Paddington Complete Novels

by Michael Bond

  Paddington paused in his efforts to free himself. “Where is it?” he repeated in surprise.

  “Blimey!” The man looked down at the figure on the floor. “Are you all right, sir? I thought there’d been an explosion or something. One of them gas cylinders going up.”

  Paddington thought for a moment. “I think I’m all right,” he said at last. “But the room’s still going round.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said the man, examining the wreckage. “Your seat’s come off.”

  Paddington looked round. “My seat’s come off!” he repeated in alarm.

  “Probably ran out of thread,” explained the man as he bent down to lend a helping hand. “I expect you was turning it round and round too quickly and broke the end stop…” He paused as he caught sight of a coloured badge in Paddington’s lapel. “’Ere,” he said. “Are you one of them gentlemen from overseas?”

  Paddington looked at him in amazement. “I come from Darkest Peru,” he said.

  “Thought so by your badge,” said the man. “Oh well, we all know who you want to see, don’t we?”

  “Do we?” exclaimed Paddington, looking more and more surprised. “I expect Mrs Bird rang up.”

  The man paused for a moment as if he hadn’t heard aright. “I think you’d best come along with me,” he said at last, giving Paddington a very odd look. Working in a large London hospital he’d become used to seeing strange sights, but somehow, now that he was able to get a better view, the figure standing in front of him surpassed even his previous experience. “We don’t want to keep ’is nibs waiting,” he continued, hastily opening the door. “’E don’t like it much.”

  “I know he doesn’t,” agreed Paddington, looking pleased that at long last someone understood what he’d come for. “Thank you very much.”

  The man looked at Paddington in astonishment as he picked up his basket. “’Ere,” he said, “you’re not taking that in with you are you?”

  “I’ve brought it for him,” explained Paddington.

  “Oh, well,” said the man, scratching his head. “’Ave it your own way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. And if you want my advice you’ll take them gloves off before you go in the ward.”

  “Take my gloves off!” exclaimed Paddington hotly as the man disappeared up the corridor. “Those aren’t gloves. They’re paws!”

  Taking a firm grip of the basket he hurried after the man in uniform giving the back of his head some very hard stares indeed as they passed through several sets of swing doors, along another corridor, and finally into a large, brightly lit room with a row of beds on either side.

  Paddington peered down the ward. “There’s Mr Curry,” he said excitedly, waving his paw in the direction of a bed at the far end. “I can see his grapes.”

  “I daresay it is,” said his guide, putting a finger to his lips as a tall, imposing figure rose from a group gathered round a nearby bed and fixed his eyes on them. “And that’s Sir Archibald. I can see ’is glares!”

  “Sir Archibald?” repeated Paddington in surprise.

  “That’s right,” said the man, looking pleased. “We’re just in time. He’s still doing ’is rounds.

  “Look,” he said, as Paddington hesitated. “You comes from overseas – right?”

  “Right,” said Paddington promptly.

  “And you ’as a badge in yer lapel – right?”

  “Right,” agreed Paddington rather more doubtfully as he looked down at his coat collar.

  “In that case,” said the man patiently, “you must be one of Sir Archibald’s students. ’E takes ’em on ’is rounds every Monday morning. And if I were you,” he whispered, giving Paddington an encouraging push, “I’d go and make my apologies to ’im before I was very much older. ’E don’t look best pleased to my way of thinking.”

  Thanking the man for his trouble Paddington picked up his basket again and hurried down the ward. He wasn’t at all sure who Sir Archibald was or why he had to apologise to him, but as he drew near and caught sight of the expression on his face he had to admit that the porter was right about the great man’s mood and he hastily lifted the top part of his skullcap and let it drop back into place before he bade him good morning.

  “Good afternoon’s more like it,” barked Sir Archibald. He glared at Paddington’s outfit with a look of disgust. “It’s ward round today – not operations. You’ll be frightening the patients out of their wits.

  “Now you are here,” he continued sarcastically, pointing to the patient under examination, “perhaps you can give us the benefit of your advice. Let’s have your diagnosis.”

