by Michael Bond
As he placed one of Paddington’s everlasting toffees into his mouth, Mr Leach’s voice trailed away and for the second time that morning his face took on a glazed expression.
“Grrrrrr,” he gurgled, pointing to his mouth. “Glug!”
Paddington peered at him with interest. “I hope you haven’t fractured one of your cusps now, Mr Leach,” he said anxiously.
Mr Leach glared at him for a moment and then staggered back into his surgery, clutching his jaw. Far from being fractured, his cusps gave the impression they were cemented together for all time, and the look on his face as he slammed the door boded ill for the next patient on his list that morning.
Paddington looked most upset. “I only thought he would like one to be going on with,” he exclaimed.
“Going on with is right,” said Mrs Bird grimly, as a series of muffled exclamations reached their ears. “By the sound of things it’ll be going on until this time next week.”
She held out her hand. “I know something else that’s due to be disposed of just as soon as we get home. We’ve had quite enough bear’s everlasting toffee for one day.”
Judy squeezed Paddington’s paw as they climbed into a taxi to take them home. “Never mind,” she whispered. “There can’t be too many bears who are able to say they’re having a gold tooth made for them.”
“I’ll tell you something else,” said Mrs Brown. “It’ll make you even more valuable than you are at the moment. While you have a gold tooth in your head you’ll never be completely without – whatever happens.”
Paddington digested this latest piece of information for a moment or two as he settled back in his seat. So much had happened that morning he felt he’d have a job to remember it all let alone put it down on a postcard when he next wrote to his Aunt Lucy in Peru. But all in all he was beginning to feel rather pleased at the way things had turned out and he felt sure she would be equally delighted by the news.
Mrs Bird glanced across at him with the suspicion of a twinkle in her eye. “If this morning’s events are anything to go by,” she said, “it strikes me that a tooth in the sink is worth two under the pillow any day of the week.”
Paddington nodded his agreement. “I think,” he announced at last, amid sighs of relief, “I’ll always have my old teeth disposed of in future.”
MRS BIRD HELD a large square of chequered cloth up to the light and examined it with an expert eye. “I must say, Paddington’s made a first-class job of it,” she declared approvingly.
“I’ve seen worse in some shops,” agreed Mrs Brown. “What is it?”
“I think he said it’s a tablecloth,” replied Mrs Bird. “But whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll come in very handy.”
Mrs Brown glanced up at the ceiling as a steady rhythmic clanking came from somewhere overhead. “At least we can leave him on his own for the day without worrying too much,” she said thankfully. “We may as well make the most of it. At the rate he’s going, that sewing machine won’t last much longer.”
Mrs Brown was never too happy about leaving Paddington on his own for too long. Things had a habit of going wrong – especially on days when he was at a loose end – but with Jonathan and Judy back at school after the Easter holiday it couldn’t always be avoided. It happened to be one of those days and she was most relieved to know he was occupied.
Paddington’s interest in sewing had been something of a nine-day wonder in the Brown household. It all came about when he lost his fifty pence a week bun money down a drain one morning as he was on his way to the baker’s to pick up his standing order.
The coin had slipped through a hole in one of his duffle coat pockets, and even the combined efforts of several passing dustmen and a road sweeper had failed to locate it.
Although Mr Brown took pity on him and replaced the money, Paddington had been upset for several days afterwards. He still felt he was going to be fifty pence short for the rest of his life and when some men arrived a few days later to swill out the drains, he gave them some very hard stares indeed.
It was Mr Gruber who finally took his mind off the matter. Mr Gruber kept an antique shop in the nearby Portobello Market and over the years he and Paddington had become firm friends. In fact, most mornings they shared some buns and a cup of cocoa for their elevenses.
One morning, shortly after his loss, Paddington arrived at the shop only to find a mysterious cloth-covered object standing on a table just inside the door.
