Paddington Races Ahead

by Michael Bond

  “I don’t think so,” said Paddington. “I had a postcard from my Aunt Lucy the other day, but she didn’t mention it.”

  “In short,” said Mr Climes, “You are a breakaway faction going it alone. Don’t worry.” He put a finger to his nose again. “Your secret is safe with me.

  “I must say you came round that corner at a great rate of knots. I daresay you wanted to lose some weight after all the breakfast you’d had this morning.”

  “No,” said Paddington. “I was on my way to the bakers to get some buns. I was later than usual and I didn’t want them to run out. It would have meant Mr Gruber having to wait for the second baking of the day and that would have upset his schedules.”

  “Gruber?” repeated Mr Climes. “Gruber? I don’t know the name. Is he your trainer?”

  “He has an antique shop,” said Paddington. “We always have our elevenses together.”

  “A brilliant cover-up,” said Mr Climes, hardly able to conceal his excitement.

  “Tell me, what do you think of the Games so far? Are all the preparations to your liking?”

  “What are they?” asked Paddington.

  “What are they?” repeated Mr Climes. “Do you mean to say you have come all this way and you don’t know what they are? This is quite extraordinary. They’re on everybody’s lips.”

  It was Paddington’s turn to edge away. “Oh dear,” he said. “I hope they’re not catching.”

  Mr Climes essayed another smile. “You’re having me on,” he said. “Tell me, what event do you specialise in? If I may be so bold, your legs look a bit short for the pole vault.”

  “My legs are a bit short for the pole vault!” repeated Paddington hotly. “But they’ve always been that way.”

  “You look as though you might be a good all-rounder,” said Mr Climes soothingly.

  “I expect that’s because I’m wearing a duffle coat,” said Paddington. “Mrs Bird says I shan’t feel the benefit when I get indoors if I don’t. Besides, I might catch cold.”

  “Sound advice for an athlete…” said Mr Climes. “Now don’t tell me… let me guess… it can hardly be the long jump, or the high one come to that…”

  Returning to the speed at which Paddington had come round the corner, he hazarded a guess. “A long-distance runner, perhaps?

  “For instance, how long would it take you to get from here to, say, Paddington Station?”

  Paddington considered the matter for a moment or two. “I did it in just under four minutes last Sunday,” he said.

  “Four minutes!” exclaimed Mr Climes excitedly. “But it must be a good mile and a half from here. That has to be a world record. It’s over the speed limit.”

  “Oh dear, is it?” said Paddington.

  “The traffic lights were green all the way,” he added lamely.

  “I think you are hiding your light under a bushel,” said Mr Climes. “Tell me, how are you on short distances – the one hundred metres for example?”

  It was Paddington’s turn to hazard a guess. “It depends how warm the buns are,” he said, thinking about the time it took him to get from the bakers to Mr Gruber’s. “On a cold day, about five seconds.”

  Sunny Climes was unable to contain his excitement a moment longer. “Don’t forget, listeners,” he shouted into the microphone, “you heard it here first!”

  “Shan’t be a mo…” he added, and made a dash for the green van.

  Gathering his shopping basket on wheels, Paddington seized the opportunity to make good his escape.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, Mr Gruber,” he said, a few minutes later.

  Mr Gruber looked up from his stove at the back of the shop. “I was beginning to get worried, Mr Brown. It’s unlike you to be late. The cocoa’s been ready for some while.”

  “I met a strange man in the market,” explained Paddington. “A Mr Climes… He kept me talking. I only just managed to escape when his back was turned.”

  “Not ‘Blabbermouth’ Climes!” exclaimed Mr Gruber. “I heard he was in the area. He’s a famous sports writer. People hang on to his every word.”

  “Oh dear,” said Paddington. “It sounds like him, Mr Gruber. He thinks you’re my trainer for some special games.” And he went on to explain all that had happened that morning to make him late.

  Mr Gruber ushered Paddington to the horsehair sofa. “If you ask me,” he said, “I think it’s time we had one of our chats. Mr Climes may be sunny by name, but he certainly isn’t sunny by nature. Once he gets his teeth into something he never lets go.”

