Paddington Here and Now (3 page)

“I can see that,” growled Mr. Curry suspiciously. “The thing is, bear, why are you doing it?”

“It’s some special paint that never dries,” said Paddington. “It’s very good value.”

“Paint that never dries?” repeated the Browns’ neighbor. “It doesn’t sound very good value to me.”

“It was recommended to Mr. Brown by a
policeman,” said Paddington importantly. “I’ve nearly finished all the pipes and I haven’t used half the tin yet.

“Mrs. Bird saw a face at the window when she came home from her shopping the other day,” he explained, seeing the skeptical look on Mr. Curry’s face. “The policeman thought it might have been someone called Gentleman Dan, the Drainpipe Man, who climbed up this very pipe. Mrs. Bird said it gave her quite a turn. She hasn’t got over it yet.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Curry. “Let’s hope they catch him.”

“I don’t think he’ll be back,” said Paddington. “Not if he saw Mrs. Bird on the warpath, but Mr. Brown thinks it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Hmm,” said Mr. Curry. “What did you say it’s called, bear?”

“Miracle Nondry Paint for Outside Use,” said Paddington, reading from the can. He held it up for Mr. Curry to see. “You can buy it in any good do-it-yourself shop.”

“I don’t want to do it myself, bear!” growled Mr. Curry. “I have more important things to do.
Besides, I’m on my way out.”

He paused for a moment. “On the other hand, I would be more than interested in having my own pipes done. I do have some very valuable items about the house. Family heirlooms, you know.”

“Have you really?” said Paddington with interest. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an heirloom before.”

“And you’re not starting with mine,” said the Browns’ neighbor shortly. “I don’t have them on display for every Tom, Dick, and bear to see. I keep them tucked away—out of the sight of prying eyes.”

Paddington couldn’t help thinking, if that were the case, there was no point in the Browns’ neighbor having his drainpipes painted, but Mr. Curry was notorious for being unable to resist getting something for nothing, even if it was something he didn’t need.

A cunning look came over his face. “Did you say you have over half a tin of paint left?” he asked.

“Nearly,” said Paddington. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t mentioned it in the first place.

Mr. Curry felt in his trouser pocket. “Perhaps
you would like to have a go at my pipes while you’re at it,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have very much change on me, but I could stretch to ten pence if you do a good job.”

Paddington did a quick count-up on his paws. “Ten pence!” he exclaimed. “That’s less than tuppence a pipe!”

“It’s a well-known fact in business,” said Mr. Curry, “that the bigger the quantity the less you pay for each individual item. It’s what’s known as giving discount.”

“In that case,” said Paddington hopefully, “perhaps I could do one of your pipes for five pence?”

“Ten pence for the lot,” said Mr. Curry firmly. “That’s my final offer. There’s no point in having only one done.”

“I think I’d better ask Mr. Brown if he minds first,” said Paddington, clutching at straws. “It is his paint.”

“Now, you don’t want to do that, bear,” said Mr. Curry, hastily changing his tune. “Let it be between ourselves.”

Reaching into his pocket again, he lowered his
voice. “As I say, I have to go out now and I probably won’t be back until this evening, so that will give you plenty of time to get it done. But if you make a really good job of it, I may give you a little extra. Here’s something to be going on with.”

Before Paddington had a chance to answer, something landed with a
plop
on the gravel at the foot of his steps.

Climbing down, he picked up the object and gazed at it for a moment or two before glancing up at Mr. Curry’s house. Unlike the Browns’ drainpipes, Mr. Curry’s looked as though they hadn’t seen a paintbrush in years. His heart sank as he turned the coin over in his paw. For a start, it didn’t even look English. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less exciting Mr. Curry’s offer seemed, particularly when it meant doing something he hadn’t bargained on in the first place.

While Paddington was considering the matter, he heard Mr. Curry’s front door slam shut. It was followed almost immediately afterward by a clang from the front gate, and that in turn triggered off one of his brain waves.

Shortly afterward Paddington was hard at work again, and this time, knowing how cross the Browns would be on his behalf were they able to see what he was doing, he intended getting it over and done with as quickly as possible.

Later that day the Browns were in the middle of their afternoon tea when the peace was shattered by the sound of a violent commotion in the road outside their house.

At one point Mrs. Bird thought she heard loud cries of “Bear,” and shortly afterward there was the sound of a police siren, but by the time she got to the front window all was quiet.

