by Michael Bond
Mr Gruber gave a shiver as he rose from his seat, for once the sun disappeared over the roof tops a chill came into the air. “We shall just have to put our thinking caps on, Mr Brown,” he said, “and not take them off again until we come up with something. It’s a pity to spoil the ship for a ha’p’orth of tar.”
“‘Adrian Crisp – Garden Ornaments’,” exclaimed Mrs Bird. “What’s that bear up to now?” She held up a small piece of paper. “I found this under his bed this morning. It looks as if it’s been cut from a magazine. And my best carrier bag is missing!”
Mrs Brown glanced up from her sewing. “I expect it’s got something to do with Mr Gruber’s patio,” she replied. “Paddington was rather quiet when he came in last night. He said he had his thinking cap on and I noticed him poking about looking for my scissors.”
Mrs Bird gave a snort. “That bear’s bad enough when he doesn’t think of things,” she said grimly. “There’s no knowing what’s likely to happen when he really puts his mind to it. Where is he, anyway?”
“I think he went out,” said Mrs Brown vaguely. She took a look at the scrap of paper Mrs Bird had brought downstairs. “‘Works of art in stone bought and sold. No item too small or too large’.”
“I don’t like the sound of that last bit,” broke in Mrs Bird. “I can see Mr Gruber ending up with a statue of the Duke of Wellington in his back garden.”
“I hope not,” said Mrs Brown. “I can’t picture even Paddington trying to get a statue on to a London bus. At least,” she added uneasily, “I don’t think I can.”
Unaware of the detective work going on at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens, Paddington peered around with a confused look on his face. Altogether he was in a bit of a daze. In fact he had to admit that he’d never ever seen anything quite like Mr Crisp’s establishment before.
It occupied a large wilderness of a garden behind a ramshackle old house some distance away from the Browns’, and as far as the eye could see every available square inch of ground was covered by statues, seats, pillars, balustrades, posts, stone animals – the list was endless. Even Adrian Crisp himself, as he followed Paddington in and out of the maze of pathways, seemed to have only a very vague idea of what was actually there.
“Pray take your time, my dear chap,” he exclaimed, dabbing his face with a silk handkerchief as they reached their starting point for the third time. “Some of these items are hundreds of years old and I think they’ll last a while yet. There’s no hurry at all.”
Paddington thanked Mr Crisp and then peered thoughtfully at a pair of small stone lions standing near by. They were among the first things he’d seen on entering the garden and all in all they seemed to fit most closely with what he had in mind.
“I think I like the look of those, Mr Crisp,” he exclaimed, bending down in order to undo the secret compartment in his suitcase.
Adrian Crisp followed the direction of Paddington’s gaze and then lifted a label attached to one of the lion’s ears. “Er… I’m not sure if you’ll be able to manage it,” he said doubtfully. “The pair are five hundred and seventy pounds.”
Paddington remained silent for a moment as he tried to picture the combined weight of five hundred and seventy jars of marmalade. “I quite often bring all Mrs Bird’s shopping home from the market,” he said at last.
Adrian Crisp allowed himself a laugh. “Oh, dear me,” he said. “I’m afraid we’re talking at cross-purposes. That isn’t the weight. That’s how much they cost.”
“Five hundred and seventy pounds!” exclaimed Paddington, nearly falling over backwards with surprise.
Mr Crisp adjusted his bow tie and gave a slight cough as he caught sight of the expression on Paddington’s face. “I might be able to let you have a small faun for one hundred pounds,” he said reluctantly. “I’m afraid the tail’s fallen off but it’s quite a bargain. If I were to tell you where it came from originally you’d have quite a surprise.”
Paddington, who looked as if nothing would surprise him ever again, sat down on his suitcase and stared mournfully at Mr Crisp.
“I can see you won’t be tempted, my dear fellow,” said Mr Crisp, trying to strike a more cheerful note. “Er… how much did you actually think of paying?”
“I was thinking of ten pence,” said Paddington hopefully.