At Mr Gruber’s bidding he lifted the cloth, and then nearly fell over backwards with surprise, for there, lo and behold, was a sewing machine. And even more exciting, on the side there was a label – with his name on it!
Mr Gruber waved Paddington’s thanks to one side. “We don’t want another day like ‘the one we don’t talk about’ in a hurry, Mr Brown,” he said, referring to ‘bunless’ Friday as they’d come to know it.
“I’m afraid it’s rather an old one,” he continued, as Paddington examined the machine with interest. “It came in a job lot I bought at a sale many years ago and it’s been lying under a chair at the back of my shop ever since. But there’s a book of instructions and it may do a turn if you want to go over some of your old seams.”
Paddington didn’t know what to say. Although Mrs Bird had unpicked the join on his duffle coat pocket and inserted a double-strength calico lining to make doubly sure for the future, he didn’t want to take any more chances and after thanking Mr Gruber very much, he hurried home with the present safely tucked away in his shopping basket on wheels.
Paddington had often watched Mrs Bird in action with her machine, and once she’d even let him turn the handle, but never in his wildest dreams had he pictured actually owning one himself.
Threading the needle by paw had been his biggest problem and the first time it had taken him the best part of a day, but once the cotton was safely through the eye of the needle there was no holding him and soon the steady clickety-clack of the machine had begun to echo round the house.
At first he’d contented himself with joining together some old bits of cloth Mrs Bird had found in her sewing box, but when these ran out he turned his attention to more ambitious things and really and truly he’d been most useful. A new tea towel for Mrs Bird; a set of curtains for Judy’s doll’s house; a bag for Jonathan’s cricket bat, and a smaller one for Mr Brown’s pipe; now the tablecloth – there seemed no end to his activities.
“Just so long as he doesn’t do anything nasty to his new eiderdown,” said Mrs Bird, as they went upstairs to give Paddington his instructions for lunch. “I don’t want to come back and find it turned into a tea cosy.”
Although the Browns’ housekeeper was as pleased as anyone over Paddington’s new-found industry, she didn’t entirely share Mrs Brown’s optimism about leaving him alone for the day.
Nevertheless, even Mrs Bird gave a nod of approval as they entered his room and she caught sight of a pile of old handkerchiefs he was busy repairing.
“That reminds me,” said Mrs Brown as they said goodbye, “the laundry man is due this morning. I’ve put the things by the front door. Mr Curry might call in later – he’s got a pair of trousers he wants altered.”
Mrs Bird gave a snort. “I shouldn’t worry too much about that,” she said meaningly. “It’s only because there’s a special offer of one pound off this week if repairs go with the laundry. If he’s so mean he can’t send any washing of his own then it’s too bad.”
There was little love lost between Mrs Bird and the Browns’ next-door neighbour. Mr Curry had a reputation not only for his meanness but for the way he seized every opportunity to take advantage of others, and the latest example lasted Mrs Bird as a topic of conversation all the way to the bus stop.
It seemed just a matter of seconds after the front door closed behind them that another loud bang sent Paddington hurrying downstairs only to find Mr Curry waiting impatiently on the front step.
“Good morning, bear,” he said gruffly. “I’d like you to
put these with your laundry.
“I want two inches off the waist,” he continued, handing over a pair of grey flannel trousers, “no more, and certainly no less. The instructions are all on a sheet of paper in one of the pockets. I lost a lot of weight when I was in hospital last year and I’ve never put it on again. All my clothes are the same.”
“Oh dear, Mr Curry,” said Paddington. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
In saying he was sorry to hear about Mr Curry’s loss of weight, Paddington was speaking the truth, for ever since the unfortunate incident on the golf course when he’d stepped on a marmalade sandwich and ended up in hospital, the Browns’ neighbour had let no opportunity of mentioning the matter go by.
But to Paddington’s relief, for once Mr Curry seemed to have his mind on other things. “I want you to make sure they go in your name,” he said. “It’s most important. They’re doing waistbands for one pound this week and it’s the last day of the offer.”
