by Michael Bond
For some reason or other Diana Ridgeway appeared to have second thoughts as Paddington leaned down to speak to her, but with an obvious effort she overcame them and in the general excitement the moment passed practically unnoticed.
“What an incredible business!” exclaimed Mr Brown, mopping his brow as he settled down again. “I wonder what on earth Paddington kept whispering to Black Beauty? It must have been something pretty good to make her want to jump like that.”
Jonathan and Judy exchanged glances, then Judy took a deep breath. “I’m not sure he whispered anything,” she began, only to break off again as she suddenly caught sight of Paddington and the headmistress about to converge a short distance away.
“Crikey! That’s torn it,” said Jonathan, as Miss Grimshaw began pumping Paddington’s paw up and down.
“Stout effort!” she cried. “Allow me to shake you by the paw. You’ve given our swimming pool a tremendous fillip.”
Paddington began to look more and more surprised as he listened to the headmistress. He had no idea they’d dug the hole even, let alone filled it up. “I hope I haven’t filled it too full, Miss Grimshaw,” he exclaimed politely.
Miss Grimshaw’s smile seemed to become strangely fixed, then she paused and gave a sniff. “I really must get Birchwood to look at the drains,” she said, eyeing Paddington even more doubtfully. “I… er… I hope we shall meet again at the presentation.”
“Crumbs!” said Judy, as the headmistress hurried on her way. “The presentation! We’d better do something before then.”
Dashing over to Paddington she grabbed hold of his paw and then turned to her brother. “Come on, Jonathan,” she called. “We’ll take him to see Matron. She’s just over there in the First Aid tent. She may be able to give him something.”
“Matron?” echoed Mrs Brown, as Judy began whispering in Paddington’s ear. “What on earth are they on about?”
“It’s all right, Mrs Brown,” cried Paddington. “It’s nothing serious. I’m afraid I’m having trouble with one of Mrs Bird’s meringues.”
“Trouble with one of my meringues?” Mrs Bird began to look thoughtful as Judy and Jonathan whisked Paddington away. “How many did the children have?” she asked, rummaging in her picnic basket.
“Three each, I think,” replied Mrs Brown. “I remember them talking about it. Jonathan wanted another but there weren’t any left. I had two – the same as you.” She turned to her husband. “How many did you have, Henry?”
“Er… four,” said Mr Brown. “They were a bit moreish.”
“That makes fourteen altogether,” said Mrs Bird, as she began emptying the contents of the picnic basket. “And that’s all I made,” she added ominously. “So whatever that bear ate it certainly wasn’t a meringue!”
Mr Brown wound down the window of his car to its fullest extent and then glanced across at Paddington. “How anyone could mistake a head of garlic for a meringue I just don’t know,” he said.
“Especially one of Mrs Bird’s,” said Judy. “Matron couldn’t believe her ears.”
“Or her nose!” added Jonathan.
Paddington looked at them sheepishly. “I’m afraid I was busy reading about my cavalletti’s,” he explained. “That’s to do with jumping. I didn’t notice I’d made a mistake until it was too late.”
“But a whole head,” said Mrs Brown from behind her handkerchief. “I mean… a clove would have been bad enough but a whole head!”
“No wonder Black Beauty was jumping so well,” said Judy. “Every time you leaned over her she must have got the full force.”
“It’s a wonder she didn’t go into orbit,” agreed Jonathan.
The Browns were making all possible speed in the direction of Windsor Gardens, but even with all the windows open there was a decided ‘air’ about the car.
Paddington had been standing on the front seat with his head poking out of the sunroof for most of the way, and every time they stopped they got some very funny looks indeed from any passer-by who happened to be down wind.
“I’ll say one thing,” remarked Mr Brown, as they drew to a halt alongside a policeman who hastily waved them on again, “it soon clears the traffic. I don’t think we’ve ever made better time.”
