Sebastian

by Alan Field

I was just about to think of something else when ‘Woof!’ or ‘Pow!’ I was squeezed from both sides at the same time. If you’ve ever been squashed on opposite sides like a sock in a wringer you’ll know what I mean. It was Géraldine’s mother. She grabbed Géraldine and I happened to be in between. There were lots of smacking kisses and both of them talked at once, and it was ages before they noticed me.

  “Aaaaaaah?” said Géraldine’s mother, holding me out at arm’s length.

  “It’s Sebastian,” said Géraldine by way of explanation. Her mother didn’t seem in the least convinced, and tried out all my joints in turn - very painful some of them, particularly my neck as I’m not in the habit of rotating my head round and round without stopping, even though I can do it, of course.

  “It’s a bear,” she said at length. Well, after all that scrutiny I expected a more intelligent remark. But I suppose foreigners have never heard of bears and I would have to think of myself as a sort of missionary come to educate these people in the ways of bears.

  “I expect he’s hungry, Maman,” said Geraldine. “He always had his tea at four o’clock in England.”

  “Ah yes. The English tea,” said Maman in an amused sort of voice. “I’ll make some specially for him and we can all have a cup.”

  We went into the dining room, which was very pleasant with big windows overlooking the street. There was an old brass clock on the sideboard and lots of dark furniture. On a corner table there was a collection of photographs in silver frames. Géraldine grabbed the thickest book she could find from the shelf (it was a dictionary), and plonked me on top of it on the nearest chair. Then I had to suffer an enormous stiff serviette being tucked into the top of my jersey and spread all over me like a duvet. Although I only pretended to drink the tea, I can’t say I liked the look of it. In the first place you could see the bottom of the cup - even with the tea in it - and in the second place there was a slice of lemon floating on the top. I could have just imagined what Auntie Vi would have to say; and Uncle Alec, who regularly used to make his spoon stand up in the cup to test the strength. Still, making tea was another thing I would have to teach them.

  “You won’t be able to see Papa tonight,” Géraldine said, “because he’s gone to prison,” and looked sideways at me to see if I was shocked. “Actually,” she went on after a pause to crunch a biscuit, “he’s taking someone there. He’s a sergeant in the Paris police, you see.”

  Well, that was an interesting occupation at least.

  “So,” she went on, “we’d better send a telegram to say you’ve arrived safely.” She took a red-covered notebook and wrote down Amanda’s address in beautiful pale blue ink. “Now, what shall we say? I know ...

  SEBASTIAN ARRIVE HEALTHY AND SAFE TODAY WEATHER FINE

  LOVE GERALDINE

  Her mother put on some gold-rimmed spectacles and came to look.

  She didn’t approve of the bit about the weather. “Too many words. Too expensive,” she said.

  “But Maman, you always have to talk about the weather to English people. It wouldn’t be polite to miss it out.”

  “And you need not say TODAY.”

  Géraldine crossed out the words.

  “It will still cost too much,” complained her mother. “Ask Grandpère about it.”

  Géraldine fetched her grandfather out of the next room where I could hear the television playing very loudly. He was a small man with no corners. His shoulders were rounded, his elbows rounded, his legs bowed and his tummy well padded out. He was all dressed in black and had a very large nose (a hooter, some impolite people might have called it). He had a battered-looking cigarette drooping from his mouth and so much smoke was drifting up that he kept squinting to see, and his eyes almost disappeared.

  He grunted a few times, borrowed Géraldine’s pen and crossed out some more words. The telegram read:

  SEB. ARR. GER.

  I hoped Amanda would understand it, especially if the words happened to get stuck together and turned out as

  SEBARRGER

  Now if they’d asked me about the shortest telegram to send, I should just have put

  GRRRRRRRRRR

  Amanda would have known exactly who it was.

  Géraldine took some crackly money out of a little box on the shelf and dashed off to send the telegram.

