Paddington Takes the Test

by Michael Bond

  “Forest green!” cried Paddington in alarm. He peered at his reflection in a nearby full-length mirror and then his face cleared. “That’s not my real tongue,” he said thankfully. “I expect it’s where I licked the end of my pen when I tried to send a telegram this morning.”

  “Er . . . yes . . . quite!” Mr. Marsh came back down to Earth with a bump as he realized Paddington was talking to him. “Now, would you mind removing your duffle coat, please? After all, this is supposed to be a life class. Perhaps you could pretend you’re sunbathing on the beach or something?” he added brightly.

  Paddington considered the matter for a moment. All in all, he had quite a good imagination when he put his mind to it, but as he gazed round the unheated studio, try as he might he couldn’t even begin to picture the kind of scene Mr. Marsh obviously had in mind; and he certainly had no intention of taking off his duffle coat.

  “Bears don’t do sunbathing,” he said firmly. “They do shade bathing instead. I think I’ll keep it on if you don’t mind.”

  Romney Marsh clucked impatiently. “I suppose we mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” he said. “One has to take what one can get these days, but really!

  “We’ll just have to pretend you’re some kind of statue.” He eyed Paddington’s old Wellingtons doubtfully as he began arranging him in a suitable pose. “Some of you may have trouble with the legs. It’s hard to tell where they begin let alone where they end up. Still”—he gave a sigh—“life is nothing without a challenge.

  “Now,” he continued, addressing Paddington as he stood back in order to view his handiwork, “whatever you do—don’t move. I want you to keep absolutely still.”

  Paddington did as he was told, and for the next few minutes, apart from some movement in the class itself as the members took up new positions in order to get the best view of their latest subject, all was quiet.

  To start with, Paddington felt quite pleased with his new occupation. Although he had often heard Mrs. Bird grumble about the way some people seemed to get paid for nothing, he’d never heard of anyone being paid to stand absolutely still while they did it, and it seemed very good value indeed.

  But gradually, as time went by, he began to wish more and more that he’d taken up Mr. Marsh’s first suggestion and pretended he was sunbathing. Practically any kind of pose would have been better than the one he’d finally ended up with, but making believe he was lying on a beach enjoying the sunshine sounded nicest of all in the circumstances. As it was, he felt more like a ballet dancer who’d got a bad attack of cramp while trying to execute a particularly difficult movement. The only time he could remember feeling quite so uncomfortable was when he’d been caught unawares in a waxworks museum, and that had only lasted a matter of minutes, whereas Mr. Marsh’s class showed every sign of going on forever. From the little he could see out of the corner of his eye, most of them were still busy with their charcoals making preliminary sketches, and even Romney Marsh himself had only just started on his burnt umber.

  To make matters worse, a fly was beginning to take more than a passing interest in him. Paddington had often wondered where flies went in the wintertime; now he knew. It circled round him several times trying to make up its mind, and then, unable to resist the attraction of some marmalade which had accidentally got left on his whiskers, it landed on the end of his nose.

  Paddington could stand it no longer. Taking advantage of a moment when everyone seemed to have their heads bent over their easels, he lowered one paw, brushed his whiskers clean, and gave a swipe at the offending fly at the same time. Then he tried to resume his former position.

  But if Paddington thought his movement would go unnoticed, he was doomed to disappointment. The howl of protest which went up from the class couldn’t have been any louder if he’d gone out for a walk, done his shopping in the market, and then returned after a hearty lunch.

  “That takes the biscuit!” exclaimed a student bitterly, pointing to his canvas. “I’d just got the folds in his duffle coat right—now look at it!”

  “His whiskers are pointing a different way too,” said another voice. “And some of them have changed color. They were all orange to begin with.”

  Romney Marsh’s beard quivered with indignation. “It’s too bad,” he said. “One pound an hour I’m paying, and look what happens. . . .”

  “One pound an hour!” exclaimed Paddington hotly. “But your card said you pay top rates.”

