by Michael Bond
“Which only goes to show,” said Mr Gruber, “the quickness of the paws certainly does deceive the eye.”
“And still waters run deep,” said Mrs Bird. Her eagle eyes had just spotted a warning note in Paddington’s book under the heading HOW TO GET RID OF AN UNWANTED VISITOR. It said: Never use hot water on the china. It may make the glue melt. “If you ask me there’s more to that bear’s abracadabras than meets anyone’s eye.”
Chapter Five
DINNER FOR ONE
“I DO HOPE we’re doing the right thing, Henry,” said Mrs Brown as she joined the rest of the family in front of the television set. “I feel all keyed up. Paddington’s only been gone half an hour and already it feels like an eternity.”
“We’re not doing anything, Mary,” said Mr Brown. “For once he’s only got himself to blame if anything goes wrong.”
“At least they sent a car for him,” said Jonathan.
“I can’t see what all the fuss is about,” said Mr Brown. “It’s only a cookery programme after all and they’re two a penny these days.”
“Dad!” Judy looked at her father pityingly. “It isn’t only a cookery programme. It’s Dinner for One.”
“It’s only the best cookery programme ever,” agreed Jonathan. “It’s broken all records. It topped over ten million viewers last week. Mind you, it wasn’t on any of the sports pages so you might have missed it.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind a dinner for one myself,” said Mr Brown. “Half the office typing pool left off early today. That’s why I’m late home.”
“Don’t worry, Henry,” said Mrs Brown. “Yours is in the oven keeping hot. Mrs Bird’s just checking to make sure it doesn’t get burnt.”
“I bet I know why they left off early,” said Jonathan, nudging his sister. “The news has reached the City at long last.”
“Ever since they raised the winnings they’ve been sitting up and taking notice,” said Judy. “I’m surprised you haven’t bought a few shares, Dad.”
“Well they must be scraping the barrel a bit if they’ve invited Paddington to be on the programme,” replied Mr Brown defensively. “That’s all I can say.”
“They didn’t invite him,” said Mrs Brown. “That’s the whole point of it. The contestants apply to be on it and Paddington’s application was accepted.”
“You mean he applied?” said Mr Brown.
“He thought he would surprise us,” said Judy. “I think his friend, Mr Gruber, helped him when it came to filling up the form, but it was Paddington’s idea. You know how keen he is on anything new and there are some jolly big prizes to be won.”
“Well, give him his due,” said Mr Brown grudgingly. “Ten out of ten for that. But won’t they be in for a bit of a shock? There can’t be many bears taking part.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” said Jonathan, “and you get all sorts going in for it. They must be used to it by now.”
“The jury stays the same every week,” explained Judy. “And there are six different contestants. After a brief chat with the panel to make them feel at home and say who they are and where they come from, they are each given a sealed box of ingredients.”
“That part of it is pot luck,” broke in Jonathan. “No two boxes are the same.”
“Then they are led off to a cooking area,” continued Judy, “where all the implements they will need to prepare a main course are ready and waiting, and given fifteen minutes to do it in. It’s a real race against time. You wait until you see some of the dishes people come up with. It’s an absolute hoot.”
“In the meantime,” said Mr Brown, “I wouldn’t mind being led off to our cooking area. Mrs Bird must be getting lonely in the kitchen all by herself.”
“Don’t worry, Henry,” said Mrs Brown. “She’ll be out of there like a shot as soon as the programme starts. She won’t want to miss a second of it.”
The words had hardly left her mouth when a fanfare of trumpeters from the Household Cavalry heralded the start of the programme, and as a banner inscribed DINNER FOR ONE fluttered from a mast and filled the screen Mrs Bird materialised.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered to Mrs Brown. “Everything’s on simmer.”
Mr Brown’s murmur of “Sounds like the title of a book,” fell on deaf ears as the opening preamble to the programme came to an end and the picture on the screen changed to reveal a packed studio audience.
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Mr Brown, as to a round of frantic applause an aristocratic figure made his way down the centre aisle and up onto the stage to greet the first of the contestants. “There’s old Percy Rushmore.”
