Paddington’s Finest Hour Page 3

  Paddington nearly fell off the chair in a state of shock at the news. He stared at the Browns’ neighbour. “You’ve been cutting bits off your legs?” he said. “No wonder you’ve been making funny noises.”

  “What do you mean, bear?” barked Mr Curry.

  “Well,” said Paddington. “It must be very painful cutting bits off them. Mind you, Mrs Bird will be pleased. She often says you are too tall for your own good; always looking over the top of our fence to see what’s going on. I expect you could borrow her First Aid box.”

  “Bah!” growled Mr Curry. “I’ll give her First Aid.”

  “I don’t think she needs any at the moment,” said Paddington. “She was all right the last time I saw her.”

  He took a closer look at the scene next door but he couldn’t see any signs of blood on Mr Curry’s saw or, for that matter, rivulets coming out from under his trouser legs. It was rather disappointing.

  “Perhaps you ought to see a doctor?” he suggested. “Or I could have a go for you. Bears are good at sawing.”

  Mr Curry’s eyes narrowed again. “It isn’t easy,” he said. “It’s like I keep saying. Your side of the fence is all right. You have a patio, but I’ve only got plain earth on my side. Now it’s gone hard again all my garden furniture … the table … the chairs … has got the wobbles.”

  “And now your legs have gone wibbly-woo too?” suggested Paddington, hoping for a demonstration.

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” said the Browns’ neighbour casually. He eyed Paddington thoughtfully. “But I must admit I could do with some help with my sawing. A little evening up of the legs on my table and chairs for a start wouldn’t come amiss. It would be good practice for you.”

  It didn’t take more than a moment or two for Paddington to make up his mind. “I might have to cast off some of my clouts,” he said. “You can’t do sawing wearing a duffle coat. I must ask Mrs Bird what she thinks before I do anything because it isn’t May yet.”

  “I don’t know about your clouts, bear,” said Mr Curry dubiously, “but you won’t be needing a duffle coat. I’ll tell you that for a start. Besides I would rather you didn’t tell anyone else about this for the time being, least of all Mrs Bird. Let it be a nice surprise for them.”

  And without further ado he helped Paddington over the fence into his garden. “It so happens I have some important business to attend to this morning. That’s why I was up earlier than usual. But if I leave you to get on with it and you do a good job we’ll see what we can do in the way of a reward at the end of the day.”

  As Paddington opened his mouth to respond, the Browns’ neighbour put a finger to his lips. “There’s no need to say ‘thank you, Mr Curry’ just yet,” he said. “And remember – not a word to anyone, or you won’t get a reward.”

  With that, he turned on his heels and disappeared into his house.

  Paddington decided Mr Curry’s legs must either heal very quickly or he had removed very small chunks so far, for there wasn’t the slightest sign of a limp.

  A few moments later he heard the front door slam, so he gave a sigh and set to work with the saw. Much to his surprise it went through the wood like a hot knife through butter and he soon had a small pile of wood by his side.

  It wasn’t long before his robin redbreast turned up. It was having a field day and no mistake, but clearly didn’t think much of Paddington’s sawing, so it soon disappeared.

  Meanwhile, Mrs Brown had returned from her shopping.

  “What’s up with Mr Curry today?” she said. “I passed him in the street and he was beaming like someone who’s won a fortune on the football pools!”

  “It’s the sunshine,” said Mrs Bird. “I even got a wave from him this morning. Mind you, if you ask me he’s up to something. He’s got Paddington sawing up his old garden furniture for him. Goodness knows how.”

  “Or why?” said Mrs Brown. “Perhaps he’s running short of firewood.”

  “I can’t help thinking there’s something more to it than that,” said Mrs Bird. “Meanwhile, it’s keeping Paddington occupied and that’s no bad thing. He could do with losing a bit of weight round the middle.”

  “I can’t hear anything,” said Mrs Brown.

  “It’s time for his elevenses with Mr Gruber,” said Mrs Bird. “He won’t want to miss that.”

