Paddington Races Ahead (2 page)

“I might not be ’ere tomorrow,” said the man with feeling. “Especially if I get too many customers like you,” he added under his breath.

But Paddington was already on his way.

Even if the wrapping paper did look as though it had seen better days, he still thought it was the best morning’s shopping he had done for a long while, and he hurried back to number thirty-two Windsor Gardens as fast as his legs would carry him in order to break the news to Mrs Bird and give her the change from her five pound note.

The Browns’ housekeeper could hardly believe her eyes when she saw what Paddington had bought. “I’ve never seen such a big tube,” she said. “I do hope you haven’t been taken for a ride. Even bears don’t get something for nothing these days.”

“The man said it was the same as some of the crowned heads of Europe used in the old days,” said Paddington.

“That’s as may be,” said Mrs Bird. “But as I recall, most of them had beards, so there can’t have been much demand for it.”

“Perhaps that’s why they had a lot left over,” said Paddington.

“Perhaps,” said Mrs Bird. It sounded like typical salesman’s patter to her, but she didn’t want to be a wet blanket.

However, her words weighed heavily on Paddington’s mind as he made his way upstairs to his bedroom.

Removing the tube from its box, he examined it carefully. There was no sign of a dent, but if it really had fallen off the back of a lorry it might well have become bent.

To make doubly sure all was well, he fetched Mr Brown’s special shaving mirror on a stand from the bathroom. Although one side of the glass was just like an ordinary mirror – the other side made things seem much larger than they really were and that was the one he wanted.

Placing the stand carefully in the centre of his bedside table, he laid his old leather suitcase flat on the floor in front of it and picked up Mr Curry’s present.

Having climbed on top of the case, he carefully unscrewed the cap on the end of the tube and held the nozzle up to the mirror before giving the tube itself a gentle squeeze.

A tiny white blob the size of a small pea appeared momentarily, then went back inside again.

Paddington stared at the nozzle. Disappearing shaving cream wouldn’t be a good start to anyone’s day if they were in a hurry. In his mind’s eye he could already hear cries of, “Bear! Where are you, bear?” issuing from Mr Curry’s bathroom window.

Knowing the Browns’ neighbour of old, he would be demanding his money back even though he hadn’t paid for it.

Bracing himself, Paddington gritted his teeth and had another go. This time he used both paws and gave the tube a much harder squeeze.

For a moment or two nothing happened and he was about to give up when he felt a minor explosion in his paw and a stream of white foamy liquid shot everywhere. It left Mr Brown’s mirror looking as though it had been buried by a major blizzard at the North Pole.

Paddington was so taken by surprise he let go of the tube like a hot cake and hovered to and fro on top of his suitcase before finally losing his balance.

Stepping backwards into space, it could only have been a split second or so before he landed on the floor, but the tube had beaten him to it.

As he lay where he had fallen, his legs and arms waving helplessly in the air, he was aware of a further eruption, and through half-closed eyes he saw what remained of the tube’s contents flying in all directions.

The largest lump of all hit the ceiling right above his head, and as it slowly detached itself, Paddington jumped to his feet.

He gazed mournfully round the room. It was a long time since he had seen it in quite such a mess, and it had all come about in the twinkling of an eye; so fast, in fact, there was nothing he could possibly have done to stop it.

Hastily returning Mr Brown’s mirror to the bathroom before anything else untoward happened, Paddington held it under the tap for a while before returning it to its rightful place.

It took rather longer than he had bargained for, because the hot water made the cream turn into foam and he was soon enveloped in bubbles. That was another thing about messes; they tended to spread, and the more you tried to put things right the worse they became.

It was while he was drying everything as best he could with the towels that his gaze alighted on a wall cabinet above the basin. He knew from past explorations that it was full of interesting things in bottles and packets, but apart from a small spoon and some nail files, he couldn’t remember there being any other likely tools. All the same, he took them back to his bedroom, just in case.

Once there, he consulted the instructions on the side of the tube. There was a great deal on the subject of what a wonderful shaving experience lay in wait for the user, but there was nothing at all about how to get the cream back into the tube if too much had come out.

Removing as much as he could from the walls and the furniture before getting down to work, Paddington soon discovered it wasn’t as easy as he had expected.

