by Michael Bond
“Perhaps we could say we’re collecting for next Christmas,” said Paddington hopefully.
It had been Paddington’s idea to collect some money for the annual children’s party at the hospital and he was beginning to feel a bit guilty about the whole affair, especially as they’d set themselves a target of twenty pounds.
Judy squeezed his paw. “I don’t think they’d be very pleased if we said that,” she confided. “Never mind. We’ll think of something. We mustn’t give up now.”
“Suppose we all separate,” said Jonathan thoughtfully. “If we do that we ought to collect three times as much.”
“We needn’t go far away,” he added, reading Judy’s thoughts. “In fact, we needn’t really lose sight of each other. Paddington can have the torch – then he can signal if he wants anything.”
“All right,” said Judy reluctantly. She glanced at the surrounding houses. “I’ll take that one on the corner.”
“Bags I have a go at the one over there with the Christmas tree in the window,” exclaimed Jonathan. “Which one are you going to do, Paddington?”
Paddington considered the matter for a moment as he peered round at all the houses. “I think I’d like to try that one over there,” he announced, pointing towards an imposing-looking house standing slightly apart from the rest, and from which there came the distinct sounds of a party in full swing.
“Come on, then,” exclaimed Jonathan impatiently. “We shan’t get anywhere if we don’t make a start. We’ll meet back here in half an hour.”
“Don’t forget,” called Judy. “If you get into any trouble signal with the torch.”
“Send an S.O.S.,” shouted Jonathan. “Three short flashes, then three long ones and three short ones to follow.”
After testing his torch carefully in order to make sure it was working, Paddington hurried up the path towards the front door of the house he’d chosen, cleared his throat several times, and then knocked loudly on the front door. He wasn’t the sort of bear who believed in taking too many chances and with so much noise going on inside the house he didn’t want to knock after he’d sung his carol and then find no one had heard him.
He opened his mouth and was about to launch forth into Hark the Herald Angels Sing when to his surprise the door suddenly opened and a lady stood framed in the light from the hall.
“Thank goodness you’ve come,” she exclaimed. “I was beginning to get quite worried. I’m Mrs Smith-Cholmley,” she added, as she opened the door wider and motioned Paddington to enter.
Paddington raised his hat politely as he stepped into the hall. “Thank you very much,” he exclaimed. “I’m Paddington Brown.”
For some reason the welcoming expression on Mrs Smith-Cholmley’s face began to fade. “Have you done much waiting?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” said Paddington, looking round with interest. “I’ve only just got here.”
“I mean have you had any previous experience of waiting?” said Mrs Smith-Cholmley impatiently.
Paddington considered the matter for a moment. “I had to wait for a bus the other day when Mrs Bird took me out shopping,” he said thoughtfully.
Mrs Smith-Cholmley gave a rather high-pitched laugh. “Mr Bridges at the agency said waiters were a bit short this year,” she remarked, looking down at Paddington, “but I didn’t think he meant… I mean… I thought he meant they were a job to get… that is…” Her voice trailed away.
“Oh, well, at least they’ve sent someone,” she continued brightly, avoiding Paddington’s gaze. “We’re having a little dinner-party and it’s long past time to serve the first course. You’d better go straight to the kitchen and see Vladimir. He’s beside himself.”
“Vladimir’s beside himself!” exclaimed Paddington, looking most surprised.
“He’s the chef,” explained Mrs Smith-Cholmley. “And if he doesn’t get some help soon I’m sure he’ll do something nasty with his chopper. He was looking very gloomy the last time I saw him.” She glanced down at Paddington’s paw. “Let me take your torch. I’m sure you won’t want that.”
“I think I’ll keep it if you don’t mind,” said Paddington firmly. “I may want to send some signals.”
“Just as you wish,” said Mrs Smith-Cholmley, giving him a strange look. She led the way down a long corridor and then paused before a door at the end as she opened her handbag. “Here’s your ten pounds.”
“My ten pounds!” Paddington’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he stared at the crisp new note in his paw.
