by Michael Bond
Paddington looked most offended at this last remark, but as he hurried out into the garden, he quickly forgot about it in his excitement.
By the time he reached the hut the workmen had already left, but they had obviously got the stones in a state of readiness for Mr. Brown’s homecoming. Steam was billowing out through the chimney and from odd cracks in the woodwork. In fact, the whole thing looked rather like some primitive space machine a few moments before launching.
Paddington approached it gingerly and was about to apply his eye to a knothole which was low down in the door and looked slightly less steamy than the rest when he heard a familiar voice bark out his name.
He jumped to his feet, and as he turned round, he saw to his dismay that Mr. Curry was gazing at him over the top of the fence.
“What’s going on, bear?” demanded Mr. Curry. “Was that you making all that noise just now?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Curry,” said Paddington hastily. “It woke me up. I was asleep too.”
“Asleep!” exclaimed Mr. Curry. “I wasn’t asleep. I never sleep.” He gazed suspiciously across the fence. “What’s that monstrosity? And what’s all that smoke doing? It ought not to be allowed. I’ve a good mind to report it.”
“Oh, that isn’t smoke, Mr. Curry,” said Paddington knowledgeably. “That’s steam. It’s a special birthday surprise for Mr. Brown. It’s what’s known as a sauna.”
“A sauna, eh?” Mr. Curry took a closer look at the hut.
“It’s supposed to be very good for you,” said Paddington, warming to his subject as he went on to repeat all that he’d been told about the matter.
“Very interesting, bear,” said Mr. Curry when he’d finished. “Very interesting indeed. You say it’s all ready to use?”
Paddington nodded. “They’ve heated the stones specially,” he explained. “And they’ve put some cold water on to make the steam. Look . . .” and he opened the door slightly to show the Browns’ neighbor what he meant.
“Thank you very much, bear,” said Mr. Curry unexpectedly. “That’s very kind of you. I’ve always wanted to try one. I’ll go in and change now.”
Paddington’s jaw dropped as the Browns’ neighbor disappeared from view. He was used to Mr. Curry’s habit of twisting other people’s words to suit his own ends, but never in his wildest dreams had he meant to invite him over.
“The cheek of it!” exclaimed Mrs. Bird when she heard the news. “That’s typical of Mr. Curry—always poking his nose in and wanting to get something for nothing.”
“He’ll get steam up his nose if he pokes it in there,” said Jonathan, glancing out of the window.
“I hope he doesn’t let it all out,” said Judy. “Daddy must be the first one to try it. After all, it’s his present.”
A feeling of indignation ran round the Browns’ dining room. They had gone to great lengths to keep Mr. Brown’s present from him until it was ready, even to the extent of persuading him to go into work that morning instead of taking the whole day off as he usually did, and they had no wish to spoil his homecoming by indulging in an argument with Mr. Curry.
“We should have put a padlock on the door,” said Mrs. Brown. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it at the time.”
While the others were talking, a thoughtful expression gradually crept over Paddington’s face. Opening up his suitcase he felt inside the secret compartment and withdrew a small parcel done up in brightly colored wrapping paper.
“Perhaps,” he announced, “you could use my present to Mr. Brown?” And to everyone’s astonishment he unwrapped the paper and held up a small silvery object.
“I was going to send a telegram as a surprise,” he said, “but I had a bit of trouble, so I bought this instead. It was really meant for his tool shed, but I expect it will look much better on a sauna—especially a new one.”
“Gosh!” said Jonathan enviously as he examined Paddington’s present. “It’s a special combination lock. I bet Dad’ll be pleased.”
“Just so long as he doesn’t forget the number,” said Mrs. Brown nervously. “You know what he’s like when it comes to things like that. It would be awful if he couldn’t get the door open on the first day.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Brown,” said Paddington. He looked round carefully to make sure no one else could overhear. “The man in the shop adjusted it specially so that it used my birthday date. He said that way we would never forget.”