“Perhaps I could eat some garlic when we go out again, Mr Brown?” said Paddington, anxious to make amends.
Mr Brown gave a shudder. “No, thank you,” he said. “Once is quite enough.”
“Anyway,” broke in Judy, “all’s well that ends well. There were over two hundred signatures on Paddington’s sheet and Miss Grimshaw reckons it must be worth at least as many pounds to the fund.”
“Mr Cheeseman said he’d never seen anything like it before,” said Jonathan.
“Nor will he again if I have anything to do with it,” said Mrs Bird grimly. “That’s the last time I make any meringues.”
In the chorus of dismay which greeted this last remark, Paddington’s voice was loudest of all.
“Perhaps you could make them extra large, Mrs Bird,” he said hopefully. “Then they won’t get mistaken.”
The Browns’ housekeeper remained silent for a moment. All in all, despite everything, it had been a most enjoyable day and she was the last person to want to spoil it. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said, relenting at last. “But you must promise not to go riding on the pouffe when we get home.”
Paddington didn’t take long to make up his mind. Although he was much too polite to say so, the events of the day were beginning to catch up on him and sitting down, even on the softest of pouffes, was the last thing he had in mind.
“I think,” he announced, amid general laughter as he clambered up on the seat again, “I shall go to sleep standing up tonight!”
NEXT MORNING MR Gruber had a good laugh when he heard about Paddington’s exploits at the gymkhana.
“It’s strange that you should have spent your day riding a horse, Mr Brown,” he said. “I spent most of mine tinkering with what’s known as a horseless carriage.”
Leading the way across the patio at the back of his shop towards a nearby mews stable which he normally reserved for emergency supplies of antiques during the busy tourist season, Mr Gruber threw open the wide double doors and then stood back and waited patiently while Paddington accustomed his eyes to the gloom.
“It’s what’s known as an ‘old crock’, Mr Brown,” he said impressively.
“Is it really?” said Paddington politely.
Although he didn’t like to say so, the object of Mr Gruber’s fond gaze seemed very aptly named. From the little he could make out it looked for all the world like a very old boiler on wheels to which an enormously tall pushchair had been added as a kind of afterthought.
Mr Gruber chuckled as he caught sight of the expression on Paddington’s face. “I thought it might puzzle you, Mr Brown,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen anything quite like it before. It’s a very early steam-driven motor car. One of the first ever made, in fact. I came across it quite by chance the other week and I’ve been keeping it as a surprise.”
Paddington’s eyes grew wider and wider as Mr Gruber went on to explain about early motor cars and how valuable some of them had become over the years, and he listened with growing interest to the story of the first ‘horseless carriages’. Knowing how crowded the present-day London streets were it was difficult to picture the scene as Mr Gruber described it, and he was most surprised to learn that cars used to have someone walking in front of them carrying a red flag.
Mr Gruber, who was obviously very proud of his stroke of good fortune, turned to his new machine and gave it a fond pat. “I doubt if there’s another one quite like it in the whole of England, Mr Brown,” he said impressively. “I’m afraid it’s in a bit of a state at the moment because it’s spent most of its life in a hay barn, but if you can spare the time I did wonder if we could do it up between us.”
For once in his life, Paddington was at a loss for words. Although Mr Br
own sometimes let him clean the family car, and on very rare occasions gave him a spanner to hold, he’d never before been asked to actually help in doing one up. “Oooh, yes please, Mr Gruber!” he exclaimed at last.
But Mr Gruber had kept his most exciting piece of news until last.
“There’s a big Festival taking place in the Portobello Road in September,” he continued, closing the stable door as he led the way back to his shop. “It’s called INTERNATIONAL WEEK and it’s for the benefit of all the overseas visitors. On the last day there’s even going to be a Fair and a Grand Parade through the market.”
As they settled down again Mr Gruber looked at Paddington thoughtfully over the top of his glasses. “If we manage to get the car finished in time,” he said casually, “I did wonder if we could enter it.”