  “That,” said Mr. Marsh, drawing himself up to his full height, “is for professional models. We don’t give it to every Tom, Dick, or bear who happens to drop in on the off chance. Anyway,” he added, “if you come every day for a week until the pictures are finished, it’ll soon add up.”

  “Every day for a week!” Paddington stared at Romney Marsh as if he could hardly believe his eyes let alone his ears. It had been a bad enough experience until then, but the thought of it carrying on for another four days was hard to contemplate, and he decided to take matters into his own paws without further ado.

  But as he tried to bend down to pick up his bag, Paddington made yet another discovery. Standing for a long time was one thing; trying to move off again afterwards was another matter again. What with the cold of the studio and the lack of circulation, his legs positively refused to cooperate. As he began to topple, he clutched wildly at the nearest available object, and for a second or two it held him. Then it began to slide, and a moment later everything in the room seemed to turn upside down and round about as he fell to the floor, with first the bowl of fruit, then the table on top of him.

  For a while Paddington lay where he was with his eyes tightly shut, hardly daring to breathe, and then gradually he became aware of voices as everybody crowded round to give assistance.

  “Perhaps you’d better give him the kiss of life?” suggested one of the students.

  Mr. Marsh eyed the recumbent form distastefully as he removed the table. Although Paddington had managed to wipe most of the marmalade from his whiskers, there were still a few traces, and these had now been added to by a number of squashed grapes and the remains of a pear.

  “I’m afraid I’m not very good at first aid,” he said hastily. “I think perhaps I’d better have some volunteers.

  “All right,” he said crossly when no one moved. “One volunteer. Surely there’s someone who knows about these things.”

  But Romney Marsh needn’t have bothered. Paddington wiggled himself several times to make sure he was still working, and having decided he was in one piece after all, he jumped to his feet and made off down the stairs as fast as he could go.

  His legs might not have been in peak condition, but they were still capable of a good turn of speed, and they didn’t stop until he arrived outside Mr. Gruber’s and there they propelled him, still panting, on to the horsehair sofa inside the shop.

  If Mr. Gruber was surprised by the sudden arrival of his friend, he showed no sign, and while Paddington got his breath back and began relating the story of the morning’s events, he busied himself on the small stove he kept at the back of the shop, making the cocoa for their elevenses.

  “I daresay you could do with this, Mr. Brown,” he said a bit later when he arrived carrying two steaming mugs and set them down on the table in front of the sofa. “I know Mr. Marsh’s studio of old, and it’s one of the coldest spots in the Portobello Road.

  “I must say,” he continued as he sat down alongside his friend, “making both ends meet can be a bit of a problem at times—especially if you don’t get your sums right.”

  “Oh, I’m always very careful with my accounts, Mr. Gruber,” said Paddington. “I do them every night before I go to bed.”

  “I daresay,” said Mr. Gruber, “and I’m sure you’re very good at it, Mr. Brown. But then, it’s like saying ‘How long is a piece of string?’ or ‘What do two and two make?’” The answer is ‘It all depends.’ You can prove almost anything by mathematics.”

  Mr. Gruber stirred his coco
a thoughtfully. “Your story reminds me of an old music-hall joke in which it’s proved that a man can work for three hundred and sixty-five days in a year and yet, with holidays and weekends, work no time at all. It’s so long ago since I saw it I’ve forgotten the details, but in much the same way I could prove to you that you are actually better off now by three pounds ninety-nine pence than when you set out this morning.

  “The fact is, Mr. Brown,” he continued, “if you had worked as a model at Mr. Marsh’s studio for an hour a day at one pound an hour, in one week you would have earned five pounds, but you didn’t, so you are five pounds worse off, right?”

  Paddington nodded his agreement from behind a cloud of cocoa steam.

  “On the other hand, if you had sent Mr. Brown his telegram, it would have cost you eight pounds ninety-nine pence, but you didn’t, so you are eight pounds ninety-nine pence better off, right?”

  Paddington thought the matter over and then nodded his agreement yet again.