They had hardly settled down again before there was a ring at the front doorbell.

“I’ll go this time, Mrs. Bird!” said Paddington eagerly, and before the others could stop him he was on his way.

When he returned, he was accompanied by the policeman who had visited them earlier in the week.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” said Mr. Brown.

“Allow me,” said the officer before Paddington had a chance to open his mouth.

He produced his notebook. “First of all, a short while ago we received a call from one of your neighbors reporting a disturbance outside number thirty-three. We arrived at the scene as quickly as we could. The gate was wide open, and a gentleman covered in black paint was dancing about in the gutter shouting his head off. Assuming it must be Gentleman Dan, the Drainpipe Man, we placed him under immediate arrest.

“On our way back to the station, we managed to quiet him down”—the policeman looked up from his notebook—“which was no easy task, I can tell you. He informed us he was your next-door neighbor, so we removed the handcuffs and brought him back. I daresay you will be able to confirm you have a Mr. Curry living next door.”

“I’m afraid we do,” said Mrs. Brown.

“What did he look like?” asked Mr. Brown.

“Well, he’s not exactly a bear lover, for a start,” said the policeman. “Kept going on about the iniquities of someone called Paddington—”

“Say no more,” broke in Mrs. Bird. “That’s him.”

“Well,” continued the officer, “when we arrived back at his house, who should we meet coming out of the gate, but none other than Gentleman Dan, the Drainpipe Man. He must have seen us drive off and seized his chance. He had the cheek to say he’d gone to the wrong door by mistake.”

“Did he get away with much?” asked Mr. Brown.

“Didn’t have a thing on him,” said the officer, “which is a pity, because I gather from Mr. Curry that he has a lot of valuable items, and we could have booked him on the spot.

“On the other hand, I don’t think he’ll be bothering us again for a while. Thanks to this young bear’s efforts, we’ve not only got a picture of him, but we have his dabs for good measure.”

He turned to Paddington. “I’d like to shake you by the paw for your sterling work,” he said.

Paddington eyed the policeman’s hand doubtfully. There was a large lump of something black attached to the palm.

“Perhaps you would like to borrow some of Mr. Brown’s paint remover first,” he said. “You won’t want to get any of that on your steering wheel.”

“You’ve got a point,” said the policeman, taking a look at it himself. “Seeing as how I recommended it in the first place, I can’t really complain, but…”

“I still don’t quite understand,” said Mr. Brown after the officer had left. “What’s all this about painting Mr. Curry’s front gate?”

Paddington took a deep breath. “I thought if I stopped any burglars from getting into his garden in the first place, they wouldn’t be able to break into his house, and it would save using up all your paint on his downpipes. I forgot Mr. Curry still had to get back in!”

The Browns fell silent as they digested this latest piece of information.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” said
Paddington lamely.

“You can’t really blame Paddington, Henry,” said Mrs. Brown. “You did take him up on his offer, after all.”

“How much was Mr. Curry going to pay you for doing his pipes?” asked Mr. Brown.

“Ten pence,” said Paddington

“In that case,” said Mrs. Bird, amid general agreement, “I have no sympathy. That man deserves all he gets.
And
he knows it.

“If he says anything to you about it,” she added grimly, turning to Paddington, “tell him to come and see me first.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Bird,” said Paddington gratefully. “If you like, I’ll go around and tell him now.”

The Browns exchanged glances. “It’s very kind of you, Paddington,” said Mrs. Brown. “But you’ve had a very busy day, and I do think it’s a case of ‘least said, soonest mended.’ Why don’t you put your paws up for a while?” Having considered the matter, Paddington thought it was a very good idea indeed. And funnily enough, Mr. Curry never did
mention the day he
didn’t
get his drainpipes painted, although for some weeks to come, whenever Paddington waved to the Browns’ neighbor over the garden fence, he received some very black looks in return.

They were even darker than the color of his front gate, which now remained permanently open.

On the other hand, Mrs. Bird never again saw a face looking at her through the landing window.

P
ADDINGTON ALWAYS LOOKED
forward to his morning chats with Mr. Gruber. One of the things that made visiting his friend’s antique shop in the Portobello Road so special was the fact that it was never the same two days running. People came from far and wide to seek Mr. Gruber’s advice. If it wasn’t someone looking for an old painting or a
bronze statue, it was someone else browsing through his vast collection of books, which covered practically every subject under the sun.

