Paddington Complete Novels

by Michael Bond

  “Yes, please, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington.

  “But before that,” said Mrs Bird, “we shall need some more eggs.”

  “It’s a bit difficult separating the yolks,” said Paddington.

  “Well, there you are,” said Mrs Bird gravely. “It’s useful to know that for a start.”

  “It strikes me Paddington got off very lightly,” said Jonathan when he arrived home and heard the news. “Have you seen his room?”

  “It’s like Mrs Bird always says,” replied Judy. “Bears usually fall on their feet. Have another alfajore.”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” said Jonathan. “They’re very moreish.”

  “I’ll tell you something else,” said Judy. “Dad’s been on the phone to a decorator. He’s coming next week to do Paddington’s room.”

  “You know what that means,” said Jonathan.

  “He’ll be sharing your room for the time being,” said Judy.

  “I wonder if bears snore?” mused Jonathan. “We could ring the zoo and find out.”

  “I asked him,” said Judy. “He swears they don’t. He said he stayed awake one night to find out and he didn’t snore once.”

  “Thanks a heap,” said Jonathan.

  “Who would have thought Mrs Bird would take it all quite so well?” said Mr Brown later that night.

  “Do you know what, Henry?” said Mrs Brown. “I think it was the sight of Paddington’s pyjamas hanging all by themselves on the line when we got home. Little things mean a lot to Mrs Bird.”

  PADDINGTON PUT ON a spurt as he entered the Portobello Road, rounding the corner faster than he had ever done before. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, anyone watching would have said he had momentarily lost control of his shopping basket on wheels.

  The last part of the journey had been downhill and his legs were going so fast he had difficulty in stopping. Having put the basket into a one-wheel drift, he only just missed colliding with a man standing in the middle of the pavement.

  It was most unusual for anyone to be there at that time of the day; the crowds of sightseers didn’t normally begin to arrive until much later when all the shops and stalls were open for business.

  As it was, his basket ended up on its side. Luckily it was empty, but one of its wheels was still spinning.

  “You want to watch where you’re going,” said the man crossly. “This isn’t a racetrack, you know.”

  “It’s a bit difficult with paws,” admitted Paddington. “Especially going round corners.”

  The man stared at him. “I don’t see what paws have to do with it,” he growled.

  Paddington felt tempted to say that was because the man didn’t have any, but he was much too polite.

  Instead, he stood back and eyed the stranger with interest. Despite the warm weather, he was wearing what looked like plastic muffs over his ears, and having blown into the end of a furry object on the end of a stick, he began counting out loud. “One, two, three, four…” he said, until finally, having reached number ten, he stopped as though at a loss for words.

  “I think you will find it’s eleven,” said Paddington, anxious to make amends for nearly running him over.

  The man gave him a glassy stare and put a finger to his lips. He seemed about to reply when the rear doors of a dark green van parked nearby opened and a second man poked his head out.

  “OK for sound,” he called, giving the thumbs up sign.

  He nodded towards Paddington before closing the door. “The early bird catches the worm and you’ve got to start somewhere. May as well give it a whirl.”

  The first man didn’t look wildly enthusiastic at the idea, but he put a brave face on it as he dusted himself down.

  “Would you mind saying a few words into this?” he asked, holding the furry object under Paddington’s nose.

  “It tickles my whiskers,” replied Paddington.

  The van door opened again. This time the second man spread his arms out wide and raised his head heavenwards.

  “I think Adrian would like something a little bit longer,” explained the first man.

  “Excuse me while I mop my brow,” said Paddington.

  “Even longer than that, perhaps?” said the man. “He’s the director and we need to check our levels for sound.”

  “The Portobello Road is a bit steep just here,” agreed Paddington. “That’s why I was going so fast.”

  “Er… yes…” said the man. “But…”

  “Mr Gruber is always saying if we have a really bad storm there’s going to be a nasty accident one of these days. The water sometimes runs past his shop doorway like a tidal wave. We nearly lost one of his deck chairs that way. It’s lucky we weren’t having our elevenses on the pavement at the time. Our buns might have been swept away.”

