by Michael Bond
Paddington sniffed the air unhappily. It was a strange smell: a mixture of steam, burned cloth, and rotting vegetation. Worse still, it showed no signs of wanting to go away. Despite several goes with an air freshener and opening the kitchen window to its widest extent, it continued to lie like some heavy jungle mist over the ironing board.
But it wasn’t so much the smell that caused Paddington’s woebegone look; it was the thought of how he was going to get out of his present difficulties.
Mr. Curry’s shirt had started life as one of the collar-attached variety; now there was little if anything attached to it at all. The collar itself hung by a thread, rather as if it had been sewn on by an absent-minded tailor just before closing time.
Had he been asked to explain what had gone wrong, Paddington would have been hard put to sort matters out in his own mind let alone put them into words.
The first big setback had been the iron. Although he’d often watched Mrs. Bird with her laundry, he’d never actually done any ironing before, and it had all turned out much harder than he had expected. Mrs. Bird had an electric steam iron which positively glided over her laundry, hardly ever leaving the slightest trace of a singe, let alone any burn mark. Mr. Curry’s iron, on the other hand, had to be heated first on the gas stove, and before he went out he demonstrated how to test it in order to make certain it was hot enough to use.
“The old-fashioned ways are the best, bear!” he barked, and taking a mouthful of water, he picked up the iron and blew spray all over the bottom, causing spluttering globules of water to bound off in all directions. “That’s something my mother taught me.”
Paddington had been so surprised at the thought of Mr. Curry having a mother, he hadn’t really concentrated on the rest of the lecture. As a result, he missed what, if anything, the Browns’ neighbor had to say on the subject of testing irons to make sure they weren’t too hot.
In the event, either bears’ spray was different to Mr. Curry’s or he should have stuck to water instead of cocoa, for having made the iron extraspecially hot in the hope of getting it right first time, Paddington found to his horror that it seemed intent on setting fire to anything and everything that happened to come within range.
Nothing was sacred; the cloth top on the ironing board, the plastic cover on the kitchen table, the linoleum; even the heat-proof stand had gone a funny color.
In the end, with the safety of his whiskers very much in mind, he’d been forced to let go of the iron, as bad luck would have it, right on top of Mr. Curry’s shirt. It was then, as a strange, sizzling noise filled the air, that he suddenly remembered he’d left a mushroom up one of the sleeves by mistake, and it was this that was giving off most of the smell.
He had been a bit doubtful about the mushroom right from the start, but Mr. Curry had been most insistent that it was the only proper way to mend things. Paddington found that having paws made sewing a bit difficult at the best of times, and either Mrs. Bird’s mushrooms were extrasoft or Mr. Curry was used to particularly hard ones, for he’d got through a whole pound in no time at all.
Paddington clambered on to Mr. Curry’s kitchen stool and stared unhappily at the result of his labors.
Apart from the telltale mushroom stains, it would have taken a very short-sighted person indeed not to have spotted where the mending had taken place. Far from being invisible, it looked more like a relief map of the Himalayas.
The only good thing about it as far as he could see were the creases, which were certainly nice and sharp. Mr. Curry had mentioned his creases quite a few times, and he certainly wouldn’t have had any cause to complain about the lack of them, for his shirt had the appearance of a squashed concertina. Unfortunately, though, that was where the resemblance ended, for when Paddington tried pulling it apart, it made a most unmusical sound, and several bits came away in his paw.
A hurried search through the kitchen drawers yielded a few well-worn dusters and a pile of old rags, but nothing remotely suitable for use as patches.
It was as he was gazing out of the window in search of inspiration that a faint gleam of hope suddenly appeared in Paddington’s eyes. In the past he’d often found that some of his best ideas came at the very moment when things looked their blackest—almost as if they were intended, and although the present one was but a tiny flicker at the end of a very long tunnel, things were too desperate for it to be ignored.
A moment later there was a click from the back door as it shut behind him, and for the second time that day the boards in Mr. Curry’s fence parted and a familiar-looking hat followed by some equally familiar-looking whiskers appeared in the gap.
