by Michael Bond
Paddington eyed the object dubiously.
“I don’t think Mr Brown will be very keen on having one of those in our driveway,” he said. “He won’t be able to get his car out for a start.”
“Don’t worry,” said Miss Brimstone. “It’s bolted to the floor.
“You may find this hard to believe,” she continued, “but some of my clients spend an hour working out in the gym and at the end of it all they go straight to the nearest cake shop and undo all the good work by stuffing themselves with blueberry muffins. Some of the larger ones contain nearly 400 calories.”
Paddington didn’t find it hard to believe at all. All the talk about food you ought not to eat was occupying his own mind to the exclusion of everything else, and he was beginning to feel hungrier than ever.
“We never had anything like that in Darkest Peru,” he said, looking at the machine.
“Have no fear,” said Miss Brimstone. “It doesn’t go anywhere. That’s the beauty of it. You simply pedal away to your heart’s content for as long as it takes to remove the excess fat. Allow me to give you a hand…”
Having managed to lift Paddington on to the saddle, she stood back and surveyed the result.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Our feet are rather a long way from the pedals…”
“I’m afraid I can’t reach the handlebars either,” said Paddington.
“Stay right where you are,” said Miss Brimstone. “Don’t move an inch or we could have a nasty ax. I shall have to try lowering the saddle. Excuse me while I look for a suitable spanner.”
Reaching for her handbag she began rummaging through it. “It’s a shame,” she said. “My treatment is guaranteed to take you out of yourself.”
“I think I’d rather stay inside it for the time being if you don’t mind, Miss Brimstone,” said Paddington.
Marooned in midair, he clung on to the saddle with one paw as Miss Brimstone handed him a card. “It’s a list of my charges,” she said briefly. “You may like to browse through them while you’re waiting.”
Paddington did as he was told and then wished he hadn’t.
“It’s a lot of buns’ worth,” he announced over the sound of banging coming from the direction of the front door. “I shall have to think it over.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Brimstone, abandoning her search for a spanner. “It really isn’t your fault, but I shouldn’t have taken you on in the first place. I shan’t be ready for a day or two and now it sounds as though I have another customer…”
Seeing what she took to be a look of disappointment on Paddington’s face, and conscious of the continued banging, Miss Brimstone lifted him off the saddle.
“At least you can take a present away with you!” she said. “I know you will want to come back when you’ve thought things over, so in the meantime, if I can have your name, I would like to present you with a special gift voucher.” She scribbled a note on one of her cards. “It allows for one free go on my Advanced Personal Training Course. In the meantime you can tell all your friends what a splendid time you’ve had.”
As she was ushering Paddington towards the front door the banging stopped and whoever was outside pushed open the letter box flap.
Anxious to be of help, Paddington made a dash for the door and held the flap open with one paw while he peered through the gap.
“Bear!” bellowed a familiar voice. “I might have known! What are you up to in there?”
In a state of shock, Paddington let go of the flap and as it sprang back into place there was a cry of a pain from outside.
“Oh dear,” said Miss Brimstone. She slid back the door bolt. “Was that a friend of yours?”
“Not really,” said Paddington. “It’s Mr Curry. Mrs Bird says he’s always sticking his nose into things that don’t concern him.”
“It sounds as though he’s done it once too often,” said Miss Brimstone. “And I haven’t even unpacked my first aid box yet.”
“Are you practising for the Games, Mr Curry?” asked Paddington hopefully, as he went outside and found the Browns’ neighbour dancing up and down on the pavement.
“No I am not, bear!” barked the Browns’ neighbour, rubbing his nose. “You know very well what happened.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Curry,” said Paddington. “I didn’t realise it was your nose. I thought it was someone trying to deliver a parcel…”
“Are you trying to tell me you mistook my nose for a parcel?” bellowed Mr Curry. “Just you wait until I get back home. I shall report you for this.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Brimstone. “Have a nice day!” With that, she handed Paddington the card she had been carrying and hastily shut the door, ramming the bolt home for good measure.