  The Browns’ housekeeper had put her finger on one reason for Paddington’s absence, little dreaming there were others, more pressing.

  “I’m intrigued,” said Mrs Brown. “Shall we take a quick look while no one else is about?” Without waiting for an answer she led the way into the garden.

  “Heavens above!” she exclaimed as she looked over the top of the fence. “I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it. Tell me it isn’t true.”

  “I wish, I wish!” said Mrs Bird, as she joined her. “I wish I could tell you it isn’t. But there’s no getting away from the fact that it is. There for all to see.”

  They both fell silent as they gazed at the result of Paddington’s labours.

  Much to his credit, everything was very tidy. All the sawn-off pieces of wood had been put in a neat pile, and all four chairs were in place around the table. The only thing wrong with it was that in his anxiety to make a good job, Paddington must have had so many goes at trying to get rid of their wobbles the legs were now so short the seats were only about three inches off the ground.

  “Mr Curry’s not going to like it,” said Mrs Brown.

  “I daresay it’ll wipe the smile off his face,” agreed Mrs Bird. “I knew it was too good to be true.

  “Perhaps Mr Gruber will know what to do next,” she added hopefully. “He usually turns up trumps.”

  And indeed he did. For when Paddington returned, suitably refreshed by his cocoa and buns, he immediately set to work cutting the legs off the table by an equal amount to the chair legs so that when everything was in place it became a garden feature. He had even given Paddington a set of wooden gnomes to provide a finishing touch.

  Short of gluing everything back together there was no going back on the idea and it was with some trepidation that Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird awaited the return of Mr Curry.

  But much to everyone’s relief, the Browns’ neighbour seemed so pleased with the way things had turned out he not only gave Paddington a shilling for his pains but he had everything transferred to his front garden, and all next day he was to be heard pottering about with it behind a hastily erected screen.

  “Wonders will never cease,” said Mrs Brown.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” said Mrs Bird darkly. “You mark my words.”

  They hadn’t long to wait, for the following day was a Saturday and when the boy arrived with the daily paper he happened to bump into Mr Brown as he opened the front door.

  “Not going in for the competition this year, Mr Brown?” he said cheerfully.

  “Competition?” repeated Mr Brown. “What competition?”

  “The Best Spring Front Garden competition,” said the boy. “It’s run by the local council to make up for the bad winter we had. And today’s the day. There’s some good prizes to be had. I delivered the leaflets some weeks ago. Put one in every door on my round except yours. Your neighbour said he would save me the trouble. Don’t tell me he didn’t give it to you?”

  Mr Brown glanced across at the house next door. There was no sign of Mr Curry, and whatever he had been up to in his front garden was covered over with a sheet.

  He hadn’t seen the arrangement of tables and chairs for himself, but from all he had heard he couldn’t picture it winning any major prizes. An award for originality, perhaps … but no more.

  He turned back to the paperboy. “Have you any idea what time judging starts?”

  “This afternoon,” said the boy. “Two o’clock onwards.”

  “Would you care to earn a few bob?”

  “Wouldn’t I just!” exclaimed the boy.

  “Done!” said Mr Brown.
Swivelling round in a half-circle he stuck his head into the hall. “Paddington!” he shouted. “There’s work to be done. Drop everything.”

  There was a distant crash of breaking china, but in the excitement it was soon forgotten.

  There were the roses to give a last-minute late second pruning, begonias in pots to titivate – both Mr Brown’s pride and joy. Gravel to rake free of weeds. It was a combined effort to make it look at its pristine best.

  Then, after lunch there was a ring at the front door bell, and Mr Gruber put in an appearance. Having shut up shop for the afternoon, he had come to see how things were going, and he was just in time because the council party had reached next door and Mr Curry was removing the cover on his entry.

  There was a universal sinking of hearts at number thirty-two, for despite all their hard work, compared with their entry, his was undoubtedly a blaze of colour.

  “The old rogue,” said Mrs Brown. “He’s copied Paddington’s rockery.”

