Paddington Complete Novels

by Michael Bond

  The salesman was so pleased he even let them have some free rides on the training machine, and Aunt Lucy in particular had such an enjoyable time pulling the lever which made it rock to and fro, it looked at one moment as if the boat might even capsize.

  But much to everyone’s relief she at last consented to climb out, and with their shopping finished, they made for the nearest bus stop.

  The bus was crowded when it arrived, but Aunt Lucy and Paddington managed to find a vacant seat at the front of the top deck; Jonathan and Judy sat just behind them; and Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird made do with some seats near the back.

  They hadn’t travelled very far when Aunt Lucy suddenly looked round. “I feel sick!” she announced at the top of her voice.

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs Brown nervously. “Perhaps it was the boat? She did stay on rather a long time.”

  “And hungry!” added Aunt Lucy as an afterthought.

  “But she can’t…” began Mrs Brown, and then she broke off. She’d been about to say that no one could possibly feel both things at the same time, but she changed her mind. If anything, Aunt Lucy was able to look even more determined about matters when she had a mind to than Paddington.

  “Perhaps I could get some sea-sickness tablets out of Mr Browns dinghy bag,” said Paddington eagerly. “The man said there are some suitable sweets as well.”

  “I should get the tablets out first,” called Mrs Brown. “But do it carefully,” she warned. “It’s so nicely packed. We don’t want to get all the bits and pieces over the bus.”

  Paddington opened the flap of the canvas bag and felt inside. “It’s all right, Mrs Brown,” he called. “I think I can manage.” He gave a tug at something inside. “I’ll just get this piece of string out of the way first.”

  No one, least of all Paddington, knew quite what happened next. In any case, there was certainly no time to think about it. As he pulled the string, there was a loud hissing noise. The canvas bag started to bulge and as he staggered back, clouds of material began to billow forth like some gigantic flower, growing bigger and bigger with every passing moment. The other occupants of the bus watched in silent fascination as the boat began to take shape. It filled the gangway, pressed against the roof, and overflowed on to the seats, letting nothing stand in its way.

  The man in the shop had said the operation was over in ten seconds but as Paddington clambered on to his seat for safety, it felt as if his whole lifetime was passing before him.

  When the hissing finally came to an end, the hullabaloo that broke out as the passengers struggled to free themselves more than made up for the silence that had gone before.

  The noise brought the conductor running up the stairs, and when he reached the top he nearly fell backwards down them again at the sight which met his eyes.

  “’Ere!” he cried. “Who brought that up?”

  “I didn’t bring it up,” gasped Paddington, as he peered over the stern. “It happened! I think I must have pulled the wrong piece of string by mistake.”

  The conductor reached up and rang the bell. “Well, you’d better pull the right one and get it off again, mate!” he exclaimed. “Toot suite! I’m not ’aving these sort of goings on on my bus!”

  Paddington gazed at the dinghy and then at the narrow staircase behind the conductor. “I don’t think I can,” he said unhappily.

  “We’ll see what the Inspector ’as to say about that,” said the conductor, making for the stairs. “’Ere, Reg,” he called.”There’s a young bear up ’ere with a boat!”

  A pounding of feet heralded the arrival of the Inspector. Taking in the situation at a glance, he removed a penknife from an inside pocket and started to open it. “It’s got a thing-a-me-jig for getting stones out of horses’ hooves,” he said, “but I don’t know about getting boats out of buses. I’ll have to use one of me blades.”

  Mrs Bird grasped her umbrella in no uncertain manner. “You’re not sticking any blades in that dinghy,” she said sternly. “It cost a lot of money.”

  The Inspector stared at her. “Are you with this bear?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” said Mrs Bird firmly. “I am.”

  “And so am I,” said Mrs Brown, coming to the rescue.

  “And we are too!” called out Jonathan and Judy.

  The Inspector looked slightly taken aback at this rallying of forces, but before he had a chance to say anything else there was a loud groan from the front of the bus.

  “Crikey!” said Jonathan. “That must be Aunt Lucy!”

