Paddington Complete Novels

by Michael Bond

  In the past he often watched dancing programmes on the television and wondered why people made so much fuss, for it all looked terribly easy – just a matter of jumping about the floor in time to some music. But when he’d tried to do it he soon found that even without a partner his legs got tangled up and he shuddered to think what it might be like when he had someone else’s in the way as well.

  In the end he’d tried doing it on his bed for safety, but that had been worse still – rather like running round in circles on a cotton-wool covered trampoline.

  All in all, he decided dancing was much more difficult than it looked at first sight, and to everyone’s relief he announced that he was going out that morning in order to consult his friend, Mr Gruber, on the subject.

  Over the years, Mr Gruber had turned up trumps on a variety of subjects and Paddington felt sure he would be able to find something among the many books which lined the walls of his antique shop. Even so, he was still taken by surprise when he arrived at Mr Gruber’s and found his friend doing a kind of jig around his nick-nacks table to the tune from an old gramophone.

  Mr Gruber looked at Paddington sheepishly over the top of his glasses as he drew up a chair. “I have a feeling you won’t be the only one with problems tonight, Mr Brown,” he said, panting a little after his exertions. “It’s a long time since I last tripped the Light Fantastic.”

  As Paddington had no idea that Mr Gruber could dance let alone do a Light Fantastic, the news that he was going to Mrs Smith-Cholmley’s ball came like a bolt from the blue, and he grew more and more excited when his friend drew his attention to a large poster in the window.

  “Practically anyone who’s anyone around here is going tonight, Mr Brown,” he said. “They’ve got Alf Weidersein’s orchestra, and Norman and Hilda Church are bringing their Formation Team.”

  Paddington looked most impressed as Mr Gruber went on to explain that Norman Church was a very famous ballroom dancer indeed, and that apart from bringing his team he would be judging the various competitions to be held during the course of the evening.

  And when Mr Gruber, with a twinkle in his eyes, reached up to one of the shelves and took down a book on dancing written by Mr Church himself, Paddington could hardly believe his good fortune. He felt sure if he studied a book written by the man who was actually going to act as judge he ought to do very well indeed.

  For the rest of that day, apart from odd strains of the Veleta and an occasional thump from Paddington’s room, number thirty-two Windsor Gardens remained remarkably quiet as everyone got ready for the big event.

  Paddington himself was waiting in the hall from quite early on in the evening, clutching Mr Gruber’s book in one paw and an alarm clock in the other, while he did some last-minute ‘promenades’ by the front door.

  Although Norman Church’s book was lavishly illustrated with footprints showing the various steps, none of them seemed to go anywhere, and as some were marked ‘clockwise’ and others ‘anticlockwise’, he got very confused trying to work out which ones to follow and watch the hands on the clock at the same time.

  The book was called Learning to Hold Your Own on the Dance Floor in Twenty-Five Easy Lessons, and with only a matter of minutes to go, Paddington rather wished Mr Church had made do with five hard ones instead, for he found it difficult enough getting through the title let alone read the instructions.

  All the same, when they set off shortly afterwards, he soon joined in the general gaiety, and as they drew near the ballroom, he grew more and more excited.

  But the journey itself was nothing compared to the atmosphere once they were inside and Paddington peered round with interest as he handed his duffle coat to an attendant.

  Strains of music floated out through a pair of double doors at the top of some stairs leading down to the dance floor, and beyond the stairs he could see couples in evening dress gliding about, their faces lit by twinkling reflections from an enormous mirrored globe revolving high above them.

  Mr Brown cocked an ear to the music as they joined Mr Gruber and a small queue of other new arrivals. “They’re playing ‘Goodbye Blues’,” he said. “That’s one of my favourites.”

  “’Goodbye Blues’?” repeated Paddington, looking most upset. “But we’ve only just arrived!”

  Mr Gruber gave a tactful cough. “I think there’ll be plenty more tunes before we leave, Mr Brown.”

  Bending down, he drew Paddington to one side as the queue moved forward. “I should put your best paw forward,” he whispered. “I think you’re about to be announced.”