  The van door opened yet again and the second man pointed downwards with his thumb, mouthing something at the same time.

  “Oh dear,” said the first man. “I’m afraid you were a bit too quick for us that time. I doubt if Adrian had time to get back to his desk. My name’s Sunny Climes, by the way, and I’m gathering material for the forthcoming Games.

  “Perhaps,” he suggested, “you would like to tell us what you had for breakfast. We find with most people that’s usually about the right length.”

  He held out his free hand in order to give Paddington’s paw a quick shake, then hastily withdrew it.

  “I usually have toast and marmalade…” began Paddington.

  “So I gather,” said Mr Climes. He removed an initialled handkerchief from his top pocket and unfolded it as best he could with his teeth. “We don’t want to get any chunks on our microphone if we can help it, do we? Did you have anything else? A cup of tea to help it on its way perhaps?”

  “I’m glad you asked me that, Mr Climes,” said Paddington. “I usually have cocoa, but Mrs Bird is spring-cleaning the kitchen this week. Most years she gives it a good going-over in April, but she left it until much later this year.

  “She wanted to clean out the refrigerator while she was at it and she was worried the things inside might go off while the door was open, so she put everything out on the kitchen table and said it would be a big help if we used up as much as we could.

  “There were several kinds of bacon, three different sorts of sausages, eggs, potato cakes, tomatoes, kippers… a half empty tin of llama pâté. Aunt Lucy sent it to us from Peru last Christmas, but it had gone mouldy…”

  “So what was your answer to all that?” broke in Mr Climes, trying to get a word in edgeways.

  “Thank you very much,” said Paddington.

  “Don’t tell me you ate a bit of everything,” exclaimed the interviewer. “The breakfast table must have been full to overflowing with plates.”

  “No,” said Paddington. “Mrs Bird managed to get all mine on two large ones. Besides, I didn’t have any kippers in case I got a bone in my throat. I thought I did once and Mrs Brown had to call a doctor, but it turned out to be an old marmalade chunk that had gone hard. It must have fallen out of my hat.”

  “I’m sorry…” broke in Sunny Climes. Edging away from Paddington, he stationed himself on the other side of a nearby lamppost. “Would you mind holding it there…”

  “I’m afraid I can’t quite reach it,” said Paddington hurrying round the other side of the lamppost to avoid climbing over his shopping basket on wheels.

  “I don’t mean the microphone,” said Mr Climes, moving back the way he had come. Putting a finger to his lips he listened to a command over the headphones. “We seem to be having a spot of bother in the control room. I’m afraid they’ve run out of tape. It must be all the stops and starts we’ve had.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr Climes,” said Paddington cheerfully. “I expect you’ll manage to get it right in the end.”

  Sunny Climes continued edging away from Paddington, and then came to a sudden halt.

  “You’re standing on my microphone lead,” he said accusingly. Reaching f
orward to pick up the cable, he gave it a sharp tug.

  As it happened, Paddington, ever anxious to please, beat him to it by a split second, and giving vent to a cry of alarm Sunny Climes disappeared from view round the far side of the lamppost.

  “Oh dear, Mr Climes,” exclaimed Paddington, hurrying to the rescue. “Are you all right?”

  “No!” gurgled Sunny Climes, sounding as though a sudden typhoon had caught him in the midriff. “I am not all right! What a place to leave a shopping basket on wheels! There should be a law against people like you being allowed out by themselves.”

  But it was like water off a duck’s back.

  Paddington was already examining his basket. “You’ll be pleased to know it doesn’t seem to be damaged,” he called. “It’s still got both wheels. Hold on a minute…” His voice grew muffled as he peered inside to see if he could spot any holes in the wickerwork.

