by Michael Bond
Miss Brimstone changed the subject. “It’s hard to tell with all that fur,” she said. “But I don’t think we’ve left it too late. A bit off here – a bit off there, will work wonders. Tell me about your drinking habits.”
“Well,” said Paddington, “I usually have two mugs of cocoa at breakfast, and then another one for my elevenses.”
“That’s something else that will have to stop,” said Miss Brimstone sternly. “Cocoa is far too rich. A glass or two of hot water will be much better for you in the long run.”
She led him towards some scales.
“I think perhaps we had better check our weight first of all…”
“After you, Miss Brimstone,” said Paddington politely.
“No,” said Miss Brimstone through slightly gritted teeth. “After you. When I said our weight I meant yours, of course.
“Tell me, do you get much exercise?”
“I ran all the way down to the Portobello Road the other day,” said Paddington, “I was going so fast I was asked to do an interview on the radio.”
“Good… good,” said Miss Grimshaw. “Bully for you! What did you do then?”
“After I finished the interview,” said Paddington, “I called in at the bakers. I have a standing order for buns, and while I was doing that, Mr Gruber made some cocoa. Then we sat down on the horsehair sofa at the back of his shop and had our elevenses together. We do that most days.”
“Tut, tut,” said Miss Brimstone. “That’s something else that will have to stop.”
She gave Paddington’s stomach a sharp poke.
“Your waistline needs trimming. Too many French fries I would say, at a guess. We can soon burn that off…”
“Burn it off!” exclaimed Paddington in alarm.
“It’s a technical term,” said Miss Brimstone hastily. “There’s no cause for alarm. We have our methods. It’s a case of being cruel to be kind.
“First of all, repeat after me – I hate French fries.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Paddington firmly.
“Why ever not?” asked Miss Brimstone.
“Because my Aunt Lucy brought me up never to tell lies,” said Paddington.
Miss Brimstone hastily changed the subject.
“The thing is,” she said, “you can either sweat your excess weight off by coming here several days a week for six months, in which case all you need do is sign on the dotted line if you want to pay by standing order, or you can go for my all-in-one crash course. The choice is yours.”
Leading Paddington across the room, she pointed towards some parallel bars on the wall.
“Perhaps we should start with an agility test.
“First of all, put your right leg up and rest it on the bottom bar.”
Paddington eyed it doubtfully. “I’m afraid it’s a bit high,” he said.
“Now, we mustn’t be defeatist, must we,” said Miss Brimstone. “Take a deep, deep breath and try a little harder…
“A teensy bit more…”
Paddington began waving his paws wildly in the air for fear he might lose his balance.
“More… more… more…” urged Miss Brimstone.
“Brilliant!” she cried, as Paddington managed to touch the bar with his toes at long last. “Top hole! I knew you would get there in the end.
“Now try the other leg.”
There was a crash as Paddington landed on the floor with both legs in the air.
Miss Brimstone gazed down at him. “Oh dear,” she said. “I was rather expecting you to remove your right leg first.
“Bravo, though!” she continued, “You have taken up the scissors position. None of my other clients have ever managed that the first time round.”
Paddington attempted to unwind himself as best he could. He wasn’t familiar with the scissors position. It felt more like one of Mr Brown’s corkscrews to him and after a moment or two he gave up the struggle and remained where he had landed.
“Was that it?” he gasped.
“Was what what?” asked Miss Brimstone.
“The crash course,” said Paddington.
Miss Brimstone gave him another sickly smile. “Certainly not!” she said. “Whatever next?” She pointed towards the back of the gym. “There’s a whole lot more to come… the rowing machine… the treadmill… we mustn’t rest on our laurels, must we.”
“I don’t mind, Miss Brimstone,” said Paddington. “Except it doesn’t feel like laurels. It’s more like the floor, and it’s very hard.”
“These things are all in the mind,” said Miss Brimstone.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked, proffering a helping hand. “You look rather disappointed about something.”
Paddington gazed up at her. He was very conscious of the fact that her tattoos seemed to have taken on a life of their own. Some of them were making very odd faces indeed, mostly in his direction.
“I was hoping you might lift me up with your teeth,” he said. “Like you do in your brochure.”
“It just so happens I have a bad back,” said Miss Brimstone stiffly.
“I expect it’s all those steam rollers you’ve been pulling,” said Paddington.
Miss Brimstone chose not to answer.
“Now, on the subject of snacks,” she said. “If you take doughnuts, for example… a typical sugar-coated doughnut contains over 200 calories.”
“It sounds very good value, Miss Brimstone,” said Paddington, raising his hat politely as he rose to his feet. “If I may, I wouldn’t mind two of those while I recover.”
“You will do no such thing,” barked Miss Brimstone sternly. “You must realise that in order to counterbalance the gain in weight from eating just one doughnut you would need to spend nearly an hour on a bicycle.”
“That’s all right,” said Paddington, breathing a sigh of relief.
“You don’t mind doing that?”
“I haven’t got a bicycle,” said Paddington.
“Aha!” said Miss Brimstone. “In that case, we are in luck’s way. I happen to have the very thing.” She pointed to a contraption in the corner of her gym. “It’s what is known as an exercise machine.”
