by Michael Bond
Paddington opened his eyes and stared round in alarm, but to his relief, Mr Gruber’s car still seemed to be in one piece.
“It’s a good job the pole hit this wheel and not the car itself,” said Mr Gruber, picking up a twisted piece of metal, “otherwise it really would have been an ‘old crock’. But I’m very much afraid it’s put paid to our chances of entering the Grand Parade,” he added ruefully.
Paddington’s face grew longer and longer as he took in Mr Gruber’s words. “Perhaps we could try running it on three wheels?” he suggested hopefully.
Mr Gruber shook his head. “It’s been known,” he said. “In fact, I do believe there’s someone who holds the record for running a car on two wheels, but we would need a very large weight on the back seat to balance things up and I doubt if we’ll get one in time. Jonathan and Judy certainly won’t be heavy enough and there’s only ten minutes to go before the start…”
Mr Gruber broke off, for much to his surprise his words seemed to be having a strange effect.
One moment Paddington was standing in front of him forlornly eyeing the squashed remains of the wheel, the next moment he was galvanised into action rather as if he’d suddenly received an electric shock.
“I shan’t be a moment, Mr Gruber,” he called. “I’ve just had an idea!” And before Mr Gruber had time to open his mouth, let alone reply, he’d disappeared into the crowd with a very determined expression on his face indeed.
Despite his friends assurances on the matter, Paddington still felt most upset about his unfortunate accident. He was anxious to make amends and Mr Gruber’s remarks about needing a large weight in a hurry had triggered off an idea in the back of his mind.
The object of Paddington’s attention was a large stage which lay towards the back of the Fair. However, it wasn’t so much the stage or the ropes surrounding it that had set his mind to work, but a large poster hanging overhead. It was labelled TWO-TONNE ‘MUSCLES’ GALORE and it showed a view of the largest man he could ever remember seeing.
Paddington didn’t know what ‘Muscles’ Galore did for a living or why he was at the Fair, but if his picture was anything to go by and he sat in the back of Mr Gruber’s car there would be absolutely no possibility whatsoever of it ever falling over.
As he climbed through the ropes on to the stage, Paddington was surprised to hear a cheer ring out and he paused for a moment in order to raise his hat at the crowd below before hurrying across to the far corner where a man in leopard-skin tights was sitting.
“Excuse me, Mr Galore,” he began, politely holding out his paw. “I was wondering…”
The rest of Paddington’s words died before they even reached his lips.
He wasn’t quite sure how it happened or why for that matter, but somewhere a bell clanged and he suddenly found himself flying through the air towards the ropes on the far side of the stage almost as if he’d been shot from a cannon. It felt like a ride on a helter-skelter, a moon-rocket, and a dodgem car all rolled into one, and to his alarm, no sooner had he recovered from his first shock than he caught sight of ‘Muscles’ Galore advancing towards him again with a most unfriendly look in his eye.
“Would you like a second?” whispered a hoarse voice in his ear.
Paddington looked around and found he was being addressed by a man with a towel round his neck. “I didn’t even want the first, thank you very much,” he said hotly.
“If you want my advice,” said the man, “you’ll go in there fighting and give him ‘what for’ while you’ve got the chance. I should watch it though, he’s got a chip on his shoulder.”
“Mr Galore’s got a chip on his shoulder?” repeated Paddington, licking his lips. Although he didn’t think much of his new friend’s advice, he found the last piece of information much more to his liking. All the activity that morning had made him feel hungry and he peered hopefully at the advancing figure.
But his interest was short-lived. There wasn’t so much as a potato peeling on Mr Galore’s shoulders let alone any chips, and as he loomed nearer and nearer, snorting and baring his teeth, it was all too easy to see how he’d earned his name. In fact, he seemed to have muscles on top of his muscles and Paddington didn’t like the look of the way some of them were rippling at all.
“Lay in to ’im!” shouted someone in the crowd. “Tear ’im apart!”
