Paddington Complete Novels

by Michael Bond

  And while Paddington took the remains of Mr Curry’s soup into the kitchen, Mrs Bird led their uninvited guest into the hall.

  Moments later, for the second time that evening the sound of a front door being slammed echoed round Windsor Gardens.

  “Who would have believed it?” said Mrs Brown.

  “I told you Paddington would find a way,” said Jonathan.

  “Still waters run deep,” said Judy.

  “There’s nothing still about that bear’s waters,” said Mrs Bird, as she came back into the room. “If you ask me, there’s a lot goes on under that hat we don’t know about.”

  “Would anyone else like any stirred flies?” she asked. “Or would you prefer pumpkin soup? I made it specially. You can’t make lanterns without having a lot of the inside fruit left over.”

  “It’s very good,” said Paddington, licking his lips as he arrived back from the kitchen. “I’ve just been testing it.”

  “In that case,” said Mr Brown. “Come on everyone… It’s party time!”

  Afterwards they all voted it was the best soup they’d had for a long time.

  “Aren’t you going to take your hat off, Paddington?” asked Mrs Brown, when it was time to go to bed.

  “If you don’t,” said Mrs Bird, “the glue may melt during the night, then you’ll be stuck with it.”

  Paddington considered the matter for a moment or two before he went upstairs. He felt very torn. “I suppose I’d better,” he said at long last, “otherwise I shan’t be able to raise it if I meet someone I know when I’m out shopping. But if you don’t mind I’ll take my lantern with me while the night-light is still burning. It’s been such a nice Halloween I don’t want to miss a minute of it.”

  “I know I’ve said it before,” said Mrs Bird, as Paddington disappeared up the stairs, “but I’ll say it again. That bear takes the biscuit!”

  ONE BRIGHT DECEMBER morning Paddington decided to make himself useful in the garden. With Christmas not far away he was anxious to earn some extra pocket money, so he set to work at the front of the house, clearing up the last of the autumn leaves and generally tidying up the flower beds.

  He didn’t want a repeat of the previous year’s debacle, when he gave everyone in the family a diary he’d come across on a stall in the market. Like most bears, he had an eye for a bargain, and at the time five for the price of one sounded very good value indeed.

  It wasn’t until halfway through Boxing Day afternoon, when Mr Brown laid down his pen at long last, having finished the arduous task of transferring all the names and addresses and birthday reminders from his old diary into the new one, that he happened to glance at the date and discovered the two were identical.

  Having swept the leaves into a tidy pile, Paddington took some secateurs out of his duffle coat pocket and turned his attention to the rose bushes in case they needed a final prune before winter set in.

  A quick glance decided him against it. The roses were Mr Brown’s pride and joy and he went to great pains to ensure they were pruned close to an outward-facing bud.

  Whenever Paddington looked at them the only buds he could find always seemed to face the wrong way, and that day was no exception.

  He was in the middle of taking a closer look at one of the stems through his magnifying glass when he heard a cough. Looking round he realised he was being watched.

  “Ahem,” said a man, looking over the railings. “Forgive me. I can see you’re busy. Please don’t bother to stand up.”

  Paddington looked most offended. “I am standing up,” he announced.

  “Oh!” The newcomer sounded rather flustered. “I do beg your pardon, but I assumed you were a jobbing gardener; a refugee from some foreign clime, perhaps?

  “I wonder… are your employers at home?”

  “My employers!” repeated Paddington, growing more and more upset. “But I live here. I’m trying to make my ends meet in time for Christmas. I was looking for some outward facing buds, but I can’t find any.”

  “I know just how you feel,” said the man sympathetically.

  He held up a clipboard. “I’m trying to conduct a survey, but so far I haven’t found a single person to interview. Everybody in the road seems to be out.”

  “I expect it’s because of your board,” said Paddington knowledgeably. “Mrs Bird says she never opens the door to a man with a clipboard. It usually means they’re after something.”

