Paddington Complete Novels

by Michael Bond

  Mr Gruber ran to switch the machine off. “I’m afraid it’s a case of trying to run before you can walk, Mr Brown,” he said, helping Paddington to his feet. “I think perhaps you should try starting with something a little slower. I will see what I can find.”

  Opening the lid of a long cardboard box, he produced a roll of paper on a spindle, and unwinding it slightly, he held it up for Paddington to see.

  Although he didn’t say so, Paddington felt disappointed. It looked rather as if the moths had been at it.

  “It seems to have a lot of holes in it,” he said.

  “Well spotted,” said Mr Gruber. “You have hit the nail on the head as usual, Mr Brown. That is the secret behind a player piano. It works by blowing air through those holes as they go past. When the roll goes through at the correct speed, every time a hole passes a nozzle the blast of air sets a lever in motion, and that in turn operates the correct note on the keyboard.”

  While he was talking, Mr Gruber opened a small door above in the front of the piano, rewound the roll of paper already in there, and replaced it with the new one.

  “It sounds very complicated,” said Paddington, dusting himself down.

  “It is really no more complicated than you or I picking up a mug of cocoa and drinking it,” said Mr Gruber. “When you think about it, that is also something of a miracle. I suggest we have our elevenses first, and then you can try out the tune I’ve just put in. It’s Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I’m sure you will find it much easier.”

  It sounded a very good idea, and Paddington hastily unpacked the morning supply of buns.

  After they had finished the last of them and drained their mugs of cocoa, he climbed back on to the stool. This time, because the music was so much slower, he was even better at following the movement of the keys, and several passers-by stopped outside the shop to watch.

  “I wonder if Mr Beethoven did a Chopsticks roll?” he said. “I expect he would have been very good at playing that.”

  “I doubt it,” said Mr Gruber. “He was a very famous composer and he wouldn’t have had the time. Besides, this machine wasn’t invented until long after he died.

  “If you close your eyes,” he continued, “and sway gently with the music, I’m sure a great many people will think you really are playing it.”

  Following his friend’s instructions, Paddington had another go and by the time he reached the end of the piece, the pavement outside the shop was thronged with sightseers.

  “Bravo!” said Mr Gruber, joining in the applause as Paddington stood up and bowed to the audience. “What did I tell you, Mr Brown? I think even Beethoven himself would have been taken in.”

  Shortly afterwards, having thanked Mr Gruber for the cocoa, Paddington bid him goodbye and made his way out of the shop, raising his hat to the crowd outside as he went. A number of people took his photograph, still more wanted his autograph, and several more dropped coins into his hat before he had a chance to put it back on. They felt quite cold when they landed on his head.

  One way and another, he was so excited he couldn’t wait to tell the Browns all about it, so as soon as he was able to escape from the crowd of admirers Paddington set off as fast as he could in the direction of Windsor Gardens.

  He hadn’t gone far before he realised he was being followed. In a strange way it wasn’t unlike the player piano. Each time he put a foot down on the pavement, it was echoed by a footstep close behind him.

  Looking back over his shoulder as he stopped at some traffic lights, he saw a figure wearing a long black overcoat and a fur hat waving at him.

  “Stop! Stop!” called the man.

  “This whole thing is quite extraordinary,” continued the newcomer, removing a glove as he drew near. “I have never seen a bear play the piano before. Allow me to shake you by the, er… paw.”

  Paddington hastily wiped the nearest one on his duffle coat before holding it out.

  “It’s quite easy really,” he began. “You see…”

  “Ah, such modesty.” The man glanced at Paddington’s shopping basket on wheels. “I see you take your sheet music everywhere with you. How very wise.”

  “It isn’t music,” said Paddington. “It’s Mrs Bird’s vegetables.”

  Reaching inside the basket he took out a carrot and held it up for the other to see.

  “Ah!” said the man, masking his disappointment. “It’s good to see you haven’t lost the common touch.”

