Paddington Here and Now (5 page)

“I meant, what’s in your
other
paw?” barked Mr. Curry. “The one behind your back.” And before Paddington could stop him, he had grabbed hold of the cord.

“I wouldn’t pull it if I were you, Mr. Curry,” said Paddington anxiously.

“Nonsense!” barked the Browns’ neighbor. “There’s only one way to find out where something goes; that’s to give it a good tug.” And without further ado he wound the cord around his other hand and pulled.

There was a loud bang as his door slammed shut. It was followed almost immediately by a sound of
tinkling as a metal object landed on the path at their feet.

Mr. Curry stared at it. “That looks like a doorknob,” he growled. “Have you any idea how it got there, bear? It might have caused a nasty accident.”

Paddington held out his lantern and took a closer look. “I don’t think it’s one of ours, Mr. Curry,” he said. “Mrs. Bird always keeps our doorknobs polished.”

“That still doesn’t explain what it’s doing there,” growled Mr. Curry.

“I was looking for a convenient tree,” explained Paddington.

“I don’t have any trees,” growled Mr. Curry. “Nasty, untidy things, dropping their leaves everywhere.”

“I know,” said Paddington unhappily. “That’s why the doorknob trick didn’t work properly. Yours must have fallen off by mistake. It wasn’t meant to.”

“I’ll give you tricks, bear,” barked Mr. Curry. “They ought not to be allowed. If I had my way I’d—” He broke off. “Would you mind repeating what you’ve just said?”

Mr. Curry’s face had grown purple with rage. In fact, Paddington didn’t like the look of it at all, and he hastily lowered his lantern to be on the safe side.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d rather not.”

But the Browns’ neighbor was already doing it for him. “Are you trying to tell me that’s
my
doorknob, bear?” he spluttered.

Clearly hardly able to believe his eyes, let alone
his ears, he gazed at his front door, then looked at the end of the cord tied around the knob.

“Do you realize,” he bellowed, “you have locked me out of my own house?”

“No, Mr. Curry,” said Paddington, glad to be on firm ground at last. “
I
didn’t lock you out. You did it yourself. It’s what Mrs. Bird calls a self-inflicted wound. She often says you’re very good at those.”

Raising his hat politely, he looked anxiously over his shoulder, but Jonathan and Judy were too well hidden to be of any help. “I think perhaps I’d better go now,” he said. “We’re having a Halloween party, and I don’t want to be late.”

Mr. Curry paused from whatever it was he had been about to say, and a cunning gleam came into his eyes. “Is that so, bear?” he said. “I thought I saw you doing a lot of coming and going this morning.”

“There was a lot to get ready,” said Paddington, only too pleased to change the subject. “Mrs. Bird’s been very busy, baking cakes and making some special stir fly mixture.”

“Seeing as I have been locked out of my house,”
said Mr. Curry, “it couldn’t have happened at a better time. It’s very kind of you to invite me, bear. Unless, of course,” he added meaningly, “you would rather I told the Browns what you’ve just done.”

Jonathan stood up. “That’s torn it!” he said gloomily, overhearing the conversation. “Wait until Dad hears what’s happened. He won’t be pleased. Mr. Curry is the last person he’ll want to see when he gets home.”

“Paddington wasn’t joking when he said bears are good at knots,” agreed Judy. “How’s he going to get out of this one?”

“I bet he finds a way,” said Jonathan loyally. “He usually comes out on top.”

Mr. Curry gazed around the Browns’ living room as he made himself comfortable in Mr. Brown’s favorite armchair. Having helped himself liberally from a bowl of chocolates, he gave a shiver and then stood up again.

“I think I’ll move nearer the fire,” he said. “I got cold standing outside.”

Much to everyone’s dismay he looked all set for
the rest of the evening.

“Now, bear,” he said, addressing Paddington. “It’s my turn. Seeing as you have kindly invited me to your party, I have a poem for
you
.