  Mr Gruber pointed towards a man in an imposing wig and costume standing at the head of the stairs, and Paddington’s eyes nearly popped out as he heard Mr and Mrs Brown’s names ring out around the ballroom.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been announced before, Mr Gruber,” he replied, hastily stuffing as many of his belongings as possible underneath his jacket.

  “Crumbs!” Judy gave a startled gasp as she gave Paddington a quick last-minute check. “You’ve still got your cycle clips on!”

  Catching her daughter’s words, Mrs Brown looked anxiously over her shoulder. “Do take them off, dear,” she warned. “You won’t feel the benefit otherwise.”

  Mindful of Mrs Bird’s remarks about keeping his evening dress clean, Paddington hadn’t wanted to take any risks with the trouser bottoms – which tended to slip down rather, and with a forecast of snow in the air, he’d decided to make doubly sure. All the same, he did as he was bidden and as he approached the man doing the announcements he bent down.

  “Excuse me,” he called in a muffled voice. “I’m Mr Brown and I’m having trouble with my cycle clips.”

  “Mr Cyclops Brown,” called the man in sonorous tones.

  “Cyclops Brown!” exclaimed Paddington hotly. He stood up clutching his clips, looking most upset that on the very first occasion of being announced, his name should have been wrongly called. But by that time the man was already halfway through announcing Mr Gruber, and Paddington found himself face to face with Mrs Smith-Cholmley, who was waiting to greet her guests at the foot of the stairs.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Mrs Smith-Cholmley, trying to pass the whole thing off with a shrill laugh as she took Paddington’s paw. “I always thought Cyclops only had one eye…” She broke off as she followed Paddington’s gaze towards the middle of the dance floor, for it was all too obvious that Paddington not only had two eyes but they were both working extremely well.

  “That’s Mr Church,” she explained, catching sight of a nattily dressed man posing beneath a spotlight. “He’s about to lead off.”

  As the music started up again, Mrs Smith-Cholmley turned back to Paddington. “Er… I see you’ve been doing your homework,” she continued, catching sight of Mr Gruber’s book in his other paw. “If Mr Church has trouble with his steps, he’ll know where to come…” Once again, Mrs Smith-Cholmley broke off, and a look of alarm came over her face. “I didn’t say he has got trouble,” she called. “I only said if. It was a joke. I…”

  But Paddington was already halfway across the floor. “Don’t worry, Mr Church!” he cried, waving his book. “I’m coming. I think it’s all on page forty-five.”

  Paddington reached the centre of the floor in time to meet the first wave of advancing dancers. Norman and Hilda Church’s Formation Team were just getting into their stride, and if the smile on Mrs Smith-Cholmley’s face had begun to look a trifle fixed, the one Mr Church presented to his public looked as if it had been indelibly etched for all time.

  “Go away,” he hissed, as Paddington tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re upsetting my Alberts.”

  Norman Church looked as if he’d just thought up a few more choice items for his chapter on ballroom etiquette, but before he had time to put any of them into words a very strange thing happened.

  As his team turned to make a sweeping movement back down the floor, a bell started to ring somewhere in their midst.

  There was a
note of urgency about it which caused the leaders to falter in their stride. In a moment, all was confusion as those in the rear cannoned into the ones in front, and in less time than it takes to form up for a Quadrille, the damage had been done.

  A hard core who thought a fire had broken out behind the bandstand jostled with a group who were equally convinced the floor was about to give way, and they, in turn, ran foul of those who simply wanted to see what was going on.

  In the middle of all this hubbub, Paddington suddenly reached inside his jacket. “It’s all right, Mr Church,” he called, holding up a large, round brass object. “It’s only my alarm clock!”

  In the silence that followed, Mr Brown’s voice sounded unusually loud. “Two minutes!” he groaned. “That’s all the time we’ve been here. Two minutes – and look at it!”

  There was no need to suggest looking at the scene on the dance floor, for the rest of the Browns were only too painfully aware of what it was like.

