by Michael Bond
“Well, he’s not exactly a bear lover, for a start,” said the policeman. “Kept going on about the iniquities of someone called Paddington—”
“Say no more,” broke in Mrs. Bird. “That’s him.”
“Well,” continued the officer, “when we arrived back at his house, who should we meet coming out of the gate, but none other than Gentleman Dan, the Drainpipe Man. He must have seen us drive off and seized his chance. He had the cheek to say he’d gone to the wrong door by mistake.”
“Did he get away with much?” asked Mr. Brown.
“Didn’t have a thing on him,” said the officer, “which is a pity, because I gather from Mr. Curry that he has a lot of valuable items, and we could have booked him on the spot.
“On the other hand, I don’t think he’ll be bothering us again for a while. Thanks to this young bear’s efforts, we’ve not only got a picture of him, but we have his dabs for good measure.”
He turned to Paddington. “I’d like to shake you by the paw for your sterling work,” he said.
Paddington eyed the policeman’s hand doubtfully. There was a large lump of something black attached to the palm.
“Perhaps you would like to borrow some of Mr. Brown’s paint remover first,” he said. “You won’t want to get any of that on your steering wheel.”
“You’ve got a point,” said the policeman, taking a look at it himself. “Seeing as how I recommended it in the first place, I can’t really complain, but…”
“I still don’t quite understand,” said Mr. Brown after the officer had left. “What’s all this about painting Mr. Curry’s front gate?”
Paddington took a deep breath. “I thought if I stopped any burglars from getting into his garden in the first place, they wouldn’t be able to break into his house, and it would save using up all your paint on his downpipes. I forgot Mr. Curry still had to get back in!”
The Browns fell silent as they digested this latest piece of information.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” said Paddington lamely.
“You can’t really blame Paddington, Henry,” said Mrs. Brown. “You did take him up on his offer, after all.”
“How much was Mr. Curry going to pay you for doing his pipes?” asked Mr. Brown.
“Ten pence,” said Paddington
“In that case,” said Mrs. Bird, amid general agreement, “I have no sympathy. That man deserves all he gets. And he knows it.
“If he says anything to you about it,” she added grimly, turning to Paddington, “tell him to come and see me first.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Bird,” said Paddington gratefully. “If you like, I’ll go around and tell him now.”
The Browns exchanged glances. “It’s very kind of you, Paddington,” said Mrs. Brown. “But you’ve had a very busy day, and I do think it’s a case of ‘least said, soonest mended.’ Why don’t you put your paws up for a while?” Having considered the matter, Paddington thought it was a very good idea indeed. And funnily enough, Mr. Curry never did mention the day he didn’t get his drainpipes painted, although for some weeks to come, whenever Paddington waved to the Browns’ neighbor over the garden fence, he received some very black looks in return.
They were even darker than the color of his front gate, which now remained permanently open.
On the other hand, Mrs. Bird never again saw a face looking at her through the landing window.
Chapter Three
PADDINGTON STRIKES A CHORD
PADDINGTON ALWAYS LOOKED forward to his morning chats with Mr. Gruber. One of the things that made visiting his friend’s antique shop in the Portobello Road so special was the fact that it was never the same two days running. People came from far and wide to seek Mr. Gruber’s advice. If it wasn’t someone looking for an old painting or a bronze statue, it was someone else browsing through his vast collection of books, which covered practically every subject under the sun.
In time Paddington became quite knowledgeable about antiques himself; so much so, he could immediately tell a piece of genuine Spode china from an ordinary run-of-the-mill item of crockery, although he would never have dared pick any of it up in case he dropped it by mistake.
“Better safe than sorry” was Mr. Gruber’s motto.
That apart, since both of them had begun life in a foreign country, they were never short of things to talk about.
During the summer months they often had their elevenses sitting in deck chairs on the pavement outside the shop, discussing problems of the day in peace and quiet before the crowds arrived.
Paddington couldn’t help but notice his friend usually had a faraway look in his eyes whenever he spoke of his native Hungary.
“When I was a boy,” Mr. Gruber would say, “people used to dance the night away to the sound of balalaikas. That doesn’t seem to happen anymore.”
Having been born in Darkest Peru, Paddington had no idea what a balalaika was, let alone what it sounded like, but with Mr. Gruber’s help he did learn to play a tune called “Chopsticks” on an ancient piano at the back of the shop.
It wasn’t easy, because having paws meant he often played several notes at the same time, but Mr. Gruber said anyone with half an ear for music would recognize it at once.
“Music is a wonderful thing, Mr. Brown,” he was wont to say. “‘Chopsticks’ may not be top of what is known as the Pops, but if you are able to play it on the piano you will always be in demand at parties.”
On cloudy days, when there was a chill in the air, they made a habit of retiring to an old horsehair sofa at the back of the shop, and it was on just such a morning, soon after his adventure with the shopping basket on wheels, that Paddington arrived rather earlier than usual and found to his surprise that Mr. Gruber had acquired a new piano.
It was standing in almost exactly the same spot as the old one had been: near the stove where his friend made the cocoa.