“You mentioned something just now about having some stir fry…so first of all, trick or treat, give me some of that to eat!”

Mrs. Bird pursed her lips, but before she had time to say anything Paddington jumped to his feet. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Bird,” he called, as he hurried out of the room. “Leave it to me.”

It wasn’t long before he returned carrying a large bowl and a spoon on a tray.

Mr. Curry scooped up the last of the chocolates and placed them inside his jacket pocket before turning his attention to Paddington’s offering.

“You cannot say I do not try,” said Paddington. “I’ll give it to you, then I must fly.”

“Thank you, bear,” said Mr. Curry, licking his lips. And without further ado, he grabbed the spoon and began attacking the bowl.

Paddington waited until the Browns’ neighbor had finished his second mouthful and was visibly
slowing down. “I’m afraid it’s a bit chewy,” he said. “It’s a special Halloween recipe.”

“Most unusual,” said Mr. Curry. “I’ve never had anything quite like it before. Aren’t you having any, bear?”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Curry,” said Paddington. “Thank you very much. My Aunt Lucy always told me never to swallow flies. It’s a bit difficult in Darkest Peru. They have a lot of them there. She had to keep her jars covered whenever she was making marmalade in case some went in. They’re supposed to make you go thin.”

Mr. Curry gave a snort. “Nonsense!” he barked. “That’s an old wives’ tale if ever I heard one. Besides, what’s that got to do with—?” He broke off, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why are you telling me that, bear?”

“I thought you might be interested,” said Paddington innocently. “I did give your bowl a good stir before I brought it in.”

Mr. Curry jumped to his feet. “Bear!” he bellowed.

“Are you trying to tell me I’ve been eating…stirred
flies
?”

“May I get you another helping?” asked Mrs. Bird sweetly before Paddington had a chance to answer.

“No, you may not!” spluttered Mr. Curry. Clutching his stomach, he gave a loud groan. “That’s the very last time I accept an invitation to one of your parties, bear!”

“Could we have that in writing?” murmured Jonathan, fortunately not loud enough for anyone
other than Judy to hear.

“Accept an invitation indeed!” said Mrs. Bird. “I heard you browbeating Paddington just now. As for being locked out of your house, you know very well we keep a spare key for you in case of an emergency. Come with me.”

And while Paddington took the remains of Mr. Curry’s soup into the kitchen, Mrs. Bird led their uninvited guest into the hall.

Moments later, for the second time that evening the sound of a front door being slammed echoed around Windsor Gardens.

“Who would have believed it?” said Mrs. Brown.

“I told you Paddington would find a way,” said Jonathan.

“Still waters run deep,” said Judy.

“There’s nothing still about that bear’s waters,” said Mrs. Bird as she came back into the room. “If you ask me, there’s a lot goes on under that hat we don’t know about.”

“Would anyone else like any stirred flies?” she asked. “Or would you prefer pumpkin soup? I
made it specially. You can’t make lanterns without having a lot of the inside fruit left over.”

“It’s very good,” said Paddington, licking his lips as he arrived back from the kitchen. “I’ve just been testing it.”

“In that case,” said Mr. Brown. “Come on, everyone. It’s party time!”

Afterward they all voted it was the best soup they’d had in a long time.

“Aren’t you going to take your hat off, Paddington?” asked Mrs. Brown when it was time to go to bed.

“If you don’t,” said Mrs. Bird, “the glue may melt during the night, then you’ll be stuck with it.”

Paddington considered the matter for a moment or two before he went upstairs. He felt very torn. “I suppose I’d better,” he said at long last. “Otherwise I shan’t be able to raise it if I meet someone I know when I’m out shopping. But if you don’t mind, I’ll take my lantern with me while the night-light is still burning. It’s been such a nice Halloween I don’t want to miss a minute of it.”

“I know I’ve said it before,” said Mrs. Bird as Paddington disappeared up the stairs, “but I’ll say it again. That bear takes the cake!”