  Even Paddington, as he made his way back through the dancers, was forced to admit that he rather wished the floor had collapsed, for it would have afforded a quick means of escape from the glances of those around him.

  “Never mind,” said Judy, going forward to meet him. “We know you meant well.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Paddington gratefully. “But I don’t think Mr Church does.”

  Casting an anxious glance over his shoulder, he allowed himself to be led off the floor in the direction of some tables to one side of the hall.

  “I think I’ll sit this one out, thank you very much,” he announced, after consulting his book.

  Although the chapter on ballroom behaviour didn’t include any mention of what to do following the kind of disaster he’d just experienced, there were quite a number of phrases Mr Church recommended for use when you didn’t want to dance, and Paddington felt it was a good moment to test one or two of them.

  “Not that anyone’s likely to ask him after what’s just happened,” said Mr Brown, as he whirled past the table a little later on.

  “It’s a shame, really,” agreed Mrs Brown, catching sight of Paddington deep in his book. “He’s been practising so hard. I don’t like to think of him being a wallflower and he’s been sitting there for ages.”

  Mr Brown gave a snort. “Anything less like a wallflower than Paddington would be difficult to imagine,” he remarked.

  Mr Brown was about to add pessimistically that the evening wasn’t over yet, but at that moment there was a roll of drums and all eyes turned in the direction of the band rostrum as Norman Church climbed up and grasped the microphone in order to announce the start of the competitions.

  Now that the dance was in full swing, Mr Church seemed to have recovered his good humour. “Now I want everyone, but everyone to join in,” he boomed. “There are lots of prizes to be won… lots of dances… and a special mammoth Christmas hamper for the best couple of the evening…”

  Mr Church’s words had a livening effect on the ball and during the items which followed he proved his worth as a Master of Ceremonies. He kept up such a steady flow of patter, even Paddington began to get quite worked up, and a marmalade sandwich which he’d brought along to pass the time with lay untouched on the table beside him.

  It was while the fun was at its height that Mrs Smith-Cholmley suddenly caught sight of him peering through a gap in the crowd.

  “Come along,” she called. “You heard what Mr Church said. Everyone has to join in.”

  Paddington gave a start. “Thank you very much, Mrs Smith-Cholmley,” he called excitedly. “I’d like to very much.”

  “Oh!” Mrs Smith-Cholmley’s face dropped. “I didn’t mean… that is, I… er…” She looked at Paddington uneasily and then glanced down at her programme. “It is the Latin America section next,” she said. “I believe you come from that part of the world.”

  “Darkest Peru,” agreed Paddington earnestly.

  Mrs Smith-Cholmley gave a nervous laugh. “I’m not sure if Mr Weidersein knows any Peruvian dances,” she said, “especially dark ones, but we could try our hand at the rumba if you like.”

  “Yes, please,” said Paddington gratefully. “I don’t think I’ve done one of those before.”

  Paddington was very keen on anything new, and after slipping the cycle clips over one of his sleeves for safety, he hastily thrust the marmalade sandwich behind his back, picked up his book, and rose from the table.

  “I see you’re ‘with it’,” said Mrs Smith-Cholmley, mistaking the sudden flurry of movement for a dance step.

  Paddington clasped Mrs Smith-Cholmley firmly with both paws. “I’m never without it,” he replied.

  Peering round his partner’s waist, he consulted the etiquette section of Mr Church’s book again.

  “Do you come here often?” he inquired politely.

  Mrs Smith-Cholmley looked down at her feet, both of which were submerged beneath Paddington’s paws. “No,” she replied, in a tone of voice which suggested she was rather regretting her present visit. “Haven’t you got any pumps?” she asked.

  Paddington glanced down at his cycle clips. “I haven’t even got a bike,” he exclaimed, looking most surprised.

  Mrs Smith-Cholmley gave him a strange look. “You really ought to have pumps,” she said, breathing heavily as she tried to lift her own and Paddington’s feet in time to the music. “It would make things so much easier.”

