by Michael Bond
“I think perhaps I’ll stay at home and sit in the garden instead,” he announced before anyone could try and change his mind for him.
Mrs Brown eyed the retreating figure of Paddington as he disappeared into the dining-room. “You know, it’s an extraordinary thing,” she remarked, “but I do believe he’s turned over a new leaf. Do you realise we haven’t had a single disaster since he came back from Peru? Not one!”
Mrs Bird hastily touched wood as she made for the front door. “Don’t tempt fate,” she warned. “That young bear doesn’t need any encouragement.”
Mrs Bird wasn’t at all happy about leaving Paddington alone in the house so soon after his return. She had decided views about his various activities and the fact that, apart from the business of the share, nothing untoward had happened since his return left her unmoved.
But even the Browns’ housekeeper would have been hard put to find fault with Paddington’s behaviour, at least for the next few minutes or so, had she been there to see it.
Having finished breakfast he carefully wiped his whiskers on the serviette provided by a hopeful Mrs Brown and then made his way through the French windows and out on to the terrace where he stood for a moment sniffing the morning air.
Paddington liked the summer, especially in Mr Brown’s garden, which for a London garden was unusually large and full of flowers and shrubs, each with its own special smell.
But the peace of Paddington’s morning was short-lived, for just as he was making some last-minute adjustments to a deck chair so that he could sit down for a while and enjoy the morning sunshine, a familiar voice rang out over the fence.
“Good morning, bear,” said the voice.
Paddington jumped up. “Good morning, Mr Curry,” he said doubtfully, raising his hat politely.
Although he’d several times exchanged waves with the Browns’ next-door neighbour since his return, it was the first occasion when they’d met face to face and he was feeling a bit nervous. The last time they’d actually spoken to each other had been at his going-away party when he’d not only torn one of Mr Curry’s five-pound notes in half but he’d also ripped the lining of his coat by mistake. Mr Curry had taken it rather badly at the time and he wasn’t at all sure if they were still on speaking terms.
But for once the Browns’ neighbour seemed to be in an unusually jovial mood and if he didn’t actually beam at Paddington at least his lips cracked in something approaching a smile as he looked over the fence.
“Did you enjoy your trip to Peru, bear?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you, Mr Curry,” said Paddington earnestly.
The Browns’ neighbour waved a large mallet in Paddington’s direction. “I wonder if you’d care to lend a paw, bear,” he said casually. “I’m putting in some stakes and it’s a bit difficult with only one pair of hands.”
Mr Curry’s voice droned on about his various jobs as he helped Paddington through a hole in the fence.
“Now, I’ve marked the positions where I want them all,” he continued as Paddington stood up. “There are one hundred and fifty altogether. I’ll just show you what I want done and then you can carry on while I go out and do my shopping. I want to get some paint for my new serving hatch when it’s in.”
Mr Curry paused for breath. “I don’t suppose you’ll get all the stakes in before I’m back, but if you do you can collect some rubble for me. It’s for the foundations and I’m running a bit short. In fact, I might even give you ten pence if you do.
“Mind you,” he added, before Paddington had time to speak, “I shan’t if it’s not proper brick rubble. I don’t want to come back home and find half my rockery missing. Now, come along, bear,” he growled sternly, as he handed Paddington the mallet. “Don’t just stand there. I’ve got a lot of shopping to do and I want to get out this morning.”
Mr Curry picked up a stake from a nearby pile and then pushed it firmly into the ground with both hands. “Now,” he said, “when I nod my head, you hit it.”
For a moment Paddington looked at Mr Curry as if he could hardly believe his ears and then, as the Browns’ neighbour closed his eyes and began nodding his head vigorously to show that he was ready, he took a firm grasp of the mallet with both paws.
A moment later a yell of pain rang out round Windsor Gardens, echoing and reechoing in and out of buildings.