  “My diagnosis!” exclaimed Paddington in alarm as he began unloading his basket. “There’s a cherry cake and some calves’ foot jelly, but I don’t think Mrs Bird mentioned one of those.”

  “Calves’ foot jelly,” repeated Sir Archibald, as if in a dream. “Did you say calves’ foot jelly?”

  “Grant Dexter always says it’s very good if you’re ill,” said Paddington.

  “Grant Dexter!” spluttered Sir Archibald. “And who might he be?”

  “You don’t know Grant Dexter!” exclaimed Paddington, looking most surprised. “He’s in ‘Daredevil Doctor’ every Monday. He’s very good at curing people. All his patients get better.”

  “I think he’d like to know what you feel about this patient,” hissed one of the other doctors, pointing to the man on the bed as a loud snort came from the direction of Sir Archibald.

  “Have a listen on your stethoscope,” murmured someone else, reaching over to undo the man’s pyjama jacket. “Do something!”

  Paddington grew more and more confused as he listened to the crumbs of advice. Picking up a headset off the bed he took the end of the stethoscope which someone else handed him and began hastily poking it on the man’s chest as he listened hopefully.

  “Well,” said Sir Archibald testily. “May we have your considered opinion?”

  Paddington removed the headset. “I can hear someone talking,” he announced, looking most surprised. “It sounds like Mrs Dale’s Diary.”

  “Mrs Dale’s Diary!” bellowed Sir Archibald.

  “You’ve picked up the radio headphones by mistake,” hissed someone behind Paddington. “You’re supposed to use the other end of the stethoscope.”

  The patient sat up in bed and stared at Paddington with growing alarm. “’Ere,” he exclaimed. “’E’s not going to operate, is he? ’Cause if ’e is I’m going off ’ome smartish.”

  “Rest assured, my dear sir,” said Sir Archibald, “it’s most unlikely.” He turned and glared at Paddington. “As a doctor,” he barked, “you’re a disgrace to your profession. Never in all my years…”

  “A doctor,” exclaimed Paddington, looking even more alarmed as he pulled off his mask. “I’m not a doctor. I’m a bear. I’ve come to visit Mr Curry.”

  Sir Archibald seemed to grow visibly larger as he drew himself up to his full height. He took in a deep breath as if about to explode, and then something in Paddington’s words caused him to pause.

  “Curry,” he repeated. “Did you say Curry?”

  “That’s right,” said Paddington.

  “Are you a friend of his?” asked Sir Archibald suspiciously.

  “Well, he lives next door,” said Paddington carefully. “But I’m not really a friend. I’ve brought him something to be going on with.”

  Sir Archibald snorted. “That’s the last thing he needs,” he exclaimed. “That man’s entirely without scruples.”

  “Mr Curry’s without scruples!” repeated Paddington, looking most upset. “I thought he’d only hurt his leg.”

  Sir Archibald took a deep breath. “Scruples, bear,” he said, “are things that stop some people taking advantage of others.”

  “Oh, I don’t think Mr Curry’s got any of those, Sir Archibald,” agreed Paddington. “Mrs Bird’s always grumbling because he takes advantage of others.”

  Sir Archibald and the others listened c
arefully as Paddington went on to explain all about the golf match and how Mr Curry had persuaded him to act as caddie. Gradually, as the story unfolded, Sir Archibald’s expression changed. When it was over he gave a snort and then, as he looked first up the ward towards Mr Curry’s bed and then at Paddington, a twinkle came into his eyes.

  “Are you any good at tricks, bear?” he asked thoughtfully.

  “Oh, yes, Sir Archibald,” said Paddington. “Bears are very good at tricks.”

  “Thought you might be.” Sir Archibald rubbed his hands together briskly and then turned to the others. “I have a feeling this is one of those occasions when we don’t stick to the book. We’ll make the medicine fit the patient!”

  Bending down to adjust Paddington’s mask he began whispering in his ear. It was difficult to tell what Paddington was thinking because his face was almost completely hidden again, but he nodded his head vigorously several times and then a few moments later followed the famous surgeon up the ward in the direction of Mr Curry’s bed.

