Paddington Complete Novels

by Michael Bond

“Poor old Paddington,” said Judy.

  “Worse things happen at sea,” said Jonathan cheerfully.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Mr Brown. “Look at this headline!”

  He held up the front page of a local newspaper.

  ORGAN REPLACEMENT SCANDAL ROCKS LONDON’S WEST END

  “I can’t say I’ve felt any tremors,” said Mrs Bird, reading it out loud.

  “I don’t know where they get all these stories from in the first place,” agreed Mrs Brown. “I can’t believe half of them are true. It doesn’t sound like anywhere round here, thank goodness!”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” warned Mr Brown. “It’s the same postcode as ours – W11.”

  He continued reading. “‘Where will it all end?’ asks our man on the spot. Posing as an interviewer, our intrepid reporter, Mervyn Doom, managed to infiltrate the gang and obtain in-depth information from one of its hammer-carrying members.”

  “He makes it sound like some kind of ball game,” interrupted Mrs Brown. “Where on earth did you get the paper?”

  “On Paddington station while I was waiting for the train,” said Mr Brown.

  “Apparently the person he interviewed was disguised as a jobbing gardener. He gave the game away by saying he was looking for some outward-facing rosebuds, not realising it was long past the normal pruning season.”

  He looked up from the paper. “Can you imagine? It shows the type of person the authorities are up against.

  “During the course of the interview our informant also let slip the fact that an undercover trade in organ transplants is rife.

  “A local schoolboy swapped one of his for a pencil box – the name of the boy and the school have been withheld for legal reasons. Meanwhile, in this outwardly respectable neighbourhood, others - bereft of everything that makes them tick - lie behind drawn curtains waiting for help.”

  “What is the world coming to?” exclaimed Mrs Bird.

  “And another thing,” continued Mr Brown, “according to this paper the gates are about to open on a flood of boat people from Peru.

  “Our question is WHEN WILL SOMETHING BE DONE ABOUT IT?

  “THERE IS NO TIME TO BE LOST!”

  “Does it say who’s behind it?” asked Mrs Brown.

  “Apparently the Gang-master-in-chief is a woman,” said Mr Brown. “Notorious for her dumplings, and wielding an iron bar, she so terrifies those around her the subject of the interview is forced to hide his marmalade sandwiches under his hat.”

  The Browns looked at one another. Suddenly, it was all starting to sound much closer to home than they had thought.

  “You don’t think…” began Mr Brown.

  “Oh dear, Henry,” said Mrs Brown. “I’m very much afraid I do.”

  “He asked if he could borrow your secateurs yesterday morning,” said Mrs Bird.

  “He wanted to do some work in the front garden.”

  “Don’t tell me he was having a go at my roses?” exclaimed Mr Brown, the full seriousness of the situation suddenly coming home to him.

  “I don’t like the sound of that last bit,” said Mrs Bird. “If the ‘powers that be’ get hold of the story there’s no knowing what will happen. We can await the ring on the front door bell.”

  The Browns exchanged anxious glances. In the beginning Paddington had just sort of happened, but over the years he had become so much a part of the family they couldn’t picture life without him. They had certainly never thought of him as being a refugee; still less the possibility of his being an illegal one.

  “I think ‘they’ve’ started doing something about things already,” said Jonathan. “I saw an ambulance outside Mr Curry’s house soon after we got back. There was a terrible row going on. They were trying to tie him on to a stretcher.”

  “I suppose they might declare Paddington persona non grata,” said Mr Brown.

  “That’s means an unwelcome person,” said Judy, for her brother’s benefit.

  “Thanks a heap!” said Jonathan. “Who got an A Star in his GCSE?”

  “Anyway,” said Judy. “He’s not a person. He’s a bear.”

  “And he’s always welcome,” chimed in Mrs Bird. “If anyone tries to take him away after all this time they’ll have me to deal with.”

  “Who in the world would want to report him?” asked Judy.

