by Michael Bond
Paddington felt a slight pang of guilt as he lifted the lid of the box and peered inside, but he soon lost it again as he settled down in an armchair, dipping his paw into a jar of marmalade every now and then as he examined the contents.
Although none of the pictures on the label mentioned anything about bears being able to sweep their chimneys it made everything look so clear and simple he began to wonder why anyone ever bothered to hire a real chimney sweep at all.
One picture even showed a large bag labelled SOOT standing next to a pile of silver coins and followed it with the inscription MAKE MONEY IN YOUR SPARE TIME BY SELLING SOOT TO YOUR NEIGHBOURS FOR THEIR GARDEN.
Paddington couldn’t quite picture Mr Curry actually paying for someone else’s soot but all the same he began to feel that Mr Brown’s outfit was very good value indeed.
Inside the box there was a large round brush together with a number of long rods with metal ends which screwed together to form one long pole. Underneath the rods was yet another compartment containing a sack for the soot and a sheet with two armholes so that the person sweeping the chimney could fit it to the mantelpiece and work without getting the rest of the room dirty.
Paddington tried putting his paws through the sheet, and after screwing the brush on to one of the rods, he spent several enjoyable minutes while he hurried round the room poking it into various nooks and crannies.
It was when he decided to test it up the chimney itself that a thoughtful expression gradually came over his face. The brush went up and down remarkably easily and even with only one rod the grate was full of soot in no time at all.
Paddington grew more and more thoughtful as he shovelled the soot into the sack and then tried fixing a second rod to the first. Although Mrs Brown hadn’t actually mentioned anything about sweeping the chimney he felt sure it could quite easily come under the heading of dusting.
Number thirty-two Windsor Gardens was a tall house and as the bundle of rods by Paddington’s side got smaller and smaller so the pile of soot in the grate grew larger and deeper.
Several times he had to stop and clear it away to make room for his paws as first the sack and then several of Mrs Bird’s old grocery boxes became full to the brim. He was beginning to give up hope of ever reaching the top when suddenly, without any warning, the brush freed itself and he nearly fell over into the grate as he clung to the last of the rods.
Paddington sat in the fireplace for a while, mopping his brow with a corner of the sheet and then, after disappearing upstairs for a few moments, he hurried outside carrying his binoculars.
According to a note on the box lid the exciting part about sweeping a chimney was always the moment when the brush popped out of the chimney pot and he was particularly anxious to see it for himself.
Carefully adjusting the glasses he climbed the ladder which Mr Briggs, the builder, had left standing against the side of the house and peered up at the roof with a pleased expression on his face. The view through the binoculars of the brush poking out of Mr Brown’s chimney pot almost exactly matched the picture on the box.
Paddington spent some time drinking in the view and then he climbed back down the ladder and hurried into the house wearing the air of a bear with a job well done. All in all, it had been a good morning’s work and he felt sure the Browns would be very pleased when they reached home and found how busy he’d been.
Pulling the brush back down the chimney proved to be a lot easier than pushing it up had been and it seemed only a matter of moments before he found himself reaching up behind the sheet for the last of the rods.
It was as he disentangled himself from the sheet that a startled expression suddenly came over Paddington’s face, and he nearly fell over backwards with surprise as he stared at the rod in his paw. He rubbed his eyes in case he’d got some soot in them by mistake and then gazed at the end of the rod again. It was definitely the last one of the set, as he’d counted them all most carefully, but of the brush itself there was nothing to be seen.
After peering hopefully up the chimney several times Paddington sat down anxiously in the fireplace in order to consult the instructions on the box.
As he lifted the lid he suddenly caught sight of a large red label pasted to the bottom of the box. It had escaped his notice before and as he read it his eyes grew larger and larger. It said simply:
WARNING!
AFTER SWEEPING THE CHIMNEY
GREAT CARE MUST BE TAKEN
WHEN UNSCREWING RODS
OTHERWISE THE BRUSH MAY
BECOME DETACHED!