In time Paddington became quite knowledgeable about antiques himself; so much so, he could immediately tell a piece of genuine Spode china from an ordinary run-of-the-mill item of crockery, although he would never have dared pick any of it up in case he dropped it by mistake.

“Better safe than sorry” was Mr. Gruber’s motto.

That apart, since both of them had begun life in a foreign country, they were never short of things to talk about.

During the summer months they often had their elevenses sitting in deck chairs on the pavement outside the shop, discussing problems of the day in peace and quiet before the crowds arrived.

Paddington couldn’t help but notice his friend usually had a faraway look in his eyes whenever he spoke of his native Hungary.

“When I was a boy,” Mr. Gruber would say, “people used to dance the night away to the sound of balalaikas. That doesn’t seem to happen anymore.”

Having been born in Darkest Peru, Paddington had no idea what a balalaika was, let alone what it sounded like, but with Mr. Gruber’s help he did learn to play a tune called “Chopsticks” on an ancient piano at the back of the shop.

It wasn’t easy, because having paws meant he often played several notes at the same time, but Mr. Gruber said anyone with half an ear for music would recognize it at once.

“Music is a wonderful thing, Mr. Brown,” he was wont to say. “‘Chopsticks’ may not be top of what is known as the Pops, but if you are able to play it on the piano you will always be in demand at parties.”

On cloudy days, when there was a chill in the air, they made a habit of retiring to an old horsehair sofa at the back of the shop, and it was on just such a morning, soon after his adventure with the shopping basket on wheels, that Paddington arrived rather earlier than usual and found to his surprise that Mr. Gruber had acquired a new piano.

It was standing in almost exactly the same spot as the old one had been: near the stove where his
friend made the cocoa.

There was no sign of Mr. Gruber, which was most unusual, so to pass the time Paddington decided to have a go at playing what had become known as “his tune,” when something very strange happened.

As he raised his paws to play the opening notes, the keys began going up and down all by themselves!

He had hardly finished rubbing his eyes in order to make sure he wasn’t dreaming when he had yet another surprise. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mr. Gruber crawl out from underneath a nearby table.

“Oh, dear,” said Paddington, “I hope I haven’t broken your new piano.”

Mr. Gruber laughed. “Have no fear of that, Mr. Brown,” he said. “It is what is known as a player piano, and it works by electricity. You don’t see many around these days. I’ve just been plugging it in to make sure it works properly.”

“I don’t think I have ever seen a piano that plays a tune all by itself before,” said Paddington. “We didn’t have anything like that in Darkest Peru. But then, we didn’t have electricity either,” he added sadly.

While Mr. Gruber set about making the cocoa, Paddington took a closer look at the keyboard. It really was uncanny the way the keys went up and down in time to the music, and he tried following their movement with his paws without actually touching them. In the beginning he found it was
hard to keep up with them, but after several goes it really began to look as though he was actually playing the tune.

“Look, Mr. Gruber,” he called. “I can even do it cross paws!”

“I should watch out,” warned his friend, looking up from the saucepan. “It’s the ‘Tritsch Tratsch Polka.’ You will need to sit very tight.”

But it was too late. Even as Mr. Gruber spoke, the music reached a crescendo and Paddington suddenly found himself lying on the floor with his legs in the air.

Mr. Gruber ran to switch the machine off. “I’m afraid it’s a case of trying to run before you can walk, Mr. Brown,” he said, helping Paddington to his feet. “I think perhaps you should try starting with something a little slower. I will see what I can find.”

Opening the lid of a long cardboard box, he produced a roll of paper on a spindle, and unwinding it slightly, he held it up for Paddington to see.

Although he didn’t say so, Paddington felt disappointed. It looked rather as if the moths had been at it.

“It seems to have a lot of holes in it,” he said.

“Well spotted,” said Mr. Gruber. “You have hit the nail on the head as usual, Mr. Brown. That is the secret behind a player piano. It works by blowing air through those holes as they go past. When the roll goes through at the correct speed, every time a hole passes a nozzle, the blast of air sets a lever in motion, and that in turn operates the correct note on the keyboard.”

While he was talking, Mr. Gruber opened a small door above in the front of the piano, rewound the
roll of paper already in there, and replaced it with the new one.