“That’s what I usually pay,” said Mrs Smith-Cholmley. “But I’d like you to start straight away.”
“Thank you very much,” said Paddington, still hardly able to believe his good fortune. Ten pounds seemed a great deal of money to pay for a carol even if it was nearly Christmas and he hastily put the note into the secret compartment of his suitcase in case Mrs Smith-Cholmley changed her mind when she discovered he only knew one verse.
As Paddington stood up, opened his mouth, and the first few notes of Hark the Herald Angels Sing rang through the hall the colour seemed to drain from Mrs Smith-Cholmley’s face. “That’s all I need,” she cried, putting her hands to her ears. “A singing waiter!”
Paddington broke off in the middle of his opening chorus. “A singing waiter!” he repeated, looking most upset. “I’m not a singer – I’m a bear.”
Mrs Smith-Cholmley gave a shudder. “I can tell that,” she said, opening the kitchen door. “And I shall certainly have something to say to Mr Bridges about it in the morning. In the meantime you’d better start earning your money. Everyone’s absolutely ravenous.”
Without waiting for a reply she pushed Paddington through the door and hastily closed it behind him.
“Hah!”
Paddington jumped as a figure in white overalls and a tall white hat rose from behind a pile of saucepans and advanced towards him. “So! You have come at last. Quick… off viz your duffle coat and out viz your arms.”
Paddington stood blinking in the strong white light of the kitchen, hardly able to believe his eyes let alone his ears. In fact he was so taken aback at the sudden strange turn of events that before he knew what was happening he found his duffle coat had been removed and he was standing with his arms outstretched while the man in white overalls balanced a row of bowls on each of them.
“Quick! Quick!” shouted Vladimir, snapping his fingers. “Get cracking viz your mulligatawnies.”
“Get cracking with my mulligatawnies!” repeated Paddington carefully, finding his voice at last but hardly daring to breathe in case any of the bowls overbalanced.
“Zee soup,” said Vladimir impatiently. “It is getting cold and on such short arms it is difficult to balance so much.”
Paddington blinked several times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming and then closed his eyes in order to count up to ten but before he had time to reach even two he found himself being bundled back out of the kitchen and when he opened them again he was standing outside yet another door behind which could be heard the chatter of voices.
“Quick,” hissed Vladimir, giving Paddington a firm push. “In here.”
A buzz of excitement broke out in the room as Paddington entered, and several of the guests applauded.
“What a delightful idea, Mabel,” said one lady. “Having a bear for a waiter. Trust you to think up something unusual.”
Mrs Smith-Cholmley gave a sickly smile. “Oh, it wasn’t really my idea,” she said truthfully. “It’s just happened. But it makes a nice change.”
She eyed Paddington warily as he arrived at the table with his load of bowls, but to her relief, apart from the fact that he was breathing rather heavily down the neck of one of her guests who happened to be in the way, there was little she could find fault with.
“I think we’d better give you a hand,” she said hastily, when nothing happened. “We don’t want any nasty accidents.”
“Thank you very much,” said Paddington grateful
ly as one by one the various diners relieved him of his burden. “It’s a bit difficult with paws.”
“Talking of paws,” said the man Paddington had been standing behind, “you’ve got one of yours in my soup.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Paddington politely. “It isn’t very hot.”
The man eyed the bowl distastefully. “May I give you a tip?” he asked.
“Oh, yes please,” said Paddington eagerly. Now that he was getting used to the idea of being a waiter he was beginning to enjoy himself and after giving his paw a hasty lick in order to remove some soup which had accidentally overflowed he held it out hopefully.
“Don’t carry quite so much next time,” said the man sternly, as he helped himself to a roll, “then it won’t happen.”
Mrs Smith-Cholmley gave a nervous giggle as she caught sight of the expression on Paddington’s face. “I think I should see how Vladimir’s getting on with the next course,” she called out hastily.
