Paddington Races Ahead Page 4

  Paddington didn’t believe in doing things by half, and it took him some while to assemble all the ingredients. In fact he soon lost count of the number of times he went up and down the stairs carrying them all, and he began to wish he had set to work on making it in the kitchen rather than his bedroom. Wide though his windowsill was, it now resembled the display counter in a grocery shop. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be caught in the act if Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird arrived back early.

  Having emptied a whole bag of flour into a large mound on the sill, he did the same with the cornflour before turning his attention to the rest of the instructions.

  For a second or two he stared at the piece of paper in his paw as though he could hardly believe his eyes. In fact, he turned it over several times in order to make sure he had the right side.

  But no, in black and white at the end of the list of contents were the words ‘. . . continued on page 22’.

  Paddington stared at it in disgust. The page he had removed the recipe from was number 7 and there were so many other newspapers mixed up together the chance of finding number 22 would have taken a month of Sundays. Instead of saying ‘continued on page 22’ it might just as well have said ‘continued next week’ or ‘next month’, or worse still… ‘never again in a million years’.

  Worn-out, and hot and flustered by all his exertions, Paddington reached up to open the window for a draught of fresh air, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  Over the years he had often wondered why some flour was called ‘self-raising’. Now, in the space of a few seconds, the answer lay before him. It didn’t seem possible that such a small quantity of white powder could cover such a large area in such a small amount of time all by itself, but everything in the room now had a thin coating of white.

  Hastily closing the window before anything worse happened, Paddington drew the curtains in the vain hope that it might improve matters, and took to his bed.

  Tired out, hungry and at the end of his tether, he flopped down on it and lay where he had landed for a moment or two, gazing at the ceiling.

  To say that his room was in a worse state than it had ever been before was putting it mildly. It was like a nightmare. In fact it was much worse; at least with a nightmare you woke up at the end and found there was nothing to worry about.

  In the past Paddington had often noticed that relaxing wasn’t always as easy as it sounded. Flies, for example, often waited until you had settled yourself in the most comfortable position, before landing on the end of your nose. Or, worse still, some part of you developed an itch which wouldn’t go away.

  Today was no exception, except it wasn’t a fly or even an itch, it was more of a lump, and it was in the middle of his back. He couldn’t remember there ever being a lump in his bed before and he began feeling underneath his pyjamas to find out what it could possibly be.

  Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t hard… if anything it was soft and… not so much soft, as wet and sticky. It was oozing stickiness, the kind of stickiness that was all too familiar and could mean only one thing.

  He remembered now where he had put his marmalade sandwiches for safekeeping!

  “I didn’t realise you’d washed the sheets before we came out,” said Mrs Brown, when they arrived back from their shopping.

  Mrs Bird joined her at the kitchen window. “I didn’t!” she said grimly, as she surveyed a range of assorted linen hanging on the revolving clothesline.

  Her eyes softened as she couldn’t help but notice on a line separate from the rest, a small pair of flowered pyjamas.

  She glanced around her kitchen. “Nor, for that matter, did I leave half the cupboard doors open, or a sink full of egg shells.”

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs Brown.

  “Oh dear, is right,” said Mrs Bird, making her way upstairs.

  “You can come out now, wherever you are,” she called, as she entered Paddington’s room.

  The wardrobe door slowly opened and a head appeared. “How did you know I was in here, Mrs Bird?” asked Paddington.

  “Little birds know these things,” said the Browns’ housekeeper, “and one of them told me.” She gazed round the room. “I said you wouldn’t be idle while we were out shopping, but I didn’t expect to find quite such a mess when we got back.”

  She hesitated for a moment, lost in thought. “I’m sure you did your best,” she said at last. “And you meant well. Those are two of the most important things in life.”

  “I think I did my worst, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington sadly.

  “Well at least you tried,” said Mrs Bird. “I’ve no time for people who say they can’t do things when they haven’t even tried.”

