by Michael Bond
“I told the Job Centre we’re a bit short-handed,” said the foreman, looking Paddington up and down, “but I reckon they must be in a worse state than we are.”
“Do you know anything about marmalade?” he added, not unkindly.
“Oh, yes,” said Paddington eagerly. “I eat a lot of it at home. Mrs Bird’s always grumbling about my jars.”
“Well, I don’t know what to suggest,” said the foreman, as Paddington returned his gaze very earnestly. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to try your paw at?”
Paddington thought for a moment. “I think perhaps I’d like to see the chunks department first,” he announced. “That sounds very interesting.”
“Chunks department,” said the foreman, glancing at the gatekeeper. “I don’t know that we’ve got what you might call a chunks department. But I could start you off in the barrel section if you like. There’s no one working there today.
“It’s where we keep the empty Seville Orange barrels,” he explained, as he led the way across the factory square past several rows of seats and a flower-decorated stand. “They all have to be scrubbed out before they’re sent back to Spain and I daresay you’ll find plenty of old chunks left in them if you’re interested.”
Paddington, who thought the foreman had said they kept several orange barrels, nearly fell over backwards with astonishment as the man led him into a yard at the side of the factory and he took in the sight before him. There were big barrels, small barrels, barrels to the left and right of him, barrels in front of him, and barrels which seemed to be piled almost as high as the eye could see. In fact, there were so many he soon became dizzy trying to count them.
“You don’t have to scrub them all,” said the foreman encouragingly. “Only as many as you can. We pay five pence each for the big ones, two pence for the smalls, so the more you clean the more you earn. It’s what we call ‘piece work’.”
“Five pence each!” repeated Paddington, hardly able to believe his ears. He’d once scrubbed out Mr Brown’s water butt at Windsor Gardens. It had taken him most of one weekend but at least at the end of it all Mr Brown had given him ten pence extra bun money. “I think perhaps I’d like to try my paw in the testing department instead,” he exclaimed.
The foreman gave him a look. “You’ll be lucky,” he said. “You have to work your way up to a job like that. Your best plan is to start at the bottom.”
He pointed towards a corner of the yard as he turned to go. “There’s a brush in that bucket over there and you’ll find a hosepipe in the corner. Only no playing about squirting people. There’s a famous film star coming to make his footprint in the ceremonial cement today and if I catch you wandering about it’ll be straight back to the Job Centre and no mistake.”
Paddington stared after the foreman as he disappeared through the open gates. In the past he had often found there were days when things seemed to go wrong for no reason at all, but he couldn’t remember a day when things had gone quite so badly. In fact they had not only gone badly but they seemed to be getting steadily worse with every passing minute.
He gave a deep sigh as he looked round the yard at all the barrels and then gradually a thoughtful expression came over his face. He felt sure that when the Browns arrived later in the afternoon things would begin to sort themselves out, but in the meantime he wasn’t the sort of bear to let a good opportunity slip through his paws. Paddington believed in making the most of things and it wasn’t often he was allowed to play with a hosepipe let alone be paid to do it, even if it was only five pence a large barrel.
A few moments later the steady hiss of escaping water began to mingle with the distant roar from the factory, and shortly after that the sound of rolling barrels added itself to the general noises as Paddington went about his task.
Several times during the next hour the foreman poked his head round the gates to see how things were going, and on the last occasion he brought the gatekeeper along as well.
“We’ve got a good lad there,” he said approvingly. “Makes a change from some of the layabouts we’ve been getting lately.”
The gatekeeper surveyed the small figure inside the yard. “Hmm,” he said darkly. “I can see something else that’s going to need a good ’ose down before the day’s out.” He nodded towards the factory square where a large crowd had assembled in readiness for the ceremony. “I only hope he doesn’t show himself in front of that lot. Sir Huntley’ll be making his speech any moment now and he won’t want no young bears covered in wet chunks roaming about.”
