Paddington Complete Novels

by Michael Bond

  Paddington was about to put one of his plans into action and with the sun already sinking below the rooftops there was no time to be lost.

  The Browns paused at the entrance to the Town Hall ballroom and braced themselves as they prepared to join the milling mass of people inside.

  Mrs Brown glanced anxiously over her shoulder. “Come along, Paddington,” she called. “Keep with us, or you’ll get lost.”

  “If he does we shall find him soon enough,” said Mr Brown gloomily. “Anyone can see who it is a mile away. I know it’s a fancy-dress parade but does he have to wear dark glasses and a beard?”

  “I don’t think he’s actually going in for anything, Henry,” said Mrs Brown vaguely. “He’s just … well, he’s just wearing them. I expect he’s got his reasons.”

  “That,” said Mr Brown, “is what I’m afraid of.”

  Mrs Brown lapsed into silence and exchanged anxious glances with the rest of the family. There was really no answer to Mr Brown’s question. At least, none that sprang readily to mind.

  The fact of the matter was, Paddington had been behaving very strangely all evening. On his return from wherever he’d been he had a quick bath without being asked, which was most unusual, and then he’d retired to his room armed with his disguise outfit. He’d stayed there with the curtains tightly drawn until it was time for supper, and when he’d finally emerged from his room wearing his beard and dark glasses, his hat had been pulled down very tightly over his face indeed.

  “He hardly touched his shepherd’s pie,” remarked Mrs Brown. “That’s always a bad sign.”

  “He’ll touch it soon enough when he’s hungry,” said Mrs Bird darkly.

  The Browns’ housekeeper had her suspicions on the subject of Paddington’s desire not to be recognised, but before she had a chance to say any more their attention was caught by a sudden commotion from the far side of the room.

  “Mercy me!” she cried, as a strange, white, billowing object clambered on to the stage. “Whatever is it?”

  But like Mr Brown before her, the Browns’ housekeeper posed her question in vain, for the apparition was such a mixture of frills and bows and tapes and seemingly miles of cloth entangled with long pieces of cord, it beggared description.

  It was so peculiar that even the Master of Ceremonies was momentarily at a loss for words, and it wasn’t until he reached forward and poked his microphone through a flap in the front of the material that the awful truth suddenly dawned on the Browns.

  “What a good idea coming as a tent,” said the Master of Ceremonies, silencing the applause with a wave of his other hand. “What gave you the idea?”

  “Tent?” came a muffled, but all-too-familiar voice. “Tent? How dare you! I’ll give you tent!”

  The red face of Mr Curry emerged from the folds and glared towards the audience. “Bear!” he bellowed. “Are you in the hall, bear? If you are, come up here at once. I’ll teach you to mend my best shirt with a tent! I’ll … I’ll …”

  The Master of Ceremonies looked slightly put out as he jumped back in alarm and found he’d entangled his microphone lead with what seemed to be a lot of guy ropes. “I only wanted to congratulate you on winning first prize,” he said. “There’s no need to be like that.”

  “What’s that?” It was Mr Curry’s turn to be taken aback. “Did you say first prize?”

  “That’s right.” The Master of Ceremonies recovered his composure. “Yours is one of the most original entries I’ve seen for a long time. But as it now appears to have been a joint effort I think we shall have to split the prize down the middle.”

  “I’m having my joint split down the middle!” exclaimed a voice behind the Browns. They turned just in time to see Paddington coming out from beneath a table where he had been hiding. He was looking most upset.

  “No, dear,” said Mrs Brown hastily. “You haven’t actually won a joint. Mr Curry’s won some money and the man in charge has very kindly suggested he shares it with you.”

  “If I were you I’d go up and get your half while you’ve got the chance,” broke in Jonathan. “You may never see it otherwise.”

  Paddington needed no second bidding, and he hurried up to the platform as fast as his legs would carry him.

  “I’m sorry about the guy ropes, Mr Curry,” he called, as he positioned himself as far away from the Browns’ neighbour as possible. “I’m afraid I left them on by mistake.”