“What have you got there, bear?” demanded Mr Curry.
“It’s a prize,” said Paddington. “Were you going to take one of the courses?”
“Take one of the courses?” repeated Mr Curry. He pointed to a board on the wall. “Have you seen the prices? It’s disgraceful. I was about to complain.
“Er… what sort of prize did you win?” he asked casually.
A gleam came into Mr Curry’s eyes when Paddington told him. “If you let me have that card, bear,” he said, “I promise we’ll hear no more about your deliberate attack on my proboscis. Keep it for yourself, and who knows what might happen?
“And no telling anyone else,” he warned. “Otherwise it will be the worse for you.”
With that, he put the card into his wallet and went on his way in high good humour.
Paddington kept to his side of the bargain and didn’t mention what had happened to anyone, but Mr Curry couldn’t wait to tell everyone else he met about his windfall, without mentioning how it had come about, of course.
The news spread like wildfire, and many a curtain twitched in Windsor Gardens a few days later when he set off early in the morning for Miss Brimstone’s gymnasium.
They twitched again when he staggered back home later that day, cutting a sorry figure in his bedraggled shorts and sweat- stained shirt. For some reason he kept shaking his fist towards number thirty-two Windsor Gardens, but wisely Mrs Brown pretended there was no one at home.
It was Mrs Bird who eventually discovered the truth. “I thought it was unlike Mr Curry to splash out on a course like that,” she said. “It seems he had a free pass, but it turned out to be in someone else’s name so he wasn’t able to use it.”
“I wonder how he came by it in the first place?” said Mrs Brown.
“I wonder,” said Mrs Bird. “But I haven’t seen Paddington doing his press-ups on the lawn for several days. I think he’s keeping a low profile.”
It was left for Mr Gruber to sum things up.
“I do like stories with a happy ending, Mr Brown,” he said, when Paddington had finished telling him the truth of the matter.
“That dreadful Mr Curry won’t be bullying you again for a long time. Miss Brimstone has got her business off to a flying start, and here we are again, enjoying our elevenses in peace.
“Everything in moderation,” he said. “That’s my motto. Not too little; and not too much. That being so, what is this life if you can’t enjoy your elevenses undisturbed?”
There was no answer to that so, having considered the matter carefully, Paddington helped himself to another bun.
“Perhaps I might leave cutting down and having one less until tomorrow, Mr Gruber,” he said.
“That sounds a very good idea,” said Mr Gruber. “I think I will join you.”
IF IT HADN’T been for the fact that apart from a slight breeze it was a particularly warm July morning, Paddington might not have stopped on his way to the market in order to bathe his feet. But the plastic padding pool of crystal clear water with chunks of ice floating in it was hard to resist. It seemed a very good start to the day. So when a man behind a makeshift counter invited him to make use of it he accepted the invitation without so much as a second thought.
Time passes
very quickly when you are having fun, but it felt like only a moment or two before he heard a voice calling out to him.
He stared at the man behind the counter. “I owe you ten pounds!” he repeated hotly. “But I’ve only just got here.”
“You’ve ’ad your feet in the water for a good ten minutes,” said the man. “And it’s a pound a minute.”
“A pound a minute?” uttered Paddington. He could hardly believe his ears.
“It’s coming up to eleven now,” said the man.
“Eleven!” repeated Paddington in alarm.
“You ’eard,” said the man crossly. “What are you? Some kind of tame parrot… repeating everything I say?”
“But I’ve only got ten pence,” said Paddington. “And that has to last me until the end of the week.”
“Ten pence!” echoed the man. “Did I ’ear you say you’ve only got ten pence?”
“Now you’re doing it,” said Paddington.
“Doing what?” said the man.
“Repeating what I just said,” exclaimed Paddington.
