fill a bath in no time at all.”
“But you said it was the same bath,” explained Paddington. “The first two men had already filled it once, and you didn’t say anything about pulling the plug out.”
Ronnie Playfair’s face seemed to go a strange purple colour in the studio, and even on the Browns’ receiver it went several shades darker as he stared at Paddington. “I didn’t say anything about them pulling the plug out?” he repeated. “But of course they pulled it out.”
“You didn’t say so,” cried a voice in the audience as several boos broke out. “That bear’s quite right.”
“Give him the money!” cried someone else as several more voices added to the general uproar.
Ronnie Playfair seemed to shudder slightly as he withdrew a silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket and patted his brow. “Congratulations, bear,” he said grudgingly, after a long pause. “You’ve won the jackpot!”
“What!” exclaimed Paddington hotly, as he gave Ronnie Playfair one of his hardest ever stares. “I’ve won a jackpot? I thought you said it was five hundred pounds.”
“That is five hundred pounds,” said Ronnie Playfair hastily. “It’s the top prize of all. That’s why it’s called a jackpot.”
As the applause rang through the theatre Paddington sat down on his suitcase hardly able to believe his ears. Although he knew there must be five hundred pounds in the world he had never in his wildest dreams thought he might one day see it in one big pile, let alone be told it was his.
Ronnie Playfair held up his hand for silence. “One final question before we end the programme,” he exclaimed. “And there’s no prize for this one. What are you going to do with all the money?”
Paddington considered the matter for a long time as the audience went very quiet. When you usually counted your money in terms of how many buns it would buy it was very difficult to even begin to think about a sum like five hundred pounds let alone decide what to do with it, and when he tried to think of five hundred pounds worth of buns he grew quite dizzy.
“I think,” he said at last, as the camera came closer and closer, “I would like to keep a little bit as a souvenir and to buy some Christmas presents. Then I would like to give the rest to the Home for Retired Bears in Lima.”
“The Home for Retired Bears in Lima?” repeated Ronnie Playfair, looking most surprised.
“That’s right,” said Paddington. “That’s where my Aunt Lucy lives. She’s very happy there but I don’t think they’ve got very much money. They only have marmalade on Sundays so I expect they would find it very useful.”
Everyone applauded Paddington’s announcement and the applause grew louder still a few moment later when Ronnie Playfair announced on behalf of the television company that they would see to it the Home for Retired Bears in Lima was well supplied with marmalade for at least a year to come.
“After all,” he said, “it isn’t every week a bear wins the jackpot in one of our quiz programmes.”
“Well I’m blowed,” said Mr Brown, mopping his brow as the programme came to an end and the captions began rolling past on the screen over a picture of Paddington as he stood in the middle of the stage receiving everyone’s congratulations. “I never thought when we bought a television set it would come to this.”
“Fancy Paddington giving it away,” said Jonathan. “He’s usually so careful with his money.”
“Careful isn’t the same as being mean,” said Mrs Bird wisely. “And I must say I’m very glad. I never did like the thought of all those bears only having marmalade on Sundays.”
“After all,” she added amid general agreement, “if it hadn’t been for Aunt Lucy we shouldn’t have met Paddington. And if that doesn’t deserve a bit of extra marmalade I don’t know what does.”
Mrs Bird paused for a moment and sniffed the air as she and Mrs Brown turned the corner into Windsor Gardens. “Can you smell something?” she asked.
Mrs Brown stopped by her side. Now that Mrs Bird mentioned it there was a very peculiar odour coming from somewhere near at hand. It wasn’t exactly unple
asant but it was rather sweet and sickly and it seemed to be made up of a number of things she couldn’t quite place.
“Perhaps there’s been a bonfire somewhere,” she remarked as they picked up their shopping and continued along the road.
“Whatever it is,” said Mrs Bird darkly, “it seems to be getting worse. In fact,” she added, as they neared number thirty-two, “it’s much too close to home for my liking.”
“I knew it!” she exclaimed, as they made their way along the drive at the side of the house. “Just look at my kitchen windows!”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Brown as she followed the direction of Mrs Bird’s gaze. “What on earth has that bear been up to now?”
