by Michael Bond
Paddington was unusually silent on the journey down and he was still pondering over the matter later that morning when they swept over the brow of a hill and began the long descent towards Brightsea. But as they drew near the front the smell of the sea air and the sight of all the holidaymakers strolling along the promenade soon drove all other thoughts from his mind.
Paddington was very keen on outings, especially Mr Brown’s unexpected seaside ones, and he stuck his head out of the front window of the car and peered round excitedly as they drove along the front looking for somewhere to park.
“All hands on deck,” said Mr Brown, as he backed the car into a vacant space. “Stand by to unload.”
Paddington gathered his belongings and jumped out on to the pavement. “I’ll find a place on the beach, Mr Brown,” he called eagerly.
In the back of the car Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird exchanged glances.
“I know one thing,” said Mrs Brown, as she helped Mrs Bird out of the car. “They might not have had any bears with them on the Everest expedition but at least they had some Sherpas to help with their luggage. Just look at it all!”
“It won’t take a minute, Mary,” puffed Mr Brown from behind a pile of carrier bags. “Where’s Paddington? He said he’d find a spot for us.”
“There he is,” said Jonathan, pointing to a patch of sand where six deck chairs were already ranged in a row. “He’s talking to that man with the ticket machine.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Brown anxiously. “He looks rather upset. I hope there’s nothing wrong.”
“Trust Paddington to get into trouble,” said Judy. “We haven’t been here a minute.”
The Browns hurried down some steps leading to the beach and as they did so a familiar voice reached their ears.
“Thirty pence!” exclaimed the voice bitterly. “Thirty pence just to sit in a deck chair!”
“No, mate,” came the voice of the ticket man in reply. “It’s not thirty pence just to sit in a deck chair. You’ve got six chairs ’ere and they’re five pence each. Six fives is thirty.”
Paddington looked more and more upset as he listened to the man’s words. He’d felt very pleased with himself when he’d found the pile of chairs beside a patch of clean sand but almost before he’d had time to arrange them in a row, and certainly before he’d had a chance to test even one of them, the man had appeared as if by magic from behind a beach hut, waving his ticket machine as he pounced on him.
“Thirty pence!” he repeated, collapsing into the nearest chair.
“I know your sort,” lectured the man in a loud voice as he looked around and addressed the rest of the beach. “You sit down in them chairs and pretend you’re asleep when I comes round for the money. Or else you say yer tickets ’ave blowed away. Your sort cost the Corporation ’undreds of pounds a year.”
The man’s voice trailed away as a muffled cry came from somewhere near his feet.
“’Ere,” he exclaimed, as he bent down and stared at a heaving mass of striped canvas. “What’s ’appened?”
“Help!” came the muffled voice again.
“Dear, oh dear,” said the man as he disentangled Paddington from the chair. “You couldn’t have ’ad yer back strut properly adjusted.”
“My back strut!” exclaimed Paddington, sitting up.
“That’s right,” said the man. “You’re supposed to fit it into the slots – not just rest it on the side. No wonder it collapsed.”
Paddington gave the man a hard stare as he scrambled to his feet and undid his suitcase. Five pence seemed a lot to pay just to sit in a chair at the best of times, but when it didn’t even have any instructions and collapsed into the bargain, words failed him.
“Instructions?” echoed the man, as he took Paddington’s money and rang up six tickets. “I’ve never ’eard of a deck chair ’aving instructions afore. You wants a lot for yer money.”
“I hope you haven’t been having any trouble,” said Mr Brown, as he hurried on to the scene and pressed something round and shiny into the man’s hand.
“Trouble?” said the ticket man, his expression changing as he felt the coin. “Bless you no, sir. Just a slight misunderstanding as yer might say. Tell you what, guv,” he continued, turning to Paddington and touching his cap with a more respectful air, “I know these days out at the seaside can come pretty expensive for a young bear gent what’s standing treat. If you wants to get yer money back and make a profit into the bargain your best plan is to keep a weather eye open for Basil Budd.”