  He pointed to a large poster on a nearby wall, one of many Paddington had recently seen dotted about the area. “I don’t suppose for one moment you would care to do a recital for me, would you? I’m putting on a concert in aid of charity and a piano-playing bear is just the kind of thing I need to round things off. The icing on the cake as it were.”

  “Jonathan and Judy will be home for the half term and Mr Brown is taking us all to see it as a treat,” said Paddington doubtfully. “So I shall be there anyway.”

  “Splendid!” exclaimed the man. “In fact, it couldn’t be better.”

  “I shall have to ask Mr Gruber first,” said Paddington. “It is his piano and he says there aren’t many like it left in the world.”

  “Leave all that to me,” said the man. “Don’t say another word. You shall have the best piano that money can buy. One which will suit your unique talents. Your obbligatos have to be heard to be believed. As for your glissandos… words fail me.”

  Paddington had no idea what the man was talking about, but he couldn’t help feeling pleased. “It isn’t easy with paws,” he admitted. “I fell off the stool when I was playing the Trish Trash Polka.”

  “It happens to the best of players,” said the man, brushing it aside. “Perhaps we had better have your paws insured. On the other hand, you may have been trying to run before you could walk.”

  Paddington stared at him. “It happened only this morning,” he said excitedly. “And that’s exactly what Mr Gruber said.”

  He considered the matter for a moment or two. “I shall need some rolls,” he announced.

  “My dear sir,” the man raised his hands to high heaven. “You shall have all the rolls you need at the party afterwards. They will be yours for the asking.”

  “It will be too late then,” said Paddington. “I need them while I’m playing.”

  “You do?” the man looked at him in amazement.

  “This is fantastic,” he cried. “A novelty act! I can hardly believe my ears. There may be other bears in the world who play the piano, although I can’t say I’ve come across any before, but there can’t be many who have their supper at the same time.”

  “If you like,” said Paddington eagerly, “I could eat a marmalade sandwich while I’m playing. I usually keep one under my hat in case of an emergency.”

  The man went into ecstasies at the thought.

  “I can see it all,” he cried, closing his eyes as he gazed heavenwards. “You might save that until the end. It could bring the house down.”

  Paddington eyed him nervously. “I hope it doesn’t land on me,” he said.

  “Ah, so you tell jokes as well,” said the man. “This gets better and better.”

  Reaching into an inside pocket he produced some papers. “May I have your signature, kind sir? I just happen to have a form in my pocket.”

  While he was talking he handed Paddington a gold pen. “Just sign along the dotted line.”

  Paddington did his best to oblige, and because the man looked important, he added his special paw print to show it was genuine.

  “Forgive my asking,” said the man, eyeing the print with interest. “Are you by any chance Russian?”

  “I was,” said Paddington, “but I’m nearly home now.”

  His words fell on deaf ears as the man tried reading the writing above the blobs. “Is that where you were born… Paddington?”

  “No,” said Paddington. “It’s my name. I’ve always been called that, ever since Mr and Mrs Brown found me on the railway s
tation.”

  “In that case, we must change it to avoid any confusion,” said the man. “We don’t want the audience turning up at the wrong place, do we?”

  “Change it!” repeated Paddington hotly.

  “How about Padoffski?” said the man. “It will look better when I over stamp the posters, but you’re not to tell anyone that.”

  “How about Mrs Bird?” asked Paddington. “She doesn’t like changes.”

  “Not until after the concert,” said the man, tapping the side of his nose. “Let it be a surprise.

  “Afterwards,” he said, “we must strike while the iron’s hot and look to the future. What would you say to a world tour?”

  “I wouldn’t mind visiting the Home for Retired Bears in Lima,” said Paddington. “It would be a nice surprise for Aunt Lucy.”

  “I don’t normally do retirement homes,” said the man. “More often than not the audience is fast asleep by the end of the programme.”

  “I’m sure Aunt Lucy would poke them with her knitting needle if they were,” said Paddington loyally.

