by Michael Bond
“And then there’s Polonius’ daughter, Ophelia,” said Judy. “She’s keen on Hamlet, but after he says, ‘Get thee to a nunnery’, she ends up drowning herself.”
“Don’t forget Yorick,” broke in Mr Gruber. “He gets killed by mistake. Hamlet has a lot to say about that when some grave diggers come across his skull and give it to him.”
Jonathan struck a pose. “Alas, poor Yorick,” he proclaimed. “I knew him well…”
It struck Paddington that there couldn’t be many people left by the end.
Mr Gruber laughed. “You are quite right, Mr Brown,” he said. “And those who are still alive don’t fare too well. Ophelia’s brother, Laertes, gets killed in a sword fight with Hamlet, and at the end even Hamlet himself falls foul of a poisoned sword.”
“It’s really a play about a man who couldn’t make up his mind,” explained Judy. “‘To be or not to be’ is one of Hamlet’s great lines. Actors often milk it for all it’s worth and make it last for ever.”
“When we were doing it as our end of term play last year, someone called out, ‘Hurry up, I’ve got a train to catch’,” said Jonathan. “It didn’t half get a laugh.”
“I don’t think you ought to tell Paddington things like that,” whispered Judy. “He takes these things so seriously. Remember the very first time he went to the theatre and got terribly upset when Sir Sealy Bloom threw his daughter out of the house. He went round to his dressing room during the interval and complained.”
“Not much chance of that happening today,” said Jonathan cheerfully.
He led the way round to the back of the theatre where there was a large area of grass, most of which had been worn away through lack of rain. A few deck chairs stood abandoned, but there wasn’t a soul in sight, and apart from a distant sound of voices they might have been on a desert island.
“It’s often like this once everyone has gone in to see the show,” said Jonathan knowledgeably. “The great thing is, if there is any wind at all, the theatre itself helps to deflect it upwards, so it’s ideal for flying a kite.”
And while Mr Gruber and Judy set about arranging the deck chairs and getting ready for the picnic, he led Paddington towards the far end in order to explain the ins and outs of it all.
“This shape of kite is particularly good,” he explained. “Even if I say so myself. On a good day it’s almost as though it has a life of its own; something inside it that makes it want to fly.
“It really needs two people, of course,” he continued, handing Paddington a reel of string attached to the kite so that he could get the feel of it. “Whoever is flying it holds the reel in one hand and lets the string slide through the fingers of the other hand as it takes off. In that way they can stay in control by giving a tug every now and then to make the kite fly higher still. In your case, of course, you would have to do it all by paw.
“The assistant – that’s me in this case – lifts the kite gently into the air and stands with his or her back to the wind, like so… while they wait for an upward rush of air which lifts it out of their hand and…”
“Watch out!” cried Paddington. “Stay where you are. I’m coming through!”
There was pounding of feet as he shot past Jonathan and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“Did you see that?” cried Jonathan, turning to the others. “Did you see it? It only took one small puff.”
“He did say bears might be good at flying a kite,” said Judy. “But that’s something else again.” She hesitated. “He was going so fast I lost sight of him.”
Mr Gruber coughed. “I have a feeling Mr Brown went round the corner near the theatre by mistake,” he said.
“That’s torn it,” groaned Jonathan, as they made their way back towards the entrance and there was neither sight nor sound of Paddington.
“Where can he be?” said Judy.
“If my kite’s caught up in a tree and they’re in the middle of Hamlet I shall never get it back,” moaned Jonathan. “The play goes on for ever. There are five acts.”
Mr Gruber paused for a moment and put a hand to his ear. “It may not be as bad as you think,” he said. “It sounds to me as though it’s the beginning of Act Three. The important bit Judy was talking about, where Hamlet can’t make up his mind what to do next. Listen…”
“To be…” proclaimed a voice in sonorous tones. There was a long pause, then came the words, “…or not to be…”
“Make up your mind,” shouted a familiar voice from somewhere overhead. “I’ve got a train to catch.”
A gasp went round the audience. It was followed almost immediately by a mixture of scattered applause and catcalls.
A woman’s voice could be heard shouting, “Shame!”
The immediate response, “Get thee to a nunnery…” was greeted by a loud cheer.
Mr Gruber pointed to a dark shape in the foliage high above the back of the stage.
“That looks like Mr Brown,” he said.
It was hard to tell what came next because of the noise from the audience that followed every line of dialogue, but eventually things settled down and there was a shower of leaves as Paddington began his descent.
Judy closed her eyes as the branches began to sway more and more. “I can’t watch,” she said. “Suppose one of his duffle coat toggles gets caught in something?”
“I shouldn’t worry,” said Mr Gruber. “Climbing trees is another thing bears are good at. Mr Brown must have done a lot of it when he was a cub.”
As things turned out, they had rather longer to wait than expected, but eventually he emerged from behind the trees armed with the kite.
“I’m sorry to be such a long time,” he said, as he handed it back to Jonathan. “But I think I know who did it…”
“Did what?” chorused Jonathan and Judy.
“Killed Mr Yorick,” said Paddington. “I had a good view of the stage from where I was sitting and I saw a man putting someone’s skull on to a table. I’ve phoned the police with a description.”