  “In that case,” said Mr. Gruber, “even if you take away the five pounds, you are still three pounds ninety-nine pence better off.” He reached over and held up a bun to Paddington with one hand while tapping his open duffle coat pocket with the other. “To prove I’m right, Mr. Brown,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “try feeling in there.”

  Paddington did as his friend suggested and then nearly dropped his cocoa with astonishment as his paw touched some coins. They certainly hadn’t been there that morning, and yet when he took them out and counted them, they came to exactly three pounds ninety-nine pence. It was all most mysterious.

  Mr. Gruber chuckled when he saw the look on Paddington’s face. “Sometimes mathematics has to do with conjuring as well,” he said.

  “Perhaps I could send Mr. Brown a very short telegram?” exclaimed Paddington excitedly.

  Mr. Gruber shook his head. “If I were you I would keep it, Mr. Brown,” he said. “Besides, I have a much better idea. One which I’m sure will be appreciated even more. It has to do with something I came across years ago when I was in America, and if you like I will tell you all about it. . . .”

  “Cats!” exclaimed Mr. Brown bitterly. “Why is it they always wait until you’re fast asleep before they make a din?” He switched on the bedside light and focused his eyes on the alarm clock. “One minute past twelve! Anyone would think they’ve been waiting for midnight. Right outside our front door too!”

  Mrs. Brown sat up rubbing her eyes. “Where are you going, Henry?” she called.

  Mr. Brown paused at the bedroom door. “To fetch a jug of cold water,” he said grimly. “It happens to be my birthday today, and I want to make the most of it.”

  “Just listen!” he exclaimed as he came back into the room. “Have you ever heard anything like it?”

  Mrs. Brown hesitated. Now that it had been mentioned, there was something vaguely familiar about the noise outside. It had a kind of rhythm to it, a beginning and an end, which reminded her of something.

  “Careful, Henry,” she called as Mr. Brown started to open the window. “I don’t think that’s a cat. I think it’s someone singing.”

  “Singing?” echoed Mr. Brown. “Singing? I’ll give them singing if I catch them. Don’t tell me it’s carol singers already. I know they get earlier and earlier each year, but this is ridiculous.”

  Mrs. Brown gave a sigh as her husband’s voice disappeared down the stairs. Then she got out of bed, put on her dressing gown, and joined the rest of the family on the landing as they, too, appeared, wakened by all the noise.

  Paddington looked most upset when Mr. Brown flung open the front door and he heard what he’d been mistaken for.

  “I’m not a cat, Mr. Brown,” he exclaimed. “I’m a singing telegram boy. They used to have them in America, and they kept them for very special occasions.”

  And to show what he meant he launched into yet another verse of “Happy Birthday.”

  Mr. Brown went quite pink about the ears. “Er . . . yes, well . . . thank you very much, Paddington,” he said. “It’s very kind of you, I’m sure. Most unusual.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t really my idea,” admitted Paddington. “It was Mr. Gruber’s. He told me all about it.”

  “Mr. Gruber’s idea it may have been,” said Mrs. Bird briskly as she took charge of the situation. “But I doubt very much if he intended you delivering your telegram tonight, so upstairs with you. It’s time certain bears were tucked up in bed. And that goes for the rest of us too.”

  “Er . . . before you go,” Mr. Brown called after the retreating figure of Paddington, “you might like to know I’ve decided to put you on my birthday honors list.”

  Paddington peered down at the others over the top of the banisters. “Your birthday honors list, Mr. Brown?” he exclaimed in surprise. “I thought only the Queen had those.”

  “Well, I’m having one this year,” said Mr. Brown grandly. “I’ve decided to give you a rise in your pocket money. I’m told you haven’t had one since you came, so there’s a lot to be made up. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  “Henry!” said Mrs. Brown some while later, as a very excited Paddington at last made his way up to bed. “How awful! Fancy us forgetting a thing like that. Whatever made you think of it?”

  “A little bird told me,” said Mr. Brown vaguely.