There was no sign of Mr. Gruber, which was most unusual, so to pass the time Paddington decided to have a go at playing what had become known as “his tune,” when something very strange happened.
As he raised his paws to play the opening notes, the keys began going up and down all by themselves!
He had hardly finished rubbing his eyes in order to make sure he wasn’t dreaming when he had yet another surprise. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mr. Gruber crawl out from underneath a nearby table.
“Oh, dear,” said Paddington, “I hope I haven’t broken your new piano.”
Mr. Gruber laughed. “Have no fear of that, Mr. Brown,” he said. “It is what is known as a player piano, and it works by electricity. You don’t see many around these days. I’ve just been plugging it in to make sure it works properly.”
“I don’t think I have ever seen a piano that plays a tune all by itself before,” said Paddington. “We didn’t have anything like that in Darkest Peru. But then, we didn’t have electricity either,” he added sadly.
While Mr. Gruber set about making the cocoa, Paddington took a closer look at the keyboard. It really was uncanny the way the keys went up and down in time to the music, and he tried following their movement with his paws without actually touching them. In the beginning he found it was hard to keep up with them, but after several goes it really began to look as though he was actually playing the tune.
“Look, Mr. Gruber,” he called. “I can even do it cross paws!”
“I should watch out,” warned his friend, looking up from the saucepan. “It’s the ‘Tritsch Tratsch Polka.’ You will need to sit very tight.”
But it was too late. Even as Mr. Gruber spoke, the music reached a crescendo and Paddington suddenly found himself lying on the floor with his legs in the air.
Mr. Gruber ran to switch the machine off. “I’m afraid it’s a case of trying to run before you can walk, Mr. Brown,” he said, helping Paddington to his feet. “I think perhaps you should try starting with something a little slower. I will see what I can find.”
Opening the lid of a long cardboard box, he produced a roll of paper on a spindle, and unwinding it slightly, he held it up for Paddington to see.
Although he didn’t say so, Paddington felt disappointed. It looked rather as if the moths had been at it.
“It seems to have a lot of holes in it,” he said.
“Well spotted,” said Mr. Gruber. “You have hit the nail on the head as usual, Mr. Brown. That is the secret behind a player piano. It works by blowing air through those holes as they go past. When the roll goes through at the correct speed, every time a hole passes a nozzle, the blast of air sets a lever in motion, and that in turn operates the correct note on the keyboard.”
While he was talking, Mr. Gruber opened a small door above in the front of the piano, rewound the roll of paper already in there, and replaced it with the new one.
“It sounds very complicated,” said Paddington, dusting himself down.
“It is really no more complicated than you or I picking up a mug of cocoa and drinking it,” said Mr. Gruber. “When you think about it, that is also something of a miracle. I suggest we have our elevenses first, and then you can try out the tune I’ve just put in. It’s Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I’m sure you will find it much easier.”
It sounded like a very good idea, and Paddington hastily unpacked the morning supply of buns.
After they had finished the last of them and drained their mugs of cocoa, he climbed back on to the stool. This time, because the music was so much slower, he was even better at following the movement of the keys, and several passersby stopped outside the shop to watch.
“I wonder if Mr. Beethoven did a ‘Chopsticks’ roll?” he said. “I expect he would have been very good at playing that.”
“I doubt it,” said Mr. Gruber. “He was a very famous composer, and he wouldn’t have had the time. Besides, this machine wasn’t invented until long after he died.
“If you close your eyes,” he continued, “and sway gently with the music, I’m sure a great many people will think you really are playing it.”
Following his friend’s instructions, Paddington had another go, and by the time he reached the end of the piece, the pavement outside the shop was thronged with sightseers.
“Bravo!” said Mr. Gruber, joining in the applause as Paddington stood up and bowed to the audience. “What did I tell you, Mr. Brown? I think even Beethoven himself would have been taken in.”
Shortly afterward, having thanked Mr. Gruber for the cocoa, Paddington bid him good-bye and made his way out of the shop, raising his hat to the crowd outside as he went. A number of people took his photograph, still more wanted his autograph, and several more dropped coins into his hat before he had a chance to put it back on. They felt quite cold when they landed on his head.
One way and another he was so excited he couldn’t wait to tell the Browns all about it, so as soon as he was able to escape from the crowd of admirers, Paddington set off as fast as he could in the direction of Windsor Gardens.
He hadn’t gone far before he realized he was being followed. In a strange way it wasn’t unlike the player piano. Each time he put a foot down on the pavement, it was echoed by a footstep close behind him.
Looking back over his shoulder as he stopped at some traffic lights, he saw a figure wearing a long black overcoat and a fur hat waving at him.
“Stop! Stop!” called the man.
“This whole thing is quite extraordinary,” continued the newcomer, removing a glove as he drew near. “I have never seen a bear play the piano before. Allow me to shake you by the, er…paw.”
Paddington hastily wiped the nearest one on his duffle coat before holding it out.
“It’s quite easy really,” he began. “You see…”
“Ah, such modesty.” The man glanced at Paddington’s shopping basket on wheels. “I see you take your sheet music everywhere with you. How very wise.”
“It isn’t music,” said Paddington. “It’s Mrs. Bird’s vegetables.”
