Paddington Complete Novels

by Michael Bond

  Before going to sleep he made out a list of all the other requirements ready for the morning. Something with which to open the tin; a wire brush for cleaning the pipes before starting work; a pair of folding steps – the instructions suggested it was only necessary to paint the bottom half of the pipe, there was no need to go all the way up to the top; and some white spirit to clean the brushes afterwards.

  The following morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he waylaid Mrs Bird in the kitchen and persuaded her to let him have some plastic gloves and an old apron.

  Knowing who would be landed with the task of getting any paint stains off his duffle coat if things went wrong, the Brown’s housekeeper was only too willing to oblige.

  “Mind you don’t get any of that stuff on your whiskers,” she warned, as he disappeared out of the back door armed with his list. “You don’t want to spoil your elevenses.”

  Paddington’s suggestion that it might be a good idea to have them before he started work fell on deaf ears, so he set to work gathering the things he needed from the garage. While he was there he came across a special face mask to keep out paint fumes.

  Clearly, it wasn’t meant for bears, because although it covered the end of his nose, it was nowhere near his eyes. All the same, having slipped the elastic bands over his ears to hold it in place, he spent some time looking at his reflection in the wing mirror of Mr Brown’s car and as far as he could make out all his whiskers were safely tucked away inside it.

  Once in the garden he set to work with a wire brush on a rainwater pipe at the rear of the house.

  “I must say he looks like some creature from outer space,” said Mrs Bird, gazing out of the kitchen window.

  “At least it keeps him occupied,” said Mrs Brown. “I can’t help being uneasy whenever he’s at a loose end.”

  “The devil finds work for idle paws,” agreed Mrs Bird; almost immediately wishing she hadn’t said it in case she was tempting fate.

  But much to everyone’s surprise Paddington made such a good job of the first pipes, even Mrs Bird’s eagle eyes couldn’t find anything amiss when she inspected them. There wasn’t a single spot of paint to be seen anywhere on the surrounding brickwork.

  And even if it meant she would never be able to use her plastic gloves or her apron again, she didn’t have the heart to complain. It was a small price to pay for having number thirty-two Windsor Gardens made secure, and keeping Paddington occupied into the bargain.

  “What did I tell you, Mary?” said Mr Brown, looking up from his morning paper when she passed on the news.

  “I only hope he doesn’t try shinning up the pipes to see if it works,” said Mrs Brown. “You know how keen he is on testing things.”

  “It’s a bit like giving someone a hot plate and telling them not to touch it,” agreed Mrs Bird.

  As it happened, similar thoughts had been going through Paddington’s mind most of the morning. At one point when he stopped for a rest he even toyed with the idea of hiding round a corner in the hope that Gentleman Dan might turn up, but with only one more drainpipe to go he decided he’d better finish off the work as quickly as possible.

  It was the one just outside the landing window at the side of the house, which had been the cause of all the trouble in the first place, and he had left it until last because he wanted to make an especially good job of it for Mrs Bird’s sake.

  Having scrubbed the bottom section of the pipe clean with the wire brush, he mounted the steps and began work on the actual painting.

  He hadn’t been doing it for very long before he heard a familiar voice.

  “What are you doing, bear?” barked Mr Curry.

  Paddington nearly fell off the steps with alarm. The last person he wanted to see was the Browns’ next-door neighbour.

  “I’m painting Mr Brown’s drainpipes,” he announced, regaining his balance.

  “I can see that,” growled Mr Curry suspiciously. “The thing is, bear, why are you doing it?”

  “It’s some special paint which never dries,” said Paddington. “It’s very good value.”

  “Paint which never dries?” repeated the Browns’ neighbour. “It doesn’t sound very good value to me.”

  “It was recommended to Mr Brown by a policeman,” said Paddington importantly. “I’ve nearly finished all the pipes and I haven’t used half the tin yet.

  “Mrs Bird saw a face at the window when she came home from her shopping the other day,” he explained, seeing the sceptical look on Mr Curry’s face.

  “The policeman thought it might have been someone called ‘Gentleman Dan, the Drainpipe Man’ who climbed up this very pipe. Mrs Bird said it gave her quite a turn. She hasn’t got over it yet.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Mr Curry. “Let’s hope they catch him.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be back,” said Paddington. “Not if he saw Mrs Bird on the warpath, but Mr Brown thinks it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  “Hmm,” said Mr Curry. “What did you say it’s called, bear?”

  “Miracle non-dry paint for outside use,” said Paddington, reading from the can. He held it up for Mr Curry to see. “You can buy it at any good do-it-yourself shop.”

  “I don’t want to do-it-myself, bear!” growled Mr Curry. “I have more important things to do. Besides, I’m on my way out.”

  He paused for a moment. “On the other hand, I would be more than interested in having my own pipes done. I do have some very valuable items about the house. Family heirlooms, you know.”

  “Have you really?” said Paddington with interest. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an heirloom before.”

  “And you’re not starting with mine,” said the Browns’ neighbour shortly.

  “I don’t have them on display for every Tom, Dick and bear to see. I keep them tucked away - out of the sight of prying eyes.”