“Basil Budd?” repeated Paddington, looking most surprised.
“That’s right,” said the man, pointing towards a large notice pasted on the sea wall. “He’s in Brightsea today. It’s one of them newspaper stunts. The first one as confronts ’im and says ‘You’re Basil Budd’ gets five pound reward. Only mind you’re carrying one of ’is newspapers,” he warned. “Otherwise ’e won’t pay up.”
So saying, he touched his cap once more and hurried off up the beach in the direction of some new arrivals, leaving the Browns to arrange themselves and their belongings on Paddington’s patch of sand.
Mr Brown turned to thank Paddington for standing treat with the deck chairs but already he had disappeared up the sand and was standing gazing at the poster on the sea wall with a thoughtful expression on his face.
The poster had the one word SENSATION written in large, red capital letters across the top. Underneath was a picture of a man in a trilby hat followed by the announcement that Basil Budd of the Daily Globe was in town.
The smaller print which followed went on to explain all that the deck chair man had told them. It took Paddington some while to read all the poster, particularly as he read some of the more interesting bits several times in case he’d made a mistake. But whichever way he read the notice it seemed that not only was Basil Budd anxious to give away five pound notes to anyone who confronted him, but that his own seaside outing would be ruined if he had so much as one note left at the end of the day.
“Good heavens!” said Mr Brown, as he glanced up the beach again. “Paddington is lashing out today. He’s bought himself a newspaper now!”
“I pity the person who happens to look anything like Basil Budd,” said Mrs Bird. “I can see there’ll be some nasty scenes if they don’t pay up.”
Mr Brown wriggled into his costume. “Come on, Paddington,” he called. “It’s time for a bathe.”
After taking one last look at the poster Paddington turned and came slowly back down the beach. Although he’d been looking forward all morning to a paddle he was beginning to have second thoughts on the matter. Paddington liked dipping his paws in the sea as much as anyone but he didn’t want to run the risk of missing five pounds reward if Basil Budd happened to stroll by while his back was turned.
“Perhaps he’s having a paddle himself,” said Mrs Bird helpfully.
Paddington brightened at the thought. He took out his opera glasses and peered through them at the figures already in the water. There didn’t seem to be any sign of a man wearing a trilby hat, but all the same a moment later he climbed into his rubber bathing ring and hurried down to the water’s edge clutching the copy of the Daily Globe in one paw and his suitcase in the other.
Mrs Bird sighed. Paddington was just too far away for her to make out the expression on his face, but she didn’t at all like the look of the little she could see. From where she was sitting some of the stares he was giving passers-by seemed very hard ones indeed.
“Why can’t we have a nice quiet day at the sea like any normal family?” she said.
“At least it keeps him out of mischief,” replied Mrs Brown. “And we know where he is which is something.”
“That’s not going to last very long,” said Mrs Bird, ominously, as she watched Paddington splash his way along the shore in the direction of the pier. “There’s plenty of time yet. You mark my words.”
Unaware of the anxious moments he was causing, Paddington plodded on his wa
y, pausing every now and then to compare the picture on the front page of his paper with that of a passer-by.
The beach was beginning to fill up. There were fat men in shorts, thin men in bathing costumes, men of all shapes and sizes; some wore sun hats, some caps, others coloured hats made of cardboard, and once he even saw a man wearing a bowler, but as far as he could make out there wasn’t one person along the whole of the Brightsea front who bore any resemblance to Basil Budd.
After making his way along the beach for the third time Paddington stopped by the pier and mopped his brow while he took another long look at one of the Daily Globe posters.
It was a strange thing but somehow with each journey up and down the beach the expression on Basil Budd’s face seemed to change. At first it had been quite an ordinary, pleasant sort of face, but now that he looked at it more closely Paddington decided there was a mocking air about it which he didn’t like the look of at all.