“Sir Percival Rushmoor, spelt with two o’s,” said Mrs Brown.
“There’s a lot of money in cast-offs,” murmured Mr Brown. “Especially if you make friends with the right people. I wonder what became of his barrow?”
“Shh,” hissed Mrs Brown. “Don’t spoil it for the others.”
“That’s Anne Gellica the former TV chef,” said Judy, as there was a further round of applause when the camera zoomed in to a head-and-shoulders shot of an elderly lady wearing a chef’s white toque hat.
“And that’s Ron Keeps, the boxer,” said Jonathan, as the camera panned to yet another figure. “It says in a paper I was reading the other day he has a steak for breakfast every day. Two if he has a fight on his hands the same evening.”
Mr Brown stifled a groan. “Don’t rub it in,” he murmured.
“This is my favourite,” said Judy, as Ron Keeps shook one fist in the air and then stepped aside to reveal the flamboyant figure of Romney Marsh, the famous gourmet and art historian.
“He always judges a dish by its colour,” she said. “Anyone lucky enough to have a bottle of tomato ketchup in their kit is guaranteed another ten points.”
“And that last one was Martin Goodbody QC,” said Jonathan. “He’s a famous lawyer and he’s there to make sure there’s no hanky-panky going on.”
“Hanky-panky?” echoed Mr Brown. “In a cookery programme?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Jonathan. “People trying to smuggle their own food in for starters. That kind of thing …”
“Not much gets past him,” said Judy. “Someone brought an inflatable marrow in the other week and when he gave it a prod it went off with a bang and everything collapsed. The firemen came rushing on and sprayed the remains …”
She broke off as the cameraman zoomed out and to renewed cheers from the audience a familiar figure dressed in a blue duffle coat and crumpled bush hat brought the arrival of the contestants to an end.
Paddington turned to face the audience and for a brief moment or two appeared to be trying to raise his hat, but to no avail. Seeing his predicament the programme’s host came to the rescue.
Hurrying forward, he held out a welcoming hand. “Sir Percival Rushmoor,” he said, “I’m invigilating.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Sir Percival,” said Paddington. “I hope you feel better very soon.”
Amid laughter from the audience he held out a paw. “Paddington Brown, from Darkest Peru.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve come all this way just for a cookery programme,” said Sir Percival. “Amazin’. If you find yourself out ridin’ in the Cotswolds you must pop in and see me in the family home. You’d be most welcome.”
“Thank you very much, Sir Percival,” said Paddington. “I live in Windsor Gardens and it’s on several bus routes. You would be very welcome there, I’m sure.”
“Thanks a heap,” said Mr Brown. “How many people did you say watch this programme?”
“Over ten million at the last count,” said Jonathan.
“Thank goodness Paddington didn’t give him the number of our house,” said Mr Brown. “We’d be besieged by photographers if he had.”
“Er, thank you very much,” said Sir Percival. “I’ll make a note of that. Before we begin, tell me, have you had much culinary experience. If so, what is your favourite dish?”<
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“Mrs Bird lets me have a go sometimes,” said Paddington. “And it’s chocolate cake.”
“How very interesting,” said Sir Percival. “Why is that?”
“It doesn’t show the dirt,” said Paddington.
“Perhaps I won’t come to tea after all,” said Sir Percival, amid renewed laughter. “And on that happy note I suggest we make a start on our own Dinner for One.”
“I think I’ll have mine on a tray if you don’t mind, Mrs Bird,” said Mr Brown as another fanfare of trumpets bellowed from the loudspeaker. “I wouldn’t want to miss anything.”
Judy nudged Jonathan. “What did I tell you?” she whispered. “It’s catching.”
“Glued to the screen if you ask me,” agreed her brother, as the contestants began queuing up to receive their sealed cardboard boxes.
“They are all different,” he explained to his father. “Nobody knows what’s inside them until they’re opened. It’s a case of pot luck.”
“Pot luck’s right,” said Judy. “Most weeks there is usually someone who strikes lucky.”