  “Ah!” the man gave a hollow laugh. “Thank you very much for the tip. I’m not used to this kind of work, you see, and…” his voice trailed away under Paddington’s gaze.

  “Since you live here,” he continued, “perhaps you wouldn’t mind answering a few simple questions. It will only take up a minute or two of your valuable time. We are asking people about their views…”

  “I have a very good one from my bedroom window,” said Paddington, only too happy to oblige. “On a clear day I can see the British Telecom Tower.”

  The interviewer allowed himself a smile. “How very interesting.” He took a closer look at Paddington. “Forgive my mentioning it, but from your accent I take it you are not… well… I mean, where exactly are you from?”

  “Peru,” said Paddington. “Darkest Peru.”

  “Darkest Peru?” repeated the man. “I’ve come across a good many Bulgarians and Poles coming over here to work, but I’ve never met anyone from Darkest Peru before.” He consulted a sheet of paper on his clipboard. “There isn’t even a box I can tick. If you don’t mind my saying so, I hope there isn’t a flood this winter.”

  “Mr Curry had one last year,” said Paddington.

  “He did?” exclaimed the man excitedly. He jotted the name down. “Perhaps you could give me his address. I’ll see if I can jog his memory.”

  “I would rather you didn’t,” said Paddington anxiously. “He’s our next-door neighbour and we don’t get on very well.”

  “Oh, dear.” said the man. “Does it bring back unhappy memories for you?”

  “No,” said Paddington. “But it does for Mr Curry. He had a burst pipe in his bathroom and I was helping him mend it.

  “He gave me a hammer to hold and told me that when he nodded his head I was to hit it. So I did. I didn’t realise he meant the pipe.”

  “I see the problem,” agreed the man. “It’s not something you would forget in a hurry.”

  He turned over the page. “Changing the subject, do you have any complaints about the way you have been treated since you arrived in this country?”

  Paddington considered the matter for a moment. “Well, it wasn’t Mrs Bird’s fault,” he said, “but my boiled egg was a bit runny this morning.”

  “Your boiled egg was a bit runny?” The man had started to write something down, but he crossed it out. “I hardly think that’s a reasonable cause for complaint.”

  “It is if you’re a bear,” said Paddington hotly. “If you’re a bear and the yolk dries on your whiskers it makes them stick together and it’s very painful. It hurts every time you open your mouth.”

  “Er, yes,” said the interviewer, “I suppose it would. Did you register a complaint?”

  Paddington looked taken aback at the thought.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” he said. “Mrs Bird rules the house with a rod of iron.”

  “Really?” The man looked round nervously. “Does she carry it with her?”

  “Oh, it’s only a pretend one,” said Paddington. “But she can be a bit fierce at times. Mr Brown says that deep down she has a heart of gold. Anyway, she’s out with Mrs Brown doing the Christmas shopping, and both Jonathan and Judy are away at school. They’re not due home until tomorrow, so I’ve been left in charge.”

  The man looked relieved. “This Mrs Bird,” he said. “I would like to know more about her. Do I take it she isn’t a very good cook?”

  “Not a very good cook?” repeated Paddington indignantly. “Mrs Bird’s dumplings are the best I’ve ever tasted. They’re well known in the nei
ghbourhood.”

  “Dumplings well known in neighbourhood,” repeated the man, making an entry on his form.

  “So is her marmalade,” said Paddington. “It’s full of chunks.”

  Feeling under his hat, he produced a sandwich. “You can try this one if you like. I made it myself the week before last.”

  It looked somewhat the worse for wear, and the man eyed it doubtfully. “I think I would rather not,” he said.

  “I always keep one under my hat in case of an emergency,” explained Paddington, “but nothing’s gone wrong for several weeks now.”

  “I don’t suppose you happen to keep one of Mrs Bird’s dumplings under there as well do you?” asked the man. “I could take a picture of it on my mobile.”

  “A dumpling!” exclaimed Paddington. “Under my hat!” He gave the interviewer a very hard stare indeed.