Reaching inside the basket, he took out a carrot and held it up for the other to see.
“Ah!” said the man, masking his disappointment. “It’s good to see you haven’t lost the common touch.”
He pointed to a large poster on a nearby wall, one of many Paddington had recently seen dotted about the area. “I don’t suppose for one moment you would care to do a recital for me, would you? I’m putting on a concert in aid of charity, and a piano-playing bear is just the kind of thing I need to round things off. The icing on the cake, as it were.”
“Jonathan and Judy will be home for the half term, and Mr. Brown is taking us all to see it as a treat,” said Paddington doubtfully. “So I shall be there anyway.”
“Splendid!” exclaimed the man. “In fact, it couldn’t be better.”
“I shall have to ask Mr. Gruber first,” said Paddington. “It is his piano, and he says there aren’t many like it left in the world.”
“Leave all that to me,” said the man. “Don’t say another word. You shall have the best piano that money can buy. One that will suit your unique talents. Your obbligatos have to be heard to be believed. As for your glissandos…words fail me.”
Paddington had no idea what the man was talking about, but he couldn’t help feeling pleased. “It isn’t easy with paws,” he admitted. “I fell off the stool when I was playing the ‘Trish Trash Polka.’”
“It happens to the best of players,” said the man, brushing it aside. “Perhaps we had better have your paws insured. On the other hand, you may have been trying to run before you could walk.”
Paddington stared at him. “It happened only this morning,” he said excitedly. “And that’s exactly what Mr. Gruber said.”
He considered the matter for a moment or two. “I shall need some rolls,” he announced.
“My dear sir”—the man raised his hands to high heaven—“you shall have all the rolls you need at the party afterward. They will be yours for the asking.”
“It will be too late then,” said Paddington. “I need them while I’m playing.”
“You do?” The man looked at him in amazement.
“This is fantastic,” he cried. “A novelty act! I can hardly believe my ears. There may be other bears in the world who play the piano, although I can’t say I’ve come across any before, but there can’t be many who have their supper at the same time.”
“If you like,” said Paddington eagerly, “I could eat a marmalade sandwich while I’m playing. I usually keep one under my hat in case of an emergency.”
The man went into ecstasies at the thought.
“I can see it all,” he cried, closing his eyes as he gazed heavenward. “You might save that until the end. It could bring down the house.”
Paddington eyed him nervously. “I hope it doesn’t land on me,” he said.
“Ah, so you tell jokes as well,” said the man. “This gets better and better.”
Reaching into an inside pocket, he produced some papers. “May I have your signature, kind sir? I just happen to have a form in my pocket.”
While he was talking, he handed Paddington a gold pen. “Just sign along the dotted line.”
Paddington did his best to oblige, and because the man looked important, he added his special paw print to show it was genuine.
“Forgive my asking,” said the man, eyeing the print with interest. “Are you by any chance Russian?”
“I was,” said Paddington, “but I’m nearly home now.”
His words fell on deaf ears as the man tried reading the writing above the blobs. “Is that where you were born…Paddington?”
“No,” said Paddington. “It’s my name. I’ve always been called that, ever since Mr. and Mrs. Brown found me in the railway station.”
“In that case, we must change it to avoid any confusion,” said the man. “We don’t want the audience turning up at the wrong place, do we?”
“Change it!” repeated Paddington hotly.
“
How about Padoffski?” said the man. “It will look better when I overstamp the posters, but you’re not to tell anyone that.”
“How about Mrs. Bird?” asked Paddington. “She doesn’t like changes.”
“Not until after the concert,” said the man, tapping the side of his nose. “Let it be a surprise.
“Afterward,” he said, “we must strike while the iron’s hot and look to the future. What would you say to a world tour?”
“I wouldn’t mind visiting the Home for Retired Bears in Lima,” said Paddington. “It would be a nice surprise for Aunt Lucy.”
“I don’t normally do retirement homes,” said the man. “More often than not the audience is fast asleep by the end of the program.”
“I’m sure Aunt Lucy would poke them with her knitting needle if they were,” said Paddington loyally.
“Mmm, yes.” The man eyed him doubtfully. “We shall have to see. First things first. We need to think about your entrance on the night. It’s a pity you can’t come up through the floor, like cinema organs used to in the old days.”
“I expect I could borrow Mr. Brown’s saw,” said Paddington eagerly.
“I must say, you’re not short of ideas,” said the man admiringly. “We shall make a very good team. Now that I am your manager, I can see it all.”
“You are?” exclaimed Paddington, looking most surprised.
“Remember,” said the man, holding the piece of paper aloft. “You signed along the dotted line. It’s all down here in black and white.
“Do you happen to know Purcell’s Passing By?” he continued before Paddington had a chance to reply.
“Is he really?” said Paddington, looking around. “I didn’t see him.”
“He is a famous composer,” said the man. “And that’s the name of a song he wrote. I thought I might include it in your program.”
“I’ll ask Mr. Gruber,” said Paddington. “He’s bound to know.”
“I would rather you didn’t,” said the man. “In fact, I would much rather you didn’t tell anyone.”