Paddington eyed the object dubiously.
“I don’t think Mr Brown will be very keen on having one of those in our driveway,” he said. “He won’t be able to get his car out for a start.”
“Don’t worry,” said Miss Brimstone. “It’s bolted to the floor.
“You may find this hard to believe,” she continued, “but some of my clients spend an hour working out in the gym and at the end of it all they go straight to the nearest cake shop and undo all the good work by stuffing themselves with blueberry muffins. Some of the larger ones contain nearly 400 calories.”
Paddington didn’t find it hard to believe at all. All the talk about food you ought not to eat was occupying his own mind to the exclusion of everything else, and he was beginning to feel hungrier than ever.
“We never had anything like that in Darkest Peru,” he said, looking at the machine.
“Have no fear,” said Miss Brimstone. “It doesn’t go anywhere. That’s the beauty of it. You simply pedal away to your heart’s content for as long as it takes to remove the excess fat. Allow me to give you a hand…”
Having managed to lift Paddington on to the saddle, she stood back and surveyed the result.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Our feet are rather a long way from the pedals…”
“I’m afraid I can’t reach the handlebars either,” said Paddington.
“Stay right where you are,” said Miss Brimstone. “Don’t move an inch or we could have a nasty ax. I shall have to try lowering the saddle. Excuse me while I look for a suitable spanner.”
Reaching for her handbag she began rummaging through it. “It’s a shame,” she said. “My treatment is guaranteed to take you out of yourself.”
“I think I’d rather stay inside it for the time being if you don’t mind, Miss Brimst
one,” said Paddington.
Marooned in midair, he clung on to the saddle with one paw as Miss Brimstone handed him a card. “It’s a list of my charges,” she said briefly. “You may like to browse through them while you’re waiting.”
Paddington did as he was told and then wished he hadn’t.
“It’s a lot of buns’ worth,” he announced over the sound of banging coming from the direction of the front door. “I shall have to think it over.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Brimstone, abandoning her search for a spanner. “It really isn’t your fault, but I shouldn’t have taken you on in the first place. I shan’t be ready for a day or two and now it sounds as though I have another customer…”
Seeing what she took to be a look of disappointment on Paddington’s face, and conscious of the continued banging, Miss Brimstone lifted him off the saddle.
“At least you can take a present away with you!” she said. “I know you will want to come back when you’ve thought things over, so in the meantime, if I can have your name, I would like to present you with a special gift voucher.” She scribbled a note on one of her cards. “It allows for one free go on my Advanced Personal Training Course. In the meantime you can tell all your friends what a splendid time you’ve had.”
As she was ushering Paddington towards the front door the banging stopped and whoever was outside pushed open the letter box flap.
Anxious to be of help, Paddington made a dash for the door and held the flap open with one paw while he peered through the gap.
“Bear!” bellowed a familiar voice. “I might have known! What are you up to in there?”
In a state of shock, Paddington let go of the flap and as it sprang back into place there was a cry of a pain from outside.
“Oh dear,” said Miss Brimstone. She slid back the door bolt. “Was that a friend of yours?”
“Not really,” said Paddington. “It’s Mr Curry. Mrs Bird says he’s always sticking his nose into things that don’t concern him.”
“It sounds as though he’s done it once too often,” said Miss Brimstone. “And I haven’t even unpacked my first aid box yet.”
“Are you practising for the Games, Mr Curry?” asked Paddington hopefully, as he went outside and found the Browns’ neighbour dancing up and down on the pavement.
“No I am not, bear!” barked the Browns’ neighbour, rubbing his nose. “You know very well what happened.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Curry,” said Paddington. “I didn’t realise it was your nose. I thought it was someone trying to deliver a parcel…”
“Are you trying to tell me you mistook my nose for a parcel?” bellowed Mr Curry. “Just you wait until I get back home. I shall report you for this.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Brimstone. “Have a nice day!” With that, she handed Paddington the card she had been carrying and hastily shut the door, ramming the bolt home for good measure.
“What have you got there, bear?” demanded Mr Curry.
“It’s a prize,” said Paddington. “Were you going to take one of the courses?”
“Take one of the courses?” repeated Mr Curry. He pointed to a board on the wall. “Have you seen the prices? It’s disgraceful. I was about to complain.
“Er… what sort of prize did you win?” he asked casually.
A gleam came into Mr Curry’s eyes when Paddington told him. “If you let me have that card, bear,” he said, “I promise we’ll hear no more about your deliberate attack on my proboscis. Keep it for yourself, and who knows what might happen?
“And no telling anyone else,” he warned. “Otherwise it will be the worse for you.”
With that, he put the card into his wallet and went on his way in high good humour.
Paddington kept to his side of the bargain and didn’t mention what had happened to anyone, but Mr Curry couldn’t wait to tell everyone else he met about his windfall, without mentioning how it had come about, of course.
The news spread like wildfire, and many a curtain twitched in Windsor Gardens a few days later when he set off early in the morning for Miss Brimstone’s gymnasium.