The gatekeeper addressed his last remarks in a loud voice towards the yard, but Paddington was much too busy to notice what was going on outside. Working in a marmalade factory was a lot more enjoyable than he had expected. Already most of the small two-penny barrels had been cleaned and stacked neatly to one side and he was feeling very pleased with himself as he sat on his suitcase and made a careful note of the number on a piece of label from an old jar.
As the foreman and the gatekeeper hurried back across the square Paddington took a long drink of cocoa from his Thermos flask and then turned his attention to the huge mound of five-penny barrels at the back of the yard.
He looked up at them doubtfully. Cleaning the two-penny barrels had been fairly easy. Apart from the odd few with particularly difficult chunks stuck to the bottom it had been mostly a matter of climbing inside and splashing about with the hosepipe. But the five-penny ones looked much more difficult.
Not only were they a lot bigger but as far as he could see there wasn’t even so much as a pair of steps in sight let alone a ladder which would enable him to reach the topmost ones.
Laying the hosepipe on the ground he picked up a long piece of wood and poked it between two barrels at the bottom of the pile. Things had happened so quickly earlier in the day he hadn’t been able to take it all in, but he distinctly remembered the foreman advising him that the best place of all to start in a marmalade factory was at the bottom.
As he levered the wood to and fro several loud rumbling noises came from somewhere overhead. Paddington wasn’t too keen on thunder and he looked anxiously up at the sky as he quickened his pace. Some of the claps sounded much too close for his liking and he wanted to get as much work as possible done before the storm finally broke.
Had he but known it Paddington wasn’t the only one to feel uneasy about the sudden change in the weather. From his position on the platform Sir Huntley Martin himself cast several glances skywards as he tried to speak. Although it was a warm day for the time of year, thunder in February was most unusual and he didn’t like the look of things at all.
“’Pon my soul,” he boomed into the microphone. “That’s all we need!”
Sir Huntley Martin was beginning to look more and more unhappy at the way things were going. The day had started badly when the famous film star who had promised to perform the opening ceremony had fallen ill, and now to have a thunderstorm into the bargain seemed the final straw.
Several times he tried to continue with his speech but each time he opened his mouth a loud rumble came from somewhere near at hand. Even the audience began to look uneasy and from her position in the front row Mrs Bird placed her umbrella at the ready.
“I wish someone would tell me where Paddington has got to,” she said. “I knew he should have brought his mackintosh.”
“If you ask me,” said Mr Brown, “he’s probably still inside the factory digging into the marmalade store.”
“If he doesn’t hurry up,” said Mrs Brown, “he’ll miss the ceremony. And he’ll be most upset if that happens.”
Mr Brown turned his attention back to the platform.
“If this thunder gets any worse,” he said, “there won’t be any ceremony to miss!”
“Crikey!” exclaimed Jonathan suddenly, pointing across the square towards the yard. “Look!”
“Good Heavens!” boomed Sir Huntley, following the direction of Jonathan’s hand. “It isn’t thunder at all.
It’s barrels!”
Everyone stared in amazement as they took in the sight which met their eyes. Several barrels were already bumping their way across the square towards them and even as Sir Huntley spoke a number of others detached themselves from the top of the pile in the yard and fell with a loud crash to the ground.
“Look out!” shouted the foreman. “The whole lot’s going in a minute!”
Almost before the words were out of his mouth the rumble became a roar and before the astonished gaze of the onlookers the mountain of barrels collapsed and came cascading out through the yard gates. Most of them stopped some distance away but several bounced dangerously near to the audience and one in particular seemed to have a life of its own as it spun round a number of times and finally ended up with a loud crash against the side of the platform.
“Mercy me!” cried Mrs Bird, as a familiar hat followed by some equally familiar whiskers peered out of the wreckage. “It’s Paddington!”
“That’s the young bear I took on this morning,” exclaimed the foreman with surprise.