Paddington stared at his friend in amazement. Over the years Mr Gruber had sprung a good many surprises but this one surpassed all his previous efforts, and shortly afterwards, bidding him goodbye, he hurried back in the direction of Windsor Gardens in order to tell the others.
Paddington’s news met with a mixed reception in the Brown household. Jonathan and Judy were most impressed at the thought of knowing anyone who actually owned an ‘old crock’, and when Paddington announced that Mr Gruber had promised to reserve them two seats in the car if it was ready in time for the Grand Parade, their excitement knew no bounds. But Mrs Bird, with thoughts of oily paws on her best towels, looked less enthusiastic about the whole idea.
Nevertheless, it was noticeable during the next few weeks that as Paddington began to arrive home with descriptions of the work in progress even the Browns’ housekeeper began to take an interest in the matter, and on several occasions she was seen hovering at the end of the mews when she was out doing the morning shopping.
What with dismantling the engine and rebuilding it, rubbing down the coachwork ready for repainting and varnishing, polishing the boiler and refurbishing the leather seats, time flew by at an alarming rate and the gap between Mr Gruber’s first announcement and the day of the actual Parade rapidly narrowed.
Towards the end practically everyone became involved in one way or another, and most nights found Paddington spreading newspapers on his bedroom floor so that he could catch up on polishing some of the many smaller bits and pieces before he went to bed.
During all this time a great change came over the market itself. Shop windows that had remained untouched for years suddenly took on a new lease of life, and some of the more recent establishments dealing in old army uniforms and other colourful relics of a bygone era began to look very festive indeed. Flags and bunting blossomed from bedroom windows and coloured lights appeared across the narrow street, so that altogether it was not unlike the transformation scene in a Christmas pantomime.
One evening Paddington arrived home later than usual and his news that Mr Gruber’s ‘old crock’ was ready at long last gave rise to great excitement in the Brown household.
“I know one thing,” said Mrs Bird, when the clamour had died down, “if you’re going to be in the Grand Parade tomorrow you’d better have a good bath and get rid of all that oil and grease. You’ll never win a prize otherwise.”
“You can use some of Mr Brown’s bubble-mixture as a treat if you like,” said Mrs Brown, ignoring the dark glances from her husband.
Paddington, who wasn’t normally too keen on baths, brightened considerably at the news.
He’d had his eye on Mr Brown’s jar of bubble-mixture for some time. According to the label on the side even a single cupful of the secret ingredients produced undreamed of magical results, and although Mr Brown himself had managed to get through almost half the bottle with little outward sign of change, Paddington felt sure it was worth a go, particularly if it helped Mr Gruber win a prize.
Carefully making sure no one was around he added several extra helpings to his bath water that night in order to make sure the effect lasted until the following day.
When he arrived down for breakfast next morning, everyone had to admit they’d never seen him looking quite so silky before.
“It almost seems a pity to cover it up,” said Mrs Brown as she helped him on with his duffle coat. “If it was a shiny fur competition you’d be bound to win first prize.”
The Browns weren’t the only ones to be impressed by Paddington’s appearance and as Mr Gruber’s ‘old crock’ steamed into position a little later on, its polished paint and brasswork gleaming in the morning sun, quite a few of the early morning spectators gave him a special round of applause.
A large area of waste ground near the Portobello Road had been set aside for the festivities and already it was a scene of great activity. The centre of the area had been roped off for some games that were to start the proceedings, while almost the whole of one side was occupied by a travelling Fair, and as the various floats and vehicles arrived to take up their position for the Grand Parade the picture grew livelier with every passing moment.
Mr Gruber gave a tactful cough as they dismounted. “Why don’t you have a look round, Mr Brown?” he said. “I have to take one of the front wheels off to make some last-minute adjustments, but I shall be quite all right on my own.”