He raised his hat politely. “I think it must be catching. I was on my way to see Mr Gruber when you asked me if I would like to bathe my feet. It’s a hot day, so it felt like a good idea, and…”
“Thirteen and counting,” broke in the man, looking at his watch. “I was assuming,” he continued, choosing his words with care, “that you’d read the sign over the pool before you took the plunge. It’s all there in black and white. Now I’ve got a good idea. I suggest you take your feet out of that water in double-quick time and ’op it. My fish are ’aving enough trouble as it is – threshing to and fro like they don’t know if they’re coming or going.”
Hearing the word ‘fish’, Paddington scrambled out of the blue plastic paddling pool as fast as he could and peered down at the water for the first time. Sure enough, a shoal of tiny black creatures were circling round and round in the very spot where he had just been standing.
“I wish I’d brought my fishing net with me,” he said.
“That would have been all I need,” said the man. “I’ve only just taken delivery of them garra rufas. Very valuable, they are. They’re from the other side of the world and they’ve got no teeth.”
“Oh dear,” said Paddington. “I should ask for your money back if I were you.”
“But that’s the whole point,” said the man. “They don’t bite, they suck. It’s the latest thing in what is known as the world of fish pedicure. Which is a fancy name for what is the same as manicuring fingers only it ’as to do with the feet. Them fish remove the dead skin from between people’s toes without damaging the ’ealthy skin underneath it like there’s no tomorrow. If you ask me they must have been ’aving trouble with your follicles.”
“My follicles!” repeated Paddington. “I’d better tell Mrs Bird.”
“Oh dear,” said the man. “’Ere we go again. Follicles,” he explained, “are the sunken bits you ’as between your toes. Bears’ follicles must be deeper than other people’s. I expect the fish ’ad trouble getting their little ’eads inside. Must be very frustrating. I bet some of them wished they’d been born with teeth after all.”
Glancing up, the salesman’s face suddenly cleared as he realised a small crowd had collected while they had been talking.
“Roll up, roll up,” he called, hastily changing his tune.
“Gather round everybody. This young bear gentlemen ’ere is what’s known as a trendsetter. Or he would ’ave been, except he’s ’aving trouble with ’is follicles.
“For that very reason I’m not charging him anything,” he added, giving Paddington a nudge, “and since I know ’e’s in an ’urry to be on ’is way, I suggest you form an orderly queue. . .”
As the crowd set about following the man’s instructions, Paddington took the hint and made good his escape.
Leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him, he hurried down the Portobello Road as fast as he could in order to tell Mr Gruber about his latest adventure.
“I sometimes think people see you coming, Mr Brown,” said his friend, as he busied himself getting the cocoa ready for their elevenses, while Paddington dealt with the buns. “Things do seem to happen when you’re out and about.”
“It’s a bit early in the day too,” said Paddington. “It’s only just past eleven o’clock.”
A thoughtful look came over Mr Gruber’s face as he settled himself down on the horsehair sofa at the back of the shop. “This hot weather isn’t good news when you’re trying to run a business,” he mused. “People want to be out and about, not stuck inside an antique shop. I had been toying with the idea of putting our deck chairs out on the pavement like we used to, but all this talk of dipping your feet into ice-cold water has given me an idea.”
He paused. “Seeing Jonathan and Judy are home for the summer holidays, perhaps you had better see what they feel about it first of all, but I think a nice peaceful picnic in the park this afternoon will do us all the world of good.”
“A picnic in the park!” exclaimed Judy, when Paddington rushed home to tell the others. “What a lovely idea. Trust Mr Gruber to invite us along too.” She got up off the lawn and brushed herself down. “I’d better make some sandwiches.”
“May I help,” asked Paddington excitedly. “Bears are good at sandwiches.”
Jonathan licked a forefinger and held it over his head. “There’s a nice breeze,” he announced. “I might take my kite. I haven’t flown it for years.”