O
NE BRIGHT
D
ECEMBER
morning Paddington decided to make himself useful in the garden. With Christmas not far away, he was anxious to earn some extra pocket money, so he set to work at the front of the house, clearing up the last of the autumn leaves and generally tidying up the flower beds.

He didn’t want a repeat of the previous year’s debacle, when he gave everyone in the family a diary he’d come across in a stall at the market. Like most bears, he had an eye for a bargain, and at the time five for the price of one sounded very good value indeed.

It wasn’t until halfway through Boxing Day afternoon, when Mr. Brown laid down his pen at long last, having finished the arduous task of transferring all the names and addresses and birthday reminders from his old diary into the new one, that he happened to glance at the date and discovered the two were identical.

Having swept the leaves into a tidy pile, Paddington took some pruning shears out of his duffle coat pocket and turned his attention to the rosebushes in case they needed a final prune before winter set in.

A quick glance decided him against it. The roses were Mr. Brown’s pride and joy, and he went to great pains to ensure they were pruned close to an outward facing bud.

Whenever Paddington looked at them, the only
buds he could find always seemed to face the wrong way, and that day was no exception.

He was in the middle of taking a closer look at one of the stems through his magnifying glass when he heard a cough. Looking around, he realized he was being watched.

“Ahem,” said a man looking over the railing. “Please forgive me. I can see you’re busy. Please don’t bother to stand up.”

Paddington looked most offended. “I
am
standing up,” he announced.

“Oh!” The newcomer sounded rather flustered. “I do beg your pardon, but I assumed you were a jobbing gardener, a refugee from some foreign clime, perhaps? I wonder…are your employers at home?”

“My
employers
!” repeated Paddington, growing more and more upset. “But I
live
here. I’m trying to make my ends meet in time for Christmas. I was looking for some outward-facing buds, but I can’t find any.”

“I know just how you feel,” said the man sympathetically.

He held up a clipboard. “I’m trying to conduct a survey, but so far I haven’t found a single person to interview. Everybody in the road seems to be out.”

“I expect it’s because of your board,” said Paddington knowledgeably. “Mrs. Bird says she never opens the door to a man with a clipboard. It usually means he’s after something.”

“Ah!” The man gave a hollow laugh. “Thank you very much for the tip. I’m not used to this kind of work, you see, and…” His voice trailed away under Paddington’s gaze.

“Since you live here,” he continued, “perhaps you wouldn’t mind answering a few simple questions. It will only take up a minute or two of your valuable time. We are asking people about their views.”

“I have a very good one from my bedroom window,” said Paddington, only too happy to oblige. “On a clear day I can see the British Telecom Tower.”

The interviewer allowed himself a smile. “How very interesting.” He took a closer look at
Paddington. “Forgive my mentioning it, but from your accent I take it you are not…well…I mean, where exactly are you from?”

“Peru,” said Paddington. “
Darkest
Peru.”

“Darkest Peru?” repeated the man. “I’ve come across a good many Bulgarians and Poles coming over here to work, but I’ve never met anyone from Darkest Peru before.” He consulted a sheet of paper on his clipboard. “There isn’t even a box I can tick. If you don’t mind my saying so, I hope there isn’t a flood this winter.”

“Mr. Curry had one last year,” said Paddington.

“He did?” exclaimed the man excitedly. He jotted the name down. “Perhaps you could give me his address. I’ll see if I can jog his memory.”

“I would rather you didn’t,” said Paddington anxiously. “He’s our next-door neighbor and we don’t get on very well.”

“Oh, dear,” said the man. “Does it bring back unhappy memories for you?”

“No,” said Paddington. “But it does for Mr. Curry. He had a burst pipe in his bathroom, and I was helping him mend it.

“He gave me a hammer to hold and told me that when he nodded his head I was to hit it. So I did. I didn’t realize he meant the pipe.”

“I see the problem,” agreed the man. “It’s not something you would forget in a hurry.”

