Paddington Here and Now (6 page)

“I can see that,” said the man, looking as though he was beginning to wish it had.

“One last thing,” he remarked casually. “Can you tell me the name of Jonathan’s school?”

“I’m very sorry,” said Paddington, raising his hat politely to show the conversation was at an end. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“What’s it worth?” asked the interviewer. Taking
out his wallet, he fingered some notes.

“More than all the tea in China,” said Paddington, remembering one of Mrs. Bird’s favorite phrases.

“And if this doesn’t work?” asked the man, detaching one of the notes, crackling it enticingly between his thumb and forefinger.

“I have a secret weapon,” said Paddington. “I’ll show you if you like.”

Looking around to make sure nobody was watching, he gave the interviewer one of his hardest stares ever.

The man shuddered as though he had been struck by lightning, and something fell to the ground.

“That’s another thing Aunt Lucy taught me,” said Paddington. “It comes in very useful at times!”

“I think I might call it a day,” said the man, hastily retrieving his pen. He handed the note across the railing. “You’d better have this anyway. It may help you to make your ends meet before Christmas.

“We’re giving them away this week,” he added.
“It’s a thank-you present.”

And with that he turned on his heels and disappeared down Windsor Gardens as though he had a train to catch.

Paddington gazed at the note for a moment or two. It didn’t look like any sort of money he had seen before. Instead of the pound sign, there was a picture of an airplane, followed by a lot of words in small print. None of them seemed to make any sense, so he slipped it into his duffle coat pocket for safekeeping and hurried back into the house in case anyone else came along wanting to interview him.

“What do you think ‘er, ums’ are?” asked Mr. Brown.

It was the following day, and he had just arrived back from the station, having collected Jonathan and Judy, who were home for the Christmas holiday.

“You’ve been reading Paddington’s postcard, Henry,” said Mrs. Brown accusingly.

“I couldn’t help it,” said Mr. Brown. “It was lying on the hall table ready to be posted. Anyway, it
sounds as though you’ve read it too.”

“It’s addressed to his Aunt Lucy,” said Mrs. Brown. “I have no idea what it means, but he told her not to worry.”

“If you ask me,” said Mrs. Bird, “a spoonful of castor oil might not come amiss.”

“Poor old Paddington,” said Judy.

“Worse things happen at sea,” said Jonathan cheerfully.

“I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Brown. “Look at this headline!”

He held up the front page of a local newspaper.

ORGAN REPLACEMENT SCANDAL ROCKS LONDON’S WEST END

“I can’t say I’ve felt any tremors,” said Mrs. Bird, reading it out loud.

“I don’t know where they get all these stories from in the first place,” agreed Mrs. Brown. “I can’t believe half of them are true. It doesn’t sound like anywhere around here, thank goodness!”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” warned Mr. Brown. “It’s the same post code as ours—W11.”

He continued reading. “‘Where will it all end?’
asks our man on the spot. Posing as an interviewer, our intrepid reporter Mervyn Doom managed to infiltrate the gang and obtain in-depth information from one of its hammer-carrying members.’”

“He makes it sound like some kind of ball game,” interrupted Mrs. Brown. “Where on earth did you get the paper?”

“In Paddington station while I was waiting for the train,” said Mr. Brown.

“Apparently the person he interviewed was disguised as a jobbing gardener. He gave the game
away by saying he was looking for some outward-facing rose buds, not realizing it was long past the normal pruning season.”

He looked up from the paper. “Can you imagine? It shows the type of person the authorities are up against.

“During the course of the interview our informant also let slip the fact that an undercover trade in organ transplants is rife.

“A local schoolboy swapped one of his for a pencil box—the name of the boy and the school have been withheld for legal reasons. Meanwhile, in this outwardly respectable neighborhood, others—bereft of everything that makes them tick—lie behind drawn curtains waiting for help.”

“What
is
the world coming to?” exclaimed Mrs. Bird.

“And another thing,” continued Mr. Brown, “according to this paper, the gates are about to open on a flood of boat people from Peru.

“Our question is, WHEN WILL SOMETHING BE DONE ABOUT IT? THERE IS NO TIME TO BE LOST!”

“Does it say who’s behind it?” asked Mrs. Brown.

“Apparently the gang-master-in-chief is a woman,” said Mr. Brown. “Notorious for her dumplings, and wielding an iron bar, she so terrifies those around her that the subject of the interview is forced to hide his marmalade sandwiches under his hat.”