“Ten pence!” If Paddington had been taken by surprise a moment before, Adrian Crisp looked positively devastated.
“I could go up to forty pence if I break into my bun money, Mr Crisp,” said Paddington hastily.
“Don’t strain your resources too much, bear,” said Mr Crisp, delicately removing a lump of leaf mould from his suede shoes. “This isn’t a charitable institution, you know,” he continued, eyeing Paddington with disfavour. “It’s been a lifetime’s work collecting these items and I can’t let them go for a song.”
“I’m afraid I’ve only got forty pence,” said Paddington firmly.
Adrian Crisp took a deep breath. “I suppose I might be able to find you one or two bricks,” he said sarcastically. “You’ll have to arrange your own transport, of course, but…” He broke off as he caught Paddington’s eye. Paddington had a very hard stare when he liked and his present one was certainly one of the most powerful he’d ever managed.
“Er…” Mr Crisp glanced round unhappily and then his face suddenly lit up as he caught sight of something just behind Paddington. “The very thing!” he exclaimed. “I could certainly let you have that for forty pence.”
Paddington turned and looked over his shoulder. “Thank you very much, Mr Crisp,” he said doubtfully. “What is it?”
“What is it?” Mr Crisp looked slightly embarrassed. “I think it fell off something a long time ago,” he said hastily. “I’m not sure what. Anyway, my dear fellow, for forty pence you don’t ask what it is. You should be thankful for small mercies.”
Paddington didn’t like to say anything but from where he was standing, Mr Crisp’s object seemed a rather large mercy. It was big and round and it looked for all the world like a giant stone football. However, he carefully counted out his forty pence and handed the money over before the owner had time to change his mind.
“Thank you, I’m sure,” said Mr Crisp, reluctantly taking possession of a sticky collection of coins made up of several five-penny pieces, a number of twopences, and a large pile of pennies. He paused as Paddington turned his attention to the piece of stone. “I shouldn’t do that if I were you,” he began.
But it was too late. Almost before the words were out of his mouth there came the sound of tearing paper. Paddington stood looking at the two string handles in his paw and then at the sodden remains of brown paper underneath the stone. “That was one of Mrs Bird’s best carrier bags,” he exclaimed hotly.
“I did try to warn you, bear,” said Mr Crisp. “You’ve got a bargain there. That stone’s worth forty pence of anybody’s money just for the weight alone. If you’d like to hang on a moment I’ll roll it outside for you.”
Paddington gave Mr Crisp a hard stare. “You’ll roll it outside for me,” he repeated, hardly able to believe his ears. “But I’ve got to get it all the way back to the Portobello Road.”
Mr Crisp took a deep breath. “I might be able to find you a cardboard box,” he said sarcastically, “but I’m afraid we expect you to bring your own string for anything under fifty pence.”
Mr Crisp looked as if he’d had enough dealings with bear customers for one day and when, a few minutes later, he ushered Paddington out through the gates he bade him a hasty farewell and slammed the bolts shut on the other side with an air of finality.
Taking a deep breath, Paddington placed his suitcase carefully on top of the box, and then, clasping the whole lot firmly with both paws, he began staggering up the road in the general direction of Windsor Gardens and the Portobello Road.
If the stone object had seemed large among all the other odds and ends in Mr Crisp’s garden, now that he actually had it outside it seemed enormo
us. Several times he had to stop in order to rest his paws and once, when he accidentally stepped on a grating outside a row of shops, he nearly overbalanced and fell through a window.
Altogether he was thankful when at long last he peered round the side of his load and caught sight of a small queue standing beside a familiar-looking London Transport sign not far ahead.
He was only just in time for as he reached the end of the queue a bus swept to a halt beside the stop and a voice from somewhere upstairs bade everyone to “hurry along.”
“Quick,” said a man, coming to his rescue, “there’s an empty seat up the front.”
Before Paddington knew what was happening he found himself being bundled on to the bus while several other willing hands in the crowd took charge of the cardboard box for him and placed it in the gangway behind the driver’s compartment.