“The young bear you took on?” repeated Sir Huntley, looking as if he could hardly believe his ears. “But he’s one of my guests!
“Thank goodness you’re safe, bear,” he continued, stepping down from the platform. “I don’t know what’s gone wrong but I should never have forgiven myself if you’d had a nasty accident on my premises.”
“What a blessing you had the presence of mind to get inside one of the barrels,” said Mrs Bird. “Otherwise there’s no knowing what might have happened.”
“Oh, I was inside already, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington. “I heard some claps so I climbed inside in case I got struck by a bolt.”
“But what on earth happened?” asked Sir Huntley.
“I think I started at the bottom by mistake,” said Paddington sadly, as he rose to his feet and dusted himself. He felt very much as if he’d been for a ride on a helter skelter, a scenic railway and a dodgem car all rolled into one, and now that he was actually standing it seemed even worse, for his paws felt as if they were sinking deeper and deeper into the ground with every step.
“Careful!” cried Mrs Brown. “Mind Sir Huntley’s ceremonial cement.”
“Sir Huntley’s ceremonial cement!” echoed Paddington, looking most surprised as he peered down at his feet.
Sir Huntley Martin stepped forward hastily and lifted Paddington carefully out of the small square of wet concrete.
“I think, ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, holding up his hands for silence, “this is a good moment to declare our new factory extension well and truly open.
“After all,” he added, amid applause, “lots of factories in the world have been opened by film stars making their footprints in the cement outside, but I don’t suppose there are many that can boast some genuine bear’s paw marks.”
As the applause died away Paddington examined the patch of cement again with interest. “I could make a few more marks if you like, Sir Huntley,” he said hopefully. “Bears are good at paw marks.”
“Thank you, bear,” replied Sir Huntley tactfully. “But I think we have enough to be going on with. Enough’s as good as a feast.
“And talking of feasts,” he added, looking at his watch, “we’re already late for tea and we don’t want to miss that. We’ve made some special new Director’s Marmalade in honour of the occasion.”
“Director’s Marmalade?” exclaimed Paddington with interest. “I don’t think I’ve tasted any of that before.”
“More chunks,” said Sir Huntley confidentially, as he led Paddington across the square towards the main building. “I’d very much like your opinion on it, bear.”
Mrs Bird looked at the others as they followed on behind, picking their way through the maze of broken barrels. “I know bears usually fall on their feet,” she said. “But it takes a bear like Paddington to land slap bang in the middle of a patch of ceremonial concrete.”
“And get a reward of some special Director’s Marmalade to test into the bargain,” said Judy. “Don’t forget that.”
Paddington stood in the middle of the Browns’ dining-room and gazed around with interest.
When Mrs Bird had brought him his breakfast in bed that morning he’d had his suspicions that something unusual was going on. Breakfast in bed on a week day was a sure sign Mrs Bird wanted him out of the way. But not even the distant bumping noises, which had been going on from quite an early hour, had in any way prepared him for the sight which met his eyes.
Normally the Browns’ house was tidier than most, but on this particular morning the dining-room looked very much as if a hurricane had recently passed through. The furniture had all been moved to one end. The carpet had been rolled up and was standing against one of the walls. There were no curtains at any of the windows and the pictures had all been taken down. Even the grate was cold and empty and the only heat came from an electric fire at one end of the room.
“I didn’t know you were cleaning your springs, Mrs Bird,” he exclaimed, looking most surprised.
“Not cleaning our springs,” repeated Mrs Bird. “Spring cleaning – that’s quite a different matter.”
“It means cleaning the whole house out from top to bottom,” explained Mrs Brown. “It’ll be your room next. We can’t leave it a moment longer.”
“And talking of not leaving things a moment longer,” said Mrs Bird, as she hurried out of the room, “if we don’t get a move on and buy that curtain material we shan’t have any dinner tonight.”
“Do you think we ought to take him with us?” asked Mrs Brown, as she followed Mrs Bird into the hall leaving Paddington to investigate the unusual state of affairs in the dining-room by himself. “He’s got a very good eye for a bargain.”