The Browns looked at one another. Suddenly it was all starting to sound much closer to home than they had thought.

“You don’t think…” began Mr. Brown.

“Oh, dear, Henry,” said Mrs. Brown. “I’m very much afraid I do.”

“He asked if he could borrow your pruning shears yesterday morning,” said Mrs. Bird.

“He wanted to do some work in the front garden.”

“Don’t tell me he was having a go at my roses?” exclaimed Mr. Brown, the full seriousness of the situation suddenly coming home to him.

“I don’t like the sound of that last bit,” said Mrs. Bird. “If the powers that be get hold of the story, there’s no knowing what will happen. We can await the ring on the front doorbell.”

The Browns exchanged anxious glances. In the beginning Paddington had just sort of happened, but over the years he had become so much a part of the family they couldn’t picture life without him. They had certainly never thought of him as being a refugee, still less the possibility of his being an illegal one.

“I think they’ve starting doing something about things already,” said Jonathan. “I saw an ambulance outside Mr. Curry’s house soon after we got back. There was a terrible row going on. They were trying to tie him onto a stretcher.”

“I suppose they might declare Paddington persona non grata,” said Mr. Brown.

“That means an unwelcome person,” said Judy, for her brother’s benefit.

“Thanks a heap!” said Jonathan. “Who got an A Star in his exams?”

“Anyway,” said Judy. “He’s not a person. He’s a bear.”

“
And
he’s always welcome,” chimed in Mrs. Bird. “If anyone tries to take him away after all this time, they’ll have me to deal with.”

“Who in the world would want to report him?” asked Judy.

“I imagine Mr. Curry, for a start,” said Jonathan, “if Paddington had anything to do with what happened this morning. Perhaps we could hide him under the floorboards—like the French did with escaped prisoners during World War Two.”

“I shall never go out and leave that bear alone again,” said Mrs. Bird.

“I’m sure he meant well,” said Mrs. Brown.

“They can’t,” said Judy. “Take him away, I mean.”

“There’s no such word in the English language as ‘can’t,’” said Mrs. Bird grimly.

“What shall we tell Paddington?” broke in Mr. Brown, lowering his voice.

“For the time being,” said Mrs. Bird, “I suggest we don’t tell him anything. He’ll be most upset if he thinks the whole thing is his fault.”

“He really will have trouble with his ‘er, ums’ then,” said Jonathan.

“Careful,” hissed Judy, “I think he’s coming downstairs. I was wondering where he’d got to.”

Sure enough, a moment later the door opened
and a familiar face appeared around the gap.

“Can anyone tell me what air miles are?” asked Paddington.

“Well,” said Mr. Brown, after he had gone. “That was a conversation stopper if ever I heard one. I wonder what he’s up to now?”

“I shudder to think,” said Mrs. Brown.

“Time alone will tell,” said Mrs. Bird. “I daresay we shall know soon enough.”

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, blissfully unaware of the dark cloud that had settled over number 32 Windsor Gardens, Paddington set out soon after breakfast.

Heading in the opposite direction from the one he normally took, he made his way uphill toward a shop he remembered seeing on one of his
outings with Mr. Gruber.

It was situated in a busy high street some distance from the Portobello Market, and it stuck in his mind, partly because at the time he had thought Oyster Travels seemed a very unusual name for a shop and also because there had been a large revolving globe in the window. Mr. Gruber had stopped to admire it, and as it went slowly round and round, he had pointed out all the different countries as they went past.

“Since they invented the airplane, Mr. Brown,” he had said, “the world has shrunk. There are very few places left that cannot be reached in a matter of hours rather than weeks. I expect this shop took its name from the old saying: ‘The world is your oyster.’ In other words, ‘It is yours to enjoy.’”

Mr. Gruber had a happy knack of making even quite ordinary things sound exciting, and Paddington’s latest idea was far from ordinary. It had come to him during the night while he had been lying awake trying to think what to get the Browns for Christmas.

The first time he had seen the shop it had been full of people, but as he drew near he was pleased to see that apart from a rather superior-looking man who looked as though he was about to open up for business, there was nobody else around.

“The early bird catches the worm,” the man said approvingly as he held the door open for Paddington.

“I daresay you’ll be after one of our cheap day return trips,” he said, sizing up his first customer of the day. “A day out in Brightsea perhaps? It can be very invigorating at this time of the year. The coach leaves in half an hour, and if the weather forecast is anything to go by, it will certainly blow the cobwebs out of your whiskers.”