  “Er, yes,” said the Master of Ceremonies. “Quite. Now,” he pointed the microphone towards Paddington, “tell me, what do you plan to do with your half of the money?”

  Paddington raised his hat politely. “I’m giving it to the Home for Retired Bears in Lima,” he announced. “That’s what I was collecting it for in the first place.”

  “What a nice idea,” said the M.C. over the applause. “But won’t you be keeping any for yourself?”

  Paddington removed his beard while he considered the matter. What with one thing and another he’d had a very hard week doing his jobs and until now there had been absolutely nothing to show for it.

  “I think,” he announced at last, “I may keep Mr Curry’s bob.”

  The Browns’ neighbour stared at him in astonishment. “My what?” he gasped.

  Paddington hastily put his beard back on and took a deep breath before replying. “Your bob, Mr Curry,” he said. “The one you promised me for doing your ironing.”

  If Mr Curry’s face had been like thunder before, it grew positively purple with rage as Paddington’s words sank in. For a second or two he looked as if he was about to stomp off the stage. Then he hesitated as a loud shout of “Give him the money” rang out. Paddington was a well-known figure in the Portobello Market and over the years he’d gained a good many friends among the street traders, quite a few of whom were present and only too happy to take up the cry.

  “Quite right, too,” said Mrs Bird, trying to keep the note of pleasure from her voice as with a great deal of ill grace Mr Curry began feeling inside his shirt. “I’m not given to betting, but if I had to put a shirt on anyone’s back it would be Paddington’s rather than Mr Curry’s. One way and another bears do have a habit of coming out on top in the end — I’m very pleased to say.”

  “Eight pounds ninety-nine pence!” exclaimed Paddington. “Just to say ‘Congratulations’!” He grabbed the edge of the Post Office counter as he nearly fell backwards off his suitcase with surprise. “But it’s only one word!”

  The lady behind the window gave a superior sniff. “You don’t get something for nothing in this world,” she said severely. “Especially when it comes to sending telegrams.”

  Paddington gazed up at her, adding one of his special hard stares for good measure. As far as he was concerned he felt so aggrieved he would have liked nothing better than to send the Post Office a telegram congratulating them on being able to charge so much, but he thought better of it, for it sounded a very expensive way of complaining.

  “Anyway,” said the lady, wilting slightly under his unblinking gaze, “it isn’t only one word — it’s seventeen. There’s the address as well, you know.”

  She put on her superior face again as she pushed Paddington’s piece of paper across the counter and jabbed at it with a pencil. “Talking of which, I rather feel we have a few unnecessary words here, don’t you? “‘MR HENRY BROWN’,” she read, “‘NUMBER THIRTY–TWO WINDSOR GARDENS, LONDON, ENGLAND, EUROPE, THE WORLD, THE UNIVERSE. CONGRATULATIONS. PADDINGTON’.”

  Paddington gave the lady an even harder stare. “We wanted to make sure it got there,” he said firmly, and taking the piece of paper from under the grille he opened his suitcase, placed it in the secret compartment and, after raising his hat politely, left the building.

  Paddington had never sent a telegram before and as far as he was concerned he wasn’t likely to in the future either — not even if the Post Office paid him to do so.

  All of which, however, didn’t go very far towards solving his immediate pro
blem; in fact it only made it worse.

  It had to do with the fact that Mr Brown’s birthday was looming up, and for one reason and another he hadn’t done a thing about it. Apart from anything else, Mr Brown wasn’t very easy to buy presents for — especially if you didn’t have much pocket money.

  Although he was much too polite to mention the matter, Paddington hadn’t had a rise in his pocket money ever since he’d first gone to live with the Browns. Luckily, extras in the way of Christmas and birthday presents helped matters along, not to mention the odd sums he earned from time to time. But the years had seen a steady increase in the price of buns, and although he never really wanted for anything, it wasn’t always easy to make both ends meet.