Paddington jumped back in alarm and the mallet fell unheeded from his paws as to his surprise, instead of looking pleased, Mr Curry let go of the stake, gave another tremendous yell, and then began dancing up and down clutching his head with both hands.
“Bear!” he roared, as Paddington disappeared through the hole in the fence. “Bear! Where are you, bear? Come back, bear!”
But Paddington was nowhere to be seen. Only the faintest movement of the raspberry canes betrayed his whereabouts, and a few moments later even that stopped as Mr Curry peered over the fence before staggering back up the garden towards his house.
For the next few minutes the distant sound of banging doors and the hiss of running water greeted Paddington’s ears, but at long last a final and much louder bang from the front of Mr Curry’s house caused him to heave a sigh of relief as he stood up and brushed himself clean.
Paddington hesitated for a moment and then climbed back through the hole in the fence and stared gloomily at the beginnings of Mr Curry’s path.
The Browns’ neighbour had a habit of twisting words so that his listeners were never quite certain what had actually been said, but he was almost sure he hadn’t agreed to lend a paw with one of the stakes let alone do all one hundred and fifty by himself.
Now that he had time to examine it more carefully the pile of stakes looked even bigger than it had at first sight. Not only that, but to add to his troubles Mr Curry appeared to have taken the mallet away with him.
After making several attempts to knock in some stakes with the aid of half a brick Paddington gave up in disgust and hurried up the path in the direction of Mr Curry’s house.
In his haste the Browns’ neighbour had left his back door ajar and a few moments later Paddington let himself cautiously into the kitchen.
The curtains were drawn and as he blinked in order to accustom his eyes to the change of light Paddington suddenly stopped in his tracks and stared in astonishment, all thoughts of the missing mallet driven from his mind.
It was some while since he’d last set foot in Mr Curry’s kitchen and from the little he could remember of it, the decorations then had been mostly of a rather dirty brown colour, certainly nothing like the ones which greeted him now.
In fact, all in all apart from a bag of tools in one corner and one or two obviously unfinished patches it now looked not unlike something out of one of Mrs Brown’s glossy magazines, or even, for that matter, Mrs Brown’s own freshly decorated kitchen itself. The walls were gleaming white, the floor black and equally shiny, and even the stove and the refrigerator looked new.
It was as he stood taking it all in that a thoughtful expression gradually came over Paddington’s face. Leaning against one of the walls was a wooden frame and a pair of doors and seeing it reminded him of a remark passed by Mr Curry as he’d helped him through the fence.
“I’m on the last lap in my kitchen, bear,” he’d said. “There’s only the serving hatch to put in and the job will be done.”
Mr Curry had gone on to grumble about the number of unfinished jobs he had on hand but at the time Paddington had been too busy worrying about the stakes to take much notice. However, the more he thought about the matter now, the more it seemed like a golden opportunity to make amends for the unfortunate accident earlier in the day.
A few minutes later the sound of hammering could be heard in Windsor Gardens. It was followed shortly afterwards by the dull thud of a falling brick, the first of many which gradually found their way from inside the kitchen to a large pile outside the back door.
Paddington felt sure from the little Mr Curry had said about all his jobs
that he couldn’t fail to be pleased if he arrived home later that morning and found his serving hatch already installed. And even if the hatch itself wasn’t in place he couldn’t possibly find anything to grumble at in having a start made on the hole.
Apart from that, knocking down walls was much more enjoyable work than banging in stakes. Once a start had been made by removing the first brick, which had taken rather a lot of hammering with a cold-chisel, it was more a matter of clouting everything in sight as hard as possible, and standing back every now and then to avoid being hit by some of the larger lumps as they parted company from the rest.
Soon the air was so thick with dust it became almost impossible to see, but as the last brick fell to the floor Paddington surveyed the result of his labours as best he could through half-closed eyes and then measured the space carefully with his paws in order to make sure it was the right size.
