by Michael Bond
“It’s been in there for years,” agreed Mrs. Brown. “No wonder you went straight through it. It was as rotten as they come.”
“Mr. Curry ought to think himself lucky he didn’t go through it,” said Judy. “I bet we should never have heard the last of it if he had.”
“Dad put it out for the dustmen yesterday morning,” explained Jonathan. “Mr. Curry must have seen it and taken it away before they arrived. The old scrounger.”
Paddington listened to the conversation with growing surprise. Although he’d often been in Mr. Brown’s garage, he’d never come across the hammock before—not that he would have known what it was if he had found it. Now he rather wished he’d been able to have a proper go when it was all right to use.
“Perhaps,” he said hopefully, “I could sew some holes together and make you a new one. Bears are quite good at that sort of thing.”
The Browns exchanged glances. “Shall we tell him?” asked Jonathan.
Judy glanced out of the window. “Let’s,” she said. “I think Daddy’s almost ready.” And without further ado, she led the way into the garden.
Paddington looked more and more mystified as he followed on behind.
“There!” said Judy when they were all outside. And she pointed towards the middle of the lawn.
Paddington nearly fell over backwards with surprise again as he received his third shock of the morning. For there, in the middle of the grass, was another hammock, suspended between two poles of a large frame.
“It’s a special stand,” explained Jonathan. “That means it’ll be easier to climb into. . . .”
“And much safer once you’re in,” added Judy.
Mr. Brown stood back in order to admire the result of his labors, then he turned to Paddington. “If you like,” he said generously, “you can be the first to test it.”
Paddington considered the matter carefully for a moment or two as he approached the hammock and took a closer look at it. Then he stood back and held out his paw.
“No, thank you, Mr. Brown,” he announced politely. “After you!
“In fact,” he added hastily, in case the others insisted, “after everyone!”
Chapter Three
PADDINGTON AND THE STATELY HOME
Paddington’s friend Mr. Gruber chuckled no end when he heard about the goings-on with Mr. Curry’s hammock.
“There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip, Mr. Brown,” he said. “Or, in this case, ’twixt the hammock and the ground. I think I shall stick to my old horsehair sofa.”
Paddington nodded his agreement from behind a cloud of cocoa steam. It was good to be back in the comparative safety of Mr. Gruber’s antique shop, enjoying a chat over their morning elevenses.
“Mind you,” continued Mr. Gruber as Paddington handed him a bun from his morning supply, “I must say all this talk of hammocks takes me back to the days when I was a boy. Many a happy hour I spent in the garden during the school holidays, munching an apple and reading a book as I swung to and fro in the sunshine.” Mr. Gruber gave a sigh, and a dreamy expression came over his face as he cast his mind back. “It’s probably only my imagination, Mr. Brown, but the summers always seemed longer and warmer in those days—especially in my native Hungary.”
Paddington nearly fell off the sofa with surprise at Mr. Gruber’s words. As long as he’d known him, his friend had always seemed the same—neither young nor old—and it was hard to picture him looking any different.
Mr. Gruber chuckled again as he caught sight of the expression on Paddington’s face.
“All that was many moons ago, Mr. Brown.” He waved his hand in a circular motion over his head to take in the contents of the shop. “In those days lots of the things you see around you here were ordinary everyday objects such as you or I would use—or throw out when we’d finished with them. Now, people pay ten or even a hundred times what they cost in the first place.”
Paddington took another bite out of his bun and then gazed around Mr. Gruber’s shop. He was so used to the scene he rather took for granted all the various items of gold and silver and copper and bronze, the pictures, and the piles of bric-a-brac which sometimes filled it full almost to overflowing. The thought that once upon a time people had actually used some of Mr. Gruber’s antiques had never really occurred to him before, and it made him see everything in a new light.
“Times change,” said Mr. Gruber sadly, “sometimes for the better and sometimes for the not so good. Nowadays the only time you see many of these things is in an antique shop like mine or in a Stately Home.”