“You’ve done what?” exclaimed Judy.
“Well,” said Paddington. “I didn’t exactly do it myself, but I met the inspector who told me off for putting my feet in the water. I think he must have followed us here. He told me to stay where I was and he would do it for me.
“Then someone from the theatre came along and wanted to see my ticket. When I said I didn’t have one, he showed me the exit. So here I am.”
Mr Gruber glanced at the others. It was rather a lot to take in at one go.
“Can you hear what I can hear?” he asked, as the sound of a distant siren rose above the voices on the stage. “It may not be heading our way, but I suggest we beat a hasty retreat, just in case. We can eat our sandwiches on the way.
“It seemed a good idea at the time,” he added, as they made their way towards the exit, “but better safe than sorry.” He nodded towards Paddington. “I think it’s turned out to be one of those days. These things happen from time to time.”
“It’s a pity they don’t have tree climbing in the Olympics,” said Jonathan. “He was up and down it like a yo-yo.”
“It would have been worth a gold medal for sure,” agreed Judy.
“I don’t think I shall ever be fit enough to go and see the Games,” said Paddington sadly. “Let alone take part in them.”
“You don’t have to be fit if you’re a spectator,” explained Mr Gruber. “It only applies to the athletes who are taking part.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Paddington, looking most aggrieved. “You’d think they would tell people these things.”
“Anyway,” broke in Jonathan. “You can sit at home and watch them on television.”
“People will have their eyes glued to the screen,” said Judy.
“It sounds a bit painful to me,” said Paddington. “I think I might have another sandwich. I feel better already.”
“I can’t wait to read the reviews in tomorrow’s papers,” said Mr Brown, later
that day, when Jonathan and Judy related the tale of their adventure in the park. “There have been a good many versions of Hamlet staged over the years, but it sounds as if this one beats them all.”
“The trouble is, anyone who goes to see it after reading the reviews will be in for a disappointment,” said Mrs Brown. “There won’t be any ‘noises off’.”
Mrs Bird kept her counsel. Something about the way Paddington was behaving caused her to wonder if he might be sickening for something. He was unusually quiet over dinner and it wasn’t long after they had finished before he disappeared upstairs. He didn’t even wait to see if there was a second helping.
Later on that evening, as she followed suit, she noticed a chink of light under his bedroom door so, having knocked on it and received no reply, she tiptoed in.
Everything seemed to be in order. His duffle coat and hat were in their usual place on the back of the door. The framed photograph of Aunt Lucy was on the bedside table, but there was no sign of Paddington himself, although as she went further into the room she realised there was a curious lump in the middle of the bed.
As she drew near she gave a cough and a small figure emerged from under the duvet.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Mrs Bird?” asked Paddington.
“Well,” said Mrs Bird carefully. “I can’t say I have ever actually seen one myself.”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Paddington sleepily. “I wouldn’t like to live in Elsinore. It must be full of ghosts.”
“Elsinore is in Denmark,” said Mrs Bird gravely. “Which is a very long way away. I shouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Paddington. He lay back on his pillow and drew the duvet up round his chin.
“Mind you,” continued Mrs Bird. “I daresay there are good ghosts as well as bad ones. There are certain beings on this earth who make such a deep impression while they are around you feel they will always be somewhere around, watching over us. It isn’t quite the same thing as being a ghost, of course, but it’s very comforting.”
She didn’t add that she was looking at one such being right now, but by then Paddington was already fast asleep, so having made sure the sheets were well and truly tucked in, she crept quietly off to bed herself.
Tomorrow was another day, and with a bear about the house there was no knowing what might happen next, so it was as well to be prepared.
IT WAS A few mornings later when Mrs Brown happened to glance out of the downstairs window of number thirty-two Windsor Gardens and she was taken aback to see a group of men behaving very strangely in their front garden.
Two of them were struggling with a large concrete plant pot, while a third, having made a frame with the forefinger and thumb of both hands, peered at them through the opening. For some reason it seemed to be giving him a great deal of pleasure.
She had intended checking the weather before she went shopping, but instead she called out to Mrs Bird.
“Come quickly!” she cried. “There are some men moving Henry’s begonias. That old concrete pot of his is already cracked. If it gets any worse and breaks in half, we shall never hear the last of it.”
Even as she spoke there was a momentary flash as the third man recorded the scene on a digital camera.
“Leave it to me,” called Mrs Bird grimly.
Pausing only to arm herself with a suitable weapon from the hall stand, she flung open the front door and confronted the intruders.
Although she didn’t actually shout ‘en garde’, her sudden appearance brandishing a rolled umbrella had the desired effect. The men froze in their tracks.
“Dear lady,” said the man with the camera nervously. “Please don’t be alarmed. It’s only a recce.” He held out his hand. “Mervyn’s the name. I’m the designer. The thing is, if the director likes the look of your house we may need to rearrange things a bit before we start filming…”
“Filming?” repeated Mrs Bird, taking a firmer grip of her umbrella. “What do you mean, filming?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t been warned!” exclaimed Mervyn. “This is unforgivable. Hang on a moment; I’ll contact Head Office straight away.