  “Mmm, yes,” the man eyed him doubtfully. “We shall have to see. First things first. We need to think about your entrance on the night. It’s a pity you can’t come up through the floor, like cinema organs used to in the old days.”

  “I expect I could borrow Mr Brown’s saw,” said Paddington eagerly.

  “I must say you’re not short of ideas,” said the man admiringly. “We shall make a very good team. Now that I am your manager I can see it all.”

  “You are?” exclaimed Paddington, looking most surprised.

  “Remember,” said the man, holding the piece of paper aloft. “You signed along the dotted line. It’s all down here in black and white.

  “Do you happen to know Purcell’s Passing By?” he continued, before Paddington had a chance to reply.

  “Is he really?” said Paddington, looking round. “I didn’t see him.”

  “He is a famous composer,” said the man. “And that’s the name of a song he wrote. I thought I might include it in your programme.”

  “I’ll ask Mr Gruber,” said Paddington. “He’s bound to know.”

  “I would rather you didn’t,” said the man. “In fact, I would much rather you didn’t tell anyone.”

  He tapped the side of his nose again. “Mum’s the word.”

  “How about Mrs Bird?” asked Paddington. “She’s not a mum and she knows everything.”

  “Especially Mrs Bird by the sound of it,” said the man. “Remember, walls have ears, and whatever else happens, we must keep it a secret until after the concert. Listen carefully and I will give you your instructions for the night.”

  “Wonders will never cease,” said Mrs Bird, two mornings later. “Paddington’s had a bath without being asked. He also wanted to know if I could get some stains off his duffle coat. He had a marmalade chunk stuck to one of the toggles.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs Brown. “That is a bit worrying.”

  Having a bear about the house was a heavy responsibility and there were times when it was hard to picture what was going on in Paddington’s mind.

  “He’s been acting strangely these last two days,” she said. “Ever since he got back from the market. He was going round peering at the walls this morning, and when I asked him if anything was the matter all he said was ‘Mum’s the word’. Then he began tapping the side of his nose.”

  “I shouldn’t worry too much,” said Mrs Bird. “There are no flies on that bear.”

  “I suppose that’s why,” said Mrs Brown vaguely.

  “I only hope he enjoys the concert tonight,” said the Browns’ housekeeper.

  “Paddington enjoys anything new,” said Mrs Brown, trying to keep a brave face. “That’s one of the nice things about him. Henry thought it would be a treat.”

  It crossed Mrs Bird’s mind that since Mr Brown went off to work every morning he didn’t have to face the consequences, but wisely, she kept her thoughts to herself.

  “We shall have to wait and see,” she said.

  In the event, however, even Mrs Bird could hardly fault Paddington’s behaviour during the first half of the evening’s performance. He even insisted on being at the end of the row when they took their seats.

  “I expect he wants to be near the ice creams,” whispered Jonathan.

  Much to the Browns’ relief, it didn’t look as if the show involved any audience participation. It only needed a mind-reader to ask for volunteers to go up on stage, or a magician who wanted to saw a member of the audience in two, and Paddington was usually the first to offer his services; almost always with disastrous results.

  He didn’t even embarrass them by eating one of his marmalade sandwiches during the interval.

  “I’m saving it until later,” he announced rather mysteriously.

  The Browns heaved a sigh of relief. They still had vivid memories of the first time he had been taken to see a play. They had been occupying a box at the side of the stalls, and Paddington had been so excited he accidentally dropped one of his sandwiches on to the head of a man sitting in a seat below them. At least they were safe from anything like that happening.

  It wasn’t until the show was nearing the end that Mr Brown happened to glance along the row and realised Paddington was missing.

  “Where can he have got to?” asked Mrs Brown anxiously. “We shall never hear the last of it if he misses the Grand Finale. It’s supposed to be something spectacular.”

  “Miss it, nothing!” exclaimed Jonathan, who had been sitting next to him. He pointed towards the stage as the curtain began to rise. “Look! He’s in it!”