“No,” said Mrs Bird firmly. “Definitely not. It’s bad enough shopping when the spring sales are on at the best of times, but if that bear comes with us there’s no knowing what we shall end up with. Bargain or no bargain he can stay and mind the house.”
Mrs Brown cast a doubtful look after her housekeeper as she disappeared up the stairs. Although from past experience she agreed with Mrs Bird on the subject of Paddington accompanying them on shopping expeditions the thought of him being left in charge of the house when they were in the middle of spring cleaning raised even more serious doubts in her mind.
“I can see it’s going to be one of those days,” she called, as the sound of hammering came from somewhere overhead. “What with the chimney, and spring cleaning into the bargain anything can happen.”
“And probably will,” said Mrs Bird as she came back down the stairs adjusting her hat. “But worrying about it won’t alter things.Where’s that bear? I haven’t given him his instructions yet.”
“Here I am, Mrs Bird,” called Paddington, hurrying into the hall.
Mrs Bird looked at him suspiciously. There was a gleam in his eyes which she didn’t like the look of at all but fortunately for Paddington she was in too much of a hurry to look deeply into the matter.
“I’ve left you some cold sausages and a salad on a tray,” she said. “And there’s a treacle pudding ready on the stove – only mind you don’t singe your whiskers when you light the gas. And don’t let it boil dry. I don’t want to find any nasty smells when I get home.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington. “Perhaps I could do some tidying up while you’re out,” he added hopefully, as he followed the others towards the front door. “I’ve never done any spring cleaning before.”
Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird exchanged glances. “You may do some dusting if you like,” said Mrs Brown. “But I shouldn’t do too much tidying up. It’s all rather heavy and you might strain yourself. I’m afraid we shall have to eat in the kitchen for a day or two – at least until Mr Brown has cleaned the chimney. Though goodness knows when that’ll be.”
Mrs Brown gave Paddington one last look as she hurried after Mrs Bird. “I do hope he’ll be all right,” she said.
“Willing paws make light work,” replied Mrs Bird. “And if it keeps him out of mischief there won’t be any great harm done.”
Mrs Brown gave a sigh, but luckily for her peace of mind, every step down Windsor Gardens took her farther and farther away from number thirty-two, for if she had been able to see inside her house at that moment she might have felt even less happy about leaving Paddington to his own devices.
After he closed the front door Paddington hurried back down the hall with an excited gleam in his eyes. There was an idea stirring in the back of his mind to do with a large interesting-looking box with a Barkridges label tied to the outside which he’d seen standing by the dining-room fireplace.
For some days the word chimney had cropped up a number of times in the Brown household. It had all started when Mrs Bird opened the dining-room door one morning and found the room full of smoke.
Shortly afterwards Mr Brown spent some time on the telephone only to announce that all the local chimney sweeps had so much work on their hands they were booked up for weeks to come.
At the time Paddington hadn’t given the matter much thought. It seemed rather a lot of fuss to make over a little bit of smoke and after peering up the chimney once or twice he’d decided there wasn’t much to see anyway. Even when Mr Brown dropped a chance remark at breakfast one morning about doing it himself he hadn’t paid a great deal of attention.
But the news that operations were about to commence, together with the arrival of the mysterious-looking box, had aroused his interest at last.
The outside of the box exceeded his wildest dreams. Even the label was exciting. It was made up of a number of brightly coloured pictures called EASY STAGES, and across the top in large capital letters were the words SWEEP-IT-KLEEN. THE ALL-BRITISH DO-IT-YOURSELF CHIMNEY SWEEP OUTFIT.
Underneath, in smaller print, the label went on to say that even a child of ten could make the dirtiest chimney spotless in a matter of moments. To show how easy it all was, the first pictures had a small boy fitting the various bits and pieces together as he prepared to sweep his father’s chimney.