by Michael Bond
It had been a race against time, but in the circumstances Paddington felt sure Mr Brown would be more than pleased with his extra present. He could still hardly believe his good fortune at having chosen something which worked in so well with the Browns’ gift, for no matter how hard he pulled the padlock it showed no sign of coming apart again.
The heat from the sauna was slightly overpowering, and it was as he moved away in order to mop his brow that a puzzled expression came over Paddington’s face. It was very strange, but it was almost as if he could hear a repetition of the knocking which had woken him earlier in the day.
Admittedly it was rather more muffled than it had been before, but it was getting louder with every passing moment, and it seemed to be coming from inside the hut. In fact, even as he watched, the door began to shake, just as if someone was rattling it from the other side.
He gave the door a couple of taps with his paw. “Excuse me,” he called. “Is anyone there?”
Paddington wasn’t quite sure what, if anything, he expected by way of a reply, but in the event he nearly jumped out of his skin with surprise.
“Yes, there is!” bellowed an all-too-familiar voice. “Is that you, bear? Let me out at once!”
Paddington gazed at the door in alarm. It hadn’t occurred to him for one moment that Mr Curry might have beaten him to it.
Recovering in double-quick time he took hold of the padlock. “Coming, Mr Curry,” he called. “Don’t worry. I’ve only got to set up my birthday date.”
“Your what?” shouted Mr Curry.
“My birthday date,” called Paddington. “It’s the twenty-fifth of June.”
Paddington’s words were the signal for a renewed burst of banging on the door. “But it’s not the twenty-fifth of June,” roared Mr Curry. “That was months ago. And it’s not your birthday. It’s Mr Brown’s!”
But Paddington wasn’t listening. Instead he gazed unhappily at the door. He couldn’t remember ever having seen one quite so tightly shut before. Even allowing for the fact that Mr Curry wasn’t exactly helping matters by banging it, something seemed to have gone very wrong with the lock. No matter how hard he pulled, the two halves showed no sign whatsoever of coming apart.
“I shan’t be long, Mr Curry,” he gasped, giving the lock one more tug. “It’s a bit difficult with paws and the steam keeps going in my eyes …”
“The steam keeps going in your eyes!” bellowed Mr Curry. “What do you think’s happening to mine? I’m being boiled alive in here!”
Bending down, Paddington peered through the knothole he’d used earlier that morning. At first it was difficult to make out anything through the steam, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he gradually made out the shape of the Browns’ neighbour. Even through the haze he could see what Mr Curry meant. During the short space of time he’d been locked inside the hut, he’d taken on the appearance of an over-boiled lobster. A lobster, moreover, which was jumping up and down and showing every sign of wanting to get its pincers on the person responsible for its present condition.
Paddington looked round for help, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. In desperation he opened his suitcase to see if there were any instructions which went with the lock, but apart from several testimonials on the outside of the box — all saying how impossible it was to open once it had been set — there was nothing at all.
As he gazed mournfully at his own lock Paddington felt he could have written a very good testimonial himself at that moment, and given a tape recorder he could have provided some appropriate sound effects to go with it into the bargain as well.
He rummaged through the suitcase again. “Would you like an old marmalade sandwich to be going on with, Mr Curry?” he called. “I expect I could push some bits through one of the holes.”
Paddington was a hopeful bear at heart, but even he had to admit that if Mr Curry’s reply was anything to go by, the market for sandwiches was at a particularly low ebb at that moment.
It was as he was about to close the lid of his suitcase that his gaze alighted on an object lying in the bottom. Over the years Paddington had collected quite a number of souvenirs, and he usually carried a selection of the more important ones around with him. By a strange coincidence the particular one which had just caught his eye had been given to him some years before when he’d visited Mr Curry in hospital.
It was a stethoscope, and seeing it reminded him of a film he’d recently seen on television, all about a famous safe-breaker called ‘Lobes’ Lavone. In the film no lock had been too complicated for Mr Lavone. A few moments on his own with a stethoscope and even the toughest of strongroom doors would swing open to reveal its secrets. It had been a most exciting programme and before he’d gone to bed that night Paddington had spent some time testing his own stethoscope on the Browns’ front door. However, he’d never actually tried it out on a real combination lock before and it seemed a very good opportunity.
Paddington donned the earpieces as fast as he could, and then began twiddling the numbers while he applied the business end of the stethoscope to the lock. As he did so his face fell. Apart from the background music which always accompanied his escapades, Mr Lavone insisted on working in complete silence. In fact, he got very cross if anyone so much as dared to breathe within earshot, whereas, heard through earpieces, Mr Curry’s wheezing sounded not unlike a herd of elephants trying to get over a heavy cold. Far from being able to detect any telltale clicks, all Paddington could hear was the sound of banging and crashing as the Browns’ neighbour stomped about inside the hut.
Taking advantage of a sudden lull, he was about to have one final go when his eardrums were nearly punctured by an unusually loud bellow from what seemed like five centimetres away.
“I can see you, bear!” roared Mr Curry. “What are you doing now? Listening to the radio? How dare you at a time like this?”
