by Michael Bond
It was some minutes after he had settled himself underneath the table with the script and a jar of marmalade that he noticed an unusual amount of noise going on at the back of the stage. It seemed to have something to do with Harold Price having mislaid his secret plans. Several times his voice rose above the others saying he couldn’t go on without them because a lot of his most important lines were written on the back. Paddington scrambled out hurriedly in order to investigate the matter but by the time he stood up everything had gone quiet again and order seemed to have been restored as the curtain went up for the second act.
Paddington was looking forward to the second half of Mr Price’s play and even though a lot of people were still creeping around behind the scenes with anxious expressions on their faces he soon forgot about it as Father Christmas made his entrance and approached Miss Flint’s couch in the centre of the stage.
From the little that could be seen of him behind his beard, Father Christmas looked most unhappy as he addressed Miss Flint. “I had hoped to bring thee glad tidings,” he cried, in ringing tones. “But alas, I am undone for I have lost the secret plans!”
“You’ve what?” exclaimed Miss Flint, jumping up from her couch in alarm. Miss Flint had spent the interval in her dressing-room and she was as surprised as anyone to learn that the plans really were missing. “What have you done with them?” she hissed.
“I don’t know,” said Father Christmas in a loud whisper. “I think I must have put them down somewhere.
“Er … nice weather we’ve been having lately,” he continued in a loud voice as he played for time. “Hast thou read any good books lately?”
From his position at the side of the stage Paddington looked even more surprised than Miss Flint at the sudden turn of events. Mr Price had explained the play very carefully to him and he felt sure no mention had been made of any character called Tidings. Then there was the question of the cloak. Father Christmas appeared to be wearing his cloak in exactly the same way that he’d worn it all through the play and yet he’d definitely said something about it having come undone. Paddington consulted his script several times in case he’d made a mistake, but the more he looked at it the more confused he became.
It was as he turned round to the desk in order to play one of his thunder records just to be on the safe side that he received yet another surprise, for there, lying in front of him, was a dog-eared pile of papers with the words SECRET PLANS – PROPERTY OF HAROLD PRICE written in large letters across the front.
Paddington looked at the papers and then back at the stage. A nasty silence seemed to have come over the audience, and even Father Christmas and Miss Flint appeared to have run out of conversation as they stared at each other in embarrassment.
Coming to a decision Paddington picked up the secret plans and hurried on to the stage with a determined expression on his face. After raising his hat several times to the audience he waved in the direction of the Browns and Mr Gruber and then turned towards the couch.
“Odds bodikins!” he cried, giving Father Christmas a hard stare. “I’ve come to do you up.”
“You’ve come to do what?” repeated Father Christmas nervously, as he stood clutching the candle in one hand and the end of the couch in the other.
“I’m afraid I can’t see anything about Glad Tidings in my script,” continued Paddington. “But I’ve found your secret plans.”
Paddington looked very pleased with himself as a burst of applause came from the audience. “Scurvy knave!” he exclaimed, making the most of his big moment. “Gadzooks! You left them under my coconuts!”
“I left them where?” said Father Christmas in a daze, as Paddington held out the plans and he exchanged them for the candle.
“Under my coconuts,” explained Paddington patiently. “I think you must have put them there in the interval.”
“Fancy leaving your plans under a bear’s coconuts,” hissed Miss Flint. “A fine spy you are!”
While Miss Flint was talking a glassy look came over Father Christmas. So much had gone wrong already that evening it didn’t seem possible anything else could happen, but there was definitely a very odd odour coming from somewhere.
“Can you smell something burning?” he asked anxiously.
Miss Flint paused. “Good heavens!” she cried, hurriedly taking the candle away from Paddington. “It’s your beard – it’s on fire!”
“It’s all right, Mr Christmas, I’m coming,” called Paddington as he climbed up on to the couch. “I think I must have held the wick too close by mistake.”
A gasp of surprise went up from the audience as Paddington took hold of the beard and gave it a tug.
“Well I’m blowed,” said a voice near the Browns, as the whiskers came away in Paddington’s paws and revealed the perspiring face of Harold Price. “Fancy that! It was the butler all the time – disguised as Father Christmas!”
“What a clever idea,” said a lady in the row behind. “Having him unmasked by a bear.”
“A most unusual twist,” agreed her companion.
“My play!” groaned Harold Price, collapsing into a chair and fanning himself with the secret plans as the curtain came down. “My masterpiece – ruined by a bear!”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Miss Flint, coming to Paddington’s rescue. “It wasn’t Mr Brown’s fault. If you hadn’t lost the plans in the first place all this would never have happened. Anyway,” she concluded, “the audience seem to like it – just listen to them.”
Mr Price sat up. Now that Miss Flint mentioned it there did seem to be a lot of applause coming from the other side of the curtain. Several people were shouting “Author” and someone even appeared to be making a speech.
“I feel,” said the judge, as they joined him on the stage, “we must congratulate Harold Price on his pantomime. It was undoubtedly the funniest play of the week.”