  “I imagine Mr Curry for a start,” said Jonathan, “if Paddington had anything to do with what happened this morning. Perhaps we could hide him under the floorboards – like the French did with escaped prisoners during the last war.”

  “I shall never go out and leave that bear alone again,” said Mrs Bird.

  “I’m sure he meant well,” said Mrs Brown.

  “They can’t,” said Judy. “Take him away, I mean.”

  “There’s no such word in the English language as ‘can’t’,” said Mrs Bird grimly.

  “What shall we tell Paddington?” broke in Mr Brown, lowering his voice.

  “For the time being,” said Mrs Bird, “I suggest we don’t tell him anything. He’ll be most upset if he thinks the whole thing is his fault.”

  “He really will have trouble with his ‘er, ums’ then,” said Jonathan.

  “Careful,” hissed Judy, “I think he’s coming downstairs. I was wondering where he’d got to.”

  Sure enough, a moment later the door opened and a familiar face appeared round the gap.

  “Can anyone tell me what Air Miles are?” asked Paddington.

  “Well,” said Mr Brown, after he had gone. “That was a conversation stopper if ever I heard one. I wonder what he’s up to now?”

  “I shudder to think,” said Mrs Brown.

  “Time alone will tell,” said Mrs Bird. “I dare say we shall know soon enough.”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, blissfully unaware of the dark cloud which had settled over number thirty-two Windsor Gardens, Paddington set out soon after breakfast.

  Heading in the opposite direction to the one he normally took, he made his way uphill towards a shop he remembered seeing on one of his outings with Mr Gruber.

  It was situated in a busy high street some distance from the Portobello Market, and it stuck in his mind, partly because at the time he had thought Oyster Travels seemed a very unusual name for a shop, and also because there had been a large revolving globe in the window. Mr Gruber had stopped to admire it, and as it went slowly round and round he had pointed out all the different countries as they went past.

  “Since they invented the aeroplane, Mr Brown,” he had said, “the world has shrunk. There are very few places left that cannot be reached in a matter of hours rather than weeks. I expect this shop took its name from the old saying: ‘the world is your oyster’. In other words ‘it is yours to enjoy’.”

  Mr Gruber had a happy knack of making even quite ordinary things sound exciting, and Paddington’s latest idea was far from ordinary. It had come to him during the night while he had been lying awake trying to think what to get the Browns for Christmas.

  The first time he had seen the shop it had been full of people, but as he drew near he was pleased to see that apart from a rather superior-looking man who looked as though he was about to open up for business, there was nobody else around.

  “The early bird catches the worm,” the man said approvingly, as he held the door open for Paddington.

  “I dare say you’ll be after one of our cheap day return trips,” he said, sizing up his first customer of the day. “A day out in Brightsea, perhaps? It can be very invigorating at this time of the year. The coach leaves in half an hour, and if the weather forecast is anything to go by it will certainly blow the cobwebs out of your whiskers.”

  Paddington took a quick look at his reflection in the polished glass. “Those aren’t cobwebs,” he said, giving the man a hard stare. “It’s Shredded Wheat. I ate my breakfast in a hurry because I wanted to get here before anyone else.”

  “I do beg your pardon.” The man wilted under Paddington�
�s gaze.

  “I was really wanting to enquire about some of the places you have on your globe,” said Paddington. “Mr Gruber was telling me all about them.”

  “My dear sir, you couldn’t have come to a better place.” Leaping into action, the man began washing his hands in invisible soap as he ushered Paddington to a stool opposite one of the counters.

  “I happen to be the manager,” he continued, going round to the other side and reaching for a pad and pencil. “As I like to tell all our customers, the world is not only our oyster, it is yours too. We are here to take care of your every need.