  While she was talking she caught sight of Paddington’s recipe lying on the bed.

  “Alfajores!” she exclaimed.

  “Bless you!” said Paddington.

  “That wasn’t a sneeze,” said Mrs Bird. “It’s a dish. I don’t believe it. I’ve been looking everywhere for that recipe ever since you arrived. I wanted to make some for you so that you would feel at home, but I couldn’t remember all the ingredients.”

  “I didn’t know that’s what they are called,” exclaimed Paddington. “But they are very popular in Peru. Everybody has their own recipe. You make a top and a bottom. Then you stick them together with manjar blanco.”

  “What’s that when it’s at home?” asked Mrs Bird.

  “I don’t know,” admitted Paddington, “Aunt Lucy used to use condensed milk boiled up until it was really thick. They went down well in the Home for Retired Bears.”

  “I was thinking of using marmalade,” said Mrs Bird. “Thinly spread.”

  Paddington licked his lips.

  “Jonathan and Judy are coming home tomorrow,” she continued. “I shall need help from an expert if we’re to have enough ready in time. That is, if you wouldn’t mind lending a paw.”

  “Yes, please, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington.

  “But before that,” said Mrs Bird, “we shall need some more eggs.”

  “It’s a bit difficult separating the yolks,” said Paddington.

  “Well, there you are,” said Mrs Bird gravely. “It’s useful to know that for a start.”

  “It strikes me Paddington got off very lightly,” said Jonathan when he arrived home and heard the news. “Have you seen his room?”

  “It’s like Mrs Bird always says,” replied Judy. “Bears usually fall on their feet. Have another alfajore.”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” said Jonathan. “They’re very moreish.”

  “I’ll tell you something else,” said Judy. “Dad’s been on the phone to a decorator. He’s coming next week to do Paddington’s room.”

  “You know what that means,” said Jonathan.

  “He’ll be sharing your room for the time being,” said Judy.

  “I wonder if bears snore?” mused Jonathan. “We could ring the zoo and find out.”

  “I asked him,” said Judy. “He swears they don’t. He said he stayed awake one night to find out and he didn’t snore once.”

  “Thanks a heap,” said Jonathan.

  “Who would have thought Mrs Bird would take it all quite so well?” said Mr Brown later that night.

  “Do you know what, Henry?” said Mrs Brown. “I think it was the sight of Paddington’s pyjamas hanging all by themselves on the line when we got home. Little things mean a lot to Mrs Bird.”

  Chapter Four

  A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

  PADDINGTON PUT ON a spurt as he entered the Portobello Road, rounding the corner faster than he had ever done before. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, anyone watching would have said he had momentarily lost control of his shopping basket on wheels.

  The last part of the journey had been downhill and his legs were going so fast he had difficulty in stopping. Having put the basket into a one-wheel drift, he only just missed colliding with a man standing in the middle of the pavement.

  It was most unusu
al for anyone to be there at that time of the day; the crowds of sightseers didn’t normally begin to arrive until much later when all the shops and stalls were open for business.

  As it was, his basket ended up on its side. Luckily it was empty, but one of its wheels was still spinning.

  “You want to watch where you’re going,” said the man crossly. “This isn’t a racetrack, you know.”

  “It’s a bit difficult with paws,” admitted Paddington. “Especially going round corners.”

  The man stared at him. “I don’t see what paws have to do with it,” he growled.

  Paddington felt tempted to say that was because the man didn’t have any, but he was much too polite.

  Instead, he stood back and eyed the stranger with interest. Despite the warm weather, he was wearing what looked like plastic muffs over his ears, and having blown into the end of a furry object on the end of a stick, he began counting out loud. “One, two, three, four…” he said, until finally, having reached number ten, he stopped as though at a loss for words.

  “I think you will find it’s eleven,” said Paddington, anxious to make amends for nearly running him over.

  The man gave him a glassy stare and put a finger to his lips. He seemed about to reply when the rear doors of a dark green van parked nearby opened and a second man poked his head out.