“The funniest,” began Mr Price. “But it wasn’t meant to be funny …”
The judge silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Not only was it the funniest, but it had the most unusual ending I’ve seen for many a day. That serf bear,” he said, as he consulted a piece of paper in his hand, “his name doesn’t seem to appear on the programme – but he played his part magnificently. Remarkable timing – the way he set light to your beard. One false move with his paw and the whole lot might have gone up in flames!
“I have no hesitation,” he concluded, amid a long burst of applause from the audience, “in awarding the prize for the best play of the festival to Mr Harold Price.”
Harold Price looked rather confused as the applause died away and someone called out “Speech”.
“It’s very kind of you all,” he said, “and I’m most grateful. But I think I ought to mention that although I wrote the play, young Mr Brown here had quite a large paw in the way it ended.
“I shouldn’t be standing here now if it wasn’t for him,” he added, as he turned to Paddington amid another outburst of clapping, “and I wouldn’t like to think he’d gone unrecognized.”
“How kind of Mr Price to give Paddington some of the credit,” said Mrs Brown later that evening as they made their way home through the snow. “I wonder what he meant when he said Paddington had a paw in the ending?”
“Knowing Paddington’s paws,” said Mrs Bird, “I shudder to think.”
Mr Gruber and the Browns looked back at Paddington in the hope of getting some kind of an explanation but his head was buried deep in his duffle coat and he was much too busy picking his way in and out of their footprints to hear what was being said.
Paddington liked snow, but while they’d been in the theatre rather too much had fallen for his liking and he was looking forward to warming his paws in front of the fire at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens.
Apart from that, the sight of a Christmas tree in someone’s window had just reminded him of the date and he was anxious to get home as quickly as possible so that he could hang up his stocking.
Th
ere were still several more days to go before the holiday but after watching Mr Price’s play that evening Paddington didn’t want to take any chances, particularly over such an important matter as Father Christmas.
Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Paddington stood on the front doorstep of number thirty-two Windsor Gardens and sniffed the morning air. He peered out through the gap between his duffle coat hood and a brightly coloured scarf which was wound tightly about his neck.
On the little that could be seen of his face behind some unusually white-looking whiskers there was a mixture of surprise and excitement as he took in the sight which met his eyes.
Overnight a great change had come over the weather. Whereas the day before had been mild, almost spring-like for early January, now everything was covered by a thick white blanket of snow which reached almost to the top of his Wellington boots.
Not a sound disturbed the morning air. Apart from the clatter of breakfast things in the kitchen, where Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird were busy washing up, the only sign that he wasn’t alone in the world came from a row of milk bottle tops poking through the snow on the step and a long trail of footprints where the postman had been earlier that day.
Paddington liked snow, but as he gazed at the view in the street outside he almost agreed with Mrs Bird, the Browns’ housekeeper, that it was possible to have too much of a good thing. Since he’d been living with the Brown family there had been several of Mrs Bird’s ‘cold snaps’, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing one before in which the snow had settled quite so deep and crisp and evenly.
All the same, Paddington wasn’t the sort of bear to waste a good opportunity and a moment or so later he closed the door behind him and made his way down the side of the house as quickly as he could in order to investigate the matter. Apart from the prospect of playing snowballs he was particularly anxious to test his new Wellingtons which had been standing in his bedroom waiting for just such a moment ever since Mrs Brown had given them to him at Christmas.
After he reached Mr Brown’s cabbage patch Paddington busied himself scooping the snow up with his paws and rolling it into firm round balls which he threw at the clothes post. But after several of the larger ones narrowly missed hitting the next-door greenhouse instead, he hastily turned his attention to the more important task of building a snowman and gradually peace returned once again to Windsor Gardens.
It was some while later, just as he was adding the finishing touches to the snowman’s head with some old lemonade bottle tops, that the quiet was suddenly shattered by the sound of a nearby window being flung open.
“Bear!” came a loud voice. “Is that you, bear?”
Paddington jumped in alarm as he lifted his duffle coat hood and caught sight of the Browns’ next-door neighbour leaning out of his bedroom window. Mr Curry was dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown, and half of his face seemed to be hidden behind a large white handkerchief.
“I’ve finished throwing snowballs, Mr Curry,” explained Paddington hastily. “I’m making a snowman instead.”
To his surprise Mr Curry looked unusually friendly as he lifted the handkerchief from his face. “That’s all right, bear,” he called in a mild tone of voice. “I wasn’t grumbling. I just wondered if you would care to do me a small favour and earn yourself ten pence bun money into the bargain.
“I’ve caught a nasty cold in my dose,” he continued, as Paddington climbed up on a box and peered over the fence.
“A cold in your dose, Mr Curry,” repeated Paddington, looking most surprised. He had never heard of anyone having a cold in their dose before and he stared up at the window with interest.
Mr Curry took a deep breath. “Not dose,” he said, swallowing hard and making a great effort. “Dnose. And as if that isn’t enough, my system is frozen.”
Paddington became more and more upset as he listened to Mr Curry and he nearly fell off his box with alarm at the last piece of information. “Your system’s frozen!” he exclaimed. “I’ll ask Mrs Bird to send for Doctor MacAndrew.”