“Drop everything!” he called to the others.
“Don’t you dare!” broke in Mrs Bird. “If anything happens to those begonias I shall hold you responsible.”
Hastily producing a mobile phone, Mervyn began dialling a number.
“I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a breakdown in communications,” he said, over his shoulder. “But take my word for it, you won’t recognise your house after we’ve finished, and you’ll be thanking us for it. If we don’t change the layout people will be ringing your door bell at all hours. Some don’t take no for an answer and that can be very tedious. We’ll paint the front door a different colour for the time being,” he continued, “but…”
He broke off as a fourth figure dressed from head to toe in white: white suit, white shirt and tie, white shoes, floated in through the front drive. The only concession to colour was a single blue peacock’s feather stuck at a rakish angle in the band of his broad-brimmed, white hat.
“Ah,” said Mervyn. “Here comes Fernando. He’ll sort things out.”
The newcomer came to a halt before reaching them, and having formed a similar frame to Mervyn’s with his fingers, gazed intently through it as he pirouetted in a half-circle on one foot, and took in the situation at a glance.
“It must be meant,” he said, addressing Mrs Bird. “I see you ina da part of the Fairy Princess. Unfurling your parasol and floating off into the sunset – just lika da Mary Poppins. Light as a feather, only much prettier of course. I kiss your hand in anticipation, señorita.”
“Señora!” said Mrs Bird firmly.
“I should be so lucky!” said Fernando. Taking her free hand in his, he raised it to his lips before turning to the designer. “Ringa da central casting, before isa too late.”
“I think you had better come inside,” said Mrs Bird weakly.
“Any chance of putting this pot down, mum?” called one of the men.
“If you promise to do it very carefully,” replied Mrs Bird dreamily.
Fernando and Mervyn followed her into the hall at the same moment as Mrs Brown emerged from the front room.
“What is going on?” she said. “Whatever it may be, it isn’t convenient. I’m about to go shopping.”
“And so you shall, señora,” said Fernando, having first made sure she was wearing a wedding ring. “So you shall. Please do not let us detain you a moment longer.”
“The last thing we would wish is to cause you any inconvenience,” agreed Mervyn. “Provided you use the back entrance for the time being, you can come and go whenever you please. But if you could be a darling and keep your voice down, that would be wonderful.”
“In the meantime…” Fernando produced a folded sheet of paper from an inside pocket and handed it to Mrs Brown, along with a crumpled piece of newspaper. “Here, señora, are our credentials.”
“Home for Retired Bears…” began Mrs Brown, reading from the heading on the notepaper. She held it up for Mrs Bird to see. “I do believe it’s from Paddington’s Aunt Lucy…”
But Mrs Bird had already caught sight of a familiar face in the piece of newspaper. “It’s that dreadful Sunny Climes!” she said. “It must be a cutting from the Evening Banner. If you remember, I said at the time we hadn’t heard the last of him.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Brown. “I wonder how it reached Peru?”
“Bad news travels,” said Mrs Bird.
She turned to Fernando. “If it’s Paddington you want to see, he’s upstairs. It’s the end of the month, so he’s probably doing his accounts. If that’s the case, I would rather you didn’t disturb him. Stopping halfway through the adding up might well mean his having to start all over again.”
“A person of such importance,” said Fernando, “and he is doing his own accounts?” Clearly, it was a concept he had never
encountered before. “Whatever next? Besides, it is not what you might calla da higher mathematics.”
“It is if you happen to be a bear,” said Mrs Brown.
Mrs Bird read the look on her face. “You carry on with your shopping,” she said. “I’ll deal with this.”
“I have come a longa da way,” persisted Fernando. “In Peru, his fame as an athlete has spread lika da wildfire. Isa da talking point wherever you go.”
“That’s as may be,” said Mrs Bird. “But may I suggest you tell us exactly what it is you want to see him about.”
Fernando reached out for her hand again and clasped it in his. “I have been commissioned, señora,” he said grandly, “to make a film of his exploits. At alla da costs they must be preserved for posterity.
“Perhaps, if Señor Paddington is engaged, I will telephone his manager and make an appointment?”
Mrs Brown let go of her shopping bag. “I think I had better stay after all,” she said.
“Do you both take milk?” asked Mrs Bird. “I’ll put the coffee on.”
To say the Brown family were rocked to their very foundations by the news that Paddington was about to star in a film, would have been putting it mildly.
Fernando spent some time in the kitchen with Mrs Bird explaining matters, while Mervyn devoted his time to Mrs Brown, Jonathan and Judy, and latterly Paddington himself when he came downstairs to see what was going on.
Long after Fernando and Mervyn had departed in search of a suitable location for what they called the ‘nitty-gritty’, and Paddington had gone back upstairs to write a postcard to his Aunt Lucy, the rest of the family talked of little else.
“What are we going to do?” said Mrs Brown.
“If that bear’s going to be in a film,” said Mrs Bird, “his duffle coat had better go to the dry-cleaners. If I take it first thing tomorrow morning he’ll get it back the same day.”
“He won’t like it,” said Judy. “He’s very fond of his stains. Each one tells a story.”