by Michael Bond
Paddington was much too polite to say so, but he preferred the old wind-up gramophone with a dog peering into a huge horn to see where the sound was coming from when it was working. The dog had looked so real he’d often been tempted to offer it one of his buns.
“That picture is what is known as a collage,” said Mr Gruber, reading Paddington’s thoughts. “It’s made of various bits and pieces glued together in a random fashion. The idea itself is as old as the hills. In fact, many famous artists started out that way… Picasso… Salvador Dali…
“It may look very modern, but I think it is probably older than it seems. In which case it could be very valuable. It’s called Sunset in Tahiti.”
Paddington thought it looked more like a rainy day in the Bayswater Road, but he didn’t say anything.
Mr Gruber knew much more about these things than he did, and he listened carefully as his friend explained the ins and outs of the subject while they had their elevenses.
“What makes it particularly interesting,” continued Mr Gruber, “is that someone else has painted over the original picture – which often happened at one time, but they were using a method known as egg tempera, which is why it looks so shiny.”
Paddington licked his lips. “I’ve never heard of a painting made with eggs,” he said.
“There are other things besides,” said Mr Gruber. “Vinegar, various pigments to provide the colour – and in this case some graphite too, which you can find in any bicycle puncture repair outfit…”
“I wouldn’t mind having a go at making one of those myself,” said Paddington. “But I expect it’s a bit difficult with paws and I can’t think what I would make a picture of anyway.”
Mr Gruber eyed Paddington over his mug of cocoa. It was unlike his friend to admit defeat before he had even begun something.
“You do yourself an injustice, Mr Brown,” he said. “There is no such word as can’t.”
“When we are out for a drive Mr Brown sometimes says the road has a nasty cant,” said Paddington. “I thought he meant he had just driven over a tin can.”
“That’s the English language for you,” said Mr Gruber. “The word ‘cant’ pronounced one way means a road has a slant to it, but that same word with an apostrophe between the last two letters is short for ‘cannot’, meaning it is not possible.
“I think all things are possible if you really set your mind to it, and you never know what you can do until you try.
“As for finding a subject for your painting…” Mr Gruber rose to his feet as he saw someone about to enter his shop, “…you only have to take a short ride on the top deck of a London bus and all manner of things cry out to be painted: the world is your oyster.”
Having said goodbye to his friend for the time being, Paddington was about to head back home, when he had second thoughts.
The sun was shining and for once, instead of his shopping basket on wheels, he only had his suitcase, so as soon as he came across a bus stop, he held out a paw and stopped the first one that came into view.
As the doors opened he climbed aboard and headed for the stairs.
“And where do you think you’re going, young-feller-me-bear?” called the driver.
“Nowhere in particular, thank you very much,” said Paddington. “I’m looking for ideas.”
“Well you’ve picked the right route for not going anywhere in particular, I’ll say that,” said the driver gloomily. “We’ve been stuck in traffic jams all the morning.” He pointed to a long line of waiting cars ahead of them. “It’s all them roadworks. Never-ending they are, and as fast as they fill one hole in, someone else comes along and digs it up again.”
“I’m looking for something to paint,” said Paddington, raising his hat politely.
“That’s as may be,” said the driver, not unkindly. “And I promise not to tell anyone if they ask. But you’re not doing any of it on my bus – not without a ticket. Rembrandt ’imself wouldn’t be allowed on without one. It’s as much as my job’s worth if an inspector gets on.
“If I might make a suggestion,” he continued, “you’d be better off painting a picture of one of them holes near where you were standing. It’s what they call a still life.”
Paddington was about to explain that he needed some eggs first, but he thought better of it. He wasn’t too sure how to go about it himself without a book of instructions.
“I thought you might give me a ticket,” he said. “I can pay for it.”
Having made sure nobody was looking over his shoulder, he opened his suitcase and felt inside the secret compartment.
“It’s a sixpence,” he explained, holding up a small coin gleaming in the morning sun for the driver to see. “I’ve been keeping it polished for a rainy day.”
“When was the last time you travelled on a bus, mate?” asked the driver. “Even if it was raining cats and dogs, which it isn’t, and even if your coin was valid, which it isn’t – it wouldn’t take you any further than the next stop… if that. Besides, you have to get a ticket from a machine. I don’t carry them.”
He took a closer look at the coin. “It isn’t even a sixpence!” he exclaimed. “It’s a Peruvian centavo.”
“I’ve never been on a bus by myself before,” admitted Paddington. “They don’t have any in Darkest Peru, and whenever I’ve travelled on one in London it’s usually been with Mr Gruber on one of his outings, and he insists on paying.”
Hearing an outbreak of tooting from behind as the traffic in front showed signs of moving, the bus driver reached for his dashboard.
“Well,” he said, since I’m not in a position of being able to wait around on the off chance your Mr Gruber might come past, I suggest you take yourself on an outing right now and vacate the platform. I’ve got a busy schedule to keep up and we’re running late as it is.
“If you’re going to be doing a lot of travelling,” he added, “your best bet is to get yourself an Oyster.”