Paddington was about to put one of his plans into action, and with the sun already sinking below the rooftops, there was no time to be lost.
The Browns paused at the entrance to the Town Hall ballroom and braced themselves as they prepared to join the milling mass of people inside.
Mrs. Brown glanced anxiously over her shoulder. “Come along, Paddington,” she called. “Keep with us, or you’ll get lost.”
“If he does we shall find him soon enough,” said Mr. Brown gloomily. “Anyone can see who it is a mile away. I know it’s a fancy-dress parade, but does he have to wear dark glasses and a beard?”
“I don’t think he’s actually going in for anything, Henry,” said Mrs. Brown vaguely. “He’s just . . . well, he’s just wearing them. I expect he’s got his reasons.”
“That,” said Mr. Brown, “is what I’m afraid of.”
Mrs. Brown lapsed into silence and exchanged anxious glances with the rest of the family. There was really no answer to Mr. Brown’s question. At least, none that sprang readily to mind.
The fact of the matter was, Paddington had been behaving very strangely all evening. On his return from wherever he’d been, he had a quick bath without being asked, which was most unusual, and then he’d retired to his room armed with his disguise outfit. He’d stayed there with the curtains tightly drawn until it was time for supper, and when he’d finally emerged from his room wearing his beard and dark glasses, his hat had been pulled down very tightly over his face indeed.
“He hardly touched his shepherd’s pie,” remarked Mrs. Brown. “That’s always a bad sign.”
“He’ll touch it soon enough when he’s hungry,” said Mrs. Bird darkly.
The Browns’ housekeeper had her suspicions on the subject of Paddington’s desire not to be recognized, but before she had a chance to say any more, their attention was caught by a sudden commotion from the far side of the room.
“Mercy me!” she cried as a strange, white, billowing object clambered onto the stage. “Whatever is it?”
But like Mr. Brown before her, the Browns’ housekeeper posed her question in vain, for the apparition was such a mixture of frills and bows and tapes and seemingly miles of cloth entangled with long pieces of cord, it beggared description.
It was so peculiar that even the Master of Ceremonies was momentarily at a loss for words, and it wasn’t until he reached forwards and poked his microphone through a flap in the front of the material that the awful truth suddenly dawned on the Browns.
“What a good idea coming as a tent,” said the Master of Ceremonies, silencing the applause with a wave of his other hand. “What gave you the idea?”
“Tent?” came a muffled but all-too-familiar voice. “Tent? How dare you! I’ll give you tent!”
The red face of Mr. Curry emerged from the folds and glared towards the audience. “Bear!” he bellowed. “Are you in the hall, bear? If you are, come up here at once. I’ll teach you to mend my best shirt with a tent! I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
The Master of Ceremonies looked slightly put out as he jumped back in alarm and found he’d entangled his microphone lead with what seemed to be a lot of guy ropes. “I only wanted to congratulate you on winning first prize,” he said. “There’s no need to be like that.”
“What’s that?” It was Mr. Curry’s turn to be taken aback. “Did you
say first prize?”
“That’s right.” The Master of Ceremonies recovered his composure. “Yours is one of the most original entries I’ve seen for a long time. But as it now appears to have been a joint effort, I think we shall have to split the prize down the middle.”
“I’m having my joint split down the middle!” exclaimed a voice behind the Browns. They turned just in time to see Paddington coming out from beneath a table where he had been hiding. He was looking most upset.
“No, dear,” said Mrs. Brown hastily. “You haven’t actually won a joint. Mr. Curry’s won some money, and the man in charge has very kindly suggested he shares it with you.”
“If I were you I’d go up and get your half while you’ve got the chance,” broke in Jonathan. “You may never see it otherwise.”
Paddington needed no second bidding, and he hurried up to the platform as fast as his legs would carry him.
“I’m sorry about the guy ropes, Mr. Curry,” he called as he positioned himself as far away from the Browns’ neighbor as possible. “I’m afraid I left them on by mistake.”
