Paddington Complete Novels

by Michael Bond

  “I can’t help that,” said Mrs Bird firmly. “Needs must.”

  The discussion carried on through lunch and continued until the evening, when Mr Brown arrived home from the office.

  “Has anyone ever wondered how the Home for Retired Bears came into being?” asked Mrs Bird.

  “I can’t say it’s kept me awake at night,” said Mr Brown. “I’ve always assumed it had something to do with the Lima Borough Council.”

  “It’s a fascinating story,” continued Mrs Bird. “Señor Fernando told me all about it. Apparently it dates back to the time when the Peruvians were building a huge boat on Lake Titicaca.”

  “The Yavari,” broke in Jonathan. “We’ve been learning about it at school. All 210 tonnes were shipped to Peru as a kit of parts. Most were made in Birmingham, but the sections for the hull were made in London by a firm called Thames Ironworks and Shipbuilding, who also founded West Ham Football Club. Which is how they came to be nicknamed ‘The Hammers’, because of all the hammering of the iron plates that went on at the time.”

  “I was beginning to wonder how you remembered all that,” said Judy. “I might have known it had something to do with football.”

  Jonathan gave her an aggrieved look. “It wasn’t just that,” he said. “Our geography master has got pictures of all the problems they had transporting everything.

  “Lake Titicaca is 12,500 feet above sea level, and for the last 350 kilometres it all had to be loaded on to mules. They could only cope with a small amount at a time.”

  “I don’t see why they needed to have a boat that size up there in the first place,” said Judy.

  “It’s like the old joke,” explained Jonathan. “Why did the chicken cross the road? Answer: To get to the other side. Lake Titicaca is the biggest landlocked stretch of water in South America. It’s like an inland sea and there was no other means of communication in those days.”

  “Anyway,” broke in Mrs Bird, unable to contain herself a moment longer, “going back to the Home for Retired Bears. Apparently the whole operation took years rather than months to complete, and a rich English industrialist who happened to be exploring Peru at the time was so mortified at the way bears were being uprooted from their natural habitat, he took pity on them and set up a trust fund. At the same time he purchased a large property in Lima to take care of the older ones who had nowhere to go.”

  “What a kind thought,” said Mrs Brown. “Is he still around?”

  Mrs Bird shook her head. “It all took place well over 150 years ago. But before he died he made sure everything was taken care of. The occupants live rent-free, but they are expected to work for their living and in fact they have quite a steady income from all the things they make.

  “In the winter they are very industrious. They make marmalade, knit sweaters and scarves, and make all kinds of other ethnic items. Then, during the summer months when the tourists arrive, they set up their stands in the market. They are said to drive a hard bargain.”

  “That bit sounds familiar,” said Mr Brown.

  “According to Fernando, provided he doesn’t go too much over budget, financing the film isn’t a problem.”

  “Well I never,” said Mrs Brown. “I have often wondered how it all came about.”

  “Such a charming man,” said Mrs Bird, bringing the conversation to an end as she went out into the kitchen. “A joy to be with.”

  “I think she’s got the hots for him,” whispered Judy.

  “What a dreadful expression,” said Mrs Brown.

  “You don’t think, Mary…” began Mr Brown. “I mean, one thing leads to another…”

  “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence,” said Mrs Brown. “You should know that, Henry, and Mrs Bird certainly does.”

  The possibility of losing both Paddington and Mrs Bird into the bargain was too awful to contemplate, so she hastily changed the subject.

  “It’s a big upheaval,” said Mr Brown. “It could go on for weeks. I hope we’re getting paid for it.”

  “Señor Fernando told Mrs Bird he is offering his services for a da love,” said Jonathan. “Except for the travelling expenses.”

  “So shall we, won’t we, Henry?” said Mrs Brown.

  “I, er…” Mr Brown had been about to say ‘I don’t know about that’, but he felt rather than saw everybody else in the room staring at him, so he changed his mind.

  “Whatever you say, Mary,” he replied meekly.