  It took him a moment or two to accustom himself to the lack of light and while he was waiting he realised that Mr Climes’ headphones had somehow or other fallen off inside the basket and he could hear everything that was being said outside.

  Mr Climes’ voice in particular came through loud and clear, and although it seemed to have lost much of its sunny quality, every word was distinct.

  “I do not intend,” he said, “repeat, do not intend, allowing myself to be beaten. These things are sent to try us, Adrian. When I started out I knew there would be days like today. In this business there are good days and there are bad days, and this one happens to be the worst day I have encountered in a very long time. I may take up playing the ukulele and become a busker.”

  “Worse things happen at sea,” said a second voice, which Paddington recognised as belonging to the director. “It’s a good job it’s a recording. Just think – we might have been on air! Besides, at least we’ve got our sound levels sorted out.”

  “That’s good,” said Paddington, as he emerged from his basket.

  He held the headphones aloft. “May I go now?”

  Mr Climes, by now back on his feet, managed to summon up a hollow laugh. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “I’ve started so I’ll finish.”

  He turned to the director. “If you have no objection, Adrian, I would like to continue where we left off.”

  “Good man!” exclaimed the director. “Strike while the iron’s hot!” And with that he dashed back to his van.

  Mr Climes took a deep breath, then he did some more counting. “Take seven,” he said, after pausing to allow the director time to get back to his desk.

  “Perhaps you could begin by telling us what part of the world you come from?” he said, pointing the microphone in Paddington’s direction.

  “Phew! Phew!” said Paddington, blowing into it as hard as he could to make sure it was working. “That’s a very good question, Mr Climes. I don’t really remember because I was very young at the time.”

  Sunny Climes permitted himself a wintery smile. “But you must know where it was,” he said. “Everyone has some idea about where they were born.”

  “Not if you come from Darkest Peru,” said Paddington. “It’s a very big place.”

  “Darkest Peru!” Sunny Climes pricked up his ears. Despite everything he looked most impressed. “Perhaps that explains your… er… lack of fundamentals.

  “It must have been dark when they were dishing them out…” he added, laughing at his own joke.

  Paddington gave him a hard stare. “My fundamentals are lacking!” he repeated.

  Mr Climes hastily changed the subject. “It’s what’s known these days as being vertically challenged,” he said. “Please forgive me. Er… Don’t tell me you are over here to participate in the Games?”

  “I won’t if you would rather I didn’t,” said Paddington, not quite sure what the word meant.

  “Aha!” said Mr Climes. “I understand.” He put a finger to his nose. “Top secret, eh? Can we hold it there for a moment?”

  Reaching into his pocket, he took out a sheet of paper and ran his eyes down a long list. “I can’t see any mention of Darkest Peru sending a team… did you receive an official invitation to take part in the Games?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Paddington. “I had a postcard from my Aunt Lucy the other day, but she didn’t mention it.”

  “In short,” said Mr Climes, “You are a breakaway faction going it alone. Don’t worry.” He put a finger to his nose again. “Your secret is safe with me.

  “I must say you came round that corner at a great rate of knots. I daresay you wanted to lose some weight after all the breakfast you’d had this morning.”

  “No,” said Paddington. “I was on my way to the bakers to get some buns. I was later than usual and I didn’t want them to run out. It would have meant Mr Gruber having to wait for the second baking of the day and that would have upset his schedules.”

  “Gruber?” repeated Mr Climes. “Gruber? I don’t know the name. Is he your trainer?”

  “He has an antique shop,” said Paddington. “We always have our elevenses together.”

  “A brilliant cover-up,” said Mr Climes, hardly able to conceal his excitement.

  “Tell me, what do you think of the Games so far? Are all the preparations to your liking?”

  “What are they?” asked Paddington.

  “What are they?” repeated Mr Climes. “Do you mean to say you have come all this way and you don’t know what they are? This is quite extraordinary. They’re on everybody’s lips.”

  It was Paddington’s turn to edge away. “Oh dear,” he said. “I hope they’re not catching.”