Paddington pricked up his ears. “Mr Gruber says you can go anywhere in the world on an oyster,” he exclaimed excitedly.
“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, not in this traffic,” said the driver. “But in principle you can go wherever you like within the Greater London area.”
With that he pressed a button and a metallic voice from somewhere inside the bus called out, ‘Stand Clear. Doors Closing. Stand Clear. Doors Closing’.
Paddington scrambled out of harm’s way, and then stared after the bus as it pulled away from the kerb and continued on its journey for a few more yards.
He sat down on his suitcase at the side of the road for a moment or two in order to consider his next move.
Mr Brown was right. Only the other day he had been saying that what with credit cards and computers and something called ‘shopping on the net’ it wouldn’t be very long before paying for things with real money would be a thing of the past, but he hadn’t mentioned the possibility of having to use an oyster to get on a bus. It was no wonder he went on an underground train when he travelled to and fro from his office in the city.
With that thought uppermost in his mind, Paddington picked up his suitcase and set off for the nearest fishmongers.
Overtaking the bus which was held up by yet another hole in the road, he raised his hat to the driver, who gave him a gloomy thumbs up sign in return, and shortly afterwards, having reached a row of shops, he made for the one he had in mind. It was where Mrs Bird went whenever she was shopping for fish.
“I would like an oyster, please,” he announced, raising his hat politely to a boy behind the counter, who was busy making sure all the fish heads were facing the same way.
“There’s a young foreign gent wants an oyster,” repeated the boy over his shoulder.
“I’d like a day return one, if I may,” added Paddington, trying to be helpful.
“I’m afraid we don’t get any returns here,” said the assistant. “They’re fresh in from France twice a week and once they’re gone they’re
gone…”
“In that case I’d better have two,” said Paddington. “One for going and one for coming back.”
The assistant didn’t actually say ‘we’ve got the last of the big spenders here’, but his look said it all. “I’ll have to ask the manager,” he said.
“He wants two!” he called. “One for going and one for coming back. I think it’s some kind of outing.
“We usually sell them by the dozen,” he explained, addressing Paddington, “and the only returns you get is if there’s a bad one, and if that happens you’ll wish you’d never gone wherever it was in the first place. Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“Tell him there aren’t many around at the moment,” shouted a voice from the back of the shop. “And there won’t be any at all soon when there isn’t an R in the month.”
The assistant repeated the message for Paddington’s benefit.
Paddington gave him a hard stare. “There isn’t an M in a lot of months,” he said. “But that doesn’t stop Mrs Bird giving me marmalade for breakfast.”
“Tell him we’ve got some kippers,” shouted the manager. “Fresh in this morning.”
“Can you get very far on a kipper?” asked Paddington hopefully.
“You can if you set light to its tail and hang on tight,” said the assistant. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“We don’t normally have oysters all through the summer,” said the manager, as he emerged from a back room to see what was going on. “It’s the breeding season.”
“It must make travelling difficult in August,” said Paddington.
“Er… yes,” said the manager, not wishing to commit himself.
“As a matter of interest,” he continued. “Where are you from exactly? I only ask because we don’t get much call for oysters at this time of the year. They aren’t at their best and if it’s for some kind of national celebration…”
“I’m from Peru,” said Paddington. “Darkest Peru.”
“Darkest Peru!” repeated the manager. “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t get many oysters in the jungle.”
“I saw a film about Peruvian bears on television the other night,” broke in the assistant. “They were going through people’s dustbins after dark. But I don’t think they were after oysters.”
Paddington gave the assistant another hard stare. “I’ve never, ever, gone through anyone’s dustbin after dark!” he exclaimed hotly. “Mrs Bird would be most upset.”
“Mrs Bird?” repeated the manager. “Of number thirty-two Windsor Gardens? Why ever didn’t you say so in the first place? She’s one of our best customers.
“Seeing he knows Mrs Bird, you’d better stretch a point and give him a couple,” he continued, addressing his assistant. “Anything for a quiet life,” he added in a whisper.
“Two pounds five each . . . that’ll be four pounds ten pee.” said the assistant.
“Four pounds ten pee,” repeated Paddington, nearly falling over backwards with alarm.
“Don’t worry,” said the manager hastily. “I’ll put it down on her account.”
“Would you like them gift wrapped?” asked the assistant.
“Shh,” said the manager, glaring at him.
“Thank you very much,” said Paddington, “but I shall need one straight away.”
Only seconds before he had seen a red bus go past, and sure enough, it had stopped a little way along the road. A small queue of people were already boarding it through a door near the driver.
“Wait for me!” he called.
Luck was with him, for just as he heard a by-now familiar voice calling out, ‘Stand Clear. Doors Closing’, he caught sight of another opening in the side of the bus and before the message was repeated, he scrambled through it in the nick of time.
“Dear me,” said a lady on a seat just inside. “Are you all right?”
Paddington raised his hat. “I think so,” he said. “But I was in a hurry because I want to test my oysters.”