  However, in the circumstances, it hardly seemed the right moment to bring the matter up, so he’d been driven to trying to think of unusual but cheap ways of wishing Mr Brown a Happy Birthday.

  He’d already made a special card, and the idea of sending a Greetings telegram as well had come to him one morning when he’d seen an advertisement on a hoarding in the market. According to the advertisement it was a very inexpensive way of making people feel happy, and at the time it had seemed like a very good idea indeed; now, his hopes had received a severe setback.

  Paddington decided to consult his friend Mr Gruber on the subject. Mr Gruber was good at solving life’s problems, and even if he didn’t come up with an answer straight away he had a happy knack of making things seem better than they were at first sight.

  Having directed another hard stare at the outside of the Post Office, he set off in the direction of the market, his duffle coat hood pulled well up over the top of his hat in order to keep out the chill morning air.

  In the space of a few days a change had come over the weather and autumn had given way to winter with a vengeance; so much so that Paddington rather wished he’d plucked up courage to tell Mrs Bird that he’d used his best Wellingtons during his cooking exploits at Luckham House.

  His old ones had long since seen better days, and the first flakes of the winter snow were already seeping through some gaps in the bottom, making the fur round his toes quite soggy.

  It was while he was sheltering in a doorway not far from the Portobello Road, nibbling a much-needed sandwich before completing the remainder of his journey, that Paddington’s eye suddenly alighted on a notice pinned to the door itself.

  It said, quite simply: MR ROMNEY MARSH, R.A. LIFE CLASSES. PORTRAIT PAINTING A SPECIALITY. MODEL WANTED — URGENTLY. TOP RATES PAID.

  It didn’t take Paddington long to make up his mind. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss, and a moment later found him hurrying up the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him.

  Mr Marsh’s studio was at the top of the building, and as Paddington knocked on the door and entered he gazed around with interest. Apart from the walls it was not unlike being inside an enormous greenhouse, for almost the entire roof area was glassed in. In the centre of the room there was a platform with a small table on which stood a bowl of fruit, while to one side there was an unlit coke stove around which sat a small group of people with easels.

  It was yet another reminder to Paddington of his visit to Luckham House, for it wasn’t unlike the scene from the opera he’d listened to, although from the way some of the students were holding their brushes their hands weren’t simply frozen with cold, they were totally without feeling.

  Mr Marsh himself was obviously made of sterner stuff, for unlike his students, who were all wearing overcoats, he was clad quite simply in a large flowing smock which billowed out behind him as he caught sight of Paddington and crossed the room to bid him welcome.

  “My dear sir,” he announced. “Welcome to our little gathering. Have you come to enrol?”

  Paddington raised his hat politely as he shook Mr Marsh’s outstretched hand with his other paw. “No, thank you,” he announced. “I’ve just had a marmalade sandwich.”

  “Oh! Oh, dear me!” Mr Marsh gave a nervous giggle. “In that case … er … what can we do for you?”

  “I’d like to be a model if I may,” said Paddington.

  “A model what?” said a gloomy voice from somewhere among the students.

  “Silence!” Mr Marsh raised his hand imperiously as he joined Paddington in giving the group a hard stare. “This is not a laughing matter. Stop that tittering at once.”

  He whirled back to address Paddington. “You couldn’t have come at a more opportune moment,” he exclaimed, as he led Paddington towards the platform. “Between you and me,” he whispered, “we’re getting a little tired of painting fruit. Besides, it’s so expensive at this time of the year and you only have to turn your back for a moment and you find someone’s eaten it.”

  He placed Paddington in the centre of the platform alongside the table and then stood back, holding his brush at arm’s length and eyeing it through half-closed eyes in order to size up the situation.

  “Let me tell you,” he said, turning to his class, “that anyone who captures those whiskers in oils will have their work cut out.”

  “Capture my whiskers in oils!” exclaimed Paddington. “But they’re not even loose.”