  We spent most of the rest of the evening eating an enormous dinner with bottles of wine - just like Christmas. I didn’t drink any, of course: bears only drink water and cocoa. Bedtime was ten o’clock (Amanda was always in bed at nine). Géraldine gave me a big hug and tucked me in at the bottom of the bed.

  Well, I was very pleased on the whole. Here I was in a foreign country - probably the only stuffed bear ever to make the journey. I couldn’t help thinking about the animal officer at the airport. And that funny man with the saucepan on his head and little moustache. What an adventure!

  I had just started to go all dreamy when - plop! Something or somebody landed on the floor at the foot of the bed. I put on my specially fierce expression reserved for witches and burglars and looked out through the bed rails.

  Chapter 3: Portrait of a Bear

  By the light that came through the window from the street lamps below, I could see Géraldine’s animals sitting in their various places around the room. Well, there were certainly some very queer-looking things. One especially was bright yellow with black spots all over it - I hoped it wasn’t suffering from measles.

  The cause of the ‘plop’ was a wooden soldier who had landed on his head next to the bed post. He had a red tunic and black trousers, and wore a little painted beard, which probably made him look rather sinister when he was the right way up.

  I was pleased to see that I was taller than any of them. There was even a little grey mouse that wasn’t much bigger than my paw. It had a very bright face though, like most mice, and sharp eyes. It was standing up on its back legs and it shouted out in a voice like a needle that went right through my head.

  “What sort of bear are you?”

  A fine way to open a conversation I thought, and said “Well, I’m a Teddy Bear.”

  “What is a Teddy Bear, please?”

  Absurd mouse, I thought. Doesn’t even know what a Teddy Bear is. “Well, I suppose you’ve heard of the President of the United States of America?”

  Yes, they all had.

  “Well, the President a long time ago was Mr Theodore Roosevelt - Teddy for short. He owned the very first bear in the world, and all other bears were called after him. So you see,” I went on, as modestly as possible, “we bears are all related to the President of the United States.”

  There was an awed silence.

  “Of course,” I went on, “my own name is Sebastian and I’m a sort of travelling bear. Today I arrived from England, and - well - I expect I shall stop for a little longer. But I’m really going all round the world.”

  I hadn’t actually thought of going all round the world, but it seemed quite a good idea now I had said it.

  “How far is it round the world?” said the mouse.

  I’d never measured the world myself, but I did some rapid calculations. “About a million miles,” I said. I knew Auntie Vi lived a mile away, and a million times as far and you were sure to have gone round the world at least once.

  It was the turn of the black-spotted yellow thing then.

  “Hello, hello!” it chortled, with its foot bent round its head and standing on one leg.

  Very funny, I thought. Of course, it was easy when you were made of rubber.

  “I’m Brussel,” it said. “I’m very good at tricks as you can see.”

  “Once he tied himself into so many knots,” said the wooden soldier gloomily, “that Géraldine had to fetch a sailor to undo him.”

  “Of course, I’m knot always getting i
nto trouble,” said Brussel. “Géraldine sometimes uses my left foot for rubbing out her homework. In fact,” he went on, “I only have two toes left now.”

  I couldn’t see that it really mattered about his toes - his feet were so big he would never miss them.

  “And this is Aristide the Ant-eater,” said the wooden soldier. “The trouble is, though, he can’t talk.”

  “Pzwmkldylydo,” said Aristide.

  I could see what the soldier meant.

  “It’s on account of his nose,” said the soldier. “He will talk down it, and being so long the letters all get jumbled up and only nonsense comes out.”

  What was the use of an Ant-eater, though, when you were four floors high above the street? He must have been very hungry.

  On the bed I noticed a curious cat - all head and no body. It had a zipped-up tummy - for eating the nighties and things, I supposed. Amanda’s cat, Muffin, would have found a zipper-tummy very useful with all the tins of food she used to get through.