Paddington gave the man with the roll one final, long hard stare and then, after collecting several empty soup dishes, he made his way towards the door. The carol singing, not to mention the waiting, had made him feel more than usually hungry and Mrs Smith-Cholmley’s words reminded him of the fact that during his brief spell in the kitchen he’d noticed some very interesting smells coming from beneath the lids of Vladimir’s saucepans.
Although he still wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, Paddington didn’t want to run the risk of it all coming to an end before he’d had time to investigate the matter. What with one thing and another serving the first course had taken rather longer than he’d expected and he hurried back down the corridor as fast as his legs would carry him.
To his surprise, when he got back to the kitchen Vladimir was no longer dressed in white. His chef’s hat was lying in a crumpled ball in the middle of the floor and Vladimir himself was standing by the back door clad in a black overcoat and muffler.
“I may go back to Poland,” he announced gloomily when he caught sight of Paddington.
“Oh dear,” said Paddington. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”
“Everything is wrong,” said Vladimir. He thumped his chest. “I, Vladimir, I who have cooked for ze crowned ’eads of Europe. I, who have ’ad princes wait while I add ze final touches to my creations. I, Vladimir, am reduced to zis. Waiting… all ze time I am kept waiting.” He waved his hand disconsolately in the air. “My soup, she is cold. My entrecots, zey are cold…”
“Your entrecots are cold!” repeated Paddington, looking most upset.
Vladimir nodded. “My beautiful steak – ruined!” He pointed towards a grill laden with slowly congealing pieces of meat which stood on a nearby table.
“I ’ad to take them from the stove or they would ’ave been burned to a cinder.” He reached out and clasped Paddington’s paw. “They are yours, my friend. In the saucepans you will find the vegetables. You may serve it as you think fit. I, Vladimir, no longer care. Goodbye, my friend… and good luck!”
Worn out by his long speech, Vladimir paused by the back door, waved his hand dramatically in the air, and then disappeared from view, leaving Paddington rooted to the spot in astonishment.
But if Paddington was upset by the sight of Vladimir’s sudden departure, Mrs Smith-Cholmley looked even more upset when, some while later, she caught sight of her steak.
By the time he’d got around to serving all the various vegetables and carried all the plates into the dining-room things had gone from bad to worse. Even putting some of the pieces of steak in an electric toaster hadn’t helped matters, particularly as several of them had popped out and fallen on the floor before he’d had a chance to catch them.
Looking at his offering Paddington had to admit that he didn’t really fancy it much himself and he felt pleased he’d taken time off to have his own snack before serving the others.
“If there’s anything wrong with the Baked Alaska,” hissed Mrs Smith-Cholmley, endeavouring to glare at Paddington with one half of her face and smile at her guests with the other, “I shall insist on Vladimir giving me my money back.
“Baked Alaska,” she repeated through her teeth as she saw the look of surprise on Paddington’s face. “It’s a special surprise for my guests and I want it to be absolutely perfect.”
If Paddington’s spirits sank as he made his way slowly back down the corridor towards the kitchen they fell still more during the next few minutes as he peered hopefully at first one cookery book and then another.
Although Mrs Smith-Cholmley had only spoken of asking the chef for his money back he had a nasty feeling that when it came down to it and she found Vladimir had disappeared, his own ten pounds might not be too safe.
Mrs Smith-Cholmley had a large collection of cookery books from many different parts of the world, but not one of them so much as mentioned the dish he was looking for.
It was as he closed the last of the books that Paddington caught sight of a nearby low hanging shelf which he hadn’t noticed before and as he did so he gave a sudden start. For there, right in front of his eyes, was a row of tins one of which was labelled with the very words he’d been looking for.
Hardly daring to close his eyes in case the tin disappeared Paddington spent the next few minutes hastily making his preparations. First he turned the knob over the oven to read ‘high’, then he looked around for a suitable dish. After carefully checking the thermometer in order to make sure the oven was hot enough he emptied the contents of the tin into the dish and placed it inside the cooker.