“It sounds very complicated,” said Paddington, dusting himself down.

“It is really no more complicated than you or I picking up a mug of cocoa and drinking it,” said Mr. Gruber. “When you think about it, that is also something of a miracle. I suggest we have our elevenses first, and then you can try out the tune I’ve just put in. It’s Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata
. I’m sure you will find it much easier.”

It sounded like a very good idea, and Paddington hastily unpacked the morning supply of buns.

After they had finished the last of them and drained their mugs of cocoa, he climbed back on to the stool. This time, because the music was so much slower, he was even better at following the movement of the keys, and several passersby stopped outside the shop to watch.

“I wonder if Mr. Beethoven did a ‘Chopsticks’ roll?” he said. “I expect he would have been very good at playing that.”

“I doubt it,” said Mr. Gruber. “He was a very
famous composer, and he wouldn’t have had the time. Besides, this machine wasn’t invented until long after he died.

“If you close your eyes,” he continued, “and sway gently with the music, I’m sure a great many people will think you really are playing it.”

Following his friend’s instructions, Paddington had another go, and by the time he reached the end of the piece, the pavement outside the shop was thronged with sightseers.

“Bravo!” said Mr. Gruber, joining in the applause as Paddington stood up and bowed to the audience. “What did I tell you, Mr. Brown? I think even Beethoven himself would have been taken in.”

Shortly afterward, having thanked Mr. Gruber for the cocoa, Paddington bid him good-bye and made his way out of the shop, raising his hat to the crowd outside as he went. A number of people took his photograph, still more wanted his autograph, and several more dropped coins into his hat before he had a chance to put it back on. They felt quite cold when they landed on his head.

One way and another he was so excited he couldn’t wait to tell the Browns all about it, so as soon as he was able to escape from the crowd of admirers, Paddington set off as fast as he could in the direction of Windsor Gardens.

He hadn’t gone far before he realized he was being followed. In a strange way it wasn’t unlike the player piano. Each time he put a foot down on the pavement, it was echoed by a footstep close behind him.

Looking back over his shoulder as he stopped at some traffic lights, he saw a figure wearing a long black overcoat and a fur hat waving at him.

“Stop! Stop!” called the man.

“This whole thing is quite extraordinary,”
continued the newcomer, removing a glove as he drew near. “I have never seen a bear play the piano before. Allow me to shake you by the, er…paw.”

Paddington hastily wiped the nearest one on his duffle coat before holding it out.

“It’s quite easy really,” he began. “You see…”

“Ah, such modesty.” The man glanced at Paddington’s shopping basket on wheels. “I see you take your sheet music everywhere with you. How very wise.”

“It isn’t music,” said Paddington. “It’s Mrs. Bird’s vegetables.”

Reaching inside the basket, he took out a carrot and held it up for the other to see.

“Ah!” said the man, masking his disappointment. “It’s good to see you haven’t lost the common touch.”

He pointed to a large poster on a nearby wall, one of many Paddington had recently seen dotted about the area. “I don’t suppose for one moment you would care to do a recital for me, would you? I’m putting on a concert in aid of charity, and a piano-playing bear is just the kind of thing I need
to round things off. The icing on the cake, as it were.”

“Jonathan and Judy will be home for the half term, and Mr. Brown is taking us all to see it as a treat,” said Paddington doubtfully. “So I shall be there anyway.”

“Splendid!” exclaimed the man. “In fact, it couldn’t be better.”

“I shall have to ask Mr. Gruber first,” said Paddington. “It is his piano, and he says there aren’t many like it left in the world.”

“Leave all that to me,” said the man. “Don’t say another word. You shall have the best piano that money can buy. One that will suit your unique talents. Your obbligatos have to be heard to be believed. As for your glissandos…words fail me.”

Paddington had no idea what the man was talking about, but he couldn’t help feeling pleased. “It isn’t easy with paws,” he admitted. “I fell off the stool when I was playing the ‘Trish Trash Polka.’”

“It happens to the best of players,” said the man, brushing it aside. “Perhaps we had better have your paws insured. On the other hand, you may have been trying to run before you could walk.”

Paddington stared at him. “It happened only this morning,” he said excitedly. “And that’s exactly what Mr. Gruber said.”

He considered the matter for a moment or two. “I shall need some rolls,” he announced.