After placing the frame carefully into position and making it secure by jamming a couple of pieces of wood either side, he slipped the doors into their grooves and then stood back waiting for the dust to settle so that he could inspect his handiwork.
As the air gradually cleared, Paddington began to look more and more pleased with himself. Admittedly the hatch wasn’t perfectly level, and there were one or two rather unfortunate paw marks on the surrounding wall, but those two things apart he decided it was one of the best jobs he could ever remember doing and he felt sure Mr Curry would be equally pleased when he saw it.
Dipping his paw into a nearby jar of marmalade he idly pushed one of the doors to one side in order to make sure it slid properly on its runners.
As he did so the pleased expression suddenly drained from Paddingtons face and he nearly toppled over backwards with surprise as he took in the view through the open hatch.
Since he’d lived with the Browns he’d examined number thirty-two Windsor Gardens from a good many different angles but never in his wildest dreams had he ever pictured seeing it though a serving hatch in Mr Curry’s kitchen wall, particularly when he’d expected to see a dining-room instead.
For a moment Paddington stood where he was with his feet frozen to the ground and then he hurried outside rubbing his eyes in order to make sure it wasn’t all part of some terrible dream.
As he peered up at the outside wall, Paddington’s worst fears were realised and gradually the truth of the matter dawned on him. In his hurry to complete the job he’d quite forgotten the fact that although Mr Curry’s house was exactly the same in most respects as the Browns’, because it was next door everything was the other way round, so that what was the dining-room wall in the Browns’ house became the outside wall in Mr Curry’s.
Paddington’s face grew longer and longer as he considered the matter. According to Mrs Bird, Mr Curry had been doing quite a few jobs in his house of late but for the life of him he couldn’t think of a single good reason why he would possibly want a serving hatch in his outside wall.
There were still several pieces of brick lying on the ground where they had fallen, but after one or two attempts he soon gave up all hope of fitting them back into position.
How long he stayed lost in thought, Paddington wasn’t quite sure, but he was suddenly roused from his daydreams by the sound of Mr Curry’s side gate banging shut.
Hurrying round to the back of the house he was just in time to meet the Browns’ neighbour coming round the other way. Apart from some sticking plaster on the back of his head, Mr Curry looked little the worse for his earlier encounter with Paddington. Nevertheless his face darkened as they bumped into each other.
“What are you up to now, bear?” he growled.
“What am I up to, Mr Curry?” said Paddington, playing for time.
Mr Curry looked suspiciously at the brick dust sticking to Paddington’s fur and then, as he caught sight of the pile of brick rubble outside the kitchen door, his face suddenly cleared.
“Good work, bear,” he said approvingly, as he felt in his pocket. “I promised you ten pence and I must say you’ve earned it.”
“Thank you very much, Mr Curry,” said Paddington doubtfully, as he took the coin. “I’ll keep it for a while in case you want it back.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr Curry. “Nonsense! Of course I shan’t want it back. This rubble’s just what I need for my path.”
“I don’t think I should use it for your path, Mr Curry,” said Paddington anxiously. “You may want it for something else.”
Mr Curry gave a loud snort as he picked up his shovel. “Not use it,” he repeated. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t, bear.”
Paddington looked on unhappily as Mr Curry transferred the pile of rubble into a nearby trench and when, some while later, the Browns’ neighbour poured a barrowload of wet cement over the top, he looked unhappier still.
“There!” said Mr Curry, rubbing his hands together. “That won’t come up again in a hurry once it’s set.” He turned, but for the second time that morning found himself addressing the empty air, for his audience, like the brick rubble, had completely disappeared from view.
Paddington felt sure he could give the Browns’ neighbour not one, but several very good reasons why he shouldn’t have used the bricks he’d found outside his kitchen door. On the other hand he was equally sure he would be much happier if Mr Curry discovered the reasons for himself, preferably some time in the dim and distant future, and certainly when the cause of it all was a long, long way away.