  I was about to go into my lecture on the history and habits of bears - to enlarge their education of course - when I suddenly fell asleep. I knew I must have fallen asleep, because I can only remember waking up in the morning, and I suppose you can only do that if you’ve fallen asleep first.

  Géraldine had whisked me out of bed and was tripping round the room in a kind of French whizzle, or circular dance. We ended up on the floor with Géraldine out of breath and the room still going round and round.

  “We’re off to do some sightseeing,” she said. “So you’ll need your telescope and compass. And I think we’d better change your jersey.”

  Zwoop! My jersey had gone in a flash, and probably my ears with it. WOOSH! A fresh jersey. It was the red one with ‘Sebastian’ embroidered in white wool across the front.

  “Mmm ...” said Géraldine. “I think ... yes - I think a bow tie.”

  She dashed into one of the bedrooms and reappeared a minute later with a blue bow tie.

  “There,” she said, after snapping the elastic rather painfully around my neck. She held me up to the dressing table mirror.

  Well, I must admit, I did look rather smart and began to get excited about sightseeing.

  “First we go to Montmartre and later to the Isle de la Cité and you can see Notre Dame,” Géraldine explained as we clattered down the stone stairs. “Oh, and I must get some bread for Maman.”

  It was early in the morning but everyone seemed to be up. There were lots of cafés with brightly coloured canopies, and the tables and chairs were outside on the pavement. What a funny idea to have a café and then bring all the furniture outside. Like having a house and living in the garden. Well, nobody was taking any notice so I supposed it was another of those curious French customs. Most of the people sitting at the tables were drinking coffee and eating bread and jam. What fun, I thought, to be able to eat jam in the morning instead of having to wait until tea time.

  As we walked along the road was getting steeper and steeper, and narrower and narrower. A stream of water came swishing down the gutter and I could just see with one eye (Géraldine’s sleeve was covering the other) that some jolly-faced nuns were cleaning the pavements. They seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves and called “Good morning!” to us as we passed - and one of them added, “Good morning Monsieur Bear,” which made me feel quite pleased.

  “Here we are,” said Géraldine at last. “The Place du Tertre. It’s very famous - where artists come to paint.”

  All the shops in the square had pictures and postcards hanging outside, which suddenly reminded me that I had to write to Toots.

  “Would you like to send a postcard?” said Géraldine, reading my thoughts. “Let’s go and look.”

  There were all kinds of cards, some bigger than I’d ever seen before - in brilliant colours - some all long and thin. The one I liked best was of the Eiffel tower, all lit up at night.

  “How about the Eiffel tower?” asked Géraldine.

  She paid the lady in the shop and we went and sat on a little wooden chair that didn’t seem to belong to anyone in particular.

  “Now,” she said, planting me firmly on her knees and holding a pen between my paws, “who do you want to write to? We’ve sent Amanda a telegram, so I suppose you’ll want to send a message to one of your friends. What’s the name of that other little bear that makes a jingling noise when you turn him upside-down?”

  I was just about to say ‘Toots’, when she said, “Ah! I remember, it’s Zoots.”

  Well I couldn’t really contradict her, so Zoots it was.

  Dear Zoots

  Today it is fine and I am wearing my best jersey. Géraldine is taking me sightseeing.

  Wish you were here,

  Sebastian

  Very higgledy-piggledy writing I thought.

  “Now I’ll go and post it, and buy the bread for Maman while you sit here,” said Géraldine, briskly arranging me and the telescope and compass on the slatted chair. “Don’t go away!”

  She was soon lost in the crowd and I hoped she would remember where she had put me. A stuffed bear is at a great disadvantage when it comes to moving around. And what if it rained? I looked up apprehensively, but the sky was quite blue and I began to feel rather pleased with things. There were artists everywhere just as Géraldine had said. Most of them had beards - so that people would recognise them I supposed - and wore very untidy clothes. I was just wondering why it was that bears never seemed to grow beards, when somebody said in a deep voice.

  “Ah! But it is impossible!”