  Paddington couldn’t help thinking if that were the case there was no point in the Browns’ neighbour having his drainpipes painted, but Mr Curry was notorious for being unable to resist getting something for nothing, even if it was something he didn’t need.

  A cunning look came over his face. “Did you say you have over half a tin of paint left?” he asked.

  “Nearly,” said Paddington. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t mentioned it in the first place.

  Mr Curry felt in his trouser pocket. “Perhaps you would like to have a go at my pipes while you’re at it,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have very much change on me, but I could stretch to ten pence if you do a good job.”

  Paddington did a quick count-up on his paws. “Ten pence!” he exclaimed. “That’s less than tuppence a pipe!”

  “It’s a well-known fact in business,” said Mr Curry, “that the bigger the quantity, the less you pay for each individual item. It’s what’s known as giving discount.”

  “In that case,” said Paddington hopefully, “perhaps I could do one of your pipes for five pence?”

  “Ten pence for the lot,” said Mr Curry firmly. “That’s my final offer. There’s no point in having only one done.”

  “I think I’d better ask Mr Brown if he minds first,” said Paddington, clutching at straws. “It is his paint.”

  “Now you don’t want to do that, bear,” said Mr Curry, hastily changing his tune. “Let it be between ourselves.”

  Reaching into his pocket again, he lowered his voice. “As I say, I have to go out now and I probably won’t be back until this evening, so that will give you plenty of time to get it done. But, if you make a really good job of it, I may give you a little extra. Here’s something to be going on with.”

  Before Paddington had a chance to answer, something landed with a ‘plop’ on the gravel at the foot of his steps.

  Climbing down, he picked up the object and gazed at it for a moment or two before glancing up at Mr Curry’s house. Unlike the Browns’ drainpipes, they looked as though they hadn’t seen a paintbrush in years. His heart sank as he turned the
coin over in his paw. For a start it didn’t even look English. In fact, the more he thought about it the less exciting Mr Curry’s offer seemed, particularly when it meant doing something he hadn’t bargained on in the first place.

  While Paddington was considering the matter, he heard Mr Curry’s front door slam shut. It was followed almost immediately afterwards by a clang from the front gate, and that, in turn, triggered off one of his brainwaves.

  Shortly afterwards Paddington was hard at work again, and this time, knowing how cross the Browns would be on his behalf were they able to see what he was doing, he intended getting it over and done with as quickly as possible.

  Later that day the Browns were in the middle of their afternoon tea when the peace was shattered by the sound of a violent commotion in the road outside their house.

  At one point Mrs Bird thought she heard loud cries of “Bear”, and shortly afterwards there was the sound of a police siren, but by the time she got to the front window all was quiet.

  They had hardly settled down again before there was a ring at the front door bell.

  “I’ll go this time, Mrs Bird!” said Paddington eagerly, and before the others could stop him he was on his way.

  When he returned, he was accompanied by the policeman who had visited them earlier in the week.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” said Mr Brown.

  “Allow me,” said the officer before Paddington had a chance to open his mouth.

  He produced his notebook. “First of all, a short while ago we received a call from one of your neighbours reporting a disturbance outside number thirty-three. We arrived at the scene as quickly as we could. The gate was wide open and a gentleman covered in black paint was dancing about in the gutter, shouting his head off. Assuming it must be Gentleman Dan, the Drainpipe Man, we placed him under immediate arrest.

  “On our way back to the station, we managed to quieten him down…” the policeman looked up from his notebook, “which was no easy task, I can tell you. He informed us he was your next-door neighbour, so we removed the handcuffs and brought him back. I dare say you will be able to confirm you have a Mr Curry living next door.”

  “I’m afraid we do,” said Mrs Brown.

  “What did he look like?” asked Mr Brown.

  “Well, he’s not exactly a bear lover for a start,” said the policeman. “Kept going on about the iniquities of someone called Paddington…”

  “Say no more,” broke in Mrs Bird. “That’s him.”

  “Well,” continued the officer, “when we arrived back at his house, who should we meet coming out of the gate, but none other than Gentleman Dan, the Drainpipe Man. He must have seen us drive off and seized his chance.

  “He had the cheek to say he’d gone to the wrong door by mistake.”

  “Did he get away with much?” asked Mr Brown.

  “Didn’t have a thing on him,” said the officer, “which is a pity, because I gather from Mr Curry that he has a lot of valuable items, and we could have booked him on the spot.

  “On the other hand, I don’t think he’ll be bothering us again for a while. Thanks to this young bear’s efforts, we’ve not only got a picture of him, but we have his ‘dabs’ for good measure.”

  He turned to Paddington. “I’d like to shake you by the paw for your sterling work,” he said.

  Paddington eyed the policeman’s hand doubtfully. There was a large lump of something black attached to the palm.

  “Perhaps you would like to borrow some of Mr Brown’s white spirit first,” he said. “You won’t want to get any of that on your steering wheel.”

  “You’ve got a point,” said the policeman, taking a look at it himself. “Seeing as how I recommended it in the first place, I can’t really complain, but…”

  “I still don’t quite understand,” said Mr Brown, after the officer had left. “What’s all this about painting Mr Curry’s front gate?”