  Paddington returned her look. He was beginning to get a bit fed up with the way the conversation was going. It wasn’t at all like any of the examples in Mr Church’s book, most of which were to do with sitting out on balconies eating snacks. “I think Mr Brown’s got a spare wheel,” he replied helpfully. “Have you got a puncture?”

  “No,” said Mrs Smith-Cholmley through her teeth, “I haven’t. But if you stand on my feet much longer, I’m liable to have one!”

  Paddington’s claws were rather sharp and they were digging deeper and deeper into her instep with every passing moment. “I’d be obliged if you would find somewhere else to put your paws.”

  Paddington relaxed his grasp on Mrs Smith-Cholmley and tried jumping up and down experimentally a few times. “I don’t think I can,” he gasped at last. “I have a feeling they’re caught in your straps.”

  To his surprise, when he looked up again, Mrs Smith-Cholmley’s face seemed to have gone a very funny colour indeed. And not only that, but she had begun to wriggle in a way which certainly wasn’t included in any of Mr Church’s illustrations for the rumba.

  “My back!” she shrieked. “My back! There’s an awful creature crawling down my back!” Almost turning herself inside out, Mrs Smith-Cholmley reached behind herself and withdrew something long, golden and glistening, which she gazed at with increasing horror.”It’s all wet and sticky… ugh!”

  Paddington peered at the object dangling between his partner’s forefinger and thumb with interest. “I don’t think that’s a creature, Mrs Smith-Cholmley,” he exclaimed. “It’s a chunk. I must have dropped my marmalade sandwich down the back of your dress by mistake!”

  Unaware of the drama that was taking place behind their hostess’s back, Mr Brown gave his wife a nudge. “Good Lord, Mary,” he said. “Look at those two. They’re going great guns.”

  Mrs Brown turned and glanced across the dance floor. “Well I never!” she exclaimed with pleasure. “Who would have thought it?”

  But if Mr and Mrs Brown were astonished at the sight of the gyrations on the other side of the floor, the rest of the dancers were positively astounded.

  One by one the other couples dropped out in order to take a closer look as Paddington and Mrs Smith-Cholmley, seemingly moving as one, rocked and wriggled in time to the music.

  At a signal from Mr Church, the man in charge of the spotlight concentrated his beam on the two figures, and as Alf Weidersein began urging his orchestra to greater and greater efforts, the shouts of encouragement, the clapping and the stamping of feet, began to shake
the very rafters of the hall.

  Paddington himself became more and more confused as he clung to his partner and, far from needing an alarm clock to show him the way, he found himself wishing he’d brought a compass, for he hadn’t the least idea where he’d started from, let alone where he was going.

  From the word go, the winners of the mammoth hamper for the best couple of the evening were never in doubt. Indeed, it would have taken a very brave man indeed to have gone in the face of the cheers which rang out as the music came to an end at last.

  For some reason, as soon as willing hands had disentangled Paddington’s paws from her shoe straps, Mrs Smith-Cholmley beat a hasty retreat; and when she did reappear at long last it was in a different dress, but in the excitement, this went largely unnoticed.

  “A lovely little mover,” said Norman Church enthusiastically, turning to Paddington as he presented the prize. “Very fleet. I wouldn’t mind using you and your lovely lady in my Formation Team when we do our final demonstration.”

  Mrs Smith-Cholmley gave a shudder. “I don’t think Mr Brown and I are open to engagements,” she broke in hastily, as she caught a momentary gleam in Paddington’s eye.

  Paddington nodded his agreement. “I haven’t brought any more marmalade sandwiches either, Mr Church,” he said.

  “Er… yes.” Mr Church looked slightly taken aback. “Talking of marmalade sandwiches,” he continued, recovering himself, “what are you going to do with all this food?”

  Paddington contemplated the prize for a moment. It was a large hamper. An enormous one, in fact, and it was difficult to picture the many good things there must be inside it.

  “I think,” he announced, amid general applause, “I’d like to send my half to the Home for Retired Bears in Lima – if it can be got there in time for Christmas. I don’t think they can always afford very much extra.”