  “Perhaps you could let me have a few details first, starting with your name and address…”

  Paddington did as he was bidden, and while the manager was writing it down he glanced around the shop. It seemed full of interesting things. Apart from a number of real oyster shells dotted around the counter, there were some giant plastic ones hanging from the ceiling, and the walls were covered in posters showing holiday-makers with happy, smiling faces as they bathed in the blue sea or lay back in their deck chairs enjoying the sunshine. There wasn’t a gloomy face to be seen anywhere, and he felt more certain than ever that he had come to the right place.

  “Will it be just for your good self?” enquired the manager, “Or will you be accompanied? We do have what we call our “Singles Special”.

  “There will be seven of us,” said Paddington. “It’s my treat, and I want to take them somewhere special for Christmas.”

  “Seven!” The manager took a firmer grip of his pencil. “Would you mind giving me their names?”

  “Well,” said Paddington, “there will be Mr and Mrs Brown, and Mrs Bird. Jonathan and Judy, and I’m hoping Mr Gruber might be able to come too.”

  “Quite a large party,” said the manager, looking suitably impressed. Taking a closer look at Paddington, he revised his first impression. Clearly, he was dealing with a seasoned traveller, and an important one at that. Although the customer had arrived on foot, he wondered for a moment if he could be dealing with a television personality planning a forthcoming programme, or perhaps some kind of foreign dignitary; a slightly eccentric Indian prince down on his luck, for example. He had never met one wearing a duffle coat before, but there was a first time for everything and one never knew these days. It paid to be careful.

  “I know it’s a little early in the day,” he said, “but would you care for a glass of champagne while we go through the possibilities?”

  “No thank you,” said Paddington. “I had one once and it tickled my whiskers. I would sooner have a cup of cocoa.”

  The manager’s face fell. “I’m afraid we shall have to wait until our Miss Pringle arrives,” he said, looking at his watch. “She usually collects the milk on her way in.

  “We were rushed off our feet yesterday,” he explained, “what with everyone wanting to make a quick getaway for the Christmas holiday. I told the staff they could come in half an hour later than usual…” He reached out towards a rack laden with coloured brochures.

  “Have you ever thought about visiting South America? The Peruvian Andes, for example? We have a tour which includes a boat trip on Lake Titicaca. As I’m sure you know, it’s the highest one in the world.”

  “If we go to Peru,” said Paddington, “I would sooner visit the Home for Retired Bears in Lima. I haven’t seen my Aunt Lucy for a long time and it will be a nice surprise for her.”

  The manager scanned through the brochure. “I’m afraid it doesn’t mention anything about a Home for Retired Bears,” he said, “but I’m sure our tour guide will be more than willing to offer advice when you get there.

  “Alternatively,” he reached for another brochure. “How would you feel about visiting India?” He held it aloft for Paddington’s benefit. “Have you ever seen the Taj Mahal by moonlight?”

  Paddington peered at the picture. “No,” he said, “but last year I was taken to see the Christmas lights at Crumbold and Ferns.”

  “If I may be so bold,” said the manager, “there is simply no comparison. In fact, the two can hardly be mentioned in the same breath.”

  “I didn’t have to wait for a full moon to see Crumbold and Ferns’ lights,” said Paddington firmly. “They were on day and night. And they kept changing colour. Besides, I usually go to bed early.”

  “If you spend more than two nights in India,” said the manager, not to be outdone, “I could make sure you get a free elephant ride thrown in.”

  “I don’t think Mrs Bird would be very keen on that,” replied Paddington. “She likes a wheel at all four corners.”

  “I can see I am dealing with a young gentleman of taste and discernment,” said the manager, trying to mask his disappointment. “Perhaps I might tempt you with something nearer home. How about a visit to Italy and the Leaning Tower of Pisa?”

  “I don’t think Mrs Bird would like that very much either,” said Paddington. “She was very worried last year when Mr Brown found a crack in the kitchen ceiling.”

  “Perhaps, before you reach a final decision you might care to bring the lady in?” suggested the manager, “I shall be more than happy to go through the itinerary with her.”

  “It’s meant to be a surprise,” said Paddington, “and Mrs Bird doesn’t like surprises.”