  Paddington took a deep breath. “I thought if I stopped any burglars getting into his garden in the first place, they wouldn’t be able to break into his house, and it would save using up all your paint on his downpipes. I forgot Mr Curry still had to get back in!”

  The Browns fell silent as they digested this latest piece of information.

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” said Paddington lamely.

  “You can’t really blame Paddington, Henry,” said Mrs Brown. “You did take him up on his offer after all.”

  “How much was Mr Curry going to pay you for doing his pipes?” asked Mr Brown.

  “Ten pence,” said Paddington

  “In that case,” said Mrs Bird, amid general agreement, “I have no sympathy. That man deserves all he gets. And he knows it.

  “If he says anything to you about it,” she added grimly, turning to Paddington, “tell him to come and see me first.”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington gratefully. “If you like, I’ll go round and tell him now.”

  The Browns exchanged glances. “It’s very kind of you, Paddington,” said Mrs Brown. “But you’ve had a very busy day, and I do think it’s a case of ‘least said, soonest mended’. Why don’t you put your paws up for a while?”

  Having considered the matter, Paddington thought it was a very good idea indeed. And funnily enough, Mr Curry never did mention the day he didn’t get his drainpipes painted, although for some weeks to come, whenever Paddington waved to the Browns’ neighbour over the garden fence he received some very black looks in return.

  They were even darker than the colour of his front gate, which now remained permanently open.

  On the other hand, Mrs Bird never again saw a face looking at her through the landing window.

  PADDINGTON ALWAYS LOOKED forward to his morning chats with Mr Gruber. One of the things that made visiting his friend’s antique shop in the Portobello Road so special was the fact that it was never the same two days running. People came from far and wide to seek Mr Gruber’s advice. If it wasn’t someone looking for an old painting or a bronze statue, it was someone else browsing through his vast collection of books, which covered practically every subject under the sun.

  In time, Paddington became quite knowledgeable about antiques himself; so much so, he could immediately tell a piece of genuine Spode china from an ordinary run-of-the-mill item of crockery, although he would never had dared pick any of it up in case he dropped it by mistake.

  “Better safe than sorry,” was Mr Gruber’s motto.

  That apart, since both of them had begun life in a foreign country, they were never short of things to talk about.

  During the summer months they often had their elevenses sitting in deck chairs on the pavement outside the shop, discussing problems of the day in peace and quiet before the crowds arrived.

  Paddington couldn’t help but notice his friend usually had a faraway look in his eyes whenever he spoke of his native Hungary.

  “When I was a boy,” Mr Gruber would say, “people used to dance the night away to the sound of balalaikas. That doesn’t seem to happen any more.”

  Having been born in Darkest Peru, Paddington had no idea what a balalaika was, let alone what it sounded like, but with Mr Gruber’s help he did learn to play a tune called “Chopsticks” on an ancient piano at the back of the shop.

  It wasn’t easy, because having paws meant he often played several notes at the same time, but Mr Gruber said anyone with half an ear for music would recognise it at once.

  “Music is a wonderful thing, Mr Brown,” he was wont to say. “Chopsticks may not be top of what is known as ‘the Pops’, but if you are able to play it on the piano you will always be in demand at parties.”

  On cloudy days, when there was a chill in the air, they made a habit of retiring to an old horsehair sofa at the back of the shop, and it was on just such a morning, soon after his adventure with the shopping basket on wheels, that Paddington arrived rather earlier than usual and found to his surprise that
Mr Gruber had acquired a new piano.

  It was standing in almost exactly the same spot as the old one had been; near the stove where his friend made the cocoa.

  There was no sign of Mr Gruber, which was most unusual, so to pass the time Paddington decided to have a go at playing what had become known as ‘his tune’, when something very strange happened.

  As he raised his paws to play the opening notes, the keys began going up and down all by themselves!

  He had hardly finished rubbing his eyes in order to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, when he had yet another surprise. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mr Gruber crawl out from underneath a nearby table.

  “Oh dear,” said Paddington, “I hope I haven’t broken your new piano.”

  Mr Gruber laughed. “Have no fear of that, Mr Brown,” he said. “It is what is known as a ‘player piano’ and it works by electricity. You don’t see many around these days. I’ve just been plugging it in to make sure it works properly.”

  “I don’t think I have ever seen a piano that plays a tune all by itself before,” said Paddington. “We didn’t have anything like that in Darkest Peru. But then we didn’t have electricity either,” he added sadly.

  While Mr Gruber set about making the cocoa, Paddington took a closer look at the keyboard. It really was uncanny the way the keys went up and down in time to the music, and he tried following their movement with his paws without actually touching them. In the beginning he found it was hard to keep up with them, but after several goes it really began to look as though he was actually playing the tune.

  “Look, Mr Gruber,” he called. “I can even do it cross paws!”

  “I should watch out,” warned his friend, looking up from the saucepan. “It’s the Tritsch Tratsch Polka. You will need to sit very tight.”

  But it was too late. Even as Mr Gruber spoke, the music reached a crescendo and Paddington suddenly found himself lying on the floor with his legs in the air.