by Michael Bond
For a moment he lay where he was, growing more and more upset. It wasn’t often Mr. Gruber gave himself a treat, and when he did, he always made sure he shared it with others. One of the things he’d specially mentioned about the present outing was the beef Wellington, and the thought of his being done out of it was most upsetting. Paddington had a strong sense of right and wrong. When he finally sat up, the look on his face was not dissimilar to the one the previous occupant of the bed, Queen Elizabeth the First, must have worn the day she ordered Sir Francis Drake to do battle with the Spanish fleet. It was a look which Paddington kept reserved for very special occasions, and it boded ill for anyone who got in his way before his plans were complete.
Carefully removing his boots, he picked them up in his paw, tiptoed across the room, opened the door, peered out in order to make sure the coast was clear, and then hurried off down the corridor in the direction of the kitchen as fast as his legs would carry him.
Mr. Gruber picked up his knife and fork and gazed reflectively across the dining table as he prepared to do justice to his meal.
There was something distinctly odd about the way Paddington was behaving. It wasn’t just the guilty expression on his face, or the fact that he’d arrived back in the concert hall only seconds before the end of the program; the two might well have gone together. It wasn’t even the patches of white stuff—rather like flour—all over his duffle coat. It was almost as if something was missing, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what it could be.
Then there was the question of the meal. Mr. Gruber would have bet anything that Paddington would have chosen the same as everyone else, but in the event, he’d stuck out very firmly for steak and kidney pie.
“Aren’t you going to make a start, Mr. Brown?” he asked. “You don’t want to let it get cold.”
“I’d really like to see how you get on first, Mr. Gruber,” said Paddington politely.
Mr. Gruber hesitated. After making so much of the beef Wellington, he felt rather bad about complaining, but it really was giving off a very strange odor. Rubbery almost. Also, although the knife looked extremely sharp, he was finding it difficult, if not impossible, to cut beyond the pastry covering.
Jonathan and Judy exchanged glances. The same thought was passing through both their minds, but before they had a chance to say anything, there was a commotion at a nearby table as a man threw down his cutlery and jumped to his feet.
“I demand to see Lord Luckham!” he exclaimed. “This meat is as tough as old boots. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
“Old boots!” exclaimed Paddington hotly as he jumped to his feet. “They’re not old. They’re my best Wellingtons. I wore them specially for the occasion, and I only cleaned them last night.”
Jonathan took a quick look down at Paddington’s feet, and as he did so, his jaw dropped. “Crikey!” he groaned as a tall, distinguished-looking man hurried across the Great Hall towards them. “Here we go again!”
If it took the combined efforts of Mr. Gruber, Jonathan, and Judy some while to explain to Lord Luckham and the other diners the whys and wherefores of how Paddington’s Wellington boots came to be inside their pastry, it took them even longer to explain to Paddington why they shouldn’t have been there in the first place. He looked most aggrieved about the whole idea of calling something by the wrong name. It was very confusing.
In the end it was Lord Luckham himself who came to the rescue. He announced that not only would anything else his guests like to order be “on the house” that evening, but that he would be inviting all those present to a special Gala evening just as soon as it could be arranged.
“I shall personally supervise the making of our famous beef Wellington,” he boomed amid general applause, “and I shall serve it with some of my own béarnaise sauce into the bargain.”
“To tell you the truth,” he said later that evening when Mr. Gruber thanked him for his generous action, “I happen to know there’s a certain person from a well-known newspaper here tonight, and I don’t doubt we shall be reading all about it in tomorrow’s editions.
“We at Luckham House can always do with publicity,” he added as he shook Paddington by the paw. “If you have any other ideas, we shall be pleased to hear about them. I’m sure you’ll agree it will be a very sad day if we ever have to give up what we are doing.”
Paddington joined in the general agreement at this last remark. One way and another, despite all that had gone wrong, he’d enjoyed his visit to a Stately Home. Now he was looking forward to going back to the comfort of his own bed at Number thirty-two Windsor Gardens.