  The man’s voice trailed away as he caught the look on Paddington’s face. “May I ask how you got here in the first place?” he enquired, hurriedly changing the subject.

  “I came in a small boat,” said Paddington. “I was a stowaway.”

  “All the way from Darkest Peru?” The interviewer raised his eyebrows. “I know a lot of you boat people are desperate, but that sounds like a world record to me. Your paws must have been sore after all that rowing.”

  “Oh, I didn’t have to row,” said Paddington. “The boat was fixed to the side of a big ship. It was my Aunt Lucy’s idea. I was a stowaway.”

  “All the same,” said the man, “it can’t have been easy.”

  “It certainly wasn’t in the Bay of Biscuits,” said Paddington. “I had a job to stand up. The sea was so rough I nearly got washed overboard several times.”

  “Surely you mean the Bay of Biscay?” said the man.

  “I called it the Bay of Biscuits,” said Paddington firmly. “Someone was hanging over the ship’s rails and they let go of a Garibaldi by mistake. It landed on my head, so I had it for dinner. I felt much better afterwards.”

  “How many B’s are there in Garibaldi?” asked the man as he wrote it down.

  “There aren’t bees in a Garibaldi,” said Paddington. “They have currants instead.”

  Taking a deep breath, the interviewer reached for his eraser. “This Aunt Lucy of yours,” he continued. “Can you tell me more about her?”

  “Well,” said Paddington. “She’s very wise. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be here at all. Besides, she taught me all I know.”

  “Perhaps you could let me have her address,” said the man. “I’d like to take her on board and make her part of my team. She sounds just the kind of person we’re looking for.”

  “I don’t think that would be very easy,” said Paddington. “She’s living in the Home for Retired Bears in Lima. Besides, she doesn’t play any ball games.”

  The interviewer gave Paddington a glassy stare as he reached for his eraser again.

  “I had a clean form when I started out this morning,” he said plaintively. “Now look at it!

  “I suppose,” he continued, trying another tack, “since your Aunt Lucy is in a home, she’s… er… I mean, is there an uncle by any chance?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Paddington. “Uncle Pastuzo. But we haven’t seen him since the earthquake…”

  “You mean you’re an earthquake victim…” the man’s pen fairly raced across the page. “Tell me more…”

  “Well,” said Paddington, “there’s not much to tell. I was fast asleep in a tree at the time. There was a loud rumble and the earth began to shake. When I woke up everything looked different. Everyone else apart from Aunt Lucy had disappeared.”

  “Even your Uncle Pastuzo?” said the interviewer.

  “Especially Uncle Pastuzo,” said Paddington. “I think he must have known it was going to happen because he went out early that day. But he left his old hat and a suitcase with a secret compartment behind, along with a note to say I could have them if anything happened to him.”

  “And you have never heard any more of him since?”

  Paddington shook his head sadly. “That’s why Aunt Lucy brought me up. She taught me my tables, and she taught me to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ when I’m out shopping, and to raise my hat whenever I meet someone I know.

  “She also taught me to count my blessings when things look black. It’s the first thing she does when she wakes in the morning. She says nine times out of ten you have more than you think you have.”

  “Would there were more about like her,” said the man. He turned the page. “One last thing before I leave you in peace. What are your feelings about being a blood donor?”

  “No, thank you,” said Paddington firmly. “I haven’t had my elevenses yet and it might make me go wibbly woo.”

  “I shouldn’t let that worry you,” said the man. “You can lie down afterwards, and they give you a nice cup of tea into the bargain.”

  “I prefer cocoa,” said Paddington. “Bears do, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” said the man, entering the information on his form.

  “While we are on the subject of medical matters,” he continued, “if you don’t fancy being a blood donor, how about donating one of your organs when the time comes?”

  Paddington considered the matter for a moment or two. He wondered if he ought to mention Jonathan’s mouth organ. It had been a nine days wonder at the time and everybody had breathed a sigh of relief when he took it back to school with him after the holidays.