Paddington wasn’t sure whether the remark was intended for him or Two-Tonne ‘Muscles’ Galore, but he didn’t stop to find out. Pulling his hat firmly down over his head, he slithered past his opponent and hurried round the ring in an effort to find the nearest exit. He was only just in the nick of time for there was a loud ‘twang’ behind him as ‘Muscles’ Galore landed against the ropes and bounced off again, landing with a heavy thud on the floor.
The roar which greeted Paddington’s narrow escape was equalled only by the growl from Two-Tonne ‘Muscles’ as his outstretched hands grasped at the empty air.
“First rate,” said someone, pushing Paddington back into the ring as he tried to clamber through the ropes. “I don’t think I’d want to stay in the ring with a great brute like that just for the sake of a pound a minute.”
“Not for fifty pounds,” agreed someone else. “I’d like to live to spend it. Still, it’s the best so far today. By my reckoning, that young bear’s two quid up already.”
Paddington stared at the speaker in amazement. Far from wanting to earn a pound for every minute spent in the ring with ‘Muscles’ Galore, he would willingly have foregone quite a few weeks’ bun money in order to stay out.
But before he had time to think too deeply about the matter, he felt a vice-like grip encircle his waist and for a second time in as many minutes, he found himself hurtling through the air.
“’Ere!” called ‘Muscles’ Galore, as he staggered back against the ropes. “’E’s all slippery. He’s coated ’isself with something.”
“Get on with it!” shouted someone in the crowd.
Two-Tonne ‘Muscles’ Galore turned and glared at the audience. “I can’t fight ’im,” he yelled. “It’s like trying to wrestle with a pussycat.”
“Meeow,” called a voice, as the crowd dissolved into laughter. “Meeeow.”
“Puss, puss, puss,” echoed more voices as they took up the cry.
The chanting of the crowd seemed to act like a red rag to a bull on ‘Muscles’ Galore and for the next ten minutes Paddington was hard put to keep ahead of him let alone make good his escape from the ring as they tore round and round.
How long it would have gone on was impossible to say, for as fast as Two-Tonne ‘Muscles’ Galore caught up with Paddington and grabbed hold of him, he slipped from his grasp again, and it was really more a question of who would hold out the longest.
But as it happened, matters were suddenly decided for them in the shape of a stern figure emerging from the crowd brandishing an umbrella.
Ignoring the boos from the rougher element who would willingly have seen the contest go on all day, Mrs Bird climbed into the ring.
“Stop these ‘goings-on’ at once!” she commanded, glaring at Paddington’s opponent. “‘Muscles’ Galore indeed! You ought to be ashamed of yourself – chasing a young bear like that!”
“It wasn’t really Mr Galore’s fault, Mrs Bird,” gasped Paddington urgently. “And it wasn’t his muscles I was after – it was his tonnes!”
With only seconds to go before the start of the Grand Parade, Paddington wasn’t at all sure if he could get Two-Tonne ‘Muscles’ Galore to the car in time let alone explain why he wanted him.
He gave a deep sigh as he tried to gather his breath. “If you’d like to come and sit on Mr Gruber’s back seat, Mr Galore,” he announced generously, “I’ll give you back my winnings!”
Two-Tonne ‘Muscles’ Galore needed no second bidding. In fact, he looked quite pleased to leave the ring, and a moment later, with Paddington leading and Mrs Bird bringing up the rear, they were pushing their way through the crowd in t
he direction of Mr Gruber’s car as fast as they could go.
After all the excitement, the events which followed – even the strange sight of Mr Gruber’s ‘old crock’ heading the procession on three wheels, its bonnet adorned by an enormous blue ‘winner’s’ rosette and the back seat by the equally huge figure of Mr Galore – proved something of an anticlimax.
Both Paddington and Mr Gruber were well-known figures in the market and it was a popular result, but long after the Parade was over and the last of the Fair was being packed up ready to leave, the main talking point was Paddington’s exploits in the ring.
Even ‘Muscles’ Galore himself made a special point of shaking him warmly by the paw before he left.
“Such a nice gentleman,” said Mrs Bird surprisingly, as she waved goodbye.