Paddington took a quick look at his reflection in the polished glass. “Those aren’t cobwebs,” he said, giving the man a hard stare. “It’s shredded wheat. I ate my breakfast in a hurry because I wanted to get here before anyone else.”

“I do beg your pardon.” The man wilted under Paddington’s gaze.

“I was really wanting to inquire about some of
the places you have on your globe,” said Paddington. “Mr. Gruber was telling me all about them.”

“My dear sir, you couldn’t have come to a better place.” Leaping into action, the man began washing his hands with invisible soap as he ushered Paddington to a stool opposite one of the counters.

“I happen to be the manager,” he continued, going around to the other side and reaching for a pad and pencil. “As I like to tell all our customers, the world is not only our oyster, it is yours too. We are here to take care of your every need.

“Perhaps you could let me have a few details first, starting with your name and address.”

Paddington did as he was bid, and while the manager was writing it down he glanced around the shop. It seemed full of interesting things. Apart from a number of real oyster shells dotted around the counter, there were some giant plastic ones hanging from the ceiling, and the walls were covered in posters showing vacationers with happy, smiling faces as they bathed in the blue sea or lay back in their deck chairs, enjoying the
sunshine. There wasn’t a gloomy face to be seen anywhere, and he felt more certain than ever that he had come to the right place.

“Will it be just for your good self?” inquired the manager. “Or will you be accompanied? We do have what we call our Singles Special.”

“There will be seven of us,” said Paddington. “It’s
my treat, and I want to take them somewhere special for Christmas.”

“Seven!” The manager took a firmer grip of his pencil. “Would you mind giving me their names?”

“Well,” said Paddington, “there will be Mr. and Mrs. Brown, and Mrs. Bird. Jonathan and Judy, and I’m hoping Mr. Gruber might be able to come too.”

“Quite a large party,” said the manager, looking suitably impressed. Taking a closer look at Paddington, he revised his first impression. Clearly he was dealing with a seasoned traveler, and an important one at that. Although the customer had arrived on foot, he wondered for a moment if he could be dealing with a television personality planning a forthcoming program, or perhaps some kind of foreign dignitary—a slightly eccentric Indian prince down on his luck, for example. He had never met one wearing a duffle coat before, but there was a first time for everything, and one never knew these days. It paid to be careful.

“I know it’s a little early in the day,” he said, “but would you care for a glass of champagne while we go through the possibilities?”

“No thank you,” said Paddington. “I had one once and it tickled my whiskers. I would sooner have a cup of cocoa.”

The manager’s face fell. “I’m afraid we shall have to wait until our Miss Pringle arrives,” he said, looking at his watch. “She usually collects the milk on her way in. We were rushed off our feet yesterday,” he explained, “what with everyone wanting to make a quick getaway for the Christmas holiday. I told the staff they could come in half an hour later than usual.” He reached out toward a rack laden with colored brochures.

“Have you ever thought about visiting South America? The Peruvian Andes, for example? We have a tour that includes a boat trip on Lake Titicaca. As I’m sure you know, it’s the highest one in the world.”

“If we go to Peru,” said Paddington, “I would sooner visit the Home for Retired Bears in Lima. I haven’t seen my Aunt Lucy for a long time, and it will be a nice surprise for her.”

The manager scanned through the brochure. “I’m afraid it doesn’t mention anything about a
Home for Retired Bears,” he said, “but I’m sure our tour guide will be more than willing to offer advice when you get there.

“Alternatively”—he reached for another brochure—“how would you feel about visiting India?” He held it aloft for Paddington’s benefit. “Have you ever seen the Taj Mahal by moonlight?”

Paddington peered at the picture. “No,” he said, “but last year I was taken to see the Christmas lights at Crumbold and Ferns.”

“If I may be so bold,” said the manager, “there is simply no comparison. In fact, the two can hardly be mentioned in the same breath.”

“I didn’t have to wait for a full moon to see Crumbold and Ferns’s lights,” said Paddington firmly. “They were on day and night.
And
they kept changing color. Besides, I usually go to bed early.”

“If you spend more than two nights in India,” said the manager, not to be outdone, “I could make sure you get a free elephant ride thrown in.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Bird would be very keen on that,” replied Paddington. “She likes a wheel at all four corners.”