“It was very kind of Lord Luckham to invite us back,” said Judy as they waved good-bye and made their way back down the long drive.
“Very kind,” agreed Mr. Gruber. “You’ll be able to see what a real beef Wellington tastes like, Mr. Brown. Will you like that?”
Paddington considered the matter for a moment. “I think so, Mr. Gruber,” he announced at last. “But if you don’t mind, I won’t have any ‘bear’s-nose’ sauce with mine. I don’t think that sounds very nice at all.”
Chapter Four
PADDINGTON AND “BOB-A-JOB”
Mrs. Brown paused at her washing for a moment and then heaved a deep sigh as she glanced out of the kitchen window. “I wonder who thought up the idea for ‘bob-a-job’ week in the first place?” she said.
Mrs. Bird gave a snort as she joined Mrs. Brown at the window and directed her gaze towards the bottom of the garden, where a small figure in blue was struggling beneath a heavily laden clothesline. “Whoever it was, they couldn’t have had bears in mind,” she replied. “If they’d known Paddington was going to lend a paw, they would have had second thoughts. I feel quite worn-out with it all.
“It isn’t that I want to discourage him,” she continued, averting her eyes as something white fluttered to the ground, “but I sometimes think it would be cheaper and quicker in the long run to pay twice as much not to have things done.”
The Browns’ housekeeper spoke with feeling, for Paddington’s involvement with “bob-a-job” week was a sore subject in the household.
It had all started a few days before when he’d come across an item in the local paper about the Scouts. According to the article, the local group were visiting houses in the neighborhood all that week offering their services for the sum of fifty pence a go. No job, it said, would be too big or too small, and at the end of the week they planned to hold a jamboree in the Town Hall in aid of charity.
Although Paddington had never actually been in the Scouts, or even the Cubs for that matter, the thought of making himself useful and being paid for it at the same time struck him as a very good idea indeed, and with the week already half over, he lost no time in getting down to work.
Jonathan gave him an old tent which had been cleared out of the garage at the same time as the hammock, and Paddington had erected it on the lawn so that he could use it as his headquarters.
The article had ended by saying that after each visit the Scouts would leave a special sticker with a tick printed on it which the occupant of the house could display to show that the job had been satisfactorily completed.
It was the decision to make his own stickers that had been the start of Paddington’s undoing. He wasn’t the sort of bear who believed in doing things by halves, and he’d sat up in bed quite late the first night carefully transferring his paw print from an ink pad on to some labels Mrs. Bird had given him from her jam-making kit. But in the event, he hadn’t been careful enough. By the time he went to turn out the light, he found to his dismay that his sheets looked as if they’d been the subject of a none-too-successful “bob-a-job” week themselves. They were covered from top to bottom with paw prints, and not for the first time Paddington wished he’d picked on a less unusual mark to show that things were genuinely his, for there was no disguising who was to blame.
It was a bad start. He felt he couldn’t actually charge anything for washing th
e sheets, even though it took the best part of a day and innumerable goes with a scrubbing brush and soap to get them clean again.
The fact that all the washing had left his paws clean for making the custard the following evening didn’t help things as much as he’d hoped, either. Paddington liked making custard, and normally he was very good at it; but for once everything seemed to go wrong. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was worn-out after all his hard work, or whether it simply wasn’t his day; but as things turned out, he made far too much, and it all boiled over, landing on Mrs. Bird’s clean laundry and ruining the saucepan into the bargain at the same time, all of which had taken several more hours to put right.
The truth was that despite all his hard work the front window of the Browns’ house was still sadly lacking in stickers, and he hadn’t a single penny, let alone any bobs, to show for it.
Even the simple act of putting the clothes out to dry seemed to have problems, for Mrs. Bird’s expanding clothesline had been stretched beyond its limits, and a good deal of the washing was already gathering fresh dirt as it trailed on the ground.