He barely had time to raise his hat in order to thank everyone for their trouble before there was a sudden jerk and the bus set off again on its journey.
Paddington fell back into the seat mopping his brow and as he did so he looked out of the window in some surprise. Although, as far as he could remember, it was a fine day outside, he distinctly heard what sounded like the ominous rumble of thunder.
It had seemed quite close for a second or two and he peered anxiously up at the sky in case there was any lightning about, but as far as he could make out there wasn’t a cloud anywhere in sight.
At that moment there came a clattering of heavy feet on the stairs as the conductor descended to the bottom deck.
“’Ullo, ’ullo,” said a disbelieving voice a second later. “What’s all this ’ere?”
Paddington glanced round to see what was going on and as he did so his eyes nearly fell out of their sockets.
The cardboard box, which a moment before had stood neatly and innocendy beside him, now had a gaping hole in its side. Worse still, the cause of the hole was now resting at the other end of the gangway!
“Is this yours?” asked the conductor, pointing an accusing finger first at the stone by his feet and then at Paddington.
“I think it must be,” said Paddington vaguely.
“Well, I’m not ’aving no bear’s boulders on my bus,” said the conductor. He indicated a notice just above his head. “It says ’ere plain enough – ‘Parcels may be left under the staircase by permission of the conductor’ – and I ain’t given me permission. Nor likely to neither. Landed on me best corn it did.”
“It isn’t a bear’s boulder,” exclaimed Paddington hotly. “It’s Mr Gruber’s ‘finishing touch’.”
The conductor reached up and rang the bell. “It’ll be your finishing touch and all if I have any more nonsense,” he said crossly. “Come on – off with you.”
The conductor looked as if he’d been about to say a great deal more on the subject of bear passengers in general and Paddington and his piece of stonework in particular when he suddenly broke off. For as the bus ground to a halt the stone suddenly began trundling back up the gangway, ending its journey with a loud bang against the wall at the driver’s end.
A rather cross-looking face appeared for a moment at the window just above it. Then the bus surged forward again and before anyone had time to stop it the stone began rolling back down the gangway, landing once more at the conductor’s feet.
“I’ve ’ad just about enough of this!” he exclaimed, hopping up and down as he reached for the bell. “We’ve gone past two requests and a compulsory as it is.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when a by now familiar thundering noise followed by an equally familiar thump drowned the excited conversation from the other passengers in the bus.
For a moment or two the bus seemed to hover shaking in mid-air as if one half wanted to go on and the other half wanted to stay. Then, with a screech of brakes, it pulled in to the side of the road and as it ground to a halt the driver jumped out and came hurrying round to the back.
“Why don’t you make up your mind?” he cried, addressing his mate on the platform. “First you rings the bell to say you want to stop. Then you bangs on me panel to say go on. Then you rings the bell again. Then it’s bang on me panel. I don’t know whether I’m on me head or me heels, let alone driving a bus.”
“I like that!” exclaimed the conductor. “I banged on your panel. It was that blessed bear with ’is boulder what done it.”
“A bear with a boulder?” repeated the driver disbelievingly. “Where? I can’t see him.”
The conductor looked up the gangway and then his face turned white. “He was there,” he said. “And he had this boulder what kept rolling up and down the gangway.
“There he is!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “I told you so!”
He pointed down the road to where, in the distance, a small brown figure could be seen hurrying after a round, grey object as it zigzagged down the road. “It must have fallen off the last time you stopped.”
“Well, I hope he catches it before it gets to the Portobello Road,” said the driver. “If it gets in among all them barrows there’s no knowing what’ll happen.”
“Bears!” exclaimed the conductor bitterly, as a sudden thought struck him. “He didn’t even pay for ’is fare let alone extra for ’is boulder.”
Paddington and Mr Gruber settled themselves comfortably on the patio seat. After all his exertions in the early part of the day Paddington was glad of a rest and the sight of a tray laden with two mugs, a jug of cocoa and a plate of buns into the bargain was doubly welcome.
