by Michael Bond
The man gave Paddington an odd look and then, glancing round the room again, he gave a sudden start. “Is that yours?” he asked, pointing to the machine on the floor.
“Well, yes,” began Paddington. “Mr Gruber gave it to me. I’m afraid it’s rather an old one so you may not like it very much.”
“Not like it?” cried the man, dashing to the door. “Not like it? Jim!” he shouted. “Jim! There’s a young bear up here with one of our Mark Ones!”
Paddington grew more and more mystified as a pounding of feet on the stairs heralded the approach of a second man. He wasn’t at all sure what was going on but he was thankful to see something happening at long last. It had taken him several telephone calls and some long conversations to get the men from SEW-RITE to come in the first place. Even then he hadn’t been at all hopeful about the results, but as he listened to their comments his eyes grew rounder and rounder.
“Just you wait till our Mr Bridges hears about this,” exclaimed the first man, as they made to leave. “He’ll go berserk. You’ll never hear the like again.”
“I expect I shall,” said Paddington unhappily.”You wait until Mr Curry hears about his trousers!”
Although the long-term prospects had begun to look much better than he’d dared expect, Paddington didn’t view the immediate future at all hopefully and as things turned out, his forecast proved all too correct. The roar of rage which issued from Mr Curry’s house a short while later when the men from SEW-RITE broke the news about his trousers followed him all the way down Windsor Gardens, lasting almost as far as the Portobello Road, and he was very thankful indeed to reach the safety of Mr Gruber’s shop.
While Paddington sat on the horsehair sofa mopping his brow, Mr Gruber hastily made some cocoa, and a few minutes later they adjourned to their usual deck chairs on the pavement outside.
Once there, Mr Gruber settled back and listened patiently while Paddington did his best to explain all that had taken place that day.
It was a long story and at the finish Mr Gruber looked as surprised at the outcome as Paddington had done.
“What a bit of luck that old sewing machine I gave you turned out to be so valuable,” he said. “I would never have guessed it. It only goes to show that even in this business there’s always something to learn.”
“The man from SEW-RITE said it’s one of their Mark Ones, Mr Gruber,” replied Paddington impressively. “He told me it must have been one of the first they ever made. They’ve been trying to find one like it for years to put in their museum so it’s probably worth a lot of money.”
“It’s a good job they offered to repair Mr Curry’s trousers free of charge,” chuckled Mr Gruber, pouring out a second cup of cocoa by way of celebration. “We should never have heard the last of it otherwise. It seems to me you struck a very lucky bargain, Mr Brown.
“Just think,” he mused, “if you hadn’t accidentally dropped your bun money down a drain, all this might never have happened. Big things sometimes have very small beginnings indeed.”
Paddington nodded his agreement behind the cocoa steam and then hesitated as he felt in his duffle coat pocket.
Mr Gruber read his thoughts. “I don’t think it would be quite the same if you deliberately put some money down a drain, Mr Brown,” he said tactfully. “After all, I know lightning seldom strikes twice in the same place, but fate plays funny tricks sometimes.”
Paddington considered the matter for a moment. All in all he decided Mr Gruber was quite right and it wasn’t worth taking any unnecessary risks. “I don’t think I should like to see even Mr Curry’s trousers struck by lightning,” he announced. “Especially while they’re still at the menders!”
PADDINGTON REINED IN his horse and stared at the judge’s rostrum as if he could hardly believe his ears.
“I’ve got four hundred and fifty-two faults?” he exclaimed hotly. “But I’ve only been round once!”
“There are twelve fences,” said Guy Cheeseman, measuring his words with care, “and you went straight through all of them – that’s forty-eight for a start. Plus another four for going back over the last one.
“And,” he added, bringing the subject firmly to a close as he glared down at the battered remains of what had once been a hat, “your horse trampled all over my best bowler – the one I intended wearing at the presentation this afternoon – that’s another four hundred!”