  Paddington looked up anxiously from his cocoa. “Perhaps he won’t recognise me the next time we meet,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Mr Gruber tactfully.

  “I had a disguise outfit given to me one Christmas,” said Paddington. “I could wear a false beard for the time being.”

  “That might make matters even worse,” said Mr Gruber. “If you will pardon the expression, Mr Brown, he might smell a rat. If he turns up outside my shop I suggest you hide behind this sofa while I keep him at bay. But don’t forget to take your cocoa with you. Otherwise it might arouse his suspicions.

  “As for the Games, I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of them before. They only take place every four years and each time it is in a different country.

  “People from all over the world gather together to compete against each other in the field of sport, not just in running, but swimming and gymnastics, cycling, wrestling, weightlifting… practically everything to do with sport you can possibly think of…”

  Mr Gruber had a faraway look in his eyes as he stirred his cocoa. “You may find this hard to believe, Mr Brown, but long, long ago, when I was a teenager, I achieved a certain amount of fame myself as a hurdler…”

  “I always thought you were Hungarian,” said Paddington, staring at his friend.

  Over the years he’d never ceased to be surprised by the things Mr Gruber had done in his life, and he never once pictured him having been a teenager.

  “I was a champion Hungarian hurdler,” said Mr Gruber proudly. “One day I will show you some of the trophies I won.”

  Paddington was most impressed. “I’ve never won a trophy, Mr Gruber,” he said. “Perhaps you could show me how it’s done one day?”

  Mr Gruber thought carefully before answering. “It isn’t as easy as it may sound, Mr Brown,” he said at last, not wishing to hurt Paddington’s feelings.

  “As for the Olympic Games… there isn’t enough room for everyone, so only the best and the fittest are chosen to take part and for that you have to go into training a long time ahead.”

  Paddington looked most impressed. “I didn’t know the Olympics were so important, Mr Gruber,” he said.

  “Just you wait,” said Mr Gruber. “Soon the words will be on everyone’s lips.”

  “That’s exactly what Mr Climes said!” exclaimed Paddington.

  “Well, there you are,” said Mr Gruber, with a twinkle in his eye. “It must be true.”

  He looked at Paddington over the top of his glasses. “Having said that, I can’t help thinking you were slightly over ambitious with your estimates of the time it takes you to get anywhere, Mr Brown. From here to Paddington Station in under four minutes, for example…

  “It’s a common mistake. People often think they are going faster than they actually are, or, worse still vice versa.

  “It’s no wonder Sunny Climes was excited. He’s always first with the news, even though more often than not in his haste to beat everyone else to it he manages to get hold of the wrong end of the stick. It sounds to me like one of those occasions. He must have thought he was on to a scoop.

  “I suggest you keep an eye out for him during the next few days. He doesn’t give up easily.”

  It was hard to tell whether or not Mr Gruber was being serious, but nevertheless, acting on his advice, Paddington used the back door when he left the shop.

  He didn’t
want to run the risk of bumping into his interviewer again, and when he finally reached the safety of number thirty-two Windsor Gardens he took off his duffle coat and spent some time examining his reflection in the hall mirror.

  Mr Climes was right about one thing; it did leave a lot to be desired.

  “There’s an item in the Evening Banner which may interest you, Paddington,” said Mr Brown when he arrived back from the office that evening. “According to their sports reporter, Sunny Climes, there’s a team from Darkest Peru arriving in this country to take part in the Olympic Games.”

  “Oh dear,” said Paddington. “Is there?”

  “I thought you would be pleased,” said Mr Brown. “It doesn’t say how many of them there are, and it doesn’t mention any names, but the first arrival sounds pretty hot stuff… It struck me you might know who it might be.”

  “I think,” said Paddington unhappily as he hurried upstairs to his bedroom, “you may know him already, Mr Brown.”

  “I wonder what he meant by that, Henry,” said Mrs Brown.