  “A little bird?” chorused Jonathan and Judy.

  “Well, maybe it’s not so little,” admitted Mr. Brown. “It’s called the Gruber bird. Wise as an owl, knowledgeable as a Secretary bird, and very good on the telephone. He rang me earlier this evening and mentioned it to me. Very politely, of course, and full of apologies. But he’s absolutely right.”

  He glanced up the stairs, but Paddington had already disappeared from view in the direction of his room. He had a lot on his mind, and he wanted to write it all down in his scrapbook before it disappeared. As for his rise, that demanded a very special postcard indeed to his Aunt Lucy in Peru—one of the giant ones from the stationer’s in the market.

  “I still can’t think how it ever came about,” said Mrs. Brown.

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Bird as she joined the others at the foot of the stairs, “it’s because we often take for granted the things that mean the most to us.

  “Something we should never, ever do,” she added, amid general agreement, “especially when it comes to bears.”

  Chapter Six

  MR. CURRY LETS OFF STEAM

  On the morning of Mr. Brown’s birthday Paddington overslept, which was most unusual. When he did finally emerge from his slumbers, it was to the sound of a strange knocking noise. At first he thought it was to do with a dream he’d been having, all about a woodpecker which had accidentally got trapped inside his hat. But his hat was still lying on the dressing table where he’d left it the night before, and when he felt his head, it didn’t show any signs of having been pecked.

  In any case, having rubbed his eyes several times to make doubly sure he was properly awake, he discovered the noise hadn’t stopped. If anything it seemed to be getting worse, and it appeared to be coming from somewhere outside.

  Paddington hurried to his bedroom window and peered out. As he did so, he nearly fell over backwards with surprise, for while he’d been asleep a strange-looking wooden hut had appeared in the garden. It was standing in the middle of the snow-covered cabbage patch, and as far as he could make out, it had no windows at all, although it made up for this by having a short chimney, out of which rose a thin column of steam.

  The noise was being caused by two workmen who were busy putting some finishing touches to the flat roof, and as one of them paused in order to rest from his hammering, he looked up and caught sight of Paddington.

  “You wait till this ’eats up properly, mate,” he called. “It’ll take the cobwebs out of your whiskers and no mistake.”

  Paddington had never heard of a hut for removing cobwebs before, so he put on his duffle coat and, after a quick look at his own whiskers in
the bathroom mirror, hurried downstairs in order to tell the others.

  Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Bird exchanged uneasy glances as he burst into the dining room. Knowing how keen Paddington was on trying things out, they had been hoping to keep the whole matter a secret until the last possible moment.

  “It’s Daddy’s birthday present,” explained Judy. “It’s what’s known as a sauna.”

  “It’s meant to be a surprise,” added Jonathan. “That’s why the workmen are in such a hurry. We want to get it ready and working by the time he gets home.”

  Paddington listened carefully while the others explained all about saunas and how they worked.

  “You see,” said Judy, “you have lots of large stones which you stand on a special place inside the hut. You heat them up and then pour cold water over them, and it turns into steam. It’s supposed to be very good for you. It opens up all the pores.”

  “In some parts of the world they even beat you with birch twigs afterwards,” added Jonathan. “It gives you a nice glow. Dad keeps on about wanting to lose weight—that’s why we’ve bought it for him.”

  Paddington considered the matter for a moment. He’d never heard of anyone having stones as a birthday present before, and although he was quite sure Mr. Brown would be surprised by it all, being soaked in steam and then beaten by birch twigs didn’t seem a very good way of celebrating the occasion.

  All the same, it definitely sounded worth investigating, even if he didn’t actually test it out.

  “Perhaps,” he announced, “I’ll just have a look through the keyhole; otherwise my whiskers might go soggy.”

  “Very wise,” said Mrs. Bird. “Not that a sauna mightn’t do certain of those among us some good,” she added meaningly as Paddington donned his Wellington boots. “Mr. Brown isn’t the only one who could do with losing a few pounds.”