“I can see I am dealing with a young gentleman of taste and discernment,” said the manager, trying to mask his disappointment. “Perhaps I might tempt you with something nearer home. How about a visit to Italy and the Leaning Tower of Pisa?”

“I don’t think Mrs. Bird would like that very much either,” said Paddington. “She was very worried last year when Mr. Brown found a crack in the kitchen ceiling.”

“Perhaps before you reach a final decision, you might care to bring the lady in?” suggested the manager. “I shall be more than happy to go through the itinerary with her.”

“It’s meant to be a surprise,” said Paddington, “and Mrs. Bird doesn’t like surprises.”

“Oh, dear,” said the manager through gritted teeth. “I trust she doesn’t object to flying.”

“When we went to France by airplane,” said Paddington, “she kept her eyes closed during takeoff and landing. She said if God had meant us to fly, he would have given us wings.”

“Ah,” said the manager, looking slightly dazed. “I suppose the dear lady does have a point.”

He tried dipping his toes in the water again. “Would Sir be thinking of traveling first or club class?”

“Whichever you think is best,” said Paddington. “I want it to be a special treat.”

“It depends a little on the overall cost,” said the manager, trying to sum up his client.

“I’m not worried about the money,” said Paddington.

“Then undoubtedly first class is best,” said the manager. “I can thoroughly recommend it. It’s much more restful.”

“We shall need five separate rooms,” said Paddington.

“They aren’t exactly what you might call rooms,” said the manager. “Not even on the biggest planes, unless you happen to be traveling as a guest of the United States president. But these days the seats do fold right back, and apart from the noise of the engines, once they turn the lights out you can almost believe you are in a room.”

“Mrs. Bird would like that,” said Paddington. “Especially if they switch the lights off.”

The manager breathed a sigh of relief. “In that case,” he said, washing his hands with invisible soap again, “it sounds as though our Gold Star, Top of the Range Round the World Special’ would suit you down to the ground.You will be fully escorted all the way and you will stay at all the best five-star hotels, even Mrs. Bird would be hard put to find fault with the service—”

“It sounds very good value,” broke in Paddington. “I think I would like one of those, please.”

“In which case,” said the manager, “if you intend traveling over the Christmas period, we had better strike while the iron is hot before everything gets booked up. Excuse me for a moment.”

Handing Paddington some brochures to read while he was waiting, the manager turned to a nearby computer and began running his hands over the keys with practiced ease. Several minutes passed before he pressed a button, and almost immediately a long roll of paper began to emerge.

“There you are,” he said, holding the end of it up for Paddington to see. “The wonders of science!
Everything you want has been confirmed. It is all down in print, including the grand total.”

“Thank you very much,” said Paddington as he got up to leave. “I shall always come here in the future whenever I want to go anywhere.”

He reached out to take the roll of paper, but the manager kept a firm hold of the other end.

“Call me old-fashioned,” he said, choosing his words with care, “and I sincerely hope you won’t mind my mentioning it, but we at Oyster Travels believe in treating our customers as though they were part of one big happy family.

“To put it another way, if I may make so bold, there is the small matter of a payment in advance. You will see the total amount at the end of the form.”

Paddington nearly fell off his stool as he gazed at the figure on the sheet. Far from being a small matter, it struck him as very large one. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever having seen quite so many zeroes in one long line before, and he was glad he didn’t have to find the money.

Reaching into his duffle coat pocket, he produced the note the man conducting the survey had given him and handed it across the counter.

The manager stared at it for several seconds, hardly able to believe his eyes. Meanwhile, the smile on his face became fixed as though it had been etched in stone.

“An air mile!” he exclaimed at last. “
One air mile!
They won’t even let you on the airport bus for
that! Have you not read the small print on the back?”

“I tried to,” said Paddington, “but it was a bit too small, even with my magnifying glass.”

Gazing heavenward, the manager placed both hands together to form a steeple. He closed his eyes, and his lips began to move as though he was very slowly counting, although no sound emerged.

After the speed at which he had operated the computer, it struck Paddington as very strange, and he wondered if the man was having trouble with all the zeroes.

“Can I help?” he asked. “Bears are good at sums.”

The man’s lips stopped moving, and he sat very still for a moment or two longer before opening his eyes.

“I have been counting up to ten,” he explained, staring glassily at Paddington as though examining something the cat had brought in. “Having got as far as five, I am now going to close my eyes and begin again. If you are still here when I open them, I shall not be responsible for my actions. I hope I make myself clear. On your way!”