  “I’d forgotten about her in the excitement,” broke in Judy.

  The Inspector gazed in astonishment as Aunt Lucy suddenly appeared round the side of the dinghy. Her poncho was back to front; her hat was all askew; and altogether she looked very much the worse for wear.

  “Are you all right, madam?” he asked, grateful for even the slightest kind of diversion he could actually understand and deal with.

  “No,” said Aunt Lucy sternly, “I am not all right. Why has the bus stopped? I want to go home!”

  “She’s come all the way from Peru,” explained Mrs Brown, “and she’s not really used to all this rushing about. I’m afraid she’s feeling a trifle seedy.”

  The Inspector was still so taken up with Paddington and Aunt Lucy he really only half heard Mrs Brown’s remark, but as he caught the tail end of it, his whole attitude suddenly changed.

  “Why ever didn’t you say so before?” he exclaimed.

  He turned to Paddington. “If you’ll kindly tell me your destination, sir,” he said respectfully, “I’ll go down and direct the driver.”

  “Well, we were on our way to Windsor Gardens,” said Paddington doubtfully. “Number thirty-two Windsor Gardens…”

  “It’s not on your route,” broke in Mrs Brown.

  “Think nothing of it,” said the Inspector graciously. He gave the conductor a nudge. “We don’t want any diplomatic incidents, do we?”

  The Browns exchanged glances as he clattered back down the stairs.

  “I wonder what on earth he meant by that?” exclaimed Mrs Brown.

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs Bird. “And I certainly don’t intend to ask.” She cast a glance at Aunt Lucy, huddled on one of the seats with a very woebegone expression on her face indeed. “If you ask me, the sooner we get back home, the better.”

  The Inspector was as good as his word. Shortly after the bus started up it turned off the normal route and began threading its way through the maze of side streets leading to Windsor Gardens.

  By the time they reached number thirty-two they had been joined by several more vehicles: two police cars, an ambulance, and a red tender belonging to the fire brigade.

  Mr Brown was already at home, and the noise as the procession drew up outside the house brought him to the door.

  “Stand back, sir,” said one of the policemen as he jumped from his vehicle. “We’ve an emergency here. This bus has been sending out a May Day signal all the way from the West End.”

  “A May Day signal!” exclaimed Paddington in surprise as he helped Aunt Lucy down the stairs. “But it’s the middle of December.”

  The policeman took out his notebook as a babble of voices rose from all sides.

  “A May Day signal,” he said severely, “is an automatic radio signal for emergencies only. It’s used by ships at sea and/or aircraft when they’re in distress. But I don’t know as I’ve ever heard it being used by a bus before.”

  Aunt Lucy fixed him with a hard stare. “I’m in distress!” she said firmly. “And I think I may have an emergency any moment now!”

  The others stared after her as she hurried indoors closely followed by Paddington.

  “I thought you said that bear was going to the Peruvian Embassy?” exclaimed the conductor.

  “The Peruvian Embassy?” repeated Mrs Brown indignantly. “We certainly said no such thing.”

  “But you said she was C.D.,” broke in the Inspector. “That stands for Corps Diplomatique,
and people in the Diplomatic Corps are entitled to special treatment. That’s why we brought her here.”

  “No,” said Mrs Bird, as light began to dawn. “We didn’t say CD We simply said she was feeling seedy. That’s quite a different matter.”

  Mrs Brown turned to her husband. “Aunt Lucy bought you a Christmas present,” she explained. “But I’m afraid it won’t be a surprise any more. It’s stuck on the top deck!”

  The policeman snapped his notebook shut. It was becoming more and more difficult to catch up with all that had been going on, and he wasn’t at all sure he wished to pursue the matter.

  “I know one thing,” he said. “I bet that’s the only Christmas present this year that’s arrived gift-wrapped in a number fifty-two London bus. Though how we’re going to get it out without spoiling it is another matter.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs Bird,” we could try pulling the plug out?”

  “Try pulling the plug out?” repeated Mr Brown. “What is it? A bath?”