With a sigh he found himself a quiet corner of the beach and sat down with his back against a pile of deck chairs in order to consider the matter. Taken all round he was beginning to feel very upset at the way things were going. In fact, if he could have found the man who had sold him the newspaper he would have asked for his money back. But with every minute more and more people were streaming into Brightsea and the chances of finding the newspaper seller, let alone Basil Budd himself, seemed more and more remote.
As he sat there deep in thought Paddington’s eyelids began to feel heavier and heavier. Several times he pushed them open with a paw but gradually the combination of a large breakfast, several ice-creams, and all the walks up and down the sand in the hot sun, not to mention the distant sound of waves breaking on the sea shore, grew too much for him, and a short while later some gentle snores added themselves to the general hubbub all around.
Mrs Brown heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness!” she exclaimed, as a small brown figure came hurrying along the promenade towards them. “I was beginning to think something had happened to him.”
Mr Brown removed his belongings from the only remaining chair at their table. “About time too,” he grumbled. “I’m starving.”
In order to avoid the crowds the Browns had arranged to meet for an early lunch on the terrace of a large Brightsea promenade hotel, and all the family with the exception of Paddington had arrived there in good time. Paddington had a habit of disappearing on occasions, but very rarely at meal times, and as the minutes ticked by and the other tables started to fill up, the Browns had become more and more worried.
“Where on earth have you been?” asked Mrs Brown, as Paddington drew near.
Paddington raised his hat with a distant expression on his face. “I was having a bit of a dream, Mrs Brown,” he replied vaguely.
“A dream?” echoed Mrs Bird. “I should have thought you had plenty of time for those at home.”
“This was a special seaside one, Mrs Bird,” explained Paddington, looking slightly offended. “It was very unusual.”
“It must have been,” said Judy, “if it made you late for lunch.”
Mr Brown handed Paddington a large menu. “We’ve ordered you some soup to be going on with,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to choose what you want to follow…”
The Browns looked across at Paddington with some concern. He seemed to be acting most strangely. One moment he’d been about to sit down quietly in his chair, the next moment he had jumped up again and was peering through his opera glasses with an air of great excitement.
“Is anything the matter?” asked Mr Brown.
Paddington adjusted his glasses. “I think that’s Basil Budd,” he exclaimed, pointing towards a man at the next table.
“Basil Budd?” echoed Mrs Brown. “But it can’t be. He’s got a beard.”
“Basil Budd hasn’t,” said Jonathan. “I’ve seen his picture on the posters.”
Paddington looked even more mysterious. “That’s what my dream was about,” he said. “Only I don’t think it was a dream after all. I’m going to confront him!”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Brown nervously, as Paddington stood up. “Do you think you should?”
But her words fell on deaf ears for Paddington was already tapping the bearded man on his shoulder. “I’d like my five pounds, please, Mr Budd,” he announced, holding up his copy of the Daily Globe.
The man paused with a soup spoon halfway to his mouth. “No, thank you,” he said, looking at the newspaper. “I’ve got one already.”
“I’m not a newspaper bear,” said Paddington patiently. “I think you’re Basil Budd of the Daily Globe and I’ve come to confront you.”
“You’ve come to confront me?” repeated the man, as if in a dream. “But my name isn’t Budd. I’ve never even heard of him.”
Paddington took a deep breath and gave the man the hardest stare he could manage. “If you don’t give me my five pounds,” he exclaimed hotly, “I shall call a policeman!”
The man returned Paddington’s stare with one almost as hard. “You’ll call a policeman!” he exclaimed. “If you don’t go away, bear, that’s just what I intend doing.”
Paddington was a bear with a strong sense of right and wrong and for a moment he stood rooted to the spot looking as if he could hardly believe his eyes, let alone his ears. Then suddenly, before the astonished gaze of the Browns and everyone else on the hotel terrace, he reached forward and gave the man’s beard a determined tug with both paws.
If the other occupants of the hotel were taken aback by the unexpected turn of events the man with the beard was even more upset, and a howl of anguish rang round the terrace as he jumped up clutching his chin.