Mr Gruber had been quite overwhelmed when Paddington presented him with the piece of stone.
“I don’t know when I’ve had such a nice present, Mr Brown,” he said. “Or such an unexpected one. How you managed to get it all the way here by yourself I really don’t know.”
“It was rather heavy, Mr Gruber,” admitted Paddington. “I nearly strained my resources.”
“Fancy that conductor calling it a boulder,” continued Mr Gruber, looking at the stone with a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Even Mr Crisp didn’t seem to know quite what it was,” said Paddington. “But he said it was a very good bargain.”
“I’m sure he was right,” agreed Mr Gruber. He examined the top of the stone carefully and ran his fingers over the top, which appeared to have a flatter surface than the rest and was surrounded by a rim, not unlike a small tray. “Do you know what I think it is, Mr Brown?”
Paddington shook his head.
“I think it’s an old Roman cocoa stand,” said Mr Gruber.
“A Roman cocoa stand,” repeated Paddington excitedly.
“Well, perhaps it isn’t exactly Roman,” replied Mr Gruber truthfully. “But it’s certainly very old and I can’t think of a better use for it.”
He reached over for the jug, filled both mugs to the brim with steaming liquid and then carefully placed them on top of the stone. To Paddington’s surprise they fitted exactly.
“There,” said Mr Gruber with obvious pleasure. “I don’t think anyone could find a better finishing touch for their patio than that, Mr Brown. Not if they tried for a thousand years.”
MRS BIRD GAVE a groan as the sound of several voices raised in song followed almost immediately by a sharp rat-tat-tat on the front door echoed down the hall.
“Not again,” she said, putting down her sewing. “That’s the fifth lot of carol singers in half an hour. I shall be glad when Christmas is here.”
“I’ll go,” said Mr Brown grimly.
“I should be careful what you say, Henry,” warned Mrs Brown. “Don’t forget Paddington’s out doing the same thing.”
Mr Brown paused at the lounge door. “What!” he exclaimed. “Paddington’s out carol singing? You don’t mean to say you let him go!”
“He seemed very keen on the idea,” replied Mrs Brown. “Jonathan and Judy are with him so he should be all right.”
“I think they’re collecting for some kind of party,” broke in Mrs Bird, coming t
o her rescue. “It’s all rather secret.”
“Well, I hope whoever they are they’re not relying on Paddington’s efforts for their Christmas entertainment,” said Mr Brown, feeling in his pocket. “Otherwise they’re in for a pretty bleak time. Have you ever heard him sing?”
“He went out by himself the other evening before Jonathan and Judy broke up for their holidays,” said Mrs Brown. “And he did quite well, considering.”
“Two bananas, a button and some French francs,” replied Mr Brown. “And the bananas looked as if they’d seen better days.”
“I wouldn’t say singing was exactly his strong point,” agreed Mrs Brown reluctantly, “but he’s been practising quite hard up in his bedroom just lately.”
“There’s no need to tell me that,” remarked Mr Brown feelingly. “He had me out of bed twice last night. I thought it was the blessed cats!” He turned to go as once again the familiar strains of Good King Wenceslas filled the air, and then his face brightened as a sudden thought struck him. “I suppose,” he said, “it is one way of getting our own back!”
Had they been able to overhear the last remark not only Paddington, but both Jonathan and Judy would have been most upset, but fortunately for the sake of peace in the Browns’ household they were much too far away at that moment, and in any case they had other more important problems to occupy their minds.
In particular there was the matter of the amount they had been able to collect from their evening’s work.
“Thirty-five pence,” said Jonathan bitterly, as he shone his torch into the cardboard box which they’d been using for the takings. “A measly thirty-five pence.”
“It’s not too bad,” said Judy, “considering only six people have answered the door.”
“They can’t have all been out,” said Jonathan. “I wish we’d started our school holidays earlier. The trouble is everyone’s getting fed up by now. I reckon we’ve left it a bit late.”