“Quite one of the old school,” agreed Mr Gruber. “I think he and young Mr Brown were very well matched. With odds-on Mr Brown, of course,” he added hastily.
“Fancy staying in the ring with him for ten whole minutes though,” exclaimed Jonathan admiringly. “I wouldn’t have fancied it.”
“The man who ran the booth announced it was a record,” broke in Judy.
“Mr Galore said I’m what they call a South Paw,” explained Paddington. “That’s most unusual.”
The Browns exchanged glances. There was a peculiar gleam in Paddington’s eye and it was noticeable that they were being given an extra wide berth by the other passers-by as they made their way home.
“I must say it’s nice to feel in such safe paws,” said Mrs Bird, as Paddington aimed a particularly hard stare at a nearby shadow. “Especially late at night.”
“What are you going to do when you get home, Paddington?” asked Mr Brown jokingly. “Have half an hour with a medicine ball or do some press-ups?”
Paddington directed his stare in Mr Brown’s direction. “I think,” he said, to everyone’s astonishment, “I shall have a nice hot bath.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs Brown. “Wonders will never cease.”
But Paddington had other things on his mind. Thinking back over the day’s events he’d decided that the thing that had impressed him most of all was the outcome of the previous night’s bubble bath. The result of only a few capfuls had surpassed anything forecast on the side of the jar and there was no knowing what might happen if he used the rest in one go.
“My fur’s got very dusty, Mr Brown,” he announced hopefully, “so I think I shall need plenty of your mixture to put it right!”
MR BROWN LOWERED his evening newspaper and glanced up at the dining-room ceiling as a strange wailing sound, half-human, half-animal, rang out from somewhere overhead.
“What on earth was that?” he asked.
“It’s only Paddington,” replied Mrs Brown soothingly. “I let him borrow Jonathan’s old violin to play with. I expect he’s got caught up in the strings again. It’s a bit difficult with paws.”
“Jonathan’s old violin?” repeated Mr Brown. “It sounds more like someone putting a cat through a mangle!” He gave a shiver as another banshee-like note echoed round the house. “Don’t tell me he’s taking up music now.”
“I don’t think so, Henry,” replied Mrs Brown vaguely. “He said it had something to do with his detective work.”
“Oh, Lord!” Mr Brown gave a groan as he settled back in his armchair. “Well, I wish he would hurry up and solve something. Perhaps we shall have a bit of peace and quiet then.”
“At least it keeps him out of mischief,” said Mrs Brown.
Mrs Bird looked up from her knitting. “It all depends on what you mean by mischief,” she said meaningly. “If you ask me, it’s more eating than detecting. I caught him looking for clues in my larder this morning.”
The Browns’ housekeeper tended to view most of Paddington’s activities with suspicion and his latest one was no exception. Indeed, when he’d finally emerged from the larder, his face had worn an unusually guilty expression for someone who was supposed to be on the side of law and order.
Paddington’s interest in detective work had started several weeks earlier when he’d had to spend some time in bed.
Shortly after the Fair, the fortune-teller’s warning had come true and he’d caught a cold. It had been a particularly nasty one; for a while he’d been completely off marmalade sandwiches – always a sure sign that things were not as they should be, and when the worst was over, Mrs Bird had insisted on his staying indoors for a few extra days just to be on the safe side.
With Jonathan and Judy back at school, Mrs Brown had been hard put to keep him amused and in desperation, she’d lent him some of her husband’s library books. Mr Brown liked detective stories and in no time at all, Paddington began to share his enthusiasm. Even though he was a slow reader, he managed to get through quite a number and after some discussion with the local librarian, Mrs Brown made arrangements for him to have his own ticket for a trial period.
From that moment on, Paddington visited the library several times a week and he soon became quite a familiar figure in the ‘mystery’ section.
One of his favourite characters was a private detective called Carlton Dale – partly because his books were on the bottom shelf and easy to get at and partly because there seemed to be a never-ending supply. Mr Dale solved many of his cases from the comfort of his own home and – like Sherlock Holmes before him – he often soothed his nerves with the aid of a violin. In fact, he seemed to spend most of his time sitting up in bed playing selections from The Desert Song while baffled officials from Scotland Yard sought his advice on their latest unsolved case.