Paddington’s jaw dropped open and a look of alarm came over his face as he examined his empty paws. “Excuse me,” he exclaimed, raising his hat politely. “I think I must have made a mistake.”
“A mistake!” spluttered the man, dabbing at his lap with a napkin where a large soup stain had appeared. “Where’s the manager? I want to see the manager. I demand an explanation.”
“I’ve got an explanation,” said Paddington unhappily, “but I’m not sure if it’s a good one.”
“Oh, crikey,” groaned Jonathan, as a man in a black suit came hurrying on to the scene closely followed by several waiters. “Here we go again!”
“I’ve never,” said Mrs Bird, “met such a bear for getting into hot water. Now what are we going to do?”
Mr Brown sat back in the Brightsea hotel manager’s office and stared at Paddington. “Do you mean to say,” he exclaimed, “you actually saw a man putting on a false beard behind a pile of deck chairs?”
“There were two of them,” said Paddington importantly. “I thought I was having a dream and then they went away and I found I was really awake all the time.”
“But I still don’t see why you thought it was the man from the Daily Globe,” said Mrs Brown.
“I’m afraid this young bear got his ‘buds’ mixed,” said a policeman. “Quite a natural mistake in the circumstances.”
“You see, he’d stumbled on South Coast Charlie and his pal,” said a second policeman. “They always call each other ‘bud’. I think they’ve been seeing too many films on television.”
“South Coast Charlie!” echoed Mrs Bird. “Goodness me!”
“They tour all the south coast holiday resorts during the summer months doing confidence tricks,” continued the first policeman. “We’ve been after them for some time now but they’ve always kept one step ahead of us. Kept changing their disguises. Thanks to this young bear’s description we’ve a good idea who to look for now. In fact, I daresay there’ll be some kind of a reward.”
The Browns looked at one another. After the excitement earlier on, the hotel manager’s office seemed remarkably peaceful. Even the man with the beard, now that he had got over his first surprise, looked most impressed by Paddington’s explanation. “I’ve been mistaken for a few people in my time,” he said, “but never a Basil Budd let
alone a South Coast Charlie.”
“Trust Paddington to find someone with a beard sitting at the next table,” said Jonathan.
The hotel manager coughed. “That’s not really so surprising,” he said. “There’s a magicians’ conference on at Brightsea this week and a lot of them are staying at this hotel. You’ll see a good many beards.”
“Good gracious!” said Mrs Bird, as she looked through the office window. “You’re quite right. Look at them all!”
The others followed the direction of Mrs Bird’s gaze. Now that it had been mentioned, there were beards everywhere. Long beards, short ones, whiskery beards and neatly trimmed ones. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many before,” said Mr Brown. “I suppose that’s why South Coast Charlie wore one?”
“That’s right, sir,” said one of the policemen. “It’s a good thing this young gentleman didn’t try them all. We might have had a very nasty scene on our hands.”
“Perhaps you’d care to join me for lunch,” said the man with the beard, addressing the Browns as the policeman stood up to go. “I’m a magician myself,” he continued, turning to Paddington. “The Great Umberto. I might even be able to show you a few tricks while we eat.”
“Thank you very much, Mr Umberto,” said Paddington, as the hotel manager hurried on ahead to reserve a table. “I should like that.”
Altogether Paddington was beginning to think it was a very good day out at the sea after all. Although he hadn’t managed to win five pounds by confronting Basil Budd he was very keen on tricks and the prospect of having lunch with a real magician sounded most exciting.
“Hmm,” said Mrs Bird, as she followed the others out on to the hotel terrace. “We may be having lunch with a magician but I have a feeling that even the Great Umberto won’t be able to make his meal disappear as quickly as Paddington.”
Paddington pricked up his ears in agreement as he caught Mrs Bird’s remark. It was already long past his lunch time and detective work, especially seaside detective work, used up a lot of energy.