Paddington dropped his stethoscope like a hot potato. “I wasn’t listening to the radio, Mr Curry,” he called. “I was having trouble with my combinations.”
“Your combinations?” The Browns’ neighbour sounded as if he could hardly believe his ears. “I’ll give you combinations!”
Paddington looked round hopefully for inspiration. “Stay where you are, Mr Curry,” he called. “I’ll think of something.”
“Stay where I am!” spluttered Mr Curry. “Stay where I am! I can’t do anything else, thanks to you. It’s disgraceful. I’m being boiled alive. Call the Fire Brigade. Ooh! Help!”
But Mr Curry’s cries fell on deaf ears, for Paddington was already halfway up the garden. Desperate situations demanded desperate measures, and something Mr Curry said had triggered off an idea in his mind.
Mrs Brown glanced out into the garden and as she did so a puzzled look came over her face. “What on earth is that bear up to now?” she exclaimed.
As the others joined her at the dining-room window she pointed towards a small figure clad in a duffle coat and hat struggling to prop a ladder against the side of the sauna hut.
“And what’s he doing with my best plastic bucket?” demanded Mrs Bird.
If the Browns’ housekeeper was expecting an answer to her question from the others, she was disappointed, for they were as mystified as she was. In any case they were saved the trouble, for almost before she had finished speaking Paddington had climbed up the ladder and was crawling across the roof of the hut as if his very life depended on it. Before their astonished gaze, he filled the bucket with snow and then removed the cowl from the top of the chimney and began pouring the contents down the open end.
As he did so the column of steam which rose from the hole surpassed anything that had gone before. For a moment or two Paddington completely disappeared from view. Then, as the mist gradually cleared, he once again came into view looking, if anything, even more worried than he had before.
As a distant roar of rage followed by the sound of renewed banging came from somewhere inside the hut, Jonathan and Judy looked at each oth
er. The same thought was in both their minds.
“Come on,” said Jonathan. “If you ask me, Paddington’s in trouble!”
“And what,” called Mrs Bird, as she hurried down the garden path after the others, “do you think you’re doing up there? You’ll catch your death of cold in all that steam.”
Paddington peered down unhappily from the roof of the sauna hut. “I think I’ve shut Mr Curry inside by mistake, Mrs Bird,” he announced. “I think something’s gone wrong with my padlock.”
“Crumbs! Let me have a go.” Jonathan took hold of the lock and began twiddling the dials as a sudden thought struck him. Almost at once there was a satisfying click and to everyone’s surprise the two halves parted. “Stand by for blasting!” he called, as he removed the lock from the hasp and the door swung open.
The others waited with bated breath to hear what Mr Curry would have to say as he emerged from the hut. Far from losing weight he seemed to have gained several pounds as he swelled up in anger at the sight of the Browns. Then, just as he opened his mouth in order to let forth, he gave a shiver and pulled his towel tightly round himself as a sudden draught of cold air caught him unawares. In the end all he could manage was a loud “Brrrrrrr!”
“Perhaps I could beat you with birch twigs, Mr Curry?” called Paddington hopefully. “I expect bears are good at that and it’ll warm you up.”
As he peered over the edge of the roof a lump of snow detached itself from his hat and landed fairly and squarely on top of Mr Curry’s head.
“Bah!” The Browns’ neighbour found his voice at last. “Come down here at once, bear. Wait until I get dressed. I’ll … I’ll …”
Mrs Bird took a firm grip of her broom handle. “You’ll what?” she asked.
Mr Curry swelled up again and opened his mouth as if he was about to say something. Then he thought better of it and a moment later he stalked off and disappeared through the hole in the fence.
“Thank goodness for that!” said Mrs Brown in tones of relief. “Anyway, at least we know Henry’s present works.”
“Even if Paddington’s doesn’t,” said Judy. “Perhaps they’ll change it for you if you take it back to the shop,” she added, catching sight of the disappointed look on his face as he clambered back down the ladder.
“It’s a bit difficult with paws,” said Paddington sadly as he tested the lock. For some reason or other it seemed to have jammed shut again. He glanced hopefully at the sauna hut. “Perhaps my pores need opening?”
“Pores nothing!” broke in Jonathan. “What date did you say you used?”
“My birthday date,” replied Paddington. “June the twenty-fifth.”
“That’s your summer one,” said Jonathan. “You want to try the winter one next time. December the twenty-fifth.” And to prove his point he took the lock from Paddington, twiddled the dials, and then opened and closed it several times in quick succession.
“I always knew there must be something against having two birthdays a year,” said Mrs Brown. “Now I know. Life must be very confusing sometimes — especially if you’re a bear.”
“Especially,” agreed Paddington, “if you’re a bear with combinations.”
The Browns exchanged glances as they pushed their way through the crowds thronging the street outside the Alhambra Theatre.
While Judy took a firm grip of Paddington’s left paw, Mrs Bird clasped her umbrella and took up station on his other side.
“Don’t let go of my hand whatever you do,” said Judy. “We don’t want you to get lost.”
“And watch your hat,” warned Mrs Bird. “If it gets knocked off and trampled underfoot you may never see it again.”