Paddington hesitated for a moment, torn between helping his friend and investigating some of the other exciting things that were going on around him, but Mr Gruber clinched the matter by helping him off with his coat. “I should make the most of it, Mr Brown,” he said. “You’re only young once.”
Paddington needed no second bidding and a few moments later he joined the crowds already thronging the area.
Hoping to find out about Mr Gruber’s chances of winning a prize he tried visiting a fortune-teller first. But the lady inside the tent seemed to spend most of the time blowing her nose violently into a large coloured handkerchief and when he inquired about his own future, all she forecast was that he would probably get a nasty cold, so he decided to turn his attention to the important matter of the games which were about to get under way. A number of the local shops had presented prizes for the various events and Paddington consulted his programme with interest. Although he couldn’t quite picture himself shining in the high jump – or even the long one come to that – there were several other items which interested him, including one called TOSSING THE CABER. The prize for this particular event was a free supply of buns for a month at his local bakers.
It seemed very good value indeed and although Paddington wasn’t at all sure what a caber was he felt quite certain he could toss one given half a chance.
Going up to a man wearing a kilt, he tapped him importantly on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said politely, “I’d like to toss your caber if I may.”
The man in charge looked Paddington up and down. “I hope ye ken what you’re takin’ on,” he said dolefully. “It’s no’ for the like o’ young Sassenach bears.”
“Sassenach bears?” repeated Paddington, giving the man a hard stare. “I’m not a Sassenach bear. I’m from Darkest Peru. Besides, Mrs Bird often lets me have a go with her pancakes.”
“Pancakes?” The man stared at Paddington as if he could hardly believe his ears. “Och, weel,” he said at last. “Be it on your own head.
“So long as it’s no’ on mine,” he added. “Put your paws together, bend your knees, close your eyes, and take it steady. We’re no’ wanting to start the day with a young bear’s rupture.”
Looking more and more surprised, Paddington did as he was bidden. For a while all he could hear was a lot of grunting and groaning and he was about to stand up again when what seemed like a tonne weight suddenly landed on his paws.
Opening his eyes in order to see what was going on, he nearly fell over backwards in astonishment. Or rather, he would have fallen over if his paws hadn’t been pinned to the ground by what appeared to be an enormous telegraph pole.
But if the whole thing looked frightening at first sight, it was nothing compared to the situation a few seconds later when he heaved t
he pole in the air in order to try and free himself.
For a brief moment, all was well and a ripple of applause ran round the assembly, but almost at once things started to go wrong.
Hearing the cries of alarm as the pole began to fall, Paddington hurried after it as fast as he could, only to feel it start to topple in the opposite direction.
The man in charge jumped back. “Och aye!” he shouted. “Take it away. It’s all yours!”
“I don’t think I want it any more, thank you very much,” gasped Paddington, turning to the speaker.
But it was too late. The man had disappeared and instead, words of advice and encouragement began to rain on him from all sides.
“Watch out!”
“Brace yourself!”
“Left paw down a bit!”
There were so many different instructions he couldn’t even begin to remember half of them, let alone decide which one to act on first.
He would have liked very much to give the pole away to someone but as fast as he ran with it in one direction, the crowd scattered in the other.
It was all like some terrible nightmare, or rather all the nightmares he had ever known rolled into one, with the pictures flitting back and forth across his vision like some gigantic television screen that had gone wildly out of control.
And then, just as he was beginning to give up all hope of ever being saved, he heard a familiar voice rising above the others.
“Over here, Mr Brown!” shouted Mr Gruber. “Over here!”
Like a drowning man clutching at a straw, Paddington closed his eyes, heaved the pole for all it was worth and then let go.
He wasn’t quite sure what happened next. For an instant everything went black and the whole world seemed to turn upside down, then there was a tremendous thud and a clang followed by silence.
“Oh dear, Mr Brown,” said a voice, as a willing pair of hands helped him to his feet. “I’m afraid this is all my fault. If I hadn’t called you when I did, it would never have happened.”