  Mr Curry was reading a newspaper but when he caught sight of Sir Archibald he lowered it and gave vent to a loud groan.

  “How’s the patient today?” asked Sir Archibald, removing a large bowl of grapes from the bed so that he could inspect Mr Curry’s leg.

  “Worse,” groaned Mr Curry. “Much worse.”

  “I thought you might be,” said Sir Archibald cheerfully. “That’s why we’ve decided to operate.”

  “Operate?” echoed Mr Curry, suddenly growing rather pale. “Did you say operate?”

  Sir Archibald nodded. “No good playing around with these things,” he said. “I’d like to introduce you to… er… a colleague of mine from overseas. He specialises in legs. Does something or other to the knee. Nobody quite knows what but it seems to work very well in the rainforest. Quite a few of his patients still manage to get around after a fashion.”

  Mr Curry stared uneasily at the small figure hovering by the side of the bed. “It’s all right,” said Sir Archibald, following his glance. “There’s no need to worry. We give him a box to stand on.

  “I don’t suppose he’ll want to shake hands,” he added hastily, as Mr Curry leaned over the side of the bed. “His own are a bit shaky.”

  But it was too late. A gleam of recognition came into Mr Curry’s eyes as he caught sight of Paddington’s paw.

  “Bear!” he roared, recovering himself in record time. “Bear! Up to your tricks again!”

  Mr Curry glared first at Paddington, who was looking slightly crestfallen behind his mask now that the plan had misfired, and then at Sir Archibald. “Tricks like this are very bad for patients,” he said slowly and loudly for the benefit of everyone else in the ward. “I think I’m going to have another relapse.”

  As Mr Curry lay back, Paddington hastily pulled off his mask and lifted the basket of food on to the bed in an effort to make amends.

  “Careful, bear,” growled Mr Curry. “Mind what you’re doing with that cake. I don’t want any crumbs in the bed. And no taking any of the grapes when I’m not looking. If I find any empty stalks I shall know the reason why.” He peered down his bed to where Paddington was busy unloading the basket. “Have you brought the…”

  Whatever else Mr Curry had been about to say was lost for all time as suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, the ward shook with a tremendous roar of pain and the sheets flew into the air as he jumped out of bed and started dancing up and down in the middle of the floor.

  “Bear!” he roared, lifting his injured leg into the air like an acrobat as he tried to rub his foot. “What have you done, bear? I’ll… I’ll…” Mr Curry’s voice trailed away and for the second time within the space of as many seconds he left a sentence unfinished as he gazed sheepishly round at the sea of faces.

  Sir Archibald turned to the Sister in charge. “It seems to me,” he said, breaking the silence which followed Mr Curry’s performance, “we have another bed free in the ward after all.”

  “Bear’s cocoa,” said Sir Archibald, holding up the empty Thermos. “I must remember this. Haven’t seen quite such a remarkable cure in years. Must be boiling hot though!”

  “I don’t think I’d screwed the top of my flask on properly, Mrs Bird,” explained Paddington. “It went all over Mr Curry’s foot.”

  Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird exchanged glances. So much had happened in the space of a few minutes they were feeling somewhat confused.

  First their house had shaken to the sound of Mr Curry’s front door being slammed. Then a large black car had drawn up outside number thirty-two Windsor Gardens and to their amazement Paddington had emerged from the back seat, closely followed by a distinguished-looking gentleman, carrying the basket of food and the Thermos flask.

  “All the best discoveries are made by accident,” said Sir Archibald, seeing their look of puzzlement. “And in my experience some of them take quite a lot of explaining afterwards.”

  Sir Archibald turned to Paddington and as he did so a look of concern came over his face. “Are you all right, bear?” he asked.

  Paddington felt under his coat with the end of the stethoscope he’d been given as a souvenir. “I think I’m having trouble with my beats, Sir Archibald,” he announced faintly.

  Sir Archibald began to look even more concerned, and then he followed Paddington’s eyes as they gazed hungrily at the shopping basket.