A thoughtful expression came over Paddington’s face as he took the trousers from Mr Curry. “I know someone who would do it for fifty pence,” he said hopefully. “And give it back to you today!”
“Fifty pence?” repeated Mr Curry. “It seems remarkably cheap. Are you sure they’ll do them in a day?”
Paddington nodded. “It isn’t a they, Mr Curry,” he confided. “It’s a he.”
“Is this person completely reliable, bear?” asked Mr Curry suspiciously. “I can hardly believe it.”
“Oh yes,” said Paddington confidently. “I’ve known him all my life. He lost his bun money down a drain the other day and now he’s trying to make up for it.”
Fortunately Paddington’s last words were lost on Mr Curry, who seemed to be busy with his own thoughts. He hesitated for a moment and then came to a decision. “Wait there, bear,” he said, turning to go. “This is too good an opportunity to miss.”
The Browns’ neighbour was gone for several minutes and while he was away the man arrived to collect the weekly wash. Paddington hesitated over the trousers. Although the idea of doing them himself had seemed a very good one at the time, now that he’d taken a closer look he was beginning to have second thoughts on the matter, and he was about to chase after the van when he caught sight of Mr Curry glaring at him through his bedroom window and hurriedly changed his mind again.
A few moments later, the Browns’ neighbour emerged from his front door and headed back towards number thirty-two. To Paddington’s surprise he was wearing a dressing gown and carrying a large brown paper parcel in his arms.
“I’ve decided to go the whole hog, bear,” he announced, as he came up the path. “If this person’s as good as you say he is it’ll be well worth while.”
Paddington’s face grew longer and longer as Mr Curry unwrapped his parcel and revealed not one pair of trousers, but a great pile. In fact, outside of a shop, Paddington couldn’t remember ever having seen quite so many pairs of trousers before.
“I’m having the whole lot done,” explained Mr Curry. “Including,” he added ominously, “the ones from my best suit.”
“You wouldn’t like to keep a pair in case of an emergency would you, Mr Curry?” asked Paddington anxiously.
“An emergency?” barked Mr Curry, catching sight of the look on Paddington’s face. “I don’t like the sound of that, bear! Are you sure this person will do a good job? If not I’d rather send them with your laundry.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late now, Mr Curry,” said Paddington unhappily. “It’s gone!”
Mr Curry looked at Paddington sternly. “In that case,” he warned, “I shall hold you personally responsible for the safety of my trousers from now on. And I shall look forward to their prompt return. I can’t go out until they come back, so woe betide you if anything goes wrong.
“I may give you fifty pence for going,” he added, as Paddington held out his paw hopefully. “It all depends. But I’m certainly not paying the full amount until I see some results.”
With that, the Browns’ neighbour turned on his heels and disappeared in the direction of his house leaving Paddington with a very woebegone expression on his face indeed. For some reason which he could never quite fathom, things always got out of hand when Mr Curry was around and he was apt to find himself agreeing to do things before he knew what they actually were.
Heaving a deep sigh Paddington gathered up Mr Curry’s parcel and made his way back upstairs in order to consult the instruction book.
Up to now he’d concentrated on the mechanical side of the booklet, which explained the workings of the various parts, but towards the back there were several chapters devoted to what one could do with the needle once it was threaded, and it was to this section that he turned when he’d settled down.
But in the event it proved rather disappointing. As far as he could make out, when the machine was first made, very few people seemed to wear trousers, or if they did they were so well made they were seldom in need of repair. Most of the illustrations dealt with some very odd situations indeed. There was a picture of a lady who’d caught her dress on a penny-farthing cycle and another, called DRAMA IN THE DESERT, which showed a man with a large moustache and shorts repairing what was left of his tent after a camel had trodden on it. But any hints and tips to do with trousers as such were conspicuous only by their absence.