  Luckily Paddington arrived downstairs at that point.

  “I’ve finished my postcard to Aunt Lucy,” he announced, “so I thought I would go and post it, but I can’t find my duffle coat anywhere. I wonder if we ought to ring for the police?”

  The Browns exchanged anxious glances.

  “I really shouldn’t worry, dear,” said Mrs Brown. “I’m sure it will turn up. You’re too late for the last post anyway.”

  “You know what I think,” said Jonathan, coming to the rescue. “If you’re going to be famous, you ought to have a nom de plume.”

  “I’ve never had one of those before,” said Paddington. “It sounds interesting. What is it?”

  “It’s French for what’s known as a ‘pen name’,” said Judy. “Writers use them when they don’t want people to know their real name.”

  “Film stars do it all the time,” agreed Mrs Brown. “Except they call it their ‘stage name’. Michael Caine was born Maurice Micklewhite. I heard him talking about it on television only the other day.”

  “And Fred Astaire started life as Frederick Austerlitz,” said Jonathan. “That’s a famous French railway station.”

  “I’m not surprised he changed it,” said Paddington. “I wouldn’t like to be called Austerlitz.”

  “In fact,” said Mrs Bird, “come to think of it, you have a nom de plume already. If you remember, when you arrived over here you had a Peruvian name which you weren’t too sure about, so that’s how you came to be called Paddington, because that’s where Mr and Mrs Brown found you.”

  “If you’re likely to be signing lots of autographs I should change it to Pad,” said Jonathan, mindful of how long it took Paddington to write a postcard. “It’ll save lots of time.”

  But Paddington clearly had his mind on other things as he headed towards the kitchen.

  “I would rather you didn’t go in there…” began Mrs Bird, but she was too late.

  “It’s all right, Mrs Bird,” called Paddington. “Don’t worry. I’ve found my duffle coat. It’s underneath the tea towel. I wonder how it got there?”

  “There are no flies on Paddington,” said Judy.

  “That bear’s got his head screwed on the right way,” agreed Mrs Bird.

  “My head’s screwed on!” exclaimed Paddington, as he came back into the room. “I didn’t know that!”

  “There’s no need to worry about it, dear,” said Mrs Brown. “It won’t fall off in a hurry.”

  “I hope it doesn’t fall off at all,” said Paddington hotly.

  “I might have a nightmare and turn over quickly in my sleep,” he added darkly. “I dreamt I was being chased by a bumblebee the other night and I had to run all over the house before it flew out of an open window by mistake.”

  “Changing the subject,” said Jonathan, “we’ve been wondering, supposing, just supposing the film is very successful and you become famous overnight, you might, well… we might not see quite so much of you again, except on the screen.”

  “Not see quite so much of me?” exclaimed Paddington in alarm. “I can’t picture that…”

  “That’s part of the trouble, Paddington,” said Mrs Brown, voicing the thoughts of the others. “Neither can we.”

  At which point everyone agreed it was time for bed, although it was safe to say that for once sleep didn’t come easily, either that night, or for the next few nights as the tension began to mount.

  The worst part was not so much being ignorant of what was going on, but with Paddington leaving ea
rly every day in a chauffeur-driven car and not arriving back until late in the evening, much too tired to talk, the house seemed unusually quiet.

  It was left to Judy to voice their unspoken thoughts. “I can’t help feeling we’re being bypassed,” she said. “And without so much as a by-your-leave.”

  “Nonsense!” said Mrs Bird in her down-to-earth manner. “It’s Paddington’s life. He must do as he thinks fit.”

  Nevertheless, it was noticeable that she took particular trouble with his marmalade sandwiches before he left home in the mornings, often adding an extra one for good measure.

  In the event, although it seemed to take forever, the filming came to an end much sooner than anyone had expected.

  Fernando arrived back with Paddington early one evening, and he was carrying a small parcel.

  “Olè,” he said. “I have everything ona da disc so that you can watch it on your television. I see you have a player.”