  “I think there’s hope,” he said gravely, turning back to the others. “Given plenty of cake and biscuits. And some hot cocoa. That’s most important.”

  “It’s funny you should say that,” remarked Mrs Bird. “I was just about to make some.” She paused as Sir Archibald hovered wistfully in the doorway. “Would you care for a cup?”

  “I should not only care for one,” said Sir Archibald. “I should consider it a great honour. After all,” he added, “inventing cures is thirsty work and bears aren’t the only ones who like their elevenses.”

  MR GRUBER LEANED on his shovel and mopped his brow with a large spotted handkerchief. “If anyone had told me three weeks ago, Mr Brown,” he said, “that one day I’d have my own patio in the Portobello Road I wouldn’t have believed them.

  “In fact,” he continued, dusting himself down as he warmed to his subject, “if you hadn’t come across that article I might never have had one. Now look at it!”

  At the sound of Mr Gruber’s voice Paddington rose into view from behind a pile of stones. Lumps of cement clung to his fur like miniature stalactites, his hat was covered in a thin film of grey dust, and his paws – never his strongest point – looked for all the world as if they had been dipped not once but many times into a mixture of earth, brick dust and concrete.

  All the same, there was a pleased expression on his face as he put down his trowel and hurried across to join his friend near the back door of the shop so that they could inspect the result of their labours.

  For in the space of a little over two weeks a great and most remarkable change had come over Mr Gruber’s back yard. A change not unlike that in the transformation scene of a Christmas pantomime.

  It had all started when Paddington had come across an article in one of Mrs Brown’s old housekeeping magazines. The article in question had been about the amount of wasted space there was in a big city like London and how, with some thought and a lot of hard work, even the worst rubbish dump could be turned into a place of beauty.

  The article had contained a number of photographs showing what could be done and Paddington had been so impressed by these that he’d taken the magazine along to show his friend.

  Mr Gruber kept an antique shop in the Portobello Road and, although his back yard wasn’t exactly a dumping ground, over the years he had certainly collected a vast amount of rubbish and in the event he’d decided to make a clean sweep of the whole area.

  For several days there had been a continual stream of rag and bone men and then soon afterwards builders’ lorries became a familiar sight behind the shop as they began to arrive c
arrying loads of broken paving-stones, sand, gravel, cement, rocks and other items of building material too numerous to be mentioned.

  Taking time off each afternoon, Mr Gruber had set about the task of laying the crazy-paving while Paddington acted as foreman in charge of cement-mixing and filling the gaps between the stones – a job which he enjoyed no end.

  At the far end of the yard Mr Gruber erected a fence against which he planted some climbing roses, and in front of this they built a rockery which was soon filled with various kinds of creeping plants.

  In the middle of the patio, space had been left for a small pond containing some goldfish and a miniature fountain, while at the house end there now stood a carved wooden seat with room enough for two.

  It was on this seat that Paddington and Mr Gruber relaxed after their exertions each day and finished off any buns which had been left over from their morning elevenses.

  “I must say we’ve been very lucky with the weather,” said Mr Gruber, as Paddington joined him and they took stock of the situation. “It’s been a real Indian summer. Though without your help I should never have got it all done before the winter.”

  Paddington began to look more and more pleased as he sat down on the seat and listened to his friend, for although Mr Gruber was a polite man, he wasn’t in the habit of paying idle compliments.

  Mr Gruber gave a sigh. “If you half close your eyes and listen to the fountain, Mr Brown,” he said, “and then watch all the twinkling lights come on as it begins to get dark, you might be anywhere in the world.

  “There’s only one thing missing,” he continued, after a moment’s pause.

  Paddington, who’d almost nodded off in order to enjoy a dream in which it was a hot summer’s night and he and Mr Gruber were sipping cocoa under the stars, sat up in surprise.

  “What’s that, Mr Gruber?” he asked anxiously, in case he’d left out something important by mistake.

  “I don’t know,” said Mr Gruber dreamily. “But there’s something missing. What the whole thing needs is some kind of finishing touch. A statue or a piece of stonework. I can’t think what it can be.”