Mr Cheeseman wasn’t in the best of moods. In fact, the look on his face as he made an entry alongside Paddington’s signature on the clipboard he was carrying was what Mrs Bird would have called “a study”. He gave the distinct impression that he wished he’d never heard of St Christopher’s School and its teachers and parents in general, not to mention Paddington in particular.
The occasion was the end of term celebrations at Judy’s school and instead of the usual speech-making, Miss Grimshaw, the headmistress, had decided to hold a gymkhana in aid of a new swimming pool.
There were a number of events on the programme, and the two main items at the beginning and end were open to all and sundry – including the parents, relations and friends of the pupils.
The competitors were given ‘sponsor sheets’ and each had to collect as many signatures as possible from people who were prepared to pay a small sum for every successful jump.
The Browns arrived quite early in the day and Paddington – who had decided to enter for both the events – had been kept very busy hurrying round the grounds collecting names for his sheet.
He was already a familiar figure at Judy’s school and almost the entire upper and lower fourth, fifth and sixth forms had persuaded their nearest and dearest to sponsor him at anything between fifty pence and one pound a jump. In view of the number of signatures Paddington had managed to collect, the swimming pool fund stood to benefit by a tidy amount.
Guy Cheeseman, the famous Olympic rider, had very kindly agreed to judge the contests and act as commentator, and with the sun shining down from a cloudless sky, the sound of horses’ hooves pounding the turf, the murmur of the large crowd which had gathered round the sports field, and the creaking of innumerable picnic baskets, it promised to be a memorable occasion.
The roar of excitement as Paddington mounted his horse was equalled only by the groan of disappointment which went up as he disappeared from view over the other side. And when he eventually reappeared facing the wrong way an ominous silence fell over the field; a silence broken only by the crash of falling fences and a cry of rage from Mr Cheeseman as he watched his best hat being ground to pulp.
Paddington was more upset than anyone, for although he’d never actually been on a horse before, let alone a jumping one, Mr Gruber had lent him several very good books on the subject and he’d spent the last few evenings sitting astride a pouffe in the Browns’ sitting room practising with a homemade whip and some stirrups made from a pair of Jonathan’s old handcuffs.
It was all most disappointing. In fact, he rather wished now he’d chosen something else to practise on. To start with, the horse was very much taller and harder than he’d expected – more iron and steel than flesh and blood – and whereas by gripping the pouffe between his knees he’d been able to hop around the house at quite a speed it was nothing compared with Black Beauty once she got going. That apart – aside from when he’d unexpectedly bumped into Mrs Bird in the hall – he’d never attempted any kind of jumps on the pouffe, and no matter what he shouted to Black Beauty she seemed to have it firmly fixed in her mind that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, regardless of what happened to be in the way.
According to Mr Gruber’s book, one of the first requirements in horse riding was complete confidence between rider and mount, and Paddington would have been the first to admit that as far as he was concerned he was a nonstarter in this respect. He completed the round clinging helplessly to Black Beauty’s tail with his eyes tightly closed, and the trail of damage they left behind made the hockey pitch at St Christophers
resemble the fields of Belgium immediately after the battle of Waterloo.
“Never mind, Paddington,” said Judy, grabbing hold of the reins. “We all thought you did jolly well. Especially as it was your first time out,” she added, amid a chorus of sympathetic agreement from the other girls. “Not many people would have dared to try.
“Th… th… thank you v… v… very m… m… much,” stuttered Paddington. He was still feeling as if he’d been for a ride on a particularly powerful pneumatic drill and he gave Mr Cheeseman a very hard stare indeed as he was helped down to the ground.
“It’s a shame really,” said Mrs Brown, as they watched his progress back to the horse enclosure. “It would have made such a nice start to the day if he’d had a clear round.”
“Perhaps he’ll do better in the ‘Chase me Charley’,” said Jonathan hopefully. “He’s down for that as well at the end.”