“I think you will find there are some seats upstairs,” began the lady haughtily, but before she had a chance to say any more a rather less than friendly voice made an announcement.
“Will the person who has just boarded the bus through the door marked Exit kindly report to the driver!”
Paddington made his way to the front of the bus. “I was wanting to test one of my oysters,” he explained. “I’ve never used one before and I need to do it while there is still an R in the month.”
“Well, hurry up,” said the driver. “At this rate it won’t be long before it’s May.” He pointed to a large yellow button on the side of his cabin. “Show it to the electronic reader.”
“I didn’t know oysters could read,” said Paddington.
“You learn something new every day,” said the driver. “Now, hurry up so we can get on our way.”
“Hear! Hear!” came a voice from the back of the bus. “Some of us have got trains to catch.”
“I won’t report you on this occasion,” continued the driver, “but don’t do it again. I haven’t got all day.”
Carefully undoing the wrapping on his package, Paddington removed one of the oysters and pressed the inside of it against the button as hard as he could, twisting it first of all in a clockwise direction, so that it made good contact. Then, because despite the hard shell it felt rather softer than he had expected, he tried turning it the other way.
As he stood back and removed the shell a stream of liquid oozed on to the floor.
“I’m afraid your bus doesn’t seem to be moving,” he said. “I think there must be something wrong with it.”
“I said show it to the reader, not grind it into the works,” said the driver.
His nose twitched as he leaned over the side of his cabin to take a closer look.
He stared at the object in Paddington’s paw as though he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“That’s a blooming oyster!” he bellowed. “Ugh! Look at it! No wonder it didn’t work! Wait till the inspector sees what you’ve done! He’ll have your guts for garters!
“That settles it. We can’t go any further. Everybody off! Everybody off!” He pressed a button, and the disembodied voice began uttering the words, ‘Stand Clear. Doors Opening. Stand Clear. Doors Opening’.
A moment later all was chaos.
Being in pole position, Paddington was the first to leave, and he didn’t stop running until he reached the safety of the Portobello Road.
Mr Gruber looked most concerned as Paddington burst into his shop, and having made sure there was no one else behind him, stood there mopping his brow with a handkerchief.
“Whatever is the matter, Mr Brown?” he asked. “You look as though you’ve been in an earthquake.”
“I’ve been having trouble with my oysters,” said Paddington.
“What are garters, Mr Gruber?” he gasped as soon as he could get his breath back.
“They are things gentlemen use to keep their socks up,” said Mr Gruber. “Why do you ask, Mr Brown?”
“Well,” said Paddington. “The driver of the last bus I was on said his inspector would have my guts to make a pair of them if he ever caught up with me.”
“Oh dear,” said Mr Gruber. “You had better tell me all.”
And while he set about making the second helping of cocoa that morning, Paddington related all that had happened to him since they had last seen each other.
“I would say it isn’t so much the oysters that have been the cause of all the trouble,” said Mr Gruber, when Paddington had finished. “It’s the English language again. We live in an age when people will insist on shortening things. In your case, I’m sure with the best of intentions, your driver suggested you should buy an oyster rather than an Oyster card. I will show you one.”
Reaching into his wallet he produced an old card to show what he meant.
Paddington looked very downcast by the time Mr Gruber had finished. “It’s no wonder people didn’t know what I was talking about,” he said. “Now I’ve
got my return oyster left over and I don’t suppose anyone will ever want to eat it.”
Mr Gruber stirred his cocoa thoughtfully. “All is not lost, Mr Brown,” he said. “I have a suggestion to make…”
“I think,” said Mrs Bird, a few days later, “before you are very much older, Paddington, you had better bring whatever you have made downstairs to show the rest of us.”
It being the weekend, all the family were present and at her suggestion they gathered together on the lawn.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr Brown, as Paddington held up his handiwork. Don’t tell me you made that all by yourself. Er…what is it?”
“Whatever it is, it’s better out than in if you ask me,” said Mrs Brown.
“It’s what’s known as a collage,” said Paddington, knowledgeably. “A collage with an overlay of some eggs and graphite tempera.”
“Good gracious,” said Mrs Bird. “Whatever next? As for using eggs… I thought I was running low.”
“No wonder you wanted to borrow my bicycle puncture outfit,” Jonathan chimed in. “There I was, thinking your hot-water bottle must have sprung a leak.”
“It looks wonderful,” said Judy loyally. “Whatever gave you the idea?”
“It’s a long story,” said Paddington vaguely. “It’s to do with not going anywhere on a bus.”
“But what is it meant to be?” persisted Mr Brown.
“Mr Curry on a bad day?” suggested Jonathan.
“The oyster in the middle looks so real,” said Mrs Brown. “And the inside of the shell is so shiny it looks good enough to eat.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you, Mrs Brown,” said Paddington.
Mrs Bird sniffed the air. “If I might make a suggestion,” she said. “It’s like a lot of modern paintings. They are at their best if you stand well away from them. Why don’t we hang it down the end of the garden for the time being?”