  Mr Climes essayed another smile. “You’re having me on,” he said. “Tell me, what event do you specialise in? If I may be so bold, your legs look a bit short for the pole vault.”

  “My legs are a bit short for the pole vault!” repeated Paddington hotly. “But they’ve always been that way.”

  “You look as though you might be a good all-rounder,” said Mr Climes soothingly.

  “I expect that’s because I’m wearing a duffle coat,” said Paddington. “Mrs Bird says I shan’t feel the benefit when I get indoors if I don’t. Besides, I might catch cold.”

  “Sound advice for an athlete…” said Mr Climes. “Now don’t tell me… let me guess… it can hardly be the long jump, or the high one come to that…”

  Returning to the speed at which Paddington had come round the corner, he hazarded a guess. “A long-distance runner, perhaps?

  “For instance, how long would it take you to get from here to, say, Paddington Station?”

  Paddington considered the matter for a moment or two. “I did it in just under four minutes last Sunday,” he said.

  “Four minutes!” exclaimed Mr Climes excitedly. “But it must be a good mile and a half from here. That has to be a world record. It’s over the speed limit.”

  “Oh dear, is it?” said Paddington.

  “The traffic lights were green all the way,” he added lamely.

  “I think you are hiding your light under a bushel,” said Mr Climes. “Tell me, how are you on short distances – the one hundred metres for example?”

  It was Paddington’s turn to hazard a guess. “It depends how warm the buns are,” he said, thinking about the time it took him to get from the bakers to Mr Gruber’s. “On a cold day, about five seconds.”

  Sunny Climes was unable to contain his excitement a moment longer. “Don’t forget, listeners,” he shouted into the microphone, “you heard it here first!”

  “Shan’t be a mo…” he added, and made a dash for the green van.

  Gathering his shopping basket on wheels, Paddington seized the opportunity to make good his escape.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, Mr Gruber,” he said, a few minutes later.

  Mr Gruber looked up from his stove at the back of the shop. “I was beginning to get worried, Mr Brown. It’s unlike you to be late. The cocoa’s been ready for some while.”

&nb
sp; “I met a strange man in the market,” explained Paddington. “A Mr Climes… He kept me talking. I only just managed to escape when his back was turned.”

  “Not ‘Blabbermouth’ Climes!” exclaimed Mr Gruber. “I heard he was in the area. He’s a famous sports writer. People hang on to his every word.”

  “Oh dear,” said Paddington. “It sounds like him, Mr Gruber. He thinks you’re my trainer for some special games.” And he went on to explain all that had happened that morning to make him late.

  Mr Gruber ushered Paddington to the horsehair sofa. “If you ask me,” he said, “I think it’s time we had one of our chats. Mr Climes may be sunny by name, but he certainly isn’t sunny by nature. Once he gets his teeth into something he never lets go.”

  Paddington looked up anxiously from his cocoa. “Perhaps he won’t recognise me the next time we meet,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Mr Gruber tactfully.

  “I had a disguise outfit given to me one Christmas,” said Paddington. “I could wear a false beard for the time being.”

  “That might make matters even worse,” said Mr Gruber. “If you will pardon the expression, Mr Brown, he might smell a rat. If he turns up outside my shop I suggest you hide behind this sofa while I keep him at bay. But don’t forget to take your cocoa with you. Otherwise it might arouse his suspicions.

  “As for the Games, I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of them before. They only take place every four years and each time it is in a different country.

  “People from all over the world gather together to compete against each other in the field of sport, not just in running, but swimming and gymnastics, cycling, wrestling, weightlifting… practically everything to do with sport you can possibly think of…”

  Mr Gruber had a faraway look in his eyes as he stirred his cocoa. “You may find this hard to believe, Mr Brown, but long, long ago, when I was a teenager, I achieved a certain amount of fame myself as a hurdler…”

  “I always thought you were Hungarian,” said Paddington, staring at his friend.