“A good idea,” said Mrs. Bird approvingly. “And if you want my advice, you’ll put it on the door straightaway. It’ll stop Mr. Curry taking advantage.”
Paddington needed no second bidding, and a few seconds later he hurried back down the garden path again as fast as his legs would carry him. There was already a hasp on the door, and it was a moment’s work to push the flap home and slip the padlock into place. As he squeezed the two halves together, they met with a satisfying click. He twiddled the various sets of numbers several times with his paws, just as the man in the shop had shown him, and then stood back breathing heavily before testing it once more to make sure all was well.
It had been a race against time, but in the circumstances Paddington felt sure Mr. Brown would be more than pleased with his extra present. He could still hardly believe his good fortune at having chosen something which worked in so well with the Browns’ gift, for no matter how hard he pulled the padlock, it showed no sign of coming apart again.
The heat from the sauna was slightly overpowering, and it was as he moved away in order to mop his brow that a puzzled expression came over Paddington’s face. It was very strange, but it was almost as if he could hear a repetition of the knocking which had woken him earlier in the day.
Admittedly it was rather more muffled than it had been before, but it was getting louder with every passing moment, and it seemed to be coming from inside the hut. In fact, even as he watched, the door began to shake, just as if someone was rattling it from the other side.
He gave the door a couple of taps with his paw. “Excuse me,” he called. “Is anyone there?”
Paddington wasn’t quite sure what, if anything, he expected by way of a reply, but in the event he nearly jumped out of his skin with surprise.
“Yes, there is!” bellowed an all-too-familiar voice. “Is that you, bear? Let me out at once!”
Paddington gazed at the door in alarm. It hadn’t occurred to him for one moment that Mr. Curry might have beaten him to it.
Recovering in double-quick time he took hold of the padlock. “Coming, Mr. Curry,” he called. “Don’t worry. I’ve only got to set up my birthday date.”
“Your what?” shouted Mr. Curry.
“My birthday date,” called Paddington. “It’s the twenty-fifth of June.”
Paddington’s words were the signal for a renewed burst of banging on the door. “But it’s not the twenty-fifth of June,” roared Mr. Curry. “That was months ago. And it’s not your birthday. It’s Mr. Brown’s!”
But Paddington wasn’t listening. Instead he gazed unhappily at the door. He couldn’t remember ever having seen one quite so tightly shut before. Even allowing for the fact that Mr. Curry wasn’t exactly helping matters by banging it, something seemed to have gone very wrong with the lock. No matter how hard he pulled, the two halves showed no sign whatsoever of coming apart.
“I shan’t be long, Mr. Curry,” he gasped, giving the lock one more tug. “It’s a bit difficult with paws, and the steam keeps going in my eyes. . . .”
“The steam keeps going in your eyes!” bellowed Mr. Curry. “What do you think’s happening to mine? I’m being boiled alive in here!”
Bending down, Paddington peered through the knothole he’d used earlier that morning. At first it was difficult to make out anything through the steam, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he gradually made out the shape of the Browns’ neighbor. Even through the haze he could see what Mr. Curry meant. During the short space of time he’d been locked inside the hut, he’d taken on th
e appearance of an over-boiled lobster. A lobster, moreover, which was jumping up and down and showing every sign of wanting to get its pincers on the person responsible for its present condition.
Paddington looked round for help, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. In desperation he opened his suitcase to see if there were any instructions which went with the lock, but apart from several testimonials on the outside of the box—all saying how impossible it was to open once it had been set—there was nothing at all.
As he gazed mournfully at his own lock, Paddington felt he could have written a very good testimonial himself at that moment, and given a tape recorder he could have provided some appropriate sound effects to go with it into the bargain as well.
He rummaged through the suitcase again. “Would you like an old marmalade sandwich to be going on with, Mr. Curry?” he called. “I expect I could push some bits through one of the holes.”
Paddington was a hopeful bear at heart, but even he had to admit that if Mr. Curry’s reply was anything to go by, the market for sandwiches was at a particularly low ebb at that moment.