“A Stately Home, Mr. Gruber?” exclaimed Paddington. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in one of those.”
It was Mr. Gruber’s turn to look surprised. “You’ve never been inside a Stately Home, Mr. Brown?” he repeated. “Never?”
Paddington considered the matter for a moment while Mr. Gruber topped up his cocoa. “I’ve been to the Home for Retired Bears in Lima,” he said at last. “The one where Aunt Lucy lives. But I don’t think that was very stately.”
Mr. Gruber slapped his knee. “In that case, Mr. Brown,” he said, “I have an idea. Tomorrow is early closing; it’s about time we had one of our little outings, and I’ve been racking my brains trying to think where to take you. Tomorrow,” he said impressively, “tomorrow, Mr. Brown, I will take you to a Stately Home!”
Paddington could hardly believe his ears, and he grew more and more excited as he hurried home in order to tell the others.
Mr. Gruber had also invited Jonathan and Judy along to share the outing, and they, too, could hardly wait when he told them the good news.
That night Paddington had an extraspecial bath in honor of the occasion, and at Mrs. Bird’s suggestion he went to bed early so that he would be fully rested the next day.
“I think Paddington ought to go on more outings,” said Mrs. Brown as he disappeared up the stairs. “I’ve never seen him quite so spick-and-span. He looks like a new bear.”
“Hmm,” said the Browns’ housekeeper. “That’s as may be, but beauty’s only fur deep. It’s still the same underneath, and I’d sooner Mr. Gruber than me. Any home that bear visits is likely to be in a state rather than stately by the time he’s finished with it.”
Mrs. Bird spoke from bitter experience of past outings. Nevertheless, when Mr. Gruber turned up the next day and set off down the road with his party, even she had to admit that Paddington’s appearance would have raised the tone of any expedition.
His duffle coat had been freshly ironed, his hat newly washed, and even his Wellington boots had an extraspecial shine to them.
Mr. Gruber had come armed with a plentiful supply of books and maps to while away their journey, and as they changed from bus to train and then back to a bus again, he told them about Stately Homes in general and the one he was taking them to in particular.
“The problem is,” he explained as they neared their destination, “no one can really afford to run a Stately Home any longer, so the owners have to open them up to the public, and to make the public want to come they have to offer other things besides. Some have safari parks, where they have lots of lions and tigers; others have fun fairs. The one we’re going to is Luckham House, where they specialize in concerts. It has a very good restaurant into the bargain as well. Lord Luckham likes his food.”
Mr. Gruber smiled as they alighted from the bus outside some large wrought-iron gates and he caught sight of the expression on Paddington’s face. “I thought that might appeal to you, Mr. Brown,” he said. “I know how much you like music.”
Judy took hold of Paddington’s paw as they made their way up the long drive. “I think someone’s pulling your leg,” she whispered. “I happen to know Mr. Gruber’s treating us all to dinner tonight.”
Paddington licked his lips. He always enjoyed eating out, and to have a meal in a Stately Home sounded very good value indeed.
“They do a very good beef Wellington,” said Mr. Gruber as he caught the ta
il end of the conversation. “It’s one of Lord Luckham’s specialities. I had one the last time I was here, and I’m looking forward to repeating the experience.”
Paddington had never heard of beef Wellington before, but apart from explaining that it was beef cooked in a special kind of casing, Mr. Gruber refused to be drawn on the subject. “A surprise is not a surprise if you know all about it, Mr. Brown,” he said, and he directed their attention to some of the other delights they had in store.
As it happened, there were so many things to see, Paddington soon forgot about his forthcoming meal, anyway. It was really like strolling through another world: a giant version of Mr. Gruber’s shop and the rest of the Portobello Market rolled into one, with everything from collections of china and dolls to a giant four-poster bed in which, according to Mr. Gruber’s notes, Queen Elizabeth the First had once slept while on her way to York.