They twitched again when he staggered back home later that day, cutting a sorry figure in his bedraggled shorts and sweat- stained shirt. For some reason he kept shaking his fist towards number thirty-two Windsor Gardens, but wisely Mrs Brown pretended there was no one at home.
It was Mrs Bird who eventually discovered the truth. “I thought it was unlike Mr Curry to splash out on a course like that,” she said. “It seems he had a free pass, but it turned out to be in someone else’s name so he wasn’t able to use it.”
“I wonder how he came by it in the first place?” said Mrs Brown.
“I wonder,” said Mrs Bird. “But I haven’t seen Paddington doing his press-ups on the lawn for several days. I think he’s keeping a low profile.”
It was left for Mr Gruber to sum things up.
“I do like stories with a happy ending, Mr Brown,” he said, when Paddington had finished telling him the truth of the matter.
“That dreadful Mr Curry won’t be bullying you again for a long time. Miss Brimstone has got her business off to a flying start, and here we are again, enjoying our elevenses in peace.
“Everything in moderation,” he said. “That’s my motto. Not too little; and not too much. That being so, what is this life if you can’t enjoy your elevenses undisturbed?”
There was no answer to that so, having considered the matter carefully, Paddington helped himself to another bun.
“Perhaps I might leave cutting down and having one less until tomorrow, Mr Gruber,” he said.
“That sounds a very good idea,” said Mr Gruber. “I think I will join you.”
Chapter Six
PADDINGTON FLIES A KITE
IF IT HADN’T been for the fact that apart from a slight breeze it was a particularly warm July morning, Paddington might not have stopped on his way to the market in order to bathe his feet. But the plastic padding pool of crystal clear water with chunks of ice floating in it was hard to resist. It seemed a very good start to the day. So when a man behind a makeshift counter invited him to make use of it he accepted the invitation without so much as a second thought.
Time passes very quickly when you are having fun, but it felt like only a moment or two before he heard a voice calling out to him.
He stared at the man behind the counter. “I owe you ten pounds!” he repeated hotly. “But I’ve only just got here.”
“You’ve ’ad your feet in the water for a good ten minutes,” said the man. “And it’s a pound a minute.”
“A pound a minute?” uttered Paddington. He could hardly believe his ears.
“It’s coming up to eleven now,” said the man.
“Eleven!” repeated Paddington in alarm.
“You ’eard,” said the man crossly. “What are you? Some kind of tame parrot… repeating everything I say?”
“But I’ve only got ten pence,” said Paddington. “And that has to last me until the end of the week.”
“Ten pence!” echoed the man. “Did I ’ear you say you’ve only got ten pence?”
“Now you’re doing it,” said Paddington.
“Doing what?” said the man.
“Repeating what I just said,” exclaimed Paddington.
He raised his hat politely. “I think it must be catching. I was on my way to see Mr Gruber when you asked me if I would like to bathe my feet. It’s a hot day, so it felt like a good idea, and…”
“Thirteen and counting,” broke in the man, looking at his watch. “I was assuming,” he continued, choosing his words with care, “that you’d read the sign over the pool before you took the plunge. It’s all there in black and white. Now I’ve got a good idea. I suggest you take your feet out of that water in double-quick time and ’op it. My fish are ’aving enough trouble as it is – threshing to and fro like they don’t know if they’re coming or going.”
Hearing the word ‘fish’, Padd
ington scrambled out of the blue plastic paddling pool as fast as he could and peered down at the water for the first time. Sure enough, a shoal of tiny black creatures were circling round and round in the very spot where he had just been standing.
“I wish I’d brought my fishing net with me,” he said.
“That would have been all I need,” said the man. “I’ve only just taken delivery of them garra rufas. Very valuable, they are. They’re from the other side of the world and they’ve got no teeth.”
“Oh dear,” said Paddington. “I should ask for your money back if I were you.”
“But that’s the whole point,” said the man. “They don’t bite, they suck. It’s the latest thing in what is known as the world of fish pedicure. Which is a fancy name for what is the same as manicuring fingers only it ’as to do with the feet. Them fish remove the dead skin from between people’s toes without damaging the ’ealthy skin underneath it like there’s no tomorrow. If you ask me they must have been ’aving trouble with your follicles.”
“My follicles!” repeated Paddington. “I’d better tell Mrs Bird.”
“Oh dear,” said the man. “’Ere we go again. Follicles,” he explained, “are the sunken bits you ’as between your toes. Bears’ follicles must be deeper than other people’s. I expect the fish ’ad trouble getting their little ’eads inside. Must be very frustrating. I bet some of them wished they’d been born with teeth after all.”
Glancing up, the salesman’s face suddenly cleared as he realised a small crowd had collected while they had been talking.
“Roll up, roll up,” he called, hastily changing his tune.
“Gather round everybody. This young bear gentlemen ’ere is what’s known as a trendsetter. Or he would ’ave been, except he’s ’aving trouble with ’is follicles.
“For that very reason I’m not charging him anything,” he added, giving Paddington a nudge, “and since I know ’e’s in an ’urry to be on ’is way, I suggest you form an orderly queue. . .”
As the crowd set about following the man’s instructions, Paddington took the hint and made good his escape.