  It took only a moment or two for Jonathan to load it, and as soon as everyone was ready and the curtains were drawn he pressed the button.

  Mr Brown nearly leapt out of his seat as the opening shot of their front garden filled the screen, revealing a bare patch of paving overlaid with the titles. “Someone has moved my begonias!” he cried. “What’s happened to them?”

  “Shhh, Henry,” hissed Mrs Brown. “They’re back in their proper place now.”

  “That’s me!” exclaimed Paddington excitedly, as the film dissolved into a shot of a green area somewhere in London. The camera zoomed in on a group of some dozen or so hurdles lined up one after the other, and carried on zooming until it reached a familiar figure at the far end.

  There was a moment’s pause allowing Paddington time to raise his hat to a small group of spectators. Then, as the scene changed to a wide shot, a gun went off, galvanising him into action. From being a small figure in the distance, he ended up some seconds later filling the screen in close-up. Whereupon, breathing heavily, he raised his hat again; this time to camera.

  The Browns sat in silence for a moment or two.

  “I must say he was going very fast,” ventured Judy. “I see now why they’re called ‘rushes’.”

  “I can’t wait for the real thing,” agreed Jonathan.

  Señor Fernando looked put out. “Whata you mean, da real thing?” he demanded. “They are nota da rushes. That is it… the whole caboodle… the finished film.”

  “We did over thirty retakes,” said Paddington. “I lost count in the end.”

  “Er… I don’t wish to sound over-critical,” said Mr Brown, “but…”

  “You no like?” asked Fernando. “You are upset about your begonias?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly that,” said Mr Brown. “What little we saw is beautifully made, I grant you, but it does seem to me it has what one might call a basic design fault.”

  “The film? It hasa da basic design fault?” repeated Fernando. “What you mean, señor? A basic design fault?”

  “Well,” said Mr Brown, taking a deep breath. “Shouldn’t Paddington be jumping over the hurdles rather than going underneath them.”

  “Ah,” exclaimed Fernando. “You English. I knew when I first set eyes on you, Señor Brown, you are a da perfectionist at heart.”

  “I didn’t bang my head once, Mr Brown,” said Paddington. “I kept my hat on all the time, just in case.”

  “Well,” said Mr Brown. “It isn’t so much that, but I strongly suspect other people may notice it too.”

  “Just as a matter of interest,” said Judy. “What made you choose the hurdles?”

  “Mr Gruber told me he was good at them when he was young,” said Paddington. “So I thought I might have a go.”

  “Ask a silly question…” said Jonathan.

  “All the same, it does seem a bit of a let down,” said Mrs Brown.

  “The film is nota for general release,” said Fernando.

  “Thank goodness for that,” murmured Mr Brown.

  “It is for the inhabitants of the Home for Retired Bears in Lima,” explained Fernando. “Most of them have no idea whata da hurdle race is, let alone set eyes ona da moving picture. Over them… under them… who is to care? It is all the same. And after all, they are paying for it. To them it will be a moment of great excitement that will last for the rest of their lives.”

  He turned to Mrs Brown.

  “Señora, you will remember the first time a moving picture was shown in Paris. Those neara da screen ran for cover when a train appeared and headed straight towards them. They thought their end hada da come.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” said Mrs Brown. “It was before my time.”

  “1895,” said Jonathan knowledgeably. “It was an early Lumière Brothers film.”

  Fernando looked at him. “You should goa da far,” he said.

  “What bothers me, Paddington,” broke in Mr Brown hastily, “meaning no disrespect, but what made Sunny Climes think you were such an athlete in the first place? I mean, talk about getting hold of the wrong end of the stick, but doing something like a mile and a half in under four minutes beggars belief.”

  “I meant to tell him, I was in your car at the time, Mr Brown,” said Paddington. “We were going to meet Jonathan at the station. But then I thought you might be in trouble for going so fast, and I didn’t want you to be arrested, so I kept it to myself.”

  “How about the one hundred metres in five seconds?” asked Jonathan.