Although Paddington was very keen on instruction books he’d noticed in the past that they had a habit of dealing with every kind of situation except the one he most wanted, and the present one was no exception.
According to the closing paragraph anyone who owned a SEW-RITE sewing machine had unlimited horizons, but Paddington could see only two good things on his particular horizon; the Browns were out and unlikely to return for some while, and Mr Curry was in and unlikely in his present state to venture out.
However, Paddington wasn’t the sort of bear to let things get the better of him if he could possibly help it, and picking up a pair of scissors, he poked hopefully at one of Mr Curry’s seams.
To his surprise, his efforts were rewarded much sooner than he expected, for without any warning at all the waistband suddenly parted in the middle. In fact, it was even more successful than he’d intended, for when he pulled at the loose thread there was a rending sound and it travelled right down to the turn-ups at the bottom.
Paddington wasn’t quite sure whether it was the direct result of pulling that thread or whether he’d pulled another one by mistake, but when he picked the trousers up to examine them more closely one of the legs fell off.
After drawing his bedroom curtains to be on the safe side, Paddington held the remaining leg up to his bedside light and peered at it uneasily. Now that matters had finally come to a head he rather wished he’d sorted through the pile and picked on something other than the trousers from Mr Curry’s best navy-blue pinstripe suit to practise on.
On the other hand, when he looked at some of his efforts a little later on he began to wonder if perhaps his first choice hadn’t been the best one after all. At least the two halves had come apart cleanly, which was more than could be said for some of the older pairs of trousers.
But it was when he tried sewing some of the halves together again that his troubles really started. It was much more difficult than he had expected. In the past most of the material he’d used had been thin and easy to work, whereas Mr Curry’s trousers seemed unusually thick. There were so many folds in his waistbands he soon lost count of them, and the handle of the machine became very hard to turn. In desperation, Paddington tried jamming it in one of his dressing table drawers and turning the machine itself, but the only result of that was an ominous ‘ping’ as the needle snapped.
It was all most disappointing. After working away as hard as he could, with barely a pause for a marmalade sandwich at lunch, Paddington had to admit that the results fell somewhat short of even his own expectations, and he shuddered to think how far short they would be of Mr Curry’s.
As far as he co
uld see, all he could offer the Browns’ neighbour was a choice between a pair of trousers with thirty-centimetre hips and pockets on the outside, one with a large gap in the back, a pair of grey flannel shorts with one leg longer than the other, some trousers with different coloured legs, or a kind of do-it-yourself selection from the pieces that were left over.
Whichever Mr Curry chose, Paddington couldn’t picture him being exactly overjoyed let alone paying fifty pence a time.
He looked at the pile of material mournfully. For a wild moment he toyed with the idea of disguising his voice and ringing the Browns’ neighbour to try and explain matters to him, but then he remembered Mr Curry wasn’t on the phone anyway.
All the same, the thought triggered off another idea in Paddington’s mind, and a moment later, after consulting his instruction book again, he hurried downstairs.
In the back of the SEW-RITE booklet was a note headed WHAT TO DO IF ALL ELSE FAILS! and this was followed by an address to write to in case of an emergency.
Paddington hoped very much that they’d had enough emergencies over the years to keep their service going and to have a telephone installed into the bargain, though he doubted very much if they could ever have had one quite as bad as his present one.
The man from the SEW-RITE emergency service stared round Paddington’s room in amazement. “You’re in a bit of a mess, and no mistake,” he said sympathetically. “What on earth’s been going on?”
“I’m afraid I’ve been having trouble with Mr Curry’s seams,” said Paddington. “I’ve got rather a lot of his legs left over.”
“I can see that,” said the man, picking up a handful. “This sort of thing isn’t really our pigeon,” he continued doubtfully, “but I suppose I might be able to pull a few strings for you.”
“I’ve tried pulling some threads,” said Paddington, “but it only seemed to make things worse.”