He turned over the page. “Changing the subject, do you have any complaints about the way you have been treated since you arrived in this country?”

Paddington considered the matter for a moment. “Well, it wasn’t Mrs. Bird’s fault,” he said, “but my boiled egg was a bit runny this morning.”

“Your boiled egg was a bit runny?” The man had started to write something down, but he crossed it out. “I hardly think that’s a reasonable cause for complaint.”

“It is if you’re a bear,” said Paddington hotly. “If you’re a bear and the yolk dries on your whiskers, it makes them stick together and it’s very painful. It hurts every time you open your mouth.”

“Er, yes,” said the interviewer, “I suppose it would. Did you register a complaint?”

Paddington looked taken aback at the thought.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he said. “Mrs. Bird rules the house with a rod of iron.”

“Really?” The man looked around nervously. “Does she carry it with her?”

“Oh, it’s only a pretend one,” said Paddington. “But she can be a bit fierce at times. Mr. Brown says that deep down she has a heart of gold. Anyway, she’s out with Mrs. Brown doing the Christmas shopping, and both Jonathan and Judy
are away at school. They’re not due home until tomorrow, so I’ve been left in charge.”

The man looked relieved. “This Mrs. Bird,” he said. “I would like to know more about her. Do I take it she isn’t a very good cook?”

“Not a very good cook?”
repeated Paddington indignantly. “Mrs. Bird’s dumplings are the best I’ve ever tasted. They’re well known in the neighborhood.”

“Dumplings well known in neighborhood,” repeated the man, making an entry on his form.

“So is her marmalade,” said Paddington. “It’s full of chunks.”

Feeling under his hat, he produced a sandwich. “You can try this one if you like. I made it myself the week before last.”

It looked somewhat the worse for wear, and the man eyed it doubtfully. “I think I would rather not,” he said.

“I always keep one under my hat in case of an emergency,” explained Paddington, “but nothing’s gone wrong for several weeks now.”

“I don’t suppose you happen to keep one of Mrs.
Bird’s dumplings under there as well, do you?” asked the man. “I could take a picture of it on my mobile phone.”

“A
dumpling
!” exclaimed Paddington. “Under my hat!” He gave the interviewer a very hard stare indeed.

The man’s voice trailed away as he caught the look on Paddington’s face. “May I ask how you got here in the first place?” he inquired, hurriedly changing the subject.

“I came in a small boat,” said Paddington. “I was a stowaway.”

“All the way from Darkest Peru?” The interviewer raised his eyebrows. “I know a lot of you boat people are desperate, but that sounds like a world record to me. Your paws must have been sore after all that rowing.”

“Oh, I didn’t have to row,” said Paddington. “The boat was fixed to the side of a big ship. It was my Aunt Lucy’s idea. I was a stowaway.”

“All the same,” said the man, “it can’t have been easy.”

“It certainly wasn’t in the Bay of Biscuits,” said
Paddington. “I had a job to stand up. The sea was so rough I nearly got washed overboard several times.”

“Surely you mean the Bay of Biscay?” said the man.

“I called it the Bay of Biscuits,” said Paddington firmly. “Someone was hanging over the ship’s rail and they let go of a Garibaldi biscuit by mistake. It landed on my head, so I had it for dinner. I felt much better afterward.”

“How many
B
s are there in ‘Garibaldi’?” asked the man as he wrote it down.

“There aren’t bees in a Garibaldi,” said Paddington. “They have currants instead.”

Taking a deep breath, the interviewer reached for his eraser. “This Aunt Lucy of yours,” he continued. “Can you tell me more about her?”

“Well,” said Paddington, “she’s very wise. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be here at all. Besides, she taught me all I know.”

“Perhaps you could let me have her address,” said the man. “I’d like to take her on board and make her part of my team. She sounds like just the kind
of person we’re looking for.”

“I don’t think that would be very easy,” said Paddington. “She’s living in the Home for Retired Bears in Lima. Besides, she doesn’t play any ball games.”