Holding the tube with one paw and applying shaving cream to the nozzle with the spoon, he couldn’t help but grip the tube so tightly to stop it bending that in the end most of the cream landed on the floor.

His friend, Mr Gruber, often said that what comes out doesn’t necessarily go back in again, and the wisdom of his words was soon confirmed.

In fact, Paddington was concentrating so much on the task in hand he didn’t hear Mrs Bird until she was outside his room.

“How are you getting on with wrapping Mr Curry’s present?” she called.

“I haven’t even started on that, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington.

Opening the door as little as possible, he peered through the gap.

“Do you have to do it in your bedroom?” asked Mrs Bird.

“I do now,” said Paddington sadly.

“Well, let me know if you need a hand with the knots,” said Mrs Bird. “I shan’t be long. I’ve run out of candles for Mr Curry’s cake, and I don’t doubt he’ll be counting them. I’d better make sure I use enough or that’ll be wrong. On the other hand, I don’t want to use too many and risk him catching the house on fire.

“I haven’t even started on the lettering yet. If anyone phones, tell them I shall be back in a quarter of an hour or so.”

Mrs Bird sounded flustered, as well she might with all that was going on, but after a short pause, Paddington heard the sound of the front door closing and as it did, so it triggered off another of his ideas.

Hurrying downstairs, he made his way to the kitchen and there, sure enough, lay the answer to his problem. Mr Curry’s freshly-iced cake was sitting in the middle of the table, and alongside it was exactly what he needed: a canvas bag on the end of which there was a tiny metal funnel. It must have been meant.

“I think,” said Mr Brown, over tea in the garden the following week, “my handiwork with the fence must have paid off. I haven’t seen old Curry looking over it for ages.”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that, Henry,” replied Mrs Brown. “It’s all to do with his birthday.”

“If I hadn’t been in such a rush the morning after Paddington planted his seeds, I wouldn’t have stopped him in the middle of what Mr Curry said was a list of the presents he wanted,” agreed Mrs Bird.

“When I had the chance to take a proper look it had things on it like a tin of peas…”

“And half a cabbage!” added Paddington indignantly. “It was his shopping list, and we bought him a present too!”

“Hold on a minute,” said Mr Brown. “What has all that got to do with the garden fence?”

“He dropped the list over our side of the fence…” explained Mrs Brown.

“Accidentally on purpose,” broke in Mrs Bird. “It happened to land at Paddington’s feet and Mr Curry said it was his birthday list.”

“In that case he deserves all he got!” said Mr Brown, rising to Paddington’s defence. “Er… what
did
we give him in the end?”

“A tube marked ‘shaving cream’, which was full of icing sugar,” said Mrs Bird, “and a cake with his name written across the top in shaving cream. I can’t think that either of them went down very well, but it serves him right for playing such a mean trick.”

“I had an accident with the tube,” explained Paddington, “so I borrowed Mrs Bird’s cake-making outfit to get the shaving cream back inside it. Only the bag still had some icing sugar inside it so I put that into the tube by mistake.”

“And when I came to use it,” said Mrs Bird, “I didn’t realise Paddington had filled it with shaving cream. I couldn’t think why it wouldn’t set.”

“Which, as things turned out,” said Mrs Brown, “meant that for once Mr Curry couldn’t have his cake and eat it too. Perhaps it’s taught him a lesson. We haven’t had sight nor sound of him since. Let’s hope it lasts.”

“Pigs might fly,” snorted Mrs Bird.

“So that’s how I came to have traces of shaving cream over my bathroom mirror,” said Mr Brown. “I thought something must have been going on…

“Hold on a moment,” he continued, as light suddenly dawned. “Did you say all this happened last Wednesday?”

“I did,” said Mrs Brown. “Why do you ask, Henry?”

“Because,” said Mr Brown, “last Wednesday was April the first. You can play any tricks you like before midday. If you ask me, not only was Mr Curry playing an April fool trick, but whoever sold Paddington the shaving cream was probably doing much the same thing.”

“They didn’t bargain on the fact that there are some bears who happen to have been born under a lucky star,” said Mrs Brown. “Now we are enjoying some peace and quiet for a change, so all’s well that ends well.”

And that was something no one could argue with, especially when they saw that seemingly almost overnight Paddington’s seeds had begun to sprout. It was nice having things to look forward to.