  “You’ll see, Henry,” said Mrs Brown. “You’ll see.”

  It was some time before order was finally restored, but when the Browns went back indoors carrying Mr Brown’s boat they were pleased to find Aunt Lucy sitting at the dining-room table looking her normal self again.

  Mr Brown could still hardly believe his good fortune, but she waved aside his thanks and pointed to a row of parcels neatly laid out in front of her.

  “They’re really meant for Christmas,” she said. “But as Mr Brown’s had his, I thought I’d like to see the rest of you open yours before I leave.”

  “Before you leave?” exclaimed Mr Brown. “Don’t say you’re not stopping for Christmas Day?”

  “I’m only on an excursion,” said Aunt Lucy.”Besides, I always have my dinner in the Home. We have special crackers with marmalade pudding to follow.”

  Mrs Bird opened her mouth. She was about to say that both these items would be readily available at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens if Aunt Lucy cared to stay, but she had obviously made up her mind, so instead she joined in the general excitement as everyone began opening their parcels.

  Her own present was a paw-embroidered shawl, and there was a similar one for Mrs Brown.

  “What a nice thought,” she said. “It will be just the thing for the long winter evenings.”

  Jonathan and Judy each had an enormous jar of honey. “Made,” said Aunt Lucy, “by bees who live in the gardens of the Home for Retired Bears. It’s very sweet because they’re always getting at the marmalade.”

  Last, but not least, Paddington opened his parcel. It contained a wrap-round dressing-gown, and a pair of Peruvian slippers.

  Everyone applauded as he put them on, and a few moments later, after Aunt Lucy had shaken hands all round, he followed her out of the room in order to test them in his bedroom.

  “You don’t think,” said Mrs Bird thoughtfully, as their footsteps died away, “that Paddington’s planning to go back to Peru with her, do you?”

  A sudden chill filled the air.

  “It’s really for him to decide,” said Mrs Bird. “We can’t stop him if he wants to.”

  “He’d have said something by now if he meant to,” replied Mr Brown.

  He was trying to strike a cheerful note, but he failed miserably as everyone sat lost in their own thoughts. A gloom descended on the gathering and it remained that way until a little later in the evening when the door opened again and Paddington reappeared. To their relief he was still wearing his dressing-gown.

  “Isn’t Aunt Lucy coming down too?” asked Mrs Brown.

  Paddington shook his head. “I’m afraid she can’t,” he said rather sadly. “She’s gone home.”

  “Gone home?” echoed the Browns.

  “Aunt Lucy doesn’t like goodbyes,” explained Paddington, when he saw the look of consternation on everybody’s face. “She asked me to say them for her.”

  He felt in his dressing-gown pocket and took out a sheet of paper. “And she gave me this for you to read.”

  Mr Brown took the note and held it up for all to see. It was written in large capital letters, and at the bottom there was a paw-mark to show it was genuine. It wasn’t quite as neat as Paddington’s, but there was an unmistakable likeness.

  “THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR HAVING ME AND FOR LOOKING AFTER PADDINGTON,” he read. “NOW THAT I’VE GOT USED TO IT, IT DOES SEEM A FUNNY NAME FOR A RAILWAY STATION. AUNT LUCY.”

  Mrs Brown gave a sigh as Paddington took back the note and disappeared upstairs again.”I suppose we ought to be thankful he isn’t going,” she said. “But I do wish Aunt Lucy had stopped a little longer. There are so many things I wanted to ask her. About Paddington’s parents…”

  “And his uncle,” broke in Judy. “I’ve often wondered what happened to him.”

  “And how many bears there are in the Home,” added Jonathan. “And what they do all day.”

  “Don’t you think,” said Mrs Bird wisely, “that in this world it’s rather nice to have some things left unanswered?

  “Anyway,” she continued, as she stood up, “if we don’t go upstairs quickly we shan’t be able to say our goodnights to Paddington. After all the excitement he’s had today I should think he’ll be asleep in no time at all.”