  “If the buns are just out of the oven,” said Paddington simply, “you need to do it as fast as you can. Especially if you’ve only got paws.”

  “You know something,” said Fernando, breaking the silence that followed. “That bear, his head is what you might call screwed on a righta da way. It has been a da pleasure working with him!”

  “There you are, Paddington,” said Mrs Bird. “I told you so.”

  “I’m sorry the film isa no longer,” said Fernando, “but as you say in your country, ‘good things come ina da small parcels’.”

  “It may be a small film to you,” said Mr Brown, “but I must say it’s a big relief to all of us.”

  “I give you the disc asa da present to remember me by,” said Fernando.

  Brushing aside all offers of refreshment, he left as smoothly as he had arrived. First he reached for Mrs Bird’s hand in order to bestow a kiss, then he bowed to the rest of the family.

  Mrs Bird drew the curtains and the Browns gathered by the window to watch as Paddington accompanied Fernando to the gate. They doffed their hats to each other as they said a final goodbye. At which point Fernando presented Paddington with the peacock’s feather from his hat, and with a final wave he went on his way.

  Paddington responded, and then instead of entering the house by the front door, he disappeared down the side.

  “Now where’s he going?” said Mr Brown.

  “Quick,” said Judy. “After him!”

  Led by Jonathan, they all rushed out into the back garden through the kitchen door, but Paddington had beaten them to it. He was sitting on one of the stones in his rockery looking up at the sunflowers.

  “Well,” said Jonathan. “Any more films in the offing?”

  “I don’t know,” said Paddington. “Mr Fernando said I wasn’t to ring him, he would ring me.”

  “But…” began Mr Brown. He was about to say that was what all film producers said when the answer was ‘no’, but Paddington didn’t give him the chance.

  “I don’t think I would like to be a film star,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to leave Windsor Gardens. I think it’s the nicest place in all the world.”

  As the Browns gave a collected sigh of relief Mrs Bird reached for her handkerchief. “I do like films that have a happy ending,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “Why don’t we go indoors and see yours all over again.”

  Paddington jumped to his feet. “Let me do it, Mrs Bird,” he exclaimed. “Bears are good at pressing buttons.”

  The Brow
ns exchanged glances. “Goodness knows what we shall see now,” said Mr Brown. “You know what Paddington’s like with buttons.”

  Mrs Brown gave his arm a squeeze. “To tell you the truth, Henry,” she said. “I’m so relieved I really don’t mind what it is.”

  About the Author

  Michael Bond

  Author of over one hundred books, Michael Bond was born in Newbury, Berkshire, in 1926 and grew up in Reading. On leaving school at the age of fourteen, he spent a year in a lawyers’ office before joining the BBC as an engineer. During the war he served with both the RAF and the army, and it was in 1947, while stationed in Cairo, that he wrote his first short story. Its acceptance by London Opinion sowed the seeds of a future career, but before becoming a full-time writer he was to spend many happy and fruitful years as a BBC television cameraman.

  The inspiration for his most famous creation came one snowy Christmas Eve. He was taking refuge in Selfridges when he came across a small toy bear, literally left on the shelf. It was to act as inspiration for A Bear Called Paddington, first published in 1958. Bears don’t need much encouragement, and Paddington has since filled the pages of twelve novels, a variety of picture books, and many other projects written for the young at heart of all ages.

  Michael has twice been recognised for his services to children’s literature: in 1997 he was awarded an OBE and in 2002 he was honoured in an exhibition at The National Portrait Gallery in London, celebrating a century of children’s authors. He lives in London.

  Other Books By Michael Bond

  More About Paddington

  Paddington Helps Out

  Paddington Abroad

  Paddington At Large

  Paddington Marches On

  Paddington At Work

  Paddington Goes to Town

  Paddington Takes the Air

  Paddington on Top

  Paddington Takes the Test

  Copyright

  A Bear Called Paddington. Text copyright © Michael Bond 1958

  Postscript copyright © Michael Bond 2001

  Illustrations copyright © Peggy Fortnum 1958