  “To a tee,” agreed Mr Brown. “Would you believe it?”

  Paddington took a closer look. “I think they’re my plants!” he exclaimed hotly. “That’s my Saxifraga berseriana. I planted it myself last year.” He pointed to a cluster of flowers. “I put it next to that duffle-coat blue plant.”

  At that moment, almost as though dead on cue, there was a fluttering of wings and a newcomer arrived on the scene. Having landed like a tiny helicopter alongside Paddington’s finger it dug its beak into the spot he was pointing to.

  “May I see that?” said the judge, noticing a gleam of metal.

  “Veronica pectinata,” he read out loud. “And it has a name and address printed on the back: Paddington Bear, 32 Windsor Gardens.”

  He turned to address Mr Curry, but the Browns’ neighbour was nowhere to be seen.

  “I was right all the time,” said Mrs Bird triumphantly. “I said it was probably the work of a fox. Nasty creatures; always on the prowl – chancing their luck in the hope of getting something for nothing.”

  “Well,” said the judge, casting a benevolent eye over the Browns’ immaculate garden, “that being the case, and since the ownership of the flowers in this display seems to be divided between the two houses I can only suggest the first prize for the best front garden should be divided between the two.”

  It was a popular decision which drew a round of applause from everyone present and caused the robin redbreast to take off.

  After it was all over, amid general agreement, Mrs Brown likened its arrival to the last-minute appearance through a gap in the hills of the cavalry in an old-time cowboy movie. “It was quite uncanny,” she said. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  “Their hearts may be small,” said Mr Gruber. “But they do say it can beat at one thousand times a minute when it’s roused, and despite their size they can be quite aggressive if they feel their territorial rights are being invaded. On this occasion this includes Paddington, and rightly so.”

  “To sum up,” said Mrs Brown, “a friend in need is a friend indeed. And all because of the work of a few foxes.”

  “If you ask me,” corrected Mrs Bird. “There was only one and it didn’t have far to go. I doubt you will ever catch it, because it goes into hiding when the going gets rough. Its name is Curry and it lives next door.”

  “Even old Curry wouldn’t sink as low as that, would he?” said Mr Brown. “Stealing a young bear’s rockery garden!”

  “He did his best to make sure we didn’t even know about the competition in the first place,” said Mrs Bird.

  And really, there was little more to be said.

  Chapter Four

  PADDINGTON’S MAGICAL MOMENTS

  “I DIDN’T KNOW it’s Mr Gruber’s birthday in two weeks’ time,” said Mrs Brown.

  “Neither did I,” said Mrs Bird. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Paddington told me,” said Mrs Brown. “Apparently they were talking about his early life in Hungary over elevenses in his shop the other day and during the conversation Mr Gruber let fall the fact that he would never forget the date because it happens to fall on what is a national holiday in that part of the world.

  “He didn’t say any more than that, but Paddington looked it up in one of Jonathan’s old diaries that lists such things, and he says it must be May the twenty-sixth, which happens to fall on a Saturday this year.”

  “Perhaps we should ask him to tea,” said Mrs Bird.

  “It’s the very least we can do,” said Mrs Brown. “I doubt if he has anything planned. If it wasn’t for the shop there’s nobody else in his life, and he’s been so good to Paddington over the years. I don’t know what that bear would do without him. Jonathan and Judy can come for the weekend, and Henry can forgo his golf for once. I vote we pull the stops out and throw a party for him.”

  Mrs Brown’s enthusiasm was infectious, and one thing rapidly led to another. So when Jonathan came across a paperback publication called The Jumbo Book of Party Tricks he immediately put it in the post for Paddington to see.

  “I don’t like the look of that,” said Mrs Bird, as she spotted him passing her kitchen window immersed in its pages. “That bear knows quite enough tricks as it is. He’s already asked if he can have a sheet hanging across the doorway between the hall and the living room where the party is taking place.”