  But for once Mrs Bird was wrong. When they entered his room he was still very wide awake. He was sitting up in his dressing-gown, and from the bulge under his blankets it looked suspiciously as though he still had his new slippers on as well.

  He was busily writing in his scrapbook. “I thought I would get everything down while I can still think of it,” he said, dipping his pen absentmindedly into a nearby jar of marmalade. “So many things happen to me I have a job to remember them all sometimes, and it wouldn’t do to miss any out. Aunt Lucy always likes to hear what I’ve been doing.”

  “We thought perhaps you were going back to Peru with her,” said Mrs Brown, as she tucked him in extra tightly for the night.

  “Go back to Peru!” exclaimed Paddington. He looked most upset for the moment. “I’m not old enough to retire! Besides, I don’t think Aunt Lucy would like to think of me leaving home, even if I wanted to.”

  It was left to Mrs Bird to voice everyone’s thoughts as they said goodnight, closed the door and crept back downstairs again.

  “If anyone can think of a nicer Christmas present than that,” she said, “I’d like to meet them!”

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Paddington gave the man facing him one of his hardest stares ever. “I’ve won a bookmark!” he exclaimed hotly. “But I thought it was going to be a Rolls-Royce.”

  The man fingered his collar nervously. “There must be some mistake,” he replied. “The lucky winner of the car has already been presented with it. And the second prize, a weekend for two in Paris, has gone to an old age pensioner in Edinburgh. If you’ve had a letter from us, then you must be one of the ten thousand runners-up who merely receive bookmarks. I can’t think why one wasn’t enclosed.”

  “I’m one of ten thousand runners-up?” repeated Paddington, hardly able to believe his ears.

  “I’m afraid so.” Regaining his confidence, the man began rummaging in one of his desk drawers. “The trouble is,” he said meaningly, “so many entrants to competitions don’t bother to read the small print. If you care to take another look at our entry form you’ll see what I mean.”

  Paddington took the leaflet and focused his gaze on a picture of a large, sleek, silver-grey car. A chauffeur, standing beside one of the open doors, was flicking an imaginary speck of dust from the upholstery with one of his gloves, while across the bonnet, in large red letters, were the words ALL THIS COULD BE YOURS!

  Having slept with an identical picture under his pillow at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens for severa
l weeks, Paddington felt he knew it all by heart. He turned it over and on the back were the same instructions for entering the competition, together with an entry form.

  “Now look inside,” suggested the man. Paddington did as he was told, and as he did so his face fell. He’d been so excited by the picture of the Rolls-Royce he hadn’t bothered to look any further, but as he pulled the pages apart he found it opened out into a larger sheet. On the left-hand side there was a picture of a French gendarme pointing towards a distant view of the Eiffel Tower, and on the right, under the heading TEN THOUSAND CONSOLATION PRIZES TO BE WON, there was a picture of a bookmark, followed by a lot of writing.

  By the end of the page some of the print was so small Paddington began to wish he’d brought his opera glasses with him, but there was no escaping the fact that the bookmark had an all-too-familiar look about it. One exactly like it had arrived that very morning in the envelope containing news of his success.

  “I don’t think a bookmark is much consolation for not winning a Rolls-Royce!” he exclaimed. “I put mine down the waste disposal. I didn’t think it was a prize.”

  “Oh dear!” The man gave a sympathetic cluck as he riffled through a pile of papers on his desk to show the interview was at an end. “How very unfortunate. Still, at least you’ve had the benefit of eating some of our sun-kissed currants.” He opened one of his desk drawers again and took out a packet. “Have some more as a present,” he said.

  “But I don’t even like currants!” exclaimed Paddington bitterly. “And I ate fifteen boxes of them!”

  “Fifteen?” The man gazed at Paddington with new respect. “May I ask what your slogan was?”

  “A currant a day,” said Paddington hopefully, “keeps the doctor away.”

  “In that case,” said the man, permitting himself a smile, “you shouldn’t require any medical attention for quite a …” His voice trailed away as he caught sight of the look Paddington was giving him.