Normally the only thing Paddington had against cooking was the amount of time it took for anything to happen, but on this occasion he hadn’t long to wait. In fact, he’d hardly had time to settle down on his suitcase and make himself comfortable before several whiffs of black smoke rose from the cooker and the pleased expression on his face was rapidly replaced by a look of alarm as a most unappetising smell began to fill the kitchen.
Hurrying across the room he tore open the oven door only to stagger back as a cloud of thick, black smoke poured out.
Holding his nose with one paw he picked up his torch with the other and peered mournfully at the contents of the baking dish as it sizzled and bubbled inside the oven.
Paddington was a hopeful bear at heart, but although Mrs Smith-Cholmley had definitely said she wanted to surprise her guests, he couldn’t help feeling as he trundled a trolley laden with portions of his sweet down the corridor some while later that his efforts might prove rather more than she’d bargained for.
Giving vent to a deep sigh he took a firm grip of his torch as he tapped on the dining-room door. Jonathan had told him to send out a distress signal if he was in trouble and he had a nasty idea in the back of his mind that the moment to take his advice was not too far away.
Mr Brown stared at Paddington as if he could hardly believe his eyes. “Do you mean to say,” he exclaimed, “that you actually served this Mrs Smith-Cholmley baked elastic?”
Paddington nodded unhappily. “I found some rubber bands in a tin, Mr Brown,” he explained.
“He didn’t realise Mrs Smith-Cholmley said ‘Baked Alaska’,” said Judy. “That’s a sort of ice cream dish cooked in the oven.”
“It was just after that he sent out his S.O.S.,” added Jonathan.
“I’m not surprised,” exclaimed Mrs Bird. “It’s a wonder some of the guests didn’t send one as well.”
“They were jolly nice about it all,” said Judy. “When the real waiter turned up and they discovered Paddington had really only come to sing a carol they made us all stay.”
“He’d met Vladimir on the way too,” added Jonathan.
“Vladimir?” echoed Mr Brown. He was rapidly losing track of the conversation. “Who’s Vladimir?”
“The chef,” explained Judy. “When he discovered the mistake he came back after all and he made some real Baked Alaska so everyone was happy.”
“We sang some carols afterwards,” said Jonatha
n. “And we collected over five pounds. That means we’ve nearly reached our target.”
Judy gave a sigh. “The Baked Alaska was super,” she said dreamily. “I could eat some more.”
“So could I,” agreed Jonathan.
Paddington licked his lips. “I expect I could make you some if you like, Mr Brown,” he exclaimed.
“Not in my kitchen,” said Mrs Bird sternly. “I’m not having any young bear’s elastic baked in my oven!”
She paused at the door. “Mind you,” she added casually, “as it happens, we were having some ice cream for supper…”
“I must say it sounds rather nice,” said Mrs Brown.
Mr Brown stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “I could toy with some myself,” he agreed. “How about you, Paddington?”
Paddington considered the matter for a moment. If one thing stood out above all others in his mind from the evening’s adventure it was the memory of Vladimir’s Baked Alaska and he felt sure that an Alaska baked by Mrs Bird would be nicer still.
The Browns’ housekeeper looked unusually pink about the ears as she raised her hands at the noisy approval which greeted Paddington as he gave voice to his thoughts.
“Compliments are always nice,” she said. “Especially genuine ones.
“But if you ask me,” she continued, pausing at the door, “bears’ compliments are the nicest ones of all and they certainly deserve the biggest helpings!”
MR BROWN LOWERED his evening paper and looked around the room at the rest of the family. “Do you realise something?” he said. “It’s nearly Christmas and we haven’t been up to town to see the decorations yet!”
Paddington pricked up his ears at Mr Brown’s words. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to see them, Mr Brown,” he said. “Not the Christmas ones.”
The Browns stopped what they were doing and stared at him in wide-eyed amazement. Paddington had been with them for so long, and was so much a part of their lives, they’d somehow taken it for granted that he’d seen the Christmas decorations at some time or another and it didn’t seem possible for such an important matter to have been overlooked.