Looking at Mrs Bird’s kitchen windows it seemed just as if, in some strange way, someone had changed them for frosted glass while they had been out. Worse still, not only did the glass have a frosted appearance, but there were several tiny rivers of a rather nasty-looking brown liquid trickling down them as well, and from a small, partly open window at the top there came a steady cloud of escaping steam.
While Mrs Bird examined the outside of her kitchen windows Mrs Brown hurried round to the back of the house. “I do hope Paddington’s all right,” she exclaimed when she returned. “I can’t get in through the back door. It seems to be stuck.”
“Hmm,” said Mrs Bird grimly. “If the windows look like this from the outside heaven alone knows what we shall find when we get indoors.”
Normally the windows at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens were kept spotlessly clean, with never a trace of a smear, but even Mrs Bird began to look worried as she peered in vain for a gap in the mist through which she could see what was going on.
Had she but known, the chances of seeing anything at all through the haze were more unlikely than she imagined, for on the other side of the glass even Paddington was having to admit to himself that things were getting a bit out of hand.
In fact, as he groped his way across the kitchen in the direction of the stove, where several large saucepans stood bubbling and giving forth clouds of steam, he decided he didn’t much like the look of the few things he could see.
Climbing up on a kitchen chair he lifted the lid off one of the saucepans and peered hopefully inside as he poked at the contents with one of Mrs Bird’s tablespoons. The mixture was much stiffer than he had expected and it was as much as he could manage to push the spoon in let alone stir with it.
Paddington’s whiskers began to droop in the steam as he worked the spoon back and forth, but it wasn’t until he tried to take it out in order to test the result of his labours that a really worried expression came over his face, for to his surprise however much he pulled and tugged it wouldn’t even budge.
The more he struggled the hotter the spoon became and after a moment or two he gave it up as a bad job and hurriedly let go of the handle as he climbed back down off the chair in order to consult a large magazine which was lying open on the floor.
Making toffee wasn’t at all the easy thing the article in the magazine made it out to be and it was all most disappointing, particularly as it was the first time he’d tried his paw at making sweets.
The magazine in question was an old one of Mrs Brown’s and he had first come across it earlier in the day when he’d been at a bit of a loose end. Normally Paddington didn’t think much of Mrs Brown’s magazines. They were much too full of advertisements and items about how to keep clean and look smart for his liking, but this one had caught his eye because it was a special cookery number.
On the cover there was a picture showing a golden brown roast chicken resting on a plate laden with bright green peas, bread sauce, and roast potatoes. Alongside the chicken there was a huge sundae oozing with layer upon layer of fruit and ice-cream, while beyond that was a large wooden board laden with so many different kinds of cheese that Paddington had soon lost count of the number as he lay on his bed licking his whiskers.
The inside of the magazine had been even more interesting and it had taken him some while to get through the coloured photographs alone.
But it was the last article of all which had really made him sit up and take notice. It was called TEN EASY WAYS WITH TOFFEE, and it was written by a lady called Granny Green who lived in the country and seemed to spend all her time making sweets.
Granny Green appeared in quite a number of the pictures and whenever she did it was always alongside a pile of freshly made Old Fashioned Humbugs, a dish of coconut ice or a mound of some other sweet-meat.
Paddington had read the article several times with a great deal of interest for although in the past he’d tried his paw at cooking various kinds of dinner he’d never before heard of anyone making sweets at home and it seemed a very good idea indeed.
All Granny Green’s recipes looked nice but it was the last one of all, for Olde Fashioned Butter Toffee, that had really made Paddington’s mouth water. Even Granny Green herself seemed to like it best for in one picture she was actually caught helping herself to a piece behind her kitchen door when she thought no one was watching.
It not only looked very tempting but Paddington decided it was very good value for money as well, for apart from using condensed milk and sugar, all that was needed was butter, treacle, and some stuff called vanilla essence, all of which Mrs Bird kept in her store cupboard.