“Four hundred and fifty-two faults indeed!” snorted Mrs Bird, as the commentator’s voice boomed through the loudspeakers.
“It’s a good job he didn’t tread on Paddington’s hat. He’d have lost a good deal more than that!”
Giving a final glare in the direction of the judge’s rostrum, the Browns’ housekeeper began busying herself with the picnic basket in a way which boded ill for Mr Cheeseman’s chances of a snack if he found he’d left his own sandwiches at home.
“That’s a good idea,” said Jonathan enthusiastically. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”
“Pity you didn’t eat Paddington’s,” said Mr Brown gloomily. “Especially after that last round.”
“Ssh, Henry,” whispered Mrs Brown. “Here he comes. We don’t want to upset him any more.”
Mr Brown hastily turned his attention to the important matter of lunch and as the fences were put back and the next event got under way he began setting up a table and chairs in the shade of a nearby oak tree. Mr Brown didn’t believe in doing things by halves, especially where picnics were concerned, and he shared the French habit of turning such affairs into a full-scale family occasion.
Mrs Bird had packed an enormous hamper of jars and plastic containers brimful with sliced tomatoes, cucumber, beetroot, ham, beef, liver sausage, and seemingly endless supplies of mixed salads. What with these and strawberries and cream to follow, not to mention two sorts of ice cream, lemonade, tea, coffee, various cakes and sweetmeats, and a jar of Paddington’s favourite marmalade into the bargain, the table was soon groaning under the weight.
Even Mr Brown, who wasn’t normally too keen on equestrian events, had to admit that he couldn’t think of a more pleasant way of spending a summer afternoon. And as event followed event and the contents of the hamper grew less and less, the bad start to the day was soon forgotten.
Paddington himself had worked up quite an appetite, though for once he seemed more interested in Mr Gruber’s book on riding, which he’d brought with him in case of an emergency, rather than in the actual food itself. Several times he dipped his paw into the bowl of salad dressing in mistake for the marmalade as he studied a particularly interesting chapter on jumping which he hadn’t read before, and apart from suddenly rearing up into the air once or twice as he went through the motions, he remained remarkably quiet.
It wasn’t until nearly the end of the meal when he absent-mindedly reached into the basket and helped himself to one of Mrs Bird’s meringues that he showed any signs of life at all.
“Aren’t they delicious?” said Mrs Brown. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted better.”
“Don’t you like them, Paddington?” asked Mrs Bird, looking most concerned at the expression on his face.
“Er… yes, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington politely. “They’re… er… they’re very unusual. I think I’ll put some marmalade on to take the taste… to er…”
Paddington’s voice trailed away. Although not wishing to say so he didn’t think much of Mrs Bird’s meringue at all and he was glad it was particularly small and dainty. It was really most unusual, for Mrs Bird was an extremely good cook and her cakes normally melted in the mouth, whereas the present one not only showed no signs of melting but was positively stringy.
And it wasn’t just the texture. Paddington couldn’t make up his mind if it was because he’d followed the ice cream with another helping of Russian salad or whether Mr Brown had accidentally spilled some paraffin over it when he’d filled the picnic stove, but whatever the reason, Mrs Bird’s meringue was very odd indeed and not even a liberal splodge of marmalade entirely took the taste away.
However, Paddington was a polite bear and he had no wish to offend anyone, least of all Mrs Bird, so he dutifully carried on. Fortunately he was saved any farther embarrassment by Guy Cheeseman announcing that the final event on the programme was about to take place and asking the competitors to come forward.
Hastily cramming the remains of the meringue into his mouth, Paddington gathered up his book and sponsor sheet and hurried off in the direction of the saddling enclosure closely followed by Judy and several of her friends.
“I know one thing,” said Mr Brown, as he disappeared from view into the crowd, “if he manages to get over one fence the swimming pool fund won’t do too badly. He’s got enough signatures now to float a battleship.”