  A shadow fell over me and looking up I could see a big, bearded face (not unlike a bear, actually). It was studying me intently.

  “But it is extraordinary,” he went on. “This I have never seen. A stuffed, golden bear.”

  He bent down and tweaked my ears and patted me on the head with a very heavy hand.

  “I must paint you. Yes, yes, yes!”

  His eyes were glowing and he looked quite ecstatic through his thick beard and spectacles. Fancy never having seen a bear before! Did he mean to paint me though, or my picture?

  It was a relief when he brought along his easel and box of paints and little stool.

  “Now my little bear, I arrange you so ... and so. Hmmmm.” He stood back and examined me critically. “I think ... I think. Yes, a beret! Pardon Monsieur - may I?” He snatched the beret from the head of the old gentleman sitting next to us, and before he could protest pulled it over my ears at a rakish angle. “Voilà! It is perfect,” he said in an admiring tone. “Now for the portrait.”

  Whistling and singing and burbling to himself, he squeezed some beautifully coloured paints from tubes and mixed them all up on his palette with a little knife.

  The portrait began to take shape. Not exactly right for the nose I thought, but it was artist’s licence, as Amanda used to say. As long as he made both ears the same size I wouldn’t mind.

  Quite a crowd had gathered round us, including Géraldine who was smiling at me encouragingly. Everyone was jostling everyone else to get a look at the picture. My joints were just beginning to get stiff when the artist made a flourish with his palette knife and said, “Voilà! It’s finished!”

  “That’s a great picture, Mac,” said a tall man in a pale grey suit. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars for it.”

  “Ah, but Monsieur,” said the artist, “this portrait is unique. Never have I seen such a bear.”

  They went on arguing with Géraldine chipping in saying the portrait really belonged to her because it was her bear, when all of a sudden somebody grabbed me from behind the chair and in a flash I was being rushed through the crowd. I couldn’t see who it was, but I could hear shouts of “Stop thief! Police! Help!” It was no use. Whoever was carrying me was running so quickly that soon the shouts died awa
y and we were alone.

  Chapter 4: Captured

  I objected most strongly to being stolen as though I was a handbag or something, but I couldn’t say a thing - being upside-down again - and being jogged about so much that I began to see double.

  We were in a very queer part of Paris with enormous flights of stone steps every so often, and faded-looking buildings. Suddenly we turned into a dark entrance with an iron sign over it called METRO, and went down some stairs into a long tunnel, then through a door at the end on to a platform like a railway station with shining rails disappearing each side into more tunnels.

  In a few minutes, with a rattling and squealing like a thousand old bicycles, the strangest looking train I’d ever seen came hurtling along the rails and stopped with a kind of groan. Some of the coaches were painted red, some green. There was no engine so I couldn’t imagine it knew where it was going. Perhaps it was off to the underworld and I should see Pluto and all those other people I’d heard about.

  We got in and I was propped up in the corner of the seat. At last I could see my captor. It was a boy, about Géraldine’s age, dressed in a fancy blue suit with very short trousers. He had a mean face (as I expected), and wore large, round spectacles.

  “Let me see,” he said, taking a little index book from his pocket. “B is for bear.” And opened it at B. “What’s your name, bear?”

  I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that, so I looked as though I hadn’t heard.

  “Ah! S-e-b-a-s-t-i-a-n,” he said, turning his head on one side and reading the name on my jersey. He wrote it carefully in his book. “You’re the 97th in my collection,” he said casually. “Only three more to go and I shall have a hundred.”

  A hundred what? I wondered. Not bears, surely. I shouldn’t have thought there were a hundred bears in the whole world. After what seemed hours of travelling through tunnels and different stations we arrived at the very end of the line.

  “All change!” they shouted, and the boy picked me up in a sticky hand. Outside the station a big, black car was waiting with a man in uniform, who saluted the boy and opened the door. It all smelt of leather and cigarettes inside.