All in all, Paddington felt he’d done enough jobs to last a lifetime, and with dark hints from Mrs. Bird that she expected to see her washing as she’d left it, the chances of progressing beyond Number thirty-two Windsor Gardens seemed very remote indeed.
The more Paddington considered the matter the more gloomy his prospects appeared to be; in fact, he was so deep in thought it was some while before he realized with a start that someone was calling his name.
Emerging from behind a large sheet, he removed a pillowcase from his head only to discover to his dismay that the voice belonged to Mr. Curry.
Paddington had kept well clear of the Browns’ neighbor ever since the episode with the hammock; in fact if he’d been asked to name all the people he least wanted to talk to, Mr. Curry would have been very high on the list indeed, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of putting the pillowcase over his head again, but it was too late.
However, for once the Browns’ neighbor seemed in an unusually friendly mood.
“Glad to see you’re busy, bear,” he called as he peered over the top of the fence. “Idle paws make for mischief—that’s what I always say.”
“Oh, my paws haven’t been idle for a long time, Mr. Curry,” said Paddington earnestly. “I’m doing ‘bob-a-job’ week, and it’s keeping me very busy.”
“‘Bob-a-job’ week?” Mr. Curry rubbed his hands together with invisible soap. “That’s a coincidence. I hope you’re putting the money to a good cause. Not frittering it away.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Curry,” said Paddington. “I’m sending it all to the Home for Retired Bears in Lima. That is, if I get any,” he added sadly.
“Hmm,” Mr. Curry cleared his throat. “Er . . . talking of ‘bob-a-job’ week, I was wondering if you would care to do me a favor, bear?” He bent down for a moment in order to undo a parcel he’d been carrying and then reappeared holding a frilly white object. “I have a dress shirt which needs seeing to. I was just going to take it to the cleaners, but I need it this evening, and they always charge extra if you want things back in a hurry. I wonder if you have any spare room on your line?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Curry.” Paddington looked most relieved as he hurried forward to take the shirt. “I’d be very pleased.”
“Now, take care of it, bear!” barked Mr. Curry, some of his more normal bad temper coming to the fore. “It’s a very expensive shirt, and it’s meant for special occasions. No dropping it in the mud, mind.”
The Browns’ neighbor looked around carefully and then lowered his voice. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to the jamboree tonight. There’s a fancy-dress parade, and I’m going as Beau Brummell, the famous dandy.”
Paddington’s eyes grew larger and larger as he listened to Mr. Curry. He’d never pictured the Browns’ neighbor joining in any sort of parade, let alone a fancy-dress one as a Brummell.
“I hope your bows stay in place, Mr. Curry,” he exclaimed as he eyed the shirt.
Mr. Curry glared at him suspiciously. “Are you making fun of me, bear?” he barked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Curry,” said Paddington, “there’s no need for anyone else to do that. I mean . . .” He broke off as Mr. Curry’s face started to change color.
“I’ll have you know, bear,” he growled, “this is a very important event. There’s a prize for the most original costume, so make sure you take good care of it. There are a lot of frills, and I don’t want any of them damaged; otherwise it will be difficult to iron.”
“Bears are good at frills, Mr. Curry,” exclaimed Paddington, anxious to make amends. “If you like,” he added recklessly, “I’ll do a ‘bob-a-job’ for you and iron it when I do the rest of the laundry.”
Mr. Curry stared at him. “Do you mean to say Mrs. Bird’s allowing you to iron her laundry?” he exclaimed.
“Well,” said Paddington truthfully, “it isn’t so much that she’s letting me; she says I must do it . . . after I’ve finished the mending.”
Mr. Curry began to look more and more impressed, for Mrs. Bird’s reputation as a housekeeper was second to none in the neighborhood. He gave another surreptitious glance in the direction of the Browns’ house and then beckoned Paddington to come closer.
“If you like, bear,” he said, lowering his voice so that no one else could overhear, “you can do it all in my house.”