Paddington was most impressed. All the same, what with walking through endless galleries lined with pictures, not to mention climbing innumerable flights of stairs—more of which seemed to go up than ever came down again—he was more than glad when at long last Mr. Gruber ushered them into a large chair-filled room where the concert was due to take place.
Paddington had never been to a concert before, and he applauded loudly as a man in a dark suit climbed onto the platform and crossed to a piano.
Mr. Gruber gave a cough. “I rather think,” he whispered, “he’s only come to open the piano lid.” But like the kindly man he was, he joined in Paddington’s applause in order to save his friend embarrassment.
Fortunately, Paddington was able to continue his applause as almost at once a second man approached the front of the stage and began announcing the first item on the program: a selection of songs from famous operas rendered by a Miss Olive Marks and a Mr. Gilbert Street, who were billed as “Partners in Song.” Following Mr. Gruber’s example, he cupped his chin in his paws and then sat forwards eagerly in his seat ready to take it all in.
Gradually, however, his smile became more and more fixed, and he gazed anxiously up at the ceiling as Miss Marks opened her mouth and first one piercing note then another emerged and began rattling the chandeliers overhead. He rather wished he’d put his ears instead of his chin inside his paws, but it was much too late to change his mind.
Miss Marks was nothing if not generous with her notes, although from the look on her face and the way she rolled her eyes, the effort obviously caused her a certain amount of pain, a pain that was certainly being shared by a high percentage of her audience. In fact, it was noticeable that even her partner, Mr. Street, was careful to stand well clear.
That apart, as far as Paddington could make out, it seemed to take her twice as long as anyone he’d ever met before to make up her mind about even the simplest thing. Three times she announced in song that she would like to close the window and as many times again that she was about to leave. However, ten minutes later, when Gilbert Street knelt at her feet in order to sing, the window was still wide open and Miss Marks very much onstage.
Mr. Street had chosen an aria called “Your Tiny Hand Is Frozen,” but there was nothing in the least bit small about any part of the object of his affections, let alone her hand. Far from being tiny, Miss Marks’s hand was one of the largest Paddington had ever seen, and under the heat of the overhead lights, it glistened like a freshly boiled lobster.
Paddington’s applause as the couple finally took their leave was louder than most and caused Mr. Gruber to cast an anxious glance in his direction.
“I shouldn’t clap too loudly, Mr. Brown,” he whispered in an aside. “They might do an encore.”
In his haste to stop clapping, Paddington dropped his program on the floor and, captured by a draft from a nearby door, it sailed several rows away.
“Oh, dear!” Judy caught her brother’s eye and gave a groan as Paddington disappeared from view and began peering between the legs of the people in front.
But luckily for her own and her brother’s peace of mind, the disturbance was covered by the arrival onstage of a group of musicians who were due to play some works by Mozart.
During Paddington’s temporary absence, and while the music stands were being arranged, Mr. Gruber passed the time by explaining the next item to Jonathan and Judy.
“If you look on your program,” he said, “you will see it’s got a number after it . . . K280. That’s the catalog number to make sure the works were always played in the right order. In German it’s called a Köchel number, after the man who cataloged Mozart’s works.”
“What’s that, Mr. Gruber?” called Paddington as he climbed into view again. “We’re going to have some cocoa?” He licked his lips in anticipation at the thought. Crawling about on the floor looking for a program was thirsty work—especially in a duffle coat.
“Not cocoa . . . Köchel . . . ,” began Judy. “That’s quite a different matter.” She gave another sigh. It was sometimes rather difficult explaining matters to Paddington.
“Köchel?” repeated Paddington in surprise. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted any of that before.”
“Ssh!” said someone loudly from behind as the first notes of music filled the air.