“My brush become detached?” exclaimed Paddington bitterly, addressing the world in general as he gazed at the rod in one paw and the box in the other.
Apart from leaving the warning about the brush becoming detached until it was far too late, the only advice the notice seemed to give for when things did go wrong was contained in the four words, CONSULT YOUR NEAREST DEALER.
Paddington sat in the fireplace with a mournful expression on his face. He felt sure that Barkridges wouldn’t be at all keen if he consulted them on the subject of Mr Brown’s brush being stuck up his chimney, and he was equally certain that Mr Brown himself would be even less happy when he heard the news.
In fact, after giving the matter a great deal of thought, the only way he could see to soften the blow at all was to clear up some of the mess and hope that while he did so, he might get an idea on the subject.
If, earlier in the day, the Browns’ dining-room had given the impression of having been in the path of a hurricane, it now looked as if a belt of thick smog had passed through as well. Despite the dust sheet everything seemed. to be covered in a thin layer of soot, and looking round the room Paddington decided that in more ways than one he’d never seen things looking quite so black.
Mr Brown took his head out of the chimney and looked round at the others. “I can’t understand it,” he exclaimed. “That’s the third time I’ve tried to light the fire. It keeps going out.”
Mrs Brown picked up a newspaper and began waving some of the smoke away. “There’s obviously been another fall of soot,” she said. “It’s everywhere. If you ask me, the chimney’s blocked. I told you it needed sweeping.”
“How could I sweep it?” said Mr Brown crossly. “The outfit only arrived this morning.”
The Browns grouped themselves unhappily round the fireplace and stared at the pile of used matches.
“And that’s another thing,” continued Mr Brown. “I’m sending it straight back to Barkridges. It’s filthy dirty and there isn’t even a brush. You can’t sweep a chimney without a brush.”
“Perhaps Paddington’s borrowed it for something,” said Mrs Brown vaguely. “I can’t find him anywhere.”
“Paddington?” echoed Mr Brown. “What would he want with a brush?”
“There’s no knowing,” said Mrs Bird ominously.
Mrs Bird didn’t like the signs of a hurried cleaning up she’d noticed in the dining-room or the various sooty paw marks which she’d discovered during a quick glance round the rest of the house, but in view of the look on Mr Brown’s face she wisely kept her thoughts to herself.
“He hasn’t touched his treacle pudding,” said Mrs Brown. “And that’s most unusual.”
“Blow Paddington’s treacle pudding,” replied Mr Brown. “I’m more worried about the fire.”
Mrs Brown opened the french windows and looked into the garden. “Perhaps Mr Briggs can help,” she said. “He’s just come back.”
In answer to Mrs Brown’s call Mr Briggs, the builder, came into the dining-room and put his ear to the chimney with an experienced air. “Jackdaws!” he said, after a moment. “You’ve got a jackdaw’s nest in yer pot. If you listen you can hear ’em coughing.”
“Coughing?” exclaimed Mrs Bird. “I didn’t know jackdaws coughed.”
“You’d cough, mem,” said Mr Briggs, “if someone tried to light a fire under your nest. But don’t you worry,” he continued, opening up Mr Brown
’s cleaning set. “I’ll have it out in a jiffy.”
The Browns stood back and watched while Mr Briggs began pushing the rods up the chimney. “Good job you had these,” he went on. “Otherwise it might have been a rare old job.”
Mr Briggs’s face became redder and redder as the rods got harder to push, but at long last he gave a final upward heave and there was a loud crashing noise as something heavy landed in the grate.
“There you are,” he announced triumphantly. “What did I tell you?”
Mr Brown adjusted his glasses and peered at the round, black, bristly object lying on the hearth. “It looks a funny sort of bird’s nest to me,” he said. “In fact, if you ask me it’s more like the brush out of a chimney sweeping outfit.”
“You’re quite right,” said Mr Briggs, scratching his head. “It’s a brush all right.”
Mr Briggs began to look even more puzzled as he picked up the object and examined it more closely. “It seems to be in some sort of container,” he exclaimed.