  “Mercy me!” cried Mrs Bird as she caught sight of a grand piano with a familiar figure seated at the keyboard. “Whatever is that bear up to now?”

  Sporadic applause greeted the surprise item, particularly as it was some while before anything actually happened. Having spent some time staring at an area above the keys with a hopeful expression on his face, almost as though he expected to see a door of some kind, Paddington climbed off the stool and went round to the side of the piano.

  Raising the lid as best he could, he peered inside. But if he was hoping to find what he was looking for, he was clearly disappointed. After several loud twangs as he felt around with his paw, he closed the lid and disappeared underneath the piano.

  Growing increasingly restive at the delay, certain sections of the audience began to boo, and there were one or two catcalls from rougher elements at the back of the hall.

  When Paddington finally emerged he was mopping his brow, and there was a hunted look on his face as he called out to someone at the side of the stage.

  “What did he say?” asked Mrs Bird.

  “Something about not being able to find a socket,” said Jonathan.

  “Chopsticks, Mr Brown!” came a loud voice from somewhere nearby. “Chopsticks!”

  “Hear! Hear!” shouted someone else, or it could have been the same person disguising his voice.

  Gradually, the call was taken up by others until it seemed as though everyone was stamping their feet and shouting ‘Chopsticks’ at the top of their voices.

  As Paddington obliged, someone – it might have been the person who called out in the first place – led the audience in clapping to the beat of the music, and towards the end, when he produced a sandwich from under his hat and took a large nibble, cheers shook the rafters.

  The applause as Paddington stood to take his bow was deafening. So much so, he began looking anxiously at the ceiling.

  “Best turn I’ve seen in years,” remarked a neighbour of the Browns as they left the theatre. “We shall be seeing that bear’s name in lights one of these days.”

  “If you want my advice,” said Mr Gruber with a twinkle in his eye, when he bumped into them further along the road, “I should retire at your peak, Mr Brown. Otherwise, you may find the going downhill from now on.”

  Paddington stared at his friend
. It really was uncanny how things kept repeating themselves.

  “That’s exactly what my manager said!” he exclaimed. “But he did tell me he’s earmarked some of the money for the Home for Retired Bears in Lima. I must send Aunt Lucy a postcard and tell her to expect it.”

  Jonathan gave his sister a nudge. “I didn’t know he had a manager. I wonder if that’s who it was calling out for Chopsticks?”

  “He certainly saved the day,” said Judy. “Have you any idea who it was, Mr Gruber?”

  But for some reason best known to himself, Paddington’s friend was making haste to wave goodnight.

  “To sum up,” said Mrs Bird, as they turned into Windsor Gardens and the familiar green front door of number thirty-two came into view, “it proves there’s a lot of truth in the old saying ‘A friend in need is a friend indeed.’”

  ONE MORNING THE Brown family was about to sit down to breakfast as usual, when Mr Brown noticed something strange going on in the garden.

  “What is Paddington up to!” he said, as a familiar figure in a duffle coat dashed past the French windows. “That’s my best broom he’s got hold of.”

  “Perhaps he’s sweeping up,” said Jonathan. “It looks as though he’s got a book of instructions.”

  “Even Paddington can’t need instructions to sweep the patio,” said Mr Brown.

  “Besides, it’s my lawn broom. It’s a special one made of twigs.”

  “Quick!” cried Judy, as a shadowy figure shot past, heading back the way it had come. “There he goes again!”

  From the brief glimpse they had, it looked as though Paddington was trying to keep the business end of Mr Brown’s broom between his legs with one paw, whilst at the same time wave a book up and down with his other, not unlike a bird that had fallen out of its nest and was learning to fly.

  A moment later there was a loud clatter from somewhere outside and a dustbin lid rolled slowly past the French windows.

  Jonathan jumped to his feet. “It sounds as though he’s had a crash landing,” he cried.