Chapter Two

A F
ISHY
B
USINESS

P
ADDINGTON’S BEST FRIEND
, Mr Gruber, was most sympathetic when he heard about the goings on at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens.

“It’s no wonder I didn’t see as much of you as usual last week, Mr Brown,” he said. “I must say my elevenses didn’t feel the same without our having cocoa and buns together.

“Playing a simple jape on someone because it’s April Fools’ Day is one thing, but trying to get something for nothing is another matter entirely.

“That Mr Curry deserves all he gets,” he added, echoing Mrs Bird’s words.

“As for the man who sold you the shaving cream, words fail me.”

“He wasn’t there this morning,” said Paddington. “I was hoping I might get Mrs Bird’s money back for her.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Mr Gruber, busying himself at the stove in the back of his shop. “That kind of person gives the market a bad name. The only good thing is they never stay in one place for very long. It’s like I always say, ‘here today and gone tomorrow’.”

He handed Paddington a steaming mug of cocoa.

“You must have been quite worn out by it all, Mr Brown. I dare say you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I was still awake at nine o’clock,” said Paddington.

“Well, there you are,” said Mr Gruber. He settled himself down alongside his friend on the old horsehair sofa at the back of the shop. “That kind of thing isn’t good for a young bear.”

Paddington sipped his cocoa thoughtfully. There was something very comforting about Mr Gruber’s antique shop. Although it was full of old things, there was always something new to look at. In fact, it was an ever changing scene. As fast as one item disappeared, something else came along to take its place, so it was never entirely the same two days running.

Today was a good example. An old wind-up gramophone that had enjoyed pride of place on a table in the centre of the shop for several weeks had disappeared. In its place there was a very strange-looking picture which appeared to have been made by someone glueing a mish-mash of different bits and pieces on to a board and then pouring paint all over it.

Paddington was much too polite to say so, but he preferred the old wind-up gramophone with a dog peering into a huge horn to see where the sound was coming from when it was working. The dog had looked so real he’d often been tempted to offer it one of his buns.

“That picture is what is known as a
collage
,” said Mr Gruber, reading Paddington’s thoughts. “It’s made of various bits and pieces glued together in a random fashion. The idea itself is as old as the hills. In fact, many famous artists started out that way… Picasso… Salvador Dali…

“It may look very modern, but I think it is probably older than it seems. In which case it could be very valuable. It’s called Sunset in Tahiti.”

Paddington thought it looked more like a rainy day in the Bayswater Road, but he didn’t say anything.

Mr Gruber knew much more about these things than he did, and he listened carefully as his friend explained the ins and outs of the subject while they had their elevenses.

“What makes it particularly interesting,” continued Mr Gruber, “is that someone else has painted over the original picture – which often happened at one time, but they were using a method known as egg
tempera
, which is why it looks so shiny.”

Paddington licked his lips. “I’ve never heard of a painting made with eggs,” he said.

“There are other things besides,” said Mr Gruber. “Vinegar, various pigments to provide the colour – and in this case some graphite too, which you can find in any bicycle puncture repair outfit…”

“I wouldn’t mind having a go at making one of those myself,” said Paddington. “But I expect it’s a bit difficult with paws and I can’t think what I would make a picture of anyway.”

Mr Gruber eyed Paddington over his mug of cocoa. It was unlike his friend to admit defeat before he had even begun something.

“You do yourself an injustice, Mr Brown,” he said. “There is no such word as
can’t
.”

“When we are out for a drive Mr Brown sometimes says the road has a nasty
cant
,” said Paddington. “I thought he meant he had just driven over a tin can.”

“That’s the English language for you,” said Mr Gruber. “The word ‘cant’ pronounced one way means a road has a slant to it, but that same word with an apostrophe between the last two letters is short for ‘cannot’, meaning it is not possible.

“I think all things are possible if you really set your mind to it, and you never know what you can do until you try.

“As for finding a subject for your painting…” Mr Gruber rose to his feet as he saw someone about to enter his shop, “…you only have to take a short ride on the top deck of a London bus and all manner of things cry out to be painted: the world is your oyster.”

Having said goodbye to his friend for the time being, Paddington was about to head back home, when he had second thoughts.

The sun was shining and for once, instead of his shopping basket on wheels, he only had his suitcase, so as soon as he came across a bus stop, he held out a paw and stopped the first one that came into view.