Paddington sat up in bed holding a thermometer in his paw. “I think I must have caught the measles, Mrs Bird,” he announced weakly. “My temperature’s over one hundred and twenty!”
“One hundred and twenty!” Mrs Bird hurriedly examined the thermometer. “That’s not a temperature,” she exclaimed with relief. “That’s a marmalade stain.”
Mrs Brown looked Paddington over carefully. “He’s certainly got some red spots on him,” she said. “It’s a bit difficult to tell with fur, but I suppose it could be measles.”
“Hmm,” said Mrs Bird suspiciously. “That’s as may be. But it’s the first time I’ve ever known measles spots come off on the sheets.”
“Perhaps they’ve worked loose, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington hopefully. “I’ve been scratching them.”
Mrs Brown exchanged a glance with her housekeeper.”It looks more like brick dust to me,” she said.
Mrs Bird glanced out of the window towards the house next door. “Talking of brick dust,” she said, “reminds me that Mr Curry called to see you just now, Paddington.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Brown, as a loud groan came from the direction of Paddington’s bed. “Is anything the matter?”
“I think I’ve had a bit of a relapse, Mrs Brown,” said a weak voice from under the sheet. “I don’t think I ought to do any more talking.”
“That’s a pity,” said Mrs Bird. “He asked me to give you ten pence.”
“Ten pence!” exclaimed Paddington, sitting up in bed suddenly. “But I’ve already had one.”
“In that case,” said Mrs Bird, “you’ve got twenty pence.”
“Apparently he’s very pleased with his new delivery hatch,” explained Mrs Brown. “All sorts of people have been congratulating him. The milkman. The baker. The boy from the grocery shop. They all think it’s a splendid idea. Mr Curry’s going to build a cupboard inside so that they can leave things and he won’t have to answer the door.”
“There’ll be no holding him now he’s got something no one else has thought of,” said Mrs Bird. “He’ll be like a dog with two tails. You mark my words, we shall hear of nothing else from morning to night.”
“It certainly is a good idea,” said Mrs Brown, as she paused at the door. “Mind you,” she continued, “I can’t help feeling it’s a good job Judy managed to catch the milkman when she did.”
“And that Jonathan had a chat with the baker,” added Mrs Bird.
“Otherwise,” said Mrs Brown, “I might not have thought to have a word with the
grocery boy.”
“And where,” said her housekeeper, “would we have been then?”
Mrs Bird looked towards Paddington’s bed but the only answer she received was a loud groan as its occupant appeared to have another sudden relapse.
All the same, although as groans went it was a long and rather blood-curdling one, there was something about the set of Paddington’s whiskers as they poked out from beneath the sheets which somehow managed to suggest the possibility of a recovery in the not-too-distant future.
“I give it until tea-time at the outside,” said Mrs Brown, as she closed the door.
“If not before,” agreed Mrs Bird. “I’m baking a treacle tart for tea.”
“In that case,” said Mrs Brown, “definitely before. There’s nothing like a few whiffs of treacle tart up the stairs for curing even the worst attack of a young bear’s measles!”
PADDINGTON’S FRIEND, MR Gruber, chuckled to himself when he heard about Mr Curry’s delivery hatch the next day.
“What a good thing it turned out all right in the end, Mr Brown,” he said, as they settled themselves in the deck chairs on the pavement outside his shop together with a tray of buns and two steaming mugs of cocoa. “Although I must say it would have served Mr Curry right if it hadn’t. It might have taught him not to go taking advantage of others quite so much.
“Mind you, Mr Brown,” he continued, “it’s very difficult to get help these days so I suppose we shouldn’t be too hard on him.”
Mr Gruber shook his head sadly. “You’d be surprised if I told you some of the trouble I’ve had just lately. If you don’t get help, people just won’t bother to wait. And if you get the wrong sort of help it frightens the customers away. This is our busy season too. Especially with all the American tourists over here for their holidays.”