Unaware of the disturbance he was causing downstairs, Paddington pushed the bow back and forth over his own instrument several times and then gloomily laid it down on his bedside table. He had to admit that the noise was far from soothing, particularly as he hadn’t even got a case to work on.
In the books Carlton Dale was never short of cases. If it wasn’t the milkman falling down dead on his doorstep, it was someone from the police knocking him up with some urgent problem or other.
Peering out of the front room window early one morning, Paddington came to the conclusion that the Browns’ milkman looked unusually healthy, and when he tried ringing up the local police station to see if they had any unsolved crimes they were most unhelpful.
Heaving a deep sigh he turned his attention to a letter he’d just finished writing. It was addressed to Mr Carlton Dale himself and in it Paddington had sought advice on how to look for cases.
According to his books, Carlton Dale lived in a fashionable quarter of London and Paddington felt sure that he must be well known to the Post Office, particularly as he’d once solved The Case of the Missing Mailbags for them.
Carefully sealing the envelope, he inscribed Mr Dale’s name on the outside, donned his duffle coat and hat, and then made his way downstairs in order to borrow a stamp.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Brown anxiously, when she saw what he was up to. “Must it go tonight?” She lifted one of the curtains and peered into the gloom. “It’s a thick fog. Not fit for a dog to be out, let alone a bear. I think you’d better go, Henry.”
“Thank you very much,” said Mr Brown from behind his paper. “I’ve had quite enough fog for one night driving home – without posting bears’ letters.”
“It’s all right, Mrs Brown,” broke in Paddington hastily. “I’d rather do it myself, thank you.” And before the others had a chance to open their mouths he’d disappeared out of the dining-room.
To be truthful, Paddington didn’t really want anyone else to see who he’d been writing to and he was in so much of a hurry to escape, it wasn’t until the front door closed behind him that he began to have second thoughts on the matter. For if it had looked murky through the Browns’ dining-room window it seemed doubly so now he was outside.
Pulling the duffle coat hood over his hat, he wrapped a handkerchief round his nose in order to keep out the worst of the smog, and after taking a de
ep breath began edging his way carefully along Windsor Gardens towards the pillarbox at the far end.
Paddington had never been out in a really thick fog before and it wasn’t long before he made a strange discovery. The railings which he’d been carefully keeping on his right had suddenly disappeared, and although he must have trodden the same path countless times in the past he hadn’t the slightest idea where he was.
Worse still, when he turned round in what he thought was a half circle in order to retrace his steps, he walked headlong into a tree, which certainly hadn’t been there on his way out.
Paddington was a brave bear at heart but he began to grow more and more anxious as he groped his way along and not a single familiar landmark came into view.
Even the roads were strangely silent, with only the occasional outline of an abandoned car or other vehicle to show they were there at all, and as time went by with no sign of any passer-by to advise him he had to admit that he was well and truly lost.
He tried calling out “Help!” several times, first fairly quietly and then in a much louder voice, but it had no effect at all. Indeed, for all the good it did he might just as well have saved his breath.
Lowering the handkerchief from his nose, Paddington felt under his hat, removed the marmalade sandwich he always kept there in case of an emergency, and was just about to sit down in order to consider his next move when he gradually became aware of a faint glow somewhere ahead of him.
Like a lighthouse beam to a lost mariner, the glimmer gave him fresh heart and in no time at all he was making all haste in its direction.
The light seemed to be coming from a building with a number of very large windows and as he drew near, Paddington suddenly recognised it as a large department store he’d visited many times in the past. How he’d got there he didn’t know, for it lay in quite the opposite direction to the one he’d expected. But having found his bearings at last he felt sure he would be able to get home again simply by following a main road which ran near to Windsor Gardens. Indeed, even as he stood considering the matter, he distinctly caught the welcome sound of slow-moving traffic in the distance.