For various reasons Paddington’s sponsor sheet had grown considerably during the course of the afternoon. Apart from a number of people who’d added their names a second time to show they hadn’t lost faith, there was a considerable new element who had signed for quite a different reason – sensing that in backing Paddington they could show willing without too great an expense, and his sheet was now jam-packed with signatures.
“It would serve some of them right if he did do well,” said Mrs Bird darkly. “It might teach them a lesson.”
Mrs Bird looked as if she’d been about to add a great deal more but at that moment a burst of applause heralded the first of the long line of competitors.
The ‘Chase me Charley’ event was one in which all the contestants formed up in a circle, their horses nose-to-tail, and took it in turns to jump a single pole. Only one fault was allowed and each time a round had been completed, those with faults dropped out and the pole was raised another inch until the final winner emerged.
Practically everyone who could ride was taking part and the circle of horses stretched right round the field so that it was some time before Paddington came into view on Black Beauty.
There was a nasty moment when he came past the Browns and tried to raise his hat, which he’d insisted on wearing on top of his compulsory riding one, but he soon righted himself and disappeared from view again, holding the reins with one paw and anxiously consulting Mr Gruber’s book which he still held in the other.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Brown nervously. “I do hope he takes care. I didn’t like to say so in his presence but it must be terribly difficult with short legs. No wonder his paws keep coming out of the stirrups.”
“I shouldn’t worry,” said Mrs Bird. “There’s one thing about bears – they always fall on their feet no matter what happens.”
Mrs Bird did her best to sound cheerful but she looked as worried as anyone as they waited for Paddington to make his first jump. Judy arrived back just in the nick of time and in the excitement only Mrs Bird’s sharp eyes noticed that she, too, was now wearing a very odd expression on her face. An expression, moreover, which was almost identical to the one Paddington had worn a little earlier when he’d had trouble with his meringue. But before she had time to look into the matter her attention was drawn back to the field as a great roar went up from the crowd.
The Browns watched in amazement as Paddington and Black Beauty literally sailed over the pole. One moment they’d been trotting gently towards it, then Paddington appeared to lean forward and whisper something in the horse’s ear. The very next instant, horse and rider leapt into the air and cleared the hurdle with several feet to spare. Admittedly the pole was at its lowest mark but even so the performance d
rew a gasp of astonishment from the onlookers.
“Bravo!” cried someone near the Browns. “That bear’s done it at last. And not even a sign of a refusal!”
“Heavens above!” exclaimed Mr Brown, twirling his moustache with excitement. “If he carries on like that he’ll be up among the leaders in no time. Did you see it? He went higher than anyone!”
Jonathan listened to his sister as she whispered in his ear. “If he does it again,” he said gloomily.
“Well, even if he doesn’t, he’s certainly not bottom this time,” said Mrs Brown thankfully, as a following rider brought the pole down with a clatter.
And as it happened, Jonathan’s worst fears went unrealised, for seeming miracle began to follow miracle as Paddington and Black Beauty made one effortless clear round after another and one by one the other competitors began to drop out.
Each time they drew near to the jump, Paddington leaned over and appeared to whisper something in Black Beauty’s ear and each time it had a magical effect as she bounded into action and with a whinny which echoed round the cloisters, cleared the hurdle with feet to spare.
Paddington was so excited he discarded Mr Gruber’s book in order to raise his hat in acknowledgement of the cheers, and even those who’d signed his sheet rather late in the day, although they’d worn long faces at first, began applauding with the rest.
And when it came to the final round, with Paddington pitted against Diana Ridgeway, the head girl, the excitement was intense. Even with loyalties so divided, the cheer which rang out as Paddington emerged the victor practically shook the school to its foundations, and Diana Ridgeway herself set the seal on the occasion by dismounting and running over to offer her congratulations.
Guy Cheeseman so far forgot the unpleasantness earlier in the day that phrases like ‘superb horsemanship’, ‘splendid display’ and ‘supreme example of rider and mount being as one’, floated round the grounds with scarcely a pause for breath.