  “I’ll tell you something else,” said Mrs Brown. “Mr Curry was looking over our fence a moment ago and I think he’s spotted something special is going on. I wouldn’t mind betting he’ll be inviting himself along too, and that’ll spoil everything. You mark my words.”

  Indeed, Mr Gruber’s face fell when he arrived at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens at the appointed time the following afternoon and found the Browns’ neighbour already occupying the seat of honour, but he was much too polite to say anything.

  “There’s only one thing nicer than a cake fresh from the oven,” said Mr Curry, helping himself from a plate on the table, “and that’s two. Tell that bear to hurry up. I’m hungry and I haven’t got all day.”

  The Browns exchanged unhappy glances, but before Mr Brown had a chance to say anything, the sheets hanging across the hall doorway parted and Paddington appeared.

  “Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen and Mr Curry,” he said, amid applause. “And a very special welcome to our special guest, Mr Gruber.

  “I would like to begin with a song,” he continued.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs Brown. “Is that wise?”

  “I shall do it without moving my lips,” said Paddington firmly.

  And the next moment he put one paw against his chest and launched into the first words of “Many brave hearts are asleep in the deep … deep … deep …”

  “It’s Dad’s old wind-up gramophone,” whispered Jonathan, from behind the sheets.

  “The needle must be stuck in a groove,” agreed Judy.

  “Not a very good start,” grumbled Mr Curry, as Paddington disappeared behind the sheet in order to investigate matters. “I shall have another cake to make up for it.”

  They had rather a long wait, but when Paddington reappeared he was struggling with a long curtain rod which had a large black ball at both ends. When he finally came to rest he first of all spent some moments mopping his brow and then bent down and grasped the middle of the rod with both paws.

  Mrs Bird watched anxiously as he struggled to lift the contraption. “I hope that bear doesn’t do himself a mischief,” she whispered.

  But nobody in the audience dared to lend a helping hand, and it was left to Mr Brown and Mr Gruber to lead the applause as Paddington finally managed to raise the object above his head, and even Mr Curry paused before reaching for another cake.

  “Of course,” he said grudgingly, “that’s one advantage of being short. It didn’t have far to go.”

  Reaching inside his duffle coat for a handkerchief in order to mop his brow again, Paddington let go of the rod and it floated gently
up to the ceiling.

  “Fancy painting a pair of toy balloons black and pretending they weigh a ton,” snorted Mr Curry. He helped himself to yet another cake. “I hope the next trick’s better. That one didn’t fool me for a moment!”

  “Oh, it will be, Mr Curry,” said Paddington earnestly. “You wait and see.”

  The others watched nervously as Paddington piled the remaining cakes onto a larger plate, which he then balanced on top of his head. Having covered it with a cloth, he waved a magic wand in the air several times. Then, having uttered the word ‘ABRACADABRA!’ he removed the cloth.

  “Goodness,” said Mrs Brown, “they’ve vanished!”

  “And me out of flour!” said Mrs Bird.

  “The quickness of the paw deceives the eye,” said Mr Gruber.

  “It wasn’t that quick!” barked Mr Curry suspiciously. “Besides, he’s got cream all over his whiskers.”

  “Perhaps I could make you a cup of tea instead, Mr Curry,” said Paddington. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  When he returned he had a cup and saucer balanced on the end of a stick.

  “That’s the oldest trick in the world,” growled Mr Curry. “Gluing a cup and saucer together. Here – give me that – I’ll show you …”

  No one knew what happened next, but the bellow of rage from Mr Curry as he made a dash for the door and the crash of breaking china said it all.

  “Oh, dear!” Mrs Brown surveyed the empty table. “It doesn’t seem to have been much of a birthday party.”

  “Never mind,” said Mr Gruber. “I’ve enjoyed myself no end, and perhaps young Mr Brown has some more tricks up his sleeve.”

  “I’ve saved my best one until last,” said Paddington. “I only hope my abracadabra worked.”

  So saying he lifted up the cloth he had used earlier and lo and behold, there were the missing cakes!