Mr. Curry licked his finger and then held it up in the air. “My shirt won’t take long to dry in this breeze,” he continued. “While you’re finishing off some of your other jobs, I’ll set everything up for you so that it will be ready. There are one or two small holes which need darning. I was going to have them invisibly mended, but if you use a mushroom you shouldn’t find it too difficult.”
“A mushroom, Mr. Curry?” repeated Pad-dington in surprise.
Mr. Curry looked at him suspiciously. “I trust you know what you’re doing, bear?” he barked. “Everyone knows you need a mushroom when you’re doing the mending.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Curry,” said Paddington hastily as he caught sight of the gathering storm clouds on the face of the Browns’ neighbor. “I’ll get one from Mrs. Bird. I know where she keeps them.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Curry gave him another searching look and then carried on with his instructions about the various tasks he wanted done.
“I shall be out for the remainder of the afternoon,” he said. “I have to see about the rest of my costume, and I’m not sure how long it will take, but you can lay my shirt out ready for me to change into when I get back. In fact,” he continued, “I have an even better idea. When you’ve finished, you can take it straight to the Town Hall for me. I can change there, and it’ll save me coming back home again.”
While Mr. Curry’s voice droned on Paddington considered the matter. He was usually very wary about doing any odd jobs for the Browns’ neighbor, especially ones which actually took place inside his house, but for once he couldn’t see anything against the idea. In fact, the more he thought about it the better it seemed, for his present run of luck at Number thirty-two Windsor Gardens had been so bad it couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Having reached the end of his instructions Mr. Curry paused in order to open up the gap in his fence. “If you make a good job of things,” he said, “I may add a little something to your collection later.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Curry,” said Paddington gratefully.
He cast a doubtful glance up the garden towards the Browns’ kitchen as he clambered through the hole, but to his relief there was no one to be seen, and a moment later the board slipped back into place behind him.
Although he had almost convinced himself of the wisdom of his actions, Paddington had a nasty feeling that neither Mrs. Brown nor Mrs. Bird would entirely share his views.
Fortunately for their peace of mind, however, they were both much too busy with their cleaning to notice any of the comings and goings
outside.
It wasn’t until much later that same afternoon that Mrs. Bird suddenly paused in the middle of her household chores and looked out of the dining-room window with an air of surprise.
“That’s funny,” she said. “All the washing’s gone. It was there a few minutes ago.”
“Perhaps Paddington’s taken it somewhere,” said Mrs. Brown vaguely. “I saw him go past the window with a large pile just now.” She frowned. “I wish he’d do one thing at a time. It was cooking just now—at least, I think it was. He was poking about in the vegetable basket looking for something.”
A worried expression came over Mrs. Bird’s face, for she was suddenly reminded of the fact that Paddington had also been searching for a needle and thread at one point. “I do hope he didn’t take my lecture to heart this morning,” she said. “I know I told him I expected to see the washing how I’d left it, but I didn’t really mean him to go to all that trouble. Where can he have gone with it?”
Despite her stern exterior, the Browns’ housekeeper was a kindly soul at heart, and she began to look even more unhappy at the thought of Paddington taking her remarks amiss.
All the same, unhappy though Mrs. Bird looked, it was safe to say she would have looked even more disturbed had she been able to see the object of her thoughts at that particular moment.
For Paddington was in Mr. Curry’s kitchen. Not only that, but he was in a mess. Far from things being better with a change of scene, they had become ten times worse than he could possibly have imagined in his wildest dreams.
He stared mournfully at Mr. Curry’s ironing board. Or rather, to be strictly accurate, he directed his gaze towards a tightly compressed bundle of brown-and-white material which was lying in the middle and from which rose a steady stream of dense, black smoke.
Picking up a wooden spoon which was lying nearby, he gingerly poked what was left of Mr. Curry’s shirt and then stepped back hastily as another, even larger cloud rose from the smoldering embers.