“Er, yes,” said the Master of Ceremonies. “Quite. Now,” he pointed the microphone towards Paddington, “tell me, what do you plan to do with your half of the money?”
Paddington raised his hat politely. “I’m giving it to the Home for Retired Bears in Lima,” he announced. “That’s what I was collecting it for in the first place.”
“What a nice idea,” said the MC over the applause. “But won’t you be keeping any for yourself?”
Paddington removed his beard while he considered the matter. What with one thing and another, he’d had a very hard week doing his jobs, and until now there had been absolutely nothing to show for it.
“I think,” he announced at last, “I may keep Mr. Curry’s bob.”
The Browns’ neighbor stared at him in astonishment. “My what?” he gasped.
Paddington hastily put his beard back on and took a deep breath before replying. “Your bob, Mr. Curry,” he said. “The one you promised me for doing your ironing.”
If Mr. Curry’s face had been like thunder before, it grew positively purple with rage as Paddington’s words sank in. For a second or two he looked as if he was about to stomp off the stage. Then he hesitated as a loud shout of “Give him the money” rang out. Paddington was a well-known figure in the Portobello Market, and over the years he’d gained a good many friends among the street traders, quite a few of whom were present and only too happy to take up the cry.
“Quite right, too,” said Mrs. Bird, trying to keep the note of pleasure from her voice as with a great deal of ill grace Mr. Curry began feeling inside his shirt. “I’m not given to betting, but if I had to put a shirt on anyone’s back, it would be Paddington’s rather than Mr. Curry’s. One way and another bears do have a habit of coming out on top in the end—I’m very pleased to say.”
Chapter Five
PADDINGTON GETS A RISE
“Eight pounds ninety-nine pence!” exclaimed Paddington. “Just to say ‘Congratulations’!” He grabbed the edge of the Post Office counter as he nearly fell backwards off his suitcase with surprise. “But it’s only one word!”
The lady behind the window gave a superior sniff. “You don’t get something for nothing in this world,” she said severely. “Especially when it comes to sending telegrams.”
Paddington gazed up at her, adding one of his special hard stares for good measure. As far as he was concerned, he felt so aggrieved he would have liked nothing better than to send the Post Office a telegram congratulating them on being able to charge so much; but he thought better of it, for it sounded a very expensive way of complaining.
“Anyway,” said the lady, wilting slightly under his unblinking gaze, “it isn’t only one word—it’s seventeen. There’s the address as well, you know.”
She put on her superior face again as she pushed Paddington’s piece of paper across the counter and jabbed at it with a pencil. “Talking of which, I rather feel we have a few unnecessary words here, don’t you? ‘MR. HENRY BROWN,’” she read, “‘NUMBER THIRTY-TWO WINDSOR GARDENS, LONDON, ENGLAND, EUROPE, THE WORLD, THE UNIVERSE. CONGRATULATIONS. PADDINGTON.’”
Paddington gave the lady an even harder stare. “We wanted to make sure it got there,” he said firmly, and taking the piece of paper from under the grille, he opened his suitcase, placed it in the secret compartment, and, after raising his hat politely, left the building.
Paddington had never sent a telegram before, and as far as he was concerned, he wasn’t likely to in the future, either—not even if the Post Office paid him to do so.
All of which, however, didn’t go very far towards solving his immediate problem; in fact, it only made it worse.
It had to do with the fact that Mr. Brown’s birthday was looming up, and for one reason and another he hadn’t done a thing about it. Apart from anything else, Mr. Brown wasn’t very easy to buy presents for—especially if you didn’t have much pocket money.
Although he was much too polite to mention the matter, Paddington hadn’t had a rise in his pocket money ever since he’d first gone to live with the Browns. Luckily extras in the way of Christmas and birthday presents helped matters along, not to mention the odd sums he earned from time to time. But the years had seen a steady increase in the price of buns, and although he never really wanted for anything, it wasn’t always easy to make both ends meet.
However, in the circumstances, it hardly seemed the right moment to bring the matter up, so he’d been driven to trying to think of unusual but cheap ways of wishing Mr. Brown a happy birthday.