  “We shall need our burnt umber,” continued Romney Marsh, ignoring the interruption, “with perhaps a touch of orange madder here and there. Some of the stains are really quite remarkable in their depth of colour.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Black for the nose, obviously … and the mouth. I would suggest forest green for the tongue …”

  “Forest green!” cried Paddington in alarm. He peered at his reflection in a nearby full-length mirror and then his face cleared. “That’s not my real tongue,” he said thankfully. “I expect it’s where I licked the end of my pen when I tried to send a telegram this morning.”

  “Er … yes … quite!” Mr Marsh came back down to earth with a bump as he realized Paddington was talking to him. “Now, would you mind removing your duffle coat, please? After all, this is supposed to be a life class. Perhaps you could pretend you’re sunbathing on the beach or something?” he added brightly.

  Paddington considered the matter for a moment. All in all, he had quite a good imagination when he put his mind to it, but as he gazed round the unheated studio, try as he might he couldn’t even begin to picture the kind of scene Mr Marsh obviously had in mind; and he certainly had no intention of taking off his duffle coat.

  “Bears don’t do sunbathing,” he said firmly. “They do shade bathing instead. I think I’ll keep it on if you don’t mind.”

  Romney Marsh clucked impatiently. “I suppose we mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” he said. “One has to take what one can get these days, but really!

  “We’ll just have to pretend you’re some kind of statue.” He eyed Paddington’s old Wellingtons doubtfully as he began arranging him in a suitable pose. “Some of you may have trouble with the legs. It’s hard to tell where they begin let alone where they end up. Still,” he gave a sigh, “life is nothing without a challenge.

  “Now,” he continued, addressing Paddington as he stood back in order to view his handiwork, “whatever you do — don’t move. I want you to keep absolutely still.”

  Paddington did as he was told and for the next few minutes, apart from some movement in the class itself as the members took up new positions in order to get the best view of their latest subject, all was quiet.

  To start with Paddington felt quite pleased with his new occupation. Although he had often heard Mrs Bird grumble about the way some people seemed to get paid for nothing, he’d never heard of anyone being paid to stand absolutely still while they did it, and it seemed very good value indeed.

  But gradually, as time went by, he began to wish more and more that he’d taken up Mr Marsh’s first suggestion and pretended he was sunbathing. Practically any kind of pose would have been better than the one he’d finally ended up with, but making believe he was lying on a beach enjoying the sunshine sounded nicest of all in the circumstances. As it
was he felt more like a ballet dancer who’d got a bad attack of cramp while trying to execute a particularly difficult movement. The only time he could remember feeling quite so uncomfortable was when he’d been caught unawares in a waxworks museum, and that had only lasted a matter of minutes, whereas Mr Marsh’s class showed every sign of going on for ever. From the little he could see out of the corner of his eye most of them were still busy with their charcoals making preliminary sketches, and even Romney Marsh himself had only just started on his burnt umber.

  To make matters worse, a fly was beginning to take more than a passing interest in him. Paddington had often wondered where flies went in the winter time, now he knew. It circled round him several times trying to make up its mind, and then, unable to resist the attraction of some marmalade which had accidentally got left on his whiskers, it landed on the end of his nose.

  Paddington could stand it no longer. Taking advantage of a moment when everyone seemed to have their heads bent over their easels, he lowered one paw, brushed his whiskers clean and gave a swipe at the offending fly at the same time. Then he tried to resume his former position.

  But if Paddington thought his movement would go unnoticed he was doomed to disappointment. The howl of protest which went up from the class couldn’t have been any louder if he’d gone out for a walk, done his shopping in the market, and then returned after a hearty lunch.

  “That takes the biscuit!” exclaimed a student bitterly, pointing to his canvas. “I’d just got the folds in his duffle coat right — now look at it!”

  “His whiskers are pointing a different way, too,” said another voice. “And some of them have changed colour. They were all orange to begin with.”

  Romney Marsh’s beard quivered with indignation. “It’s too bad,” he said. “One pound an hour I’m paying, and look what happens …”