“That’s not a container,” said Mrs Brown. “It’s Paddington’s hat.”
“Good Heavens! So it is,” exclaimed Mr Brown. “But what’s it doing up the chimney – and with my brush inside it?”
“Mercy me!” interrupted Mrs Bird, pointing towards the window. “Look!”
The others turned and followed the direction of her gaze. “I can’t see anything,” said Mr Brown.
“Is anything the matter?” asked Mrs Brown, looking at her housekeeper with some concern. “You’ve gone quite white.”
“I thought I saw a chimney pot go past the window,” exclaimed Mrs Bird, reaching for her smelling salts.
Mr and Mrs Brown exchanged glances. Normally Mrs Bird was the sanest member of the family and it was most unusual for her to have hallucinations.
“I think you’d better sit down,” said Mr Brown, drawing up a chair. “Perhaps the excitement’s been too much for you.”
“It’s all right, Mrs Bird,” came a familiar, if somewhat muffled voice from the dining-room doorway. “It’s only me.”
If Mrs Bird had been taken by surprise a moment before, the others looked even more amazed as they turned and stared at the black object before them. In place of his usual headgear Paddington was wearing what appeared to be half a chimney pot which covered his ears and came down over his eyes like an oversize top hat.
“I’m afraid it broke off when Mr Briggs poked his rods up,” he explained, when the noise had died down.
“But what on earth were you doing up on the roof in the first place?” asked Mr Brown.
“I was dusting the chimney,” said Paddington sadly. “The brush got detached by mistake and I was trying to rescue it.”
“Paddington?” echoed Mr Briggs disbelievingly, as he began levering the pot off. “Did you say Paddington? Looks more like Clapham Junction to me. Proper mess he’s in.”
Paddington looked most offended at Mr Briggs’s words as he sat on the floor rubbing his ears. It had been bad enough losing Mr Brown’s brush up the chimney in the first place, but then to get his head stuck inside the pot and be mistaken for a bird’s nest into the bargain seemed the unkindest cut of all.
“I know one thing,” said Mrs Bird sternly. “You’re going straight up to the bathroom. We must have the dirtiest bear within fifty miles!”
Mr Briggs gave a sudden chuckle as he looked at the others. “I’ll say this much,” he remarked, pouring oil on troubled waters. “You may not have the cleanest bear within fifty miles but I’m willing to bet there isn’t a cleaner chimney.”
Paddington looked at Mr Briggs gratefully and then hurried out of the room before any more questions could be asked. For once in his life he agreed with Mrs Bird that a nice hot bath with plenty of soap was the best order of the day.
Apart from that he had just remembered that he hadn’t yet eaten his sausage salad, let alone his treacle pudding. Paddington was very keen on treacle pudding and he was anxious to make sure the cooker was turned on so that it would be all ready for him when he got downstairs again.
The day after his adventure with the chimney sweeping outfit Paddington hurried down to the market with his shopping basket on wheels in order to tell his friend, Mr Gruber, all about it.
Mr Gruber chuckled as he busied himself with a saucepan on the small stove at the back of his shop. “I wish I’d have known, Mr Brown,” he said. “I could have let you have several books on the subject.”
“I don’t think they would have helped me very much, Mr Gruber,” said Paddington sadly. “It’s a bit difficult reading books when you’ve got your head stuck in a chimney pot – especially with paws.”
Mr Gruber chuckled again as he joined Paddington on the horsehair sofa. “Thank goodness the weather seems to be on the change at last,” he said, looking out of his shop window as he handed over a large mug of cocoa. “I can’t say I’m sorry.”
Paddington nodded his agreement from behind a cloud of cocoa steam while he divided the morning supply of buns. Although he liked the winter, spring, with its promise of even better things to come, always seemed much more exciting. Apart from that, when there was too much ice or snow about it wasn’t always possible to get as far as the Portobello Road and he missed his morning chats with Mr Gruber over their elevenses.