“Or unlucky,” said Jonathan. “One of the contestants got lumbered with frogs’ legs and custard powder the other week. Can you imagine?”
While they were talking a curtain at the back of the set rose to reveal a row of mini kitchens each complete with a sink, electric grill, and all the basic tools deemed necessary to complete a main course in the shortest possible time. It was truly a test of culinary imagination and any pretence that it was taking place somewhere other than a television studio disappeared as cameras appeared from all directions to take close-ups of the scene.
Some of the kitchens were full of activity from the word go; others were desperately lacking in any kind of movement.
Mrs Bird made haste with Mr Brown’s dinner. “I hope I haven’t missed anything vital,” she said, placing a tray on his lap. “How is he doing?”
“Hard to tell,” replied Mr Brown. “The cameras seem to be giving him a wide berth for some reason or other. They keep moving in to get as close as possible, then make a dash for it. Perhaps they aren’t used to dealing with bears.”
“Paddington’s been giving them some very hard stares,” said Mrs Brown. “They probably want danger money.”
“He seems to be talking to himself a lot,” said Judy. “And he keeps wiping his whiskers. There must be something going on.”
“There had better be,” said Jonathan, looking at the dining-room clock. “He hasn’t got long to go.”
“Time!” said Mr Brown. “The unseen enemy! If you want it to pass quickly, the clock seems to stand still. If you want to prolong the moment, it disappears before you can say the proverbial Jack Robinson. They ought to make this an hour-long programme.”
“It is,” said Mrs Brown.
“Well, two hours then,” said Mr Brown. “What better way to spend an evening?”
“I wish we knew what ingredients Paddington had in his box,” said Mrs Bird.
“Had is the right word,” said Mrs Brown shortly afterwards, when a bell indicated the time was up, and having waved their empty boxes towards the audience the contestants made their way single file towards the judges’ rostrum. And once again Paddington was bringing up the rear. Worse still, whatever it was he had to show for his labours was on a plate covered over by a tea towel.
“Very sensible,” said Mrs Bird approvingly. “He doesn’t want it to get cold.”
“An even better method would have been to make sure he was first in the queue,” said Mr Brown. “My navarin stew was excellent, Mrs Bird, by the way.”
“Stews are what you are going to see from most of the other competitors, if you ask me,” said Judy, as one by one they displayed their efforts and applause from the audience began to show distinct signs of having been pre-recorded as it grew in volume rather than lessened; mostly in tell-tale sharp bursts.
At long last it was Paddington’s turn and everything went deadly quiet.
“Now,” said Sir Percival. “First of all tell us what ingredients you had. Then show us what you did with them.”
“Well,” said Paddington, “I had some chicory. I know it was chicory because we had some only the other day. And I had a big carton of cream, and something big and black wrapped in tissue paper. That was all.”
“So, what did you do with them?” asked Sir Percival.
“I grilled the chicory,” said Paddington. “But only lightly. Mrs Bird doesn’t like me getting too near grills in case I singe my whiskers and they don’t grow back again. Bears need them when they go through narrow doorways, you know.”
“I didn’t know that,” admitted Sir Percival.
“Then I added all the cream and I sliced the black thing that was wrapped in tissue paper and added that too,” continued Paddington. “It had a label saying Tuber melanosporum on the outside and it was very heavy.”
“That wasn’t any old black thing,” said Martin Goodbody. “That was a truffle. It must be your lucky day.”
“He can’t possibly go wrong with ingredients like that, can he?” said Mr Brown. “Good old Paddington!” he shouted at the television screen, while the others exchanged glances.
“I have said it before,” said Mrs Bird, “and at the risk of repeating myself, I’ll say it again, ‘Bears always fall on their feet.’”
“I used it all up,” said Paddington. “Now I feel sick.”
“I expect it’s the perfume,” said Mr Goodbody. “It’s very heady. I can smell it from here.” He licked his lips.
“I can’t wait to taste it,” agreed Anne Gellica.