He rushed upstairs and returned a moment or so later armed with a multicoloured object almost as tall as Paddington.
“It’s what’s known as a double butterfly kite,” he said. “The frame is made of balsawood and the rest of it is Japanese tissue paper. I made it myself,” he added proudly. “And I painted it!”
“I expect bears would be good at flying kites,” said Paddington hopefully.
Jonathan eyed him dubiously. “We’ll see,” he replied vaguely. “It isn’t always as easy as it might sound.”
“You wouldn’t want to be carried off by the wind,” said Judy, coming to her brother’s rescue.
“There’s no knowing where you might end up,” agreed Jonathan gratefully.
Both Mrs Bird and Mrs Brown were only too pleased to have the house to themselves, so Mr Gruber’s suggestion met with all-round approval, and it was a happy party that eventually set off early that afternoon.
Paddington gazed around with interest as they entered the park. There were all manner of things going on. To start with there was a children’s playground full of climbing frames, which looked very tempting. Then there were several outdoor restaurants; but best of all, there was a large lake with boats on it, so he made a beeline for that.
“I think I might test my follicles first of all,” he announced, as he dipped his toes into the water.
But once again it seemed as though it wasn’t meant to be, for his feet had hardly entered the water before a man in uniform emerged from behind a bush.
“What’s all this going on?” he asked severely. “Can’t you read?”
He pointed to a nearby sign emblazoned with the words: NO BATHING, FISHING OR DOGS ALLOWED IN THIS WATER in large letters.
“It doesn’t say anything about bears,” protested Judy, coming to Paddington’s rescue. “Or dipping your feet in the water, come to that.”
“That’s as may be,” said the man. “But it has to do with Health and Safety. Health on account of the fact that we don’t know where that young bear’s feet have been, and safety on account of the fact that some of the fish around here have got very sharp teeth and they might fancy partaking of a toe or two for their afternoon tea.”
Paddington hastily withdrew his feet from the water just as there was a splash of something breaking the surface nearby.
“See what I mean,” said the man. “That was a narrow squeak if ever there was one. Probably a passing pike with an eye on your digits.”
He glan
ced at Jonathan’s kite. “And the same applies to that contraption,” he said. “There’s a time and place for everything. What goes up must come down. And when that happens it might land on someone’s head.
“If I were you,” he added, not unkindly. “I’d take it somewhere quiet where you can’t be seen.”
“Oh dear,” said Mr Gruber, as the inspector turned on his heels and went on his way. “That wasn’t a very good start.”
“Don’t worry, Mr Gruber,” said Judy. “No matter what, they can’t stop us from having our sandwiches.”
“I know a good place for a picnic,” broke in Jonathan. “It’s where I used to go when I was small. Follow me…” And without further ado he led the way round the lake.
“We must be getting near the Open Air Theatre,” said Judy, when they reached the far side.
Paddington pricked up his ears. “I’ve never heard of a theatre in the open air before,” he said.
Jonathan pointed towards a poster. “Well, there you are,” he said. “They’re doing Hamlet today. The wind’s blowing the right way, so with a bit of luck you might be able to hear some of it.”
Paddington licked his lips. Privately, he thought Hamlet sounded like a small ham sandwich, but he didn’t let on. “What is it about?” he asked.
“Most of the play takes place in a castle called Elsinore,” said Jonathan. “And it’s very bloodthirsty. Hamlet’s father was King of Denmark and when he slew the King of Norway, his son vowed to avenge him.”
“Meanwhile,” said Judy, “Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude, marries someone called Claudius, who is none other than the brother of Hamlet’s father.”
“Then,” said Mr Gruber, “Hamlet’s father appears as a ghost and tells his son that he was in fact murdered by Claudius… and he must take his revenge.”
“It sounds very complicated,” said Paddington.
“That’s only the beginning,” said Jonathan. “There’s someone called Polonius, who is always in the way, so he has to go…”