Paddington turned and gave the person who’d shushed a hard stare before directing his attention to the platform. He couldn’t see any mugs let alone cups and saucers, and during a particularly loud passage of music he consulted the program once again. It was a bit hard to see, as the lights in the audience had been dimmed. Apart from that there were one or two footmarks where it had been trodden on, which made it even more difficult to read, but for the life of him he couldn’t see any mention of refreshments being served.
It was as he began reading about the item being played that his face fell still farther. According to the notes there were fifteen variations to be got through. Paddington didn’t think much of the original version let alone any possible variations. He was quite keen on music, but his tastes ran more towards the loud kind which could be rendered on a comb and paper rather than the complicated variety.
He stole a sidelong glance at Mr. Gruber, but his friend had his eyes closed in order to concentrate on the music, and beyond him, Jonathan and Judy appeared to be making a close study of the chandeliers.
Paddington came to a decision. He had no wish to offend his friend, especially as he had gone to so much trouble, but from the look of rapture on Mr. Gruber’s face, there was little fear of that.
A few moments later, taking advantage of another loud passage, he made a move, only this time it was in the direction of a door marked EXIT.
It had been a long and tiring afternoon, and Paddington knew just the very spot where he wanted most of all to be at that very moment. It was up some stairs at the end of a long corridor, and it was labeled QUEEN ELIZABETH’S ROOM.
Having a bed with curtains round it seemed a very good idea indeed—especially if you didn’t want to be disturbed.
In much less time than it would have taken Miss Marks to sing “Jack Robinson,” Paddington was up the stairs, into the room, and pulling the curtains tightly round him. They came together with a satisfying swish, and with a sigh of contentment he closed his eyes and lay back with his head on the pillow, drinking in the sound of distant music and the faint aroma of something delicious as it wafted up from the nearby kitchens.
But Paddington’s satisfaction was short-lived. In the normal course of events he was quite good at sleeping; given a few cushions or an armchair by the fire he could be away in no time at all. But gradually it dawned on him that he had never been less comfortable in his life. Compared with his own bed at Windsor Gardens it was like trying to sleep on boards, boards moreover which contained more than their fair share of knots, and he could quite see why Queen Elizabeth the First had only stayed one night.
He tried lying on top of the pillow, but if anything, it was even more lumpy than the bed. The bird used to provide the stuffing had obviously suffered from a bad att
ack of hardening of the feathers, for the ends stuck out through their outer covering like thorns on a rosebush.
Paddington’s opinion of life in a Stately Home reached a new low, and he was about to try his luck elsewhere when he heard voices, and the door to the room suddenly opened.
Closing his eyes again as tightly as they would go, Paddington lay where he was, hardly daring to breathe. He was only just in time, for a split second later the curtains round the bed were flung open and whoever had been talking broke off in midsentence.
“Blimey!” said a voice. “Is that ’er?”
“That’s what it says in the guide” came a woman’s voice. “Queen Elizabeth slept ’ere on the way to York.”
“Who’d ’ave thought it” came the first voice again. “No wonder she never got married.” The owner of the voice gave a sniff. “Smells of marmalade too. Enough to put anyone off. Course, they never went in for washing much in them days.”
“Didn’t know they wore duffle coats, either,” added his friend. “The things you learn. Only goes to show.”
If stares had been made capable of passing through closed eyelids, the two speakers would have received the full benefit of one of Paddington’s hardest ever. As it was, blissfully unaware of their narrow escape, they pulled the curtains together and continued their tour of the room.
Left on his own again, Paddington was about to relax when all that had been said before was suddenly wiped from his mind as he caught another snatch of conversation.
“Pity about the beef Wellington being off,” said the man. “Sounded a bit of all right, that.”
“I know,” said his companion sympathetically. “’Ad me taste buds all of aquiver it did. The waiter said they was ’aving trouble with the pastry chef and . . .”
Paddington strained his ears in an effort to catch the rest of the conversation, but it was cut off in midair by a click as the door swung shut and the speakers continued on their way.