  “I don’t have any myself,” he said.

  The man concealed a smile. “Oh, but you must have,” he said. “Everyone has organs.”

  “Mr Curry doesn’t for a start,” said Paddington.

  “Oh, dear,” said the interviewer. “Poor man. What with that and having his pipes frozen, he must be in a terrible state. I dare say he has to be tended day and night.”

  Paddington looked over his shoulder. “I don’t think so,” he said, lowering his voice. “He lives all by himself.”

  The man followed the direction of Paddington’s gaze. “It gets worse and worse,” he said. “Is that why the curtains are drawn?”

  “Mrs Bird says it’s because he doesn’t like people spying on him,” said Paddington.

  “I’m not surprised,” said the man, “if he has no organs.”

  “Jonathan had one once,” said Paddington. “But he swapped it with a boy at school for a pencil box.”

  The interviewer’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Jonathan swapped one of his organs for a pencil box?” he repeated. “Do you know which one it was?”

  “I don’t know the name,” said Paddington. “But it was very special. It had two tiers. One for ordinary pencils and another one for crayons.”

  “I don’t mean the pencil box,” said the man. “I mean which organ. This could be headline news! It’s just the kind of material my editor is looking for.”

  “Oh, dear!” Paddington suddenly wondered if he had said the right thing.

  “Are you absolutely certain you don’t want to set an example?” said the man. “I wasn’t meaning today, of course. It won’t happen until after you…” he shifted uneasily underneath Paddington’s hard stare. “Well, you know… after you er, um.”

  “After I er, um?” repeated Paddington.

  “That’s right,” said the man. “It happens to us all at some time.”

  “It hasn’t happened to me yet,” said Paddington.

  “I can see that,” said the man, looking as though he was beginning to wish it had.

  “One last thing,” he remarked casually. “Can you tell me the name of Jonathan’s school?”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Paddington, raising his hat politely to show the conversation was at an end. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “What’s it worth?” asked the interviewer. Taking out his wallet, he fingered some notes.

  “More than all the tea in China,” said Paddington, remembering one of Mrs
Bird’s favourite phrases.

  “And if this doesn’t work?” asked the man, detaching one of the notes, crackling it enticingly between his thumb and forefinger.

  “I have a secret weapon,” said Paddington. “I’ll show you if you like…”

  Looking round to make sure nobody was watching, he gave the interviewer one of his hardest stares ever.

  The man shuddered as though he had been struck by lighting, and something fell to the ground.

  “That’s another thing Aunt Lucy taught me,” said Paddington. “It comes in very useful at times!”

  “I think I might call it a day,” said the man, hastily retrieving his pen. He handed the note across the railings. “You’d better have this anyway. It may help you to make your ends meet before Christmas.

  “We’re giving them away this week,” he added. “It’s a ‘Thank You’ present.”

  And with that he turned on his heels and disappeared down Windsor Gardens as though he had a train to catch.

  Paddington gazed at the note for a moment or two. It didn’t look like any sort of money he had seen before. Instead of the £ sign, there was a picture of an aeroplane, followed by a lot of words in small print. None of them seemed to make any sense, so he slipped it into his duffle coat pocket for safe keeping and hurried back into the house in case anyone else came along wanting to interview him.

  “What do you think ‘er, ums’ are?” asked Mr Brown.

  It was the following day, and he had just arrived back from the station having collected Jonathan and Judy, who were home for the Christmas holiday.

  “You’ve been reading Paddington’s postcard, Henry,” said Mrs Brown accusingly.

  “I couldn’t help it,” said Mr Brown. “It was lying on the hall table ready to be posted. Anyway, it sounds as though you’ve read it too.”

  “It’s addressed to his Aunt Lucy,” said Mrs Brown. “I have no idea what it means, but he told her not to worry.”

  “If you ask me,” said Mrs Bird, “a spoonful of castor oil might not come amiss.”