It was as he was about to close the lid of his suitcase that his gaze alighted on an object lying in the bottom. Over the years Paddington had collected quite a number of souvenirs, and he usually carried a selection of the more important ones around with him. By a strange coincidence the particular one which had just caught his eye had been given to him some years before when he’d visited Mr. Curry in hospital.
It was a stethoscope, and seeing it reminded him of a film he’d recently seen on television, all about a famous safe-breaker called “Lobes” Lavone. In the film no lock had been too complicated for Mr. Lavone. A few moments on his own with a stethoscope and even the toughest of strong-room doors would swing open to reveal its secrets. It had been a most exciting program, and before he’d gone to bed that night, Paddington had spent some time testing his own stethoscope on the Browns’ front door. However, he’d never actually tried it out on a real combination lock before, and it seemed a very good opportunity.
Paddington donned the earpieces as fast as he could and then began twiddling the numbers while he applied the business end of the stethoscope to the lock. As he did so, his face fell. Apart from the background music which always accompanied his escapades, Mr. Lavone insisted on working in complete silence. In fact, he got very cross if anyone so much as dared to breathe within earshot, whereas, heard through earpieces, Mr. Curry’s wheezing sounded not unlike a herd of elephants trying to get over a heavy cold. Far from being able to detect any telltale clicks, all Paddington could hear was the sound of banging and crashing as the Browns’ neighbor stomped about inside the hut.
Taking advantage of a sudden lull, he was about to have one final go when his eardrums were nearly punctured by an unusually loud bellow from what seemed like five centimeters away.
“I can see you, bear!” roared Mr. Curry. “What are you doing now? Listening to the radio? How dare you at a time like this?”
Paddington dropped his stethoscope like a hot potato. “I wasn’t listening to the radio, Mr. Curry,” he called. “I was having trouble with my combinations.”
“Your combinations?” The Browns’ neighbor sounded as if he could hardly believe his ears. “I’ll give you combinations!”
Paddington looked round hopefully for inspiration. “Stay where you are, Mr. Curry,” he called. “I’ll think of something.”
“Stay where I am!” spluttered Mr. Curry. “Stay where I am! I can’t do anything else, thanks to you. It’s disgraceful. I’m being boiled alive. Call the Fire Brigade. Ooh! Help!”
But Mr. Curry’s cries fell on deaf ears, for Paddington was already halfway up the garden. Desperate situations demanded desperate measures, and something Mr. Curry said had triggered off an idea in his mind.
Mrs. Brown glanced out into the garden, and as she did so, a puzzled look came over her face. “What on earth is that bear up to now?” she exclaimed.
As the others joined her at the dining-room window, she pointed towards a small figure clad in a duffle coat and hat struggling to prop a ladder against the side of the sauna hut.
“And what’s he doing with my best plastic bucket?” demanded Mrs. Bird.
If the Browns’ housekeeper was expecting an answer to her question from the others, she was disappointed, for they were as mystified as she was. In any case they were saved the trouble, for almost before she had finished speaking, Paddington had climbed up the ladder and was crawling across the roof of the hut as if his very life depended on it. Before their astonished gaze, he filled the bucket with snow and then removed the cowl from the top of the chimney and began pouring the contents down the open end.
As he did so, the column of steam which rose from the hole surpassed anything that had gone before. For a moment or two Paddington completely disappeared from view. Then as the mist gradually cleared, he once again came into view looking, if anything, even more worried than he had before.
As a distant roar of rage followed by the sound of renewed banging came from somewhere inside the hut, Jonathan and Judy looked at each other. The same thought was in both their minds.
“Come on,” said Jonathan. “If you ask me, Paddington’s in trouble!”
“And what,” called Mrs. Bird as she hurried down the garden path after the others, “do you think you’re doing up there? You’ll catch your death of cold in all that steam.”