Paddington was fond of Mr Gruber’s old antique shop with its rows of books and gleaming piles of copper and brass, but of late the weather had been too cold for anything more than an occasional visit. In fact the only good thing about it all was that in the meantime he had built up a big reserve of bun money at the bakers where he had a standing order.
“I’ve been hoping we might be able to have one of our little trips,” said Mr Gruber. “Once the good weather comes I shall be busy with all the tourists and it seems ages since we went out together.”
Paddington wiped the cocoa stains from his whiskers. “Oh, yes please, Mr Gruber,” he exclaimed. “I should like that.”
Mr Gruber looked thoughtful. “I notice a new travel firm has opened up in the market,” he said. “They’re advertising coach trips and they seem to do a very good Mystery Tour for one pound fifty.”
“A Mystery Tour?” exclaimed Paddington with interest. “I don’t think I’ve been on one of those before. Where do they go?”
“Ah,” said Mr Gruber. “They don’t tell you. That’s the mystery. But they do say it ends up with a visit to a famous London landmark.”
“It sounds very good value,” said Paddington doubtfully. “But I don’t think I’ve got one pound fifty. Unless they’d take buns instead.”
Mr Gruber coughed. “I don’t think it will come to that, Mr Brown,” he said. “In fact,” he continued hastily, not wishing to embarrass Paddington, “talking of buns, you’ve kept me so well supplied over the years I think it’s about time I stood treat for a change. It would give me great pleasure if you’d come along as my guest.”
“Thank you, Mr Gruber,” said Paddington gratefully. “That’s very kind of you.”
Mr Gruber stood up and crossed the shop to his cash drawer. “That’s settled then,” he said, handing Paddington a five pound note. “There’s no time like the present and if you’ve nothing else arranged we could go this afternoon. Perhaps you’d like to book up for both of us on your way home.”
Paddington thanked Mr Gruber once again and a short while later, having finished his elevenses, he hurried off up the Portobello Road towards the new coach tours office Mr Gruber had pointed out to him.
The shop was called ALF PRICE COACH TOURS and as far as he could see it looked even better value for money than Mr Gruber’s description had led him to expect.
On the pavement outside, a large blackboard headed Today’s Special bore the words AFTERNOON MYSTERY TOUR – £1.50, and some of the pictures in the window looked even more interesting. Several described day trips to the seaside, others were all about coach holidays in various parts of the country, and one in particular which caught his eye showed
scenes from a bumper Continental Tour called the ‘99 Special’.
Paddington spent some time studying the last advertisement. In fact, he became so absorbed in it he didn’t notice a shadowy figure standing in the shop doorway and he was taken by surprise when the man addressed him.
“Good morning, sir,” said the man, rubbing his hands with invisible soap. “Can I interest you in one of our tours?”
“Yes, please,” said Paddington importantly, following the man into the shop. “I’d like two, please.”
“Two?” echoed the man looking most impressed as he ushered Paddington towards a deep leather armchair standing next to a table laden with pamphlets. “Which one in particular takes your fancy? I can thoroughly recommend our ‘99 Special’.
“Nine different countries in nine days,” he continued, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from the arm of Paddington’s chair. “And you need never get out of the coach. The normal price is a hundred pounds, but I’m sure we could arrange special all-in bear rates if you’re having two.”
“A hundred pounds!” exclaimed Paddington in alarm. “But I only wanted two one pound fifty ones for the afternoon Mystery Tour.”
The smile disappeared as if by magic from the man’s face as he stared at Paddington’s five pound note. “’Ere,” he said nastily. “Are you taking the micky?”
“No,” said Paddington earnestly. “Only Mr Gruber. And I’m not taking him. He’s taking me because it’s his treat.”
The man took a deep breath and disappeared behind the counter. “I’ll trouble you to get out of that armchair,” he said nastily. “It’s a new one and we don’t want to get no nasty stains on it.
“Here you are,” he continued, handing Paddington two tickets in exchange for the five pound note. “Coach leaves at two o’clock sharp. And here’s your two pounds change.”