  “Goodness only knows,” said Mr Brown. “Still waters run deep.”

  “There’s nothing still about that bear’s waters,” said Mrs Bird, overhearing the conversation. “You mark my words, we haven’t heard the last of it by a long chalk.”

  And there, for the time being at least, the matter rested.

  Chapter Five

  PADDINGTON IN TRAINING

  ONE MORNING, SHORTLY after Paddington’s chance encounter in the Portobello Road, Mrs Brown was pottering about in the kitchen when she happened to glance out of the window and caught sight of some very strange goings-on in the garden.

  Wiping the steam from the glass, she took a closer look before drawing Mrs Bird’s attention to it.

  “It’s Paddington!” she said. “He’s rolling about on the lawn like a bear possessed. I do hope he’s all right.”

  The Browns’ housekeeper joined her at the window. “Perhaps he’s celebrating the fact that his sunflowers have grown so tall Mr Curry can’t possibly see over the fence,” she suggested.

  “But they’ve been like that for a while now,” persisted Mrs Brown.

  “I must say he was unusually quiet yesterday evening,” said Mrs Bird. “And he didn’t finish his second mug of cocoa at breakfast, which isn’t like him.”

  “He keeps stopping to mop his brow,” said Mrs Brown. “His handkerchief looks sopping wet. I hope he isn’t sickening for something.”

  Mrs Bird’s face cleared as the penny dropped. “I do believe he’s trying to do press-ups,” she said. “If you want my opinion, he’s got a touch of Olympic fever. There’s a lot of it about at the moment and it’s very catching. I even saw Mr Curry jumping up and down on the spot in his garden yesterday. I shan’t be sorry when it’s all over.”

  Mrs Brown looked relieved. “Oh, well,” she said, “if that’s all it is, he can’t come to any great harm.”

  “That’s as may be,” said Mrs Bird darkly.

  The Browns’ housekeeper didn’t entirely share Mrs Brown’s optimism. In between the press-ups, if indeed that was what they were meant to be, Paddington wore a determined expression on his face; it was one she knew of old.

  At such times there was no knowing what might be going on in his mind, although having said that, she would have been even more uneasy had she been aware of the truth.

  Unbeknown to her, it had all come to a head the day before, when Paddington happened to be making his way downstairs and he came across a pamphlet on the hall mat.

  There was nothing at all unusual in that. The arrival of pamphlets advertising one thing or another was a regular occurrence at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens. Hardly a day passed without the hall mat being littered with bits of paper.

  Mrs Bird usually gave them short shrift. “Anyone would think this was a hotel rather than a private dwelling,” was her favourite phrase as she confined whatever it was to the wastepaper bin without so much as a second glance.

  Paddington had been about to do the same thing, when he caught sight of the words: FREE INTRODUCTORY OFFER! emblazoned in red across the top.

  Being a bear with a keen eye for a bargain, he couldn’t resist taking a closer look.

  Below the headline there was a picture of a bronzed lady holding a pair of dumbbells over her head, and underneath it was another caption which read: LET ME BE YOUR PERSONAL TRAINER.

  Paddington wasn’t sure he wanted to go that far, but the word FREE was hard to resist, so he carried on reading.

  The lady in the picture was Gladys Brimstone, late of East Acton and Rio de Janeiro, and it seemed that not only had she recently arrived in London, but she was opening a health club in the Portobello Road in time for the Olympic Games.

  Dressed in singlet and shorts, her muscles rippling in the rays of the sun, she was standing on a stretch of pavement not far from Mr Gruber’s shop, holding aloft a banner bearing the words: DON’T DELAY – MAKE IT TODAY.

  Paddington took the pamphlet to bed with him that night and studied it carefully with the aid of his torch and a magnifying glass. According to Miss Brimstone, an hour spent with her in the gym and you were guaranteed to come out feeling a new person.

  It didn’t mention what effect her treatment might have on bears, but he felt sure it wouldn’t be a problem because right at the end there was another banner headline saying: LARGE OR SMALL – I TREAT THEM ALL!