Paddington peered down unhappily from the roof of the sauna hut. “I think I’ve shut Mr. Curry inside by mistake, Mrs. Bird,” he announced. “I think something’s gone wrong with my padlock.”
“Crumbs! Let me have a go.” Jonathan took hold of the lock and began twiddling the dials as a sudden thought struck him. Almost at once there was a satisfying click, and to everyone’s surprise the two halves parted. “Stand by for blasting!” he called as he removed the lock from the hasp and the door swung open.
The others waited with bated breath to hear what Mr. Curry would have to say as he emerged from the hut. Far from losing weight, he seemed to have gained several pounds as he swelled up in anger at the sight of the Browns. Then, just as he opened his mouth in order to let forth, he gave a shiver and pulled his towel tightly round himself as a sudden draft of cold air caught him unaware. In the end all he could manage was a loud “Brrrrrrr!”
“Perhaps I could beat you with birch twigs, Mr. Curry?” called Paddington hopefully. “I expect bears are good at that, and it’ll warm you up.”
As he peered over the edge of the roof, a lump of snow detached itself from his hat and landed fairly and squarely on top of Mr. Curry’s head.
“Bah!” The Browns’ neighbor found his voice at last. “Come down here at once, bear. Wait until I get dressed. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
Mrs. Bird took a firm grip of her broom handle. “You’ll what?” she asked.
Mr. Curry swelled up again and opened his mouth as if he was about to say something. Then he thought better of it, and a moment later he stalked off and disappeared through the hole in the fence.
“Thank goodness for that!” said Mrs. Brown in tones of relief. “Anyway, at least we know Henry’s present works.”
“Even if Paddington’s doesn’t,” said Judy. “Perhaps they’ll change it for you if you take it back to the shop,” she added, catching sight of the disappointed look on his face as he clambered back down the ladder.
“It’s a bit difficult with paws,” said Paddington sadly as he tested the lock. For some reason or other it seemed to have jammed shut again. He glanced hopefully at the sauna hut. “Perhaps my pores need opening?”
“Pores nothing!” broke in Jonathan. “What date did you say you used?”
“My birthday date,” replied Paddington. “June the twenty-fifth.”
“That’s your summer one,” said Jonathan. “You want to try the winter one next time. December the twenty-fifth.” And to prove his point he took the lock from Paddington, twiddled the dials, and th
en opened and closed it several times in quick succession.
“I always knew there must be something against having two birthdays a year,” said Mrs. Brown. “Now I know. Life must be very confusing sometimes—especially if you’re a bear.”
“Especially,” agreed Paddington, “if you’re a bear with combinations.”
Chapter Seven
PANTOMIME TIME
The Browns exchanged glances as they pushed their way through the crowds thronging the street outside the Alhambra Theater.
While Judy took a firm grip of Paddington’s left paw, Mrs. Bird clasped her umbrella and took up station on his other side.
“Don’t let go of my hand whatever you do,” said Judy. “We don’t want you to get lost.”
“And watch your hat,” warned Mrs. Bird. “If it gets knocked off and trampled underfoot, you may never see it again.”
Paddington needed no second bidding, and with his other paw he placed his suitcase firmly on top of his head.
It was the start of the pantomime season in London, and as a special Christmas treat, Mr. Brown had reserved seats for the opening night of Dick Whittington.
It was a long time since Paddington had been taken to a theater, and he’d certainly never ever been to a pantomime before, so he was very much looking forward to the occasion.
Mr. Gruber, who’d also been included in the party, brought up the rear; and as they made their way up the steps, he tapped Paddington on the shoulder and motioned him to listen to an announcement coming through on a loudspeaker. It was all about the dangers of buying souvenir programs from unauthorized sellers outside the theater who were apparently charging no less than five pounds a time.
Paddington could hardly believe his ears, and he gave one man, wearing an old raincoat, a very hard stare indeed from beneath his suitcase as a brightly colored booklet was thrust under his nose.
“Five pounds for a program!” he exclaimed.