Mr Curry snorted. “I don’t want a doctor, bear,” he said crossly. “I want a plumber. It’s not my own pipes that are frozen. It’s the water pipes. There isn’t even enough left in the tank to fill my hot-water bottle.”
Paddington looked slightly disappointed as a heavy object wrapped in a piece of paper landed at his feet.
“That’s my front door key,” explained Mr Curry. “I want you to take it along to Mr James, the odd-jobman. Tell him he’s to come at once. I shall be in bed but he can let himself in. And tell him not to make too much noise – I may be asleep. And no hanging about the bun shop on the way otherwise you won’t get your ten pence.”
With that Mr Curry blew his nose violently several times and slammed his window shut.
Mr Curry was well known in the neighbourhood for his meanness. He had a habit of promising people a reward for running errands but somehow whenever the time for payment arrived he was never to be found. Paddington had a nasty feeling in the back of his mind that this was going to be one of those occasions and he stood staring up at the empty window for some moments before he turned and made his way slowly in the direction of Mr James’s house.
“Curry!” exclaimed Mr James, as he stood in his doorway and stared down at Paddington. “Did you say Curry?”
“That’s right, Mr James,” said Paddington, raising his duffle coat hood politely. “His system’s frozen and he can’t even fill his hot-water bottle.”
“Hard luck,” said the odd-jobman unsympathetically. “I’m having enough trouble with me own pipes this morning let alone that there Mr Curry’s. Besides, I know him and his little jobs. He hasn’t paid me yet for the last one I did – and that was six months ago. Tell him from me, I want to see the colour of his money before I do anything else and even then I’ll have to think twice.”
Paddington looked most disappointed as he listened to Mr James. From the little he could remember of Mr Curry’s money it was usually a very dirty colour as if it had been kept under lock and key for a long time, and he felt sure Mr James would be even less keen on doing any jobs if he saw it.
“Tell you what,” said the odd-jobman, relenting slightly as he caught sight of the expression on Paddington’s face. “Hang on a tick. Seeing you’ve come a long way in the snow I’ll see what I can do to oblige.”
Mr James disappeared from view only to return a moment later carrying a large brown paper parcel. “I’m lending Mr Curry a blowlamp,” he explained. “And I’ve slipped in a book on plumbing as well. He might find a few tips in it if he gets stuck.”
“A blowlamp!” exclaimed Paddington, his eyes growing larger and larger. “I don’t think he’ll like that very much.”
“You can take it or leave it,” said Mr James. “It’s all the same to me. But if you want my advice, bear, you’ll take it. This weather’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better.”
So saying, Mr James bade a final good morning and closed his door firmly, leaving Paddington standing on the step with a very worried expression on his face as he stared down at the parcel in his paws.
Mr Curry didn’t have a very good temper at the best of times and the thought of waking him in order to hand over a blowlamp or even a book on plumbing, especially when he had a bad cold, filled him with alarm.
Paddington’s face grew longer and longer the more he thought about it but by the time he turned to make his way back to Windsor Gardens his whiskers were so well covered by flakes that only the closest passer-by would have noticed anything amiss.
Mrs Brown paused in her housework as a small figure hurried past the kitchen window. “I suppose,” she said with a sigh, “we can look forward to paw prints all over the house for the next few days.”
“If this weather
keeps on, that bear’ll have to watch more than his paws,” said Mrs Bird as she joined her. “He’ll have to mind his p’s and q’s as well.”
The Browns’ housekeeper held very strict views on the subject of dirty floors, particularly when they were the result of bears’ ‘goings on’ in the snow, and she followed Paddington’s progress into Mr Brown’s garage with a disapproving look.
“I think he must be helping out next door,” said Mrs Brown as Paddington came into view again clutching something beneath his duffle coat. “It sounds as if Mr Curry’s having trouble with his pipes.”
“I hope that’s all he’s having trouble with,” said Mrs Bird. “There’s been far too much hurrying about this morning for my liking.”
Mrs Bird was never very happy when Paddington helped out, and several times she’d caught sight of him going past the kitchen window with what looked suspiciously like pieces of old piping sticking out of his duffle coat.
Even as she spoke a renewed burst of hammering came from the direction of Mr Curry’s bathroom and echoed round the space between the two houses. First there were one or two bangs, then a whole series which grew louder and louder, finally ending in a loud crash and a period of silence broken only by the steady hiss of a blowlamp.
“If it sounds like that in here,” said Mrs Brown, “goodness only knows what it must be like next door.”
“It isn’t what it sounds like,” replied Mrs Bird grimly, “it’s what it looks like that worries me.”
The Browns’ housekeeper left the window and began busying herself at the stove. Mrs Bird was a great believer in letting people get on with their own work, and the activities of Mr Curry’s plumber were no concern of hers. All the same, had she waited a moment longer she might have changed her views on the matter, for at that moment the window of Mr Curry’s bathroom opened and a familiar-looking hat followed by some equally familiar whiskers came into view.