The interviewer gave Paddington a glassy stare as he reached for his eraser again.

“I had a clean form when I started out this morning,” he said plaintively. “Now look at it!

“I suppose,” he continued, trying another tack, “since your Aunt Lucy is in a home, she’s…er…I mean, is there an uncle by any chance?”

“Oh, yes,” said Paddington. “Uncle Pastuzo. But we haven’t seen him since the earthquake.”

“You mean you’re an earthquake victim?” The man’s pen fairly raced across the page. “Tell me more.”

“Well,” said Paddington, “there’s not much to tell. I was fast asleep in a tree at the time.There was a loud rumble, and the earth began to shake. When I woke up everything looked different. Everyone else apart from Aunt Lucy had disappeared.”

“Even your Uncle Pastuzo?” said the interviewer.

“Especially Uncle Pastuzo,” said Paddington. “I think he must have known it was going to happen, because he went out early that day. But he left his old hat and a suitcase with a secret compartment behind, along with a note to say I could have them if anything happened to him.”

“And you have never heard any more of him since?”

Paddington shook his head sadly. “That’s why Aunt Lucy brought me up. She taught me my tables, and she taught me to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ when I’m out shopping and to raise my hat whenever I meet someone I know.

“She also taught me to count my blessings when things look black. It’s the first thing she does when she wakes in the morning. She says nine times out of ten you have more than you think you have.”

“Would that there were more about like her,” said the man. He turned the page. “One last thing before I leave you in peace. What are your feelings about being a blood donor?”

“No thank you,” said Paddington firmly. “I haven’t had my elevenses yet and it might make me
go wibbly woo.”

“I shouldn’t let that worry you,” said the man. “You can lie down afterward,
and
they give you a nice cup of tea in the bargain.”

“I prefer cocoa,” said Paddington. “Bears do, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” said the man, entering the information on his form.

“While we are on the subject of medical matters,” he continued, “if you don’t fancy being a blood donor, how about donating one of your organs when the time comes?”

Paddington considered the matter for a moment or two. He wondered if he ought to mention Jonathan’s mouth organ. It had been a nine days’ wonder at the time, and everybody had breathed a sigh of relief when he took it back to school with him after the holidays.

“I don’t have any myself,” he said.

The man concealed a smile. “Oh, but you must have,” he said. “Everyone has organs.”

“Mr. Curry doesn’t, for a start,” said Paddington.

“Oh, dear,” said the interviewer. “Poor man.
What with that
and
having his pipes frozen, he must be in a terrible state. I daresay he has to be tended day and night.”

Paddington looked over his shoulder. “I don’t think so,” he said, lowering his voice. “He lives all by himself.”

The man followed the direction of Paddington’s gaze. “It gets worse and worse,” he said. “Is that why the curtains are drawn?”

“Mrs. Bird says it’s because he doesn’t like people spying on him,” said Paddington.

“I’m not surprised,” said the man, “if he has no organs.”

“Jonathan had one once,” said Paddington. “But he swapped it with a boy at school for a pencil box.”

The interviewer’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Jonathan swapped one of his organs for a pencil box?” he repeated. “Do you know which one it was?”

“I don’t know the name,” said Paddington. “But it was very special. It had two tiers. One for ordinary pencils and another one for crayons.”

“I don’t mean the pencil box,” said the man. “I mean which organ. This could be headline news! It’s just the kind of material my editor is looking for.”

“Oh, dear!” Paddington suddenly wondered if he had said the right thing.

“Are you absolutely certain you don’t want to set an example?” said the man. “I wasn’t meaning today, of course. It won’t happen until after you…” He shifted uneasily underneath Paddington’s hard stare. “Well, you know…after you er, um.”

“After I er, um?” repeated Paddington.

“That’s right,” said the man. “It happens to us all at some time.”

“It hasn’t happened to me yet,” said Paddington.