  He felt slightly guilty about keeping the news to himself, but the pamphlet hadn’t been addressed to anyone in particular. Mr Brown handed it straight back, muttering something about being late for the office, Jonathan and Judy were away at school, and try as he might, Paddington couldn’t picture either Mrs Brown or Mrs Bird wanting to do press-ups on the lawn.

  So it came about that shortly after his activities in the garden, he set out on his own rather earlier than usual, hoping he would be able to investigate the matter still further before it was time for his elevenses with Mr Gruber.

  As luck would have it, the door to the premises shown on the brochure was ajar, and it was with growing excitement that he pushed it open and made his way down a corridor festooned with photographs of Miss Brimstone in various poses.

  It seemed as though there was no end to her talents. If she wasn’t towing a steam roller uphill with the aid of rope gripped between her teeth, or canoeing down the Amazon river armed with only a bow and a quiverful of arrows, she was dressed up as Father Christmas, with one muscular arm forming a ‘V’ in order to crack open a walnut.

  As he reached the end of the corridor, a door opened and a lady wearing hair curlers emerged.

  “Good morning,” she trilled. “That’s what I like to see. There’s nothing like getting the mail early in the morning. It’s a very good start to the day.”

  Paddington gave her a hard stare. “I’m not a postman!” he exclaimed. “I’m Paddington Brown from Darkest Peru and I’ve come about your brochure.”

  “Oh dear,” said the lady. “I do beg your pardon. You never know who does what these days.”

  Holding his paw in a vice-like grip, she began pumping it up and down. “Brimstone’s the name. I’m not officially open as yet, but the early bird catches the worm, so I’m entirely at your disposal.”

  It was Paddington’s turn to look confused. Close to, Miss Brimstone looked rather larger than he had expected.

  “I saw the pictures in the corridor,” he ventured, “and I was hoping I might have one of your walnuts. I didn’t have much breakfast this morning.”

  Miss Brimstone gave a shudder. “A walnut for breakfast?” she boomed. “We don’t have any of those goings-on round here. A glass of water and an occasional Liquorice Allsort, perhaps…”

  “In that case,” said Paddington. “May I have my paw back?”

  Miss Brimstone promptly released her grip.

  “Thank you very much,” said Paddington, raising his hat politely.

  Miss Brimstone gazed at the top of his head
. “What on earth is that excrescence?” she exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it before and I’ve travelled the world. Perhaps it needs a good squeeze.”

  Paddington anxiously ran a free paw over the top of his head. As he did so, his face cleared.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Miss Brimstone,” he said. “It’s what’s left of a marmalade sandwich. I always keep one under my hat in case I have an emergency. I had a bite out of it on the way here, just in case.”

  “Well, if you want me to take you on that will have to stop,” said Miss Brimstone. “As of now. Snacks between meals are strictly forbidden.” She eyed Paddington somewhat dubiously. “I haven’t come across that kind of thing before,” she said. “Even though I’ve been practising for over ten years.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get it right in the end, Miss Brimstone,” said Paddington politely. “My friend, Mr Gruber, is always saying ‘practice makes perfect’.”

  Miss Brimstone gave him a sickly smile, and having locked the front door, led the way into a room at the back.

  “You had better take your duffle coat off before we do anything else,” she said. “Then I can give you the once-over. To start with I must take a look at your abs.”

  “My abs!” exclaimed Paddington. “I don’t think I have any.”

  “Nonsense!” said Miss Brimstone briskly. “Every one has abs to a greater or lesser extent. Abs is short for abdominal muscles. Perhaps you would allow me to feel yours so that we can see where we stand…”

  “If it had been a few weeks ago you could have felt my oysters,” said Paddington.

  “You win some – you lose some,” said Miss Brimstone distantly.

  Having placed his duffle coat on a nearby hook, she turned to take a closer look at her new arrival and tentatively reached out a hand.

  “Tickiley wickiley,” she trilled.

  Paddington hastily backed away. “Bless you!” he exclaimed.