After checking carefully through the recipe once more Paddington took another look at the magazine in the hope of seeing where he’d gone wrong but none of the photographs were any help at all. All Granny Green’s saucepans were as bright as a new pin with not a trace of anything sticky running down the sides, and even her spoons were laid out neat and shining on the kitchen table. There was certainly no mention of any of them getting stuck in the toffee.
In any case her toffee was a light golden brown colour and it was cut into neat squares and laid out on a plate, whereas, from what he’d been able to make out of his own through the steam, it was more the colour of dark brown boot polish, and even if he had been able to get it out of the saucepans he couldn’t for the life of him think what he could cut it with.
Paddington rather wished he’d tried one of the other nine recipes instead and after heaving a deep sigh he groped his way across the kitchen and stretching up a paw rubbed a hole in the steam on one of the window panes. As he did so he jumped back into the middle of the room with a gasp of alarm, for there, on the other side of the glass, was the familiar face of Mrs Bird.
Mrs Bird appeared to be saying something and although he couldn’t make out the actual words he didn’t like the look of some of them at all. Fortunately, before she was able to say very much the glass clouded over again and Paddington sat down in the middle of the kitchen floor with a forlorn expression on his face as he awaited developments.
He hadn’t long to wait for a few moments later there came the sound of footsteps in the hall. “What on earth’s been going on?” cried Mrs Bird, as she burst through the door.
“I’ve been trying my paw at toffee making, Mrs Bird,” explained Paddington sadly.
“Toffee making!” exclaimed Mrs Brown, as she flung open the window. “Why, you could cut the air with a knife.”
“That’s more than you can say for the toffee,” said Mrs Bird, as she pulled at the end of the spoon Paddington had left in the saucepan. “It looks more like glue.”
“I’m afraid it is a bit thick, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington. “I think I must have got my Granny Greens mixed up by mistake.”
“I don’t know about your Granny Greens,” said Mrs Bird grimly, as she surveyed the scene. “It looks as if you’ve got the whole pantry mixed up. I only cleaned the kitchen this morning and now look at it!”
Paddington half stood up and gazed around the room. Now that most of the steam had cleared it looked in rather more of a mess than he had expected. There were several large pools of treacle on the floor and a long trail of sugar leading from the table to the stove, not to mention two or three half-open tins of condensed milk l
ying on their side where they had fallen off the draining board.
“It’s a job to know where to start,” said Mrs Brown, as she stepped gingerly over one of the treacle pools. “I’ve never seen such a mess.”
“Well, we shan’t get it cleared up if we stand looking at it, that’s a certainty,” said Mrs Bird briskly as she bustled around sweeping everything in sight into the sink. “I suggest a certain young bear had better get down on his paws and knees with a scrubbing brush and a bowl of water before he’s very much older, otherwise we shall all get stuck to the floor.”
Mrs Bird paused. While she’d been talking a strange expression had come over Paddington’s face, one which she didn’t like the look of at all. “Is anything the matter?” she asked.
“I’m not sure, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington, as he made several attempts to stand up and then hurriedly sat down again holding his stomach with both paws. “I’ve got a bit of a pain.”
“You haven’t been eating this stuff have you?” exclaimed Mrs Brown, pointing to the saucepans.
“Well, I did test it once or twice, Mrs Brown,” said Paddington.
“Gracious me!” cried Mrs Bird. “No wonder you’ve got a pain. It’s probably set in a hard lump in your inside.”
“Try standing up again,” said Mrs Brown anxiously.
“I don’t think I can,” gasped Paddington, as he lay back on the floor. “I think it’s getting worse.”
“That poor bear,” cried Mrs Bird, all thoughts of the mess in the kitchen banished from her mind as she hurried into the hall. “We must ring for Doctor MacAndrew at once.”
Mrs Bird was only gone a moment or so before the door burst open again. “The doctor’s out on his rounds,” she said. “They don’t know when he’ll be back and they can’t even find his locum.”
“They can’t find his locum!” repeated Paddington, looking more worried than ever.
“That’s his assistant,” explained Mrs Brown. “There’s nothing to get upset about.”