“I’m afraid there isn’t any left,” said Paddington.
There was a stunned silence.
“What do you mean, bear?” said Sir Percival. “There isn’t any left?”
“I know just what Miss Gellica meant,” said Paddington. “I couldn’t wait to taste it either.”
“Do you mean to say you have eaten all of it?” exclaimed Sir Percival. “But you can’t have.”
“It was quite easy,” said Paddington. “I’ll show you how if you like. All you need is a knife and fork. Mind you, it’s a bit difficult with paws, so I had to use a spoon.”
He removed the napkin and held the plate up for the others to see. “I’ve licked it clean so you can use it again if you want to.
“It doesn’t say anywhere in the instructions you can’t eat it yourself,” he added. “I thought I had better test it. Then I couldn’t stop. It was very moreish.”
Cries of approval interspersed with shouts of “Give him the money!” began rising from the audience.
Sir Percival turned to Martin Goodbody QC for advice.
“That bear has a very valid point of law, I fear,” said Mr Goodbody. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that he has to submit something to the jury for tasting. It stands to reason. I suggest failure to do that renders his entry null and void.”
Paddington thought for a moment, then after another brief struggle with his hat he managed to raise it. “Here’s something I made earlier,” he said.
“What on earth is it?” asked Sir Percival. He gave the shapeless mound on Paddington’s head a poke with his pencil. “Can’t say I’ve come across anything like it before.” He turned to the audience. “Is there a doctor in the house?”
“It’s a marmalade sandwich,” said Paddington.
“A marmalade sandwich?” repeated Sir Percival. “What’s it doin’ on top of your head?” He turned to Martin Goodbody. “How about the ‘no smuggling in of other ingredients’ rule?”
“Smuggling!” exclaimed Paddington hotly. He gave Sir Percival Rushmoor a hard stare. “I’m not a smuggler. I always keep one there in case I have an emergency. I’m afraid I banged my head when I was getting inside your car on the way here and it got squashed. It’s very low, you know!”
“I think that answers your question, Sir Percival,” said Mr Goodbody.
Ignoring a further outburst of shouts from
the audience, the judges went into a huddle.
“Perhaps we could fall back on the beef stew from number three’s entry?” suggested Anne Gellica.
“I wouldn’t mind falling back on a beef stew,” exclaimed Paddington. “Especially if it’s got dumplings in it. If they are anything like Mrs Bird’s they would be lovely and soft.”
“Hold on a moment,” said Sir Percival. Having licked the end of his pencil he reached for a spoon. “The proof of a good dish lies in the eating, and if this is the remains of a marmalade sandwich it tastes exceptionally good. I don’t think we need look any further. I suggest you all have a go.”
Paddington stood his ground while the other judges began delving in before taking it in turns to air their views.
“Heavenly!” said Anne Gellica. “Worth a star or two.”
“Delish!” agreed Romney Marsh.
“Couldn’t be better,” announced Martin Goodbody.
“Fair dinkum,” said Ron Keeps. “Wouldn’t mind taking some back to the old country next time I go.”
“I made it myself,” said Paddington proudly. “I used some of Mrs Bird’s best marmalade. It was the 2014’s. That was a very good year.”
“I wouldn’t mind taking her back to Australia as well,” said Ron Keeps.
Back at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens Mrs Bird went a becoming shade of pink. “Paddington did lend a paw,” she said.
Meanwhile Paddington was addressing his gathering of admirers. “The secret is in the chunks,” he explained. “I make sure there is an equal number of thick and thin ones, so there is something to please everyone. And they all point towards Darkest Peru.”
“So speaks the voice of experience,” said Sir Percival. “I think that says it all,” he added, amid general agreement as he handed Paddington an envelope.
“Don’t spend it all at once,” he advised.
Paddington nearly fell over backwards with surprise when he saw how much he had won.
“I shan’t spend it on myself,” he said. “First of all I would like to buy something nice for all the Browns for taking me in when they did, and then I would like to give the rest to the Home for Retired Bears in Lima. I’m sure they could do with it.”