As the doors opened he climbed aboard and headed for the stairs.

“And where do you think you’re going, young-feller-me-bear?” called the driver.

“Nowhere in particular, thank you very much,” said Paddington. “I’m looking for ideas.”

“Well you’ve picked the right route for not going anywhere in particular, I’ll say that,” said the driver gloomily. “We’ve been stuck in traffic jams all the morning.” He pointed to a long line of waiting cars ahead of them. “It’s all them roadworks. Never-ending they are, and as fast as they fill one hole in, someone else comes along and digs it up again.”

“I’m looking for something to paint,” said Paddington, raising his hat politely.

“That’s as may be,” said the driver, not unkindly. “And I promise not to tell anyone if they ask. But you’re not doing any of it on my bus – not without a ticket. Rembrandt ’imself wouldn’t be allowed on without one. It’s as much as my job’s worth if an inspector gets on.

“If I might make a suggestion,” he continued, “you’d be better off painting a picture of one of them holes near where you were standing. It’s what they call a still life.”

Paddington was about to explain that he needed some eggs first, but he thought better of it. He wasn’t too sure how to go about it himself without a book of instructions.

“I thought you might give me a ticket,” he said. “I can pay for it.”

Having made sure nobody was looking over his shoulder, he opened his suitcase and felt inside the secret compartment.

“It’s a sixpence,” he explained, holding up a small coin gleaming in the morning sun for the driver to see. “I’ve been keeping it polished for a rainy day.”

“When was the last time you travelled on a bus, mate?” asked the driver. “Even if it was raining cats and dogs, which it isn’t, and even if your coin was valid, which it isn’t – it wouldn’t take you any further than the next stop… if that. Besides, you have to get a ticket from a machine. I don’t carry them.”

He took a closer look at the coin. “It isn’t even a sixpence!” he exclaimed. “It’s a Peruvian centavo.”

“I’ve never been on a bus by myself before,” admitted Paddington. “They don’t have any in Darkest Peru, and whenever I’ve travelled on one in London it’s usually been with Mr Gruber on one of his outings, and he insists on paying.”

Hearing an outbreak of tooting from behind as the traffic in front showed signs of moving, the bus driver reached for his dashboard.

“Well,” he said, since I’m not in a position of being able to wait around on the off chance your Mr Gruber might come past, I suggest you take yourself on an outing right now and vacate the platform. I’ve got a busy schedule to keep up and we’re running late as it is.

“If you’re going to be doing a lot of travelling,” he added, “your best bet is to get yourself an Oyster.”

Paddington pricked up his ears. “Mr Gruber says you can go anywhere in the world on an oyster,” he exclaimed excitedly.

“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, not in this traffic,” said the driver. “But in principle you can go wherever you like within the Greater London area.”

With that he pressed a button and a metallic voice from somewhere inside the bus called out, ‘Stand Clear. Doors Closing. Stand Clear. Doors Closing’.

Paddington scrambled out of harm’s way, and then stared after the bus as it pulled away from the kerb and continued on its journey for a few more yards.

He sat down on his suitcase at the side of the road for a moment or two in order to consider his next move.

Mr Brown was right. Only the other day he had been saying that what with credit cards and computers and something called ‘shopping on the net’ it wouldn’t be very long before paying for things with real money would be a thing of the past, but he hadn’t mentioned the possibility of having to use an oyster to get on a bus. It was no wonder he went on an underground train when he travelled to and fro from his office in the city.

With that thought uppermost in his mind, Paddington picked up his suitcase and set off for the nearest fishmongers.

Overtaking the bus which was held up by yet another hole in the road, he raised his hat to the driver, who gave him a gloomy thumbs up sign in return, and shortly afterwards, having reached a row of shops, he made for the one he had in mind. It was where Mrs Bird went whenever she was shopping for fish.

“I would like an oyster, please,” he announced, raising his hat politely to a boy behind the counter, who was busy making sure all the fish heads were facing the same way.

“There’s a young foreign gent wants an oyster,” repeated the boy over his shoulder.

“I’d like a day return one, if I may,” added Paddington, trying to be helpful.

“I’m afraid we don’t get any returns here,” said the assistant. “They’re fresh in from France twice a week and once they’re gone they’re gone…”

“In that case I’d better have two,” said Paddington. “One for going and one for coming back.”