He’d already made a special card, and the idea of sending a “Greetings” telegram as well had come to him one morning when he’d seen an advertisement on a hoarding in the market. According to the advertisement it was a very inexpensive way of making people feel happy, and at the time it had seemed like a very good idea indeed; now, his hopes had received a severe setback.
Paddington decided to consult his friend Mr. Gruber on the subject. Mr. Gruber was good at solving life’s problems, and even if he didn’t come up with an answer straightaway, he had a happy knack of making things seem better than they were at first sight.
Having directed another hard stare at the outside of the Post Office, he set off in the direction of the market, his duffle coat hood pulled well up over the top of his hat in order to keep out the chill morning air.
In the space of a few days a change had come over the weather, and autumn had given way to winter with a vengeance, so much so that Paddington rather wished he’d plucked up courage to tell Mrs. Bird that he’d used his best Wellingtons during his cooking exploits at Luckham House.
His old ones had long since seen better days, and the first flakes of the winter snow were already seeping through some gaps in the bottom, making the fur round his toes quite soggy.
It was while he was sheltering in a doorway not far from the Portobello Road, nibbling a much-needed sandwich before completing the remainder of his journey, that Paddington’s eye suddenly alighted on a notice pinned to the door itself.
It said, quite simply: MR. ROMNEY MARSH, R.A. LIFE CLASSES. PORTRAIT PAINTING A SPECIALITY. MODEL WANTED—URGENTLY. TOP RATES PAID.
It didn’t take Paddington long to make up his mind. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss, and a moment later found him hurrying up the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him.
Mr. Marsh’s studio was at the top of the building, and as Paddington knocked on the door and entered, he gazed around with interest. Apart from the walls it was not unlike being inside an enormous greenhouse, for almost the entire roof area was glassed in. In the center of the room there was a platform with a small table on which stood a bowl of fruit, while to one side there was an unlit coke stove around which sat a small group of people with easels.
It was yet another reminder to Paddington of his visit to Luckham House, for it wasn’t unlike the scene from the opera he’d liste
ned to, although from the way some of the students were holding their brushes, their hands weren’t simply frozen with cold; they were totally without feeling.
Mr. Marsh himself was obviously made of sterner stuff, for unlike his students, who were all wearing overcoats, he was clad quite simply in a large, flowing smock which billowed out behind him as he caught sight of Paddington and crossed the room to bid him welcome.
“My dear sir,” he announced. “Welcome to our little gathering. Have you come to enroll?”
Paddington raised his hat politely as he shook Mr. Marsh’s outstretched hand with his other paw. “No, thank you,” he announced. “I’ve just had a marmalade sandwich.”
“Oh! Oh, dear me!” Mr. Marsh gave a nervous giggle. “In that case . . . er . . . what can we do for you?”
“I’d like to be a model if I may,” said Paddington.
“A model what?” said a gloomy voice from somewhere among the students.
“Silence!” Mr. Marsh raised his hand imperiously as he joined Paddington in giving the group a hard stare. “This is not a laughing matter. Stop that tittering at once.”
He whirled back to address Paddington. “You couldn’t have come at a more opportune moment,” he exclaimed as he led Paddington towards the platform. “Between you and me,” he whispered, “we’re getting a little tired of painting fruit. Besides, it’s so expensive at this time of the year, and you only have to turn your back for a moment and you find someone’s eaten it.”
He placed Paddington in the center of the platform alongside the table and then stood back, holding his brush at arm’s length and eyeing it through half-closed eyes in order to size up the situation.
“Let me tell you,” he said, turning to his class, “that anyone who captures those whiskers in oils will have their work cut out.”
“Capture my whiskers in oils!” exclaimed Paddington. “But they’re not even loose.”
“We shall need our burnt umber,” continued Romney Marsh, ignoring the interruption, “with perhaps a touch of orange madder here and there. Some of the stains are really quite remarkable in their depth of color.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Black for the nose, obviously . . . and the mouth. I would suggest forest green for the tongue. . . .”