Paddington needed no second bidding, and with his other paw he placed his suitcase firmly on top of his head.
It was the start of the pantomime season in London and as a special Christmas treat Mr Brown had reserved seats for the opening night of Dick Whittington.
It was a long time since Paddington had been taken to a theatre, and he’d certainly never ever been to a pantomime before, so he was very much looking forward to the occasion.
Mr Gruber, who’d also been included in the party, brought up the rear, and as they made their way up the steps he tapped Paddington on the shoulder and motioned him to listen to an announcement coming through on a loudspeaker. It was all about the dangers of buying souvenir programmes from unauthorized sellers outside the theatre who were apparently charging no less than five pounds a time.
Paddington could hardly believe his ears and he gave one man, wearing an old raincoat, a very hard stare indeed from beneath his suitcase as a brightly-coloured booklet was thrust under his nose.
“Five pounds for a programme!” he exclaimed.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing!” agreed Mrs Bird, poking the man menacingly with her umbrella.
The man gave them a nasty look. “Just you wait,” he said. “Some people don’t know when they’re well off.”
“I wonder what he meant by that?” asked Mr Brown, as they reached the entrance doors at long last.
Paddington didn’t know either, but before he had time to consider the matter he found himself being addressed by a superior-looking official standing inside the foyer.
“Good for you,” said the man approvingly. “I wish more of our patrons took such a firm line with these people. It’s costing us a small fortune in lost sales. Allow me to offer you one of our official programmes.”
“Thank you very much,” said Paddington gratefully. “I’ll have seven, please.”
“Seven!” The man looked even more impressed as he signalled one of the usherettes to join them.
“Seven of our special souvenir programmes for the young bear gentleman, Mavis,” he called.
“Thank you very much, sir,” said the girl as she counted out the programmes and handed them to Paddington. “That’ll be forty-two pounds, please.”
“Forty-two pounds!” exclaimed Paddington, nearly falling over backwards in alarm. “That’s six pounds each. I wish I’d bought some outside now!”
Mr Gruber gave a cough. “I think perhaps we’d better have one for you to keep, Mr Brown,” he said, before anyone else had time to speak. “And seven ordinary ones for the rest of us.”
“Seven, Mr Gruber?” echoed Judy. “Don’t you mean six?”
“I expect young Mr Brown would like to send one to his Aunt Lucy when he next writes,” said Mr Gruber. And ignoring the protests from the others he handed over the money. “It’s my pleasure,” he said. “I don’t know when I last went to a pantomime.”
After thanking Mr Gruber for his kind act, Paddington gave the staff in the foyer some very dark glances indeed as they went on their way. They suggested he was going to have a great deal to say on the subject of theatres when he next wrote to his Aunt. In fact, it was going to take a very large postcard indeed to get it all in.
But as they took their seats in the front row of the stalls and he examined his programme, Paddington began to cheer up again, for it was full of coloured pictures with lots of reading as well, and despite the high cost the more he looked at it the better it seemed.
“That’s a picture of the Principal Boy,” explained Judy, as she caught a puzzled look on his face. “It’s being played by a girl.”
“The Dame’s played by a man,” broke in Jonathan.
If they thought their explanations were going to help Paddington’s understanding of pantomimes they were mistaken.
“Why don’t they change over?” he asked. “Then everything would be all right.”
“They can’t,” said Jonathan. “The Dame is always played by a man.”
“And the Principal Boy is always a girl,” agreed Judy. “It’s traditional.”
“I don’t see why,” insisted Paddington.
The others lapsed into silence. Now that Paddington mentioned it, they couldn’t think of a very good reason either, but luckily the orchestra chose that moment to launch into the overtu
re and so the subject was dropped for the time being.
Mrs Brown glanced along the row. “Don’t miss the opening scene, dear,” she called. “You’ll see Dick Whittington’s marmalade cat.”
Paddington licked his lips. “I shall enjoy that, Mrs Brown,” he announced.
The Browns looked at each other uneasily. “Well …” began Mr Brown. “Don’t be too disappointed. It isn’t a real cat.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Paddington. “Not if it’s made of marmalade.”
“It isn’t actually made of marmalade either,” said Judy.
“Besides, it’s in two parts,” remarked Jonathan.
“Dick Whittington’s cat’s in two parts!” exclaimed Paddington. He jumped up from his seat in order to consult his programme. Once, when he’d been taken to the theatre there had been a small slip tucked inside saying that one of the actors was indisposed, but either words had failed the management on this occasion, or they were keeping the matter very dark, for no matter how hard he shook his programme nothing fell out.
“I didn’t mean the cat was in two parts,” hissed Jonathan as the house lights dimmed. “I meant two people take turns to play it.”
“It’s hard work,” said Judy. “It gets very hot inside the fur.”
“I get very hot inside my fur sometimes,” said Paddington severely, “but there’s only one of me.”
Judy gave a sigh. Paddington was inclined to take things literally and sometimes it was difficult explaining matters to him, but fortunately she was saved any further complications as the curtain rose to reveal the street outside the home of the famous London shipping merchant, Alderman Fitzwarren.