  “Oh, dear,” said the manager, through gritted teeth. “I trust she doesn’t object to flying.”

  “When we went to France by aeroplane,” said Paddington, “she kept her eyes closed during take off and landing. She said if God had meant us to fly he would have given us wings.”

  “Ah,” said the manager, looking slightly dazed. “I suppose the dear lady does have a point.”

  He tried dipping his toes in the water again. “Would Sir be thinking of travelling First or Club class?”

  “Whichever you think is best,” said Paddington. “I want it to be a special treat.”

  “It depends a little on the overall cost,” said the manager, trying to sum up his client.

  “I’m not worried about the money,” said Paddington.

  “Then undoubtedly First Class is best,” said the manager. “I can thoroughly recommend it. It’s much more restful.”

  “We shall need five separate rooms,” said Paddington.

  “They aren’t exactly what you might call rooms,” said the manager. “Not even on the biggest planes, unless you happen to be travelling as a guest of the United States President. But these days the seats do fold right back, and apart from the noise of the engines, once they turn the lights out you can almost believe you are in a room.”

  “Mrs Bird would like that,” said Paddington. “Especially if they switch the lights off.”

  The manager breathed a sigh of relief. “In that case,” he said, washing his hands in invisible soap again, “it sounds as though our ‘Gold Star, top of the range Round the World Special’ would suit you down to the ground. You will be fully escorted all the way and you will stay at all the best five star hotels, even Mrs Bird would be hard put to find fault with the service…”

  “It sounds very good value,” broke in Paddington. “I think I would like one of those please.”

  “In which case,” said the manager, “if you intend travelling over the Christmas period we had better strike while the iron is hot before everything gets booked up. Excuse me for a moment.”

  Handing Paddington some brochures to read while he was waiting, he turned to a nearby computer and began running his hands over the keys with practised ease. Several minutes passed before he pressed a button and almost immediately a long roll of paper began to emerge.

  “There you are,” he said, holding the end of it up for Paddington to see. “The wonders of science! Everything you want has been confirmed. It is all down in print, including the grand total.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Paddington, as he got up to leave. “I shall always come here in future whenever I want to go anywhere.”

  He reached out to take the rol
l of paper, but the manager kept a firm hold of the other end.

  “Call me old fashioned,” he said, choosing his words with care, “and I sincerely hope you won’t mind my mentioning it, but we at Oyster Travel believe in treating our customers as though they were part of one big, happy family.

  “To put it another way, if I may make so bold, there is the small matter of a payment in advance. You will see the total amount on the end of the form.”

  Paddington nearly fell off his stool as he gazed at the figure on the sheet. Far from being a small matter, it struck him as very large one. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever having seen quite so many noughts in one long line before, and he was glad he didn’t have to find the money.

  Reaching into his duffle coat pocket, he produced the note the man conducting the survey had given him and handed it across the counter.

  The manager stared at it for several seconds, hardly able to believe his eyes. Meanwhile, the smile on his face became fixed as though it had been etched in stone.

  “An Air Mile!” he exclaimed at last. “One Air Mile! They won’t even let you on the airport bus for that! Have you not read the small print on the back?”

  “I tried to,” said Paddington, “but it was a bit too small, even with my magnifying glass.”

  Gazing heavenwards the manager placed both hands together to form a steeple. He closed his eyes and his lips began to move as though he was very slowly counting, although no sound emerged.

  After the speed at which he had operated the computer it struck Paddington as very strange and he wondered if the man was having trouble with all the noughts.

  “Can I help?” he asked. “Bears are good at sums.”

  The man’s lips stopped moving and he sat very still for a moment or two longer before opening his eyes.

  “I have been counting up to ten,” he explained, staring glassily at Paddington as though examining something the cat had brought in. “Having got as far as five, I am now going to close my eyes and begin again. If you are still here when I open them I shall not be responsible for my actions. I hope I make myself clear.