  “OK for sound,” he called, giving the thumbs up sign.

  He nodded towards Paddington before closing the door. “The early bird catches the worm and you’ve got to start somewhere. May as well give it a whirl.”

  The first man didn’t look wildly enthusiastic at the idea, but he put a brave face on it as he dusted himself down.

  “Would you mind saying a few words into this?” he asked, holding the furry object under Paddington’s nose.

  “It tickles my whiskers,” replied Paddington.

  The van door opened again. This time the second man spread his arms out wide and raised his head heavenwards.

  “I think Adrian would like something a little bit longer,” explained the first man.

  “Excuse me while I mop my brow,” said Paddington.

  “Even longer than that, perhaps?” said the man. “He’s the director and we need to check our levels for sound.”

  “The Portobello Road is a bit steep just here,” agreed Paddington. “That’s why I was going so fast.”

  “Er… yes…” said the man. “But…”

  “Mr Gruber is always saying if we have a really bad storm there’s going to be a nasty accident one of these days. The water sometimes runs past his shop doorway like a tidal wave. We nearly lost one of his deck chairs that way. It’s lucky we weren’t having our elevenses on the pavement at the time. Our buns might have been swept away.”

  The van door opened yet again and the second man pointed downwards with his thumb, mouthing something at the same time.

  “Oh dear,” said the first man. “I’m afraid you were a bit too quick for us that time. I doubt if Adrian had time to get back to his desk. My name’s Sunny Climes, by the way, and I’m gathering material for the forthcoming Games.

  “Perhaps,” he suggested, “you would like to tell us what you had for breakfast. We find with most people that’s usually about the right length.”

  He held out his free hand in order to give Paddington’s paw a quick shake, then hastily withdrew it.

  “I usually have toast and marmalade…” began Paddington.

  “So I gather,” said Mr Climes. He removed an initialled handkerchief from his top pocket and unfolded it as best he could with his teeth. “We don’t want to get any chunks on our microphone if we can help it, do we? Did you have anything else? A cup of tea to help it on its way perhaps?”

  “I’m glad you asked me that, Mr Climes,” said Paddington. “I usually have cocoa, but Mrs Bird is spring-cleaning the kitchen this week. Most years she gives it a good going-over in April, but she left it until much later this year.

  “She wanted to clean out the refrigerator while she was at it and she was worried the things inside might go off while the door was open, so she put everything out on the kitchen table and said it would be a big help if we used up as much as we could.

  “There were several kinds of bacon, three different sorts of sausages, eggs, potato cakes, tomatoes, kippers… a half empty tin of llama pâté. Aunt Lucy sent it to us from Peru last Christmas, but it had gone mouldy…”

  “So what was your answer to all that?” broke in Mr Climes, trying to get a word in edgeways.

  “Thank you very much,” said Paddington.

  “Don’t tell me you ate a bit of everything,” exclaimed the interviewer. “The breakfast table must have been full to overflowing with plates.”

  “No,” said Paddington. “Mrs Bird managed to get all mine on two large ones. Besides, I didn’t have any kippers in case I got a bone in my throat. I thought I did once and Mrs Brown had to call a doctor, but it turned out to be an old marmalade chunk that had gone hard. It must have fallen out of my hat.”

  “I’m sorry…” broke in Sunny Climes. Edging away from Paddington, he stationed himself on the other side of a nearby lamppost. “Would you mind holding it there…”

  “I’m afraid I can’t quite reach it,” said Paddington hurrying round the other side of the lamppost to avoid climbing over his shopping basket on wheels.

  “I don’t mean the microphone,” said Mr Climes, moving back the way he had come. Putting a finger to his lips he listened to a command over the headphones. “We seem to be having a spot of bother in the control room. I’m afraid they’ve run out of tape. It must be all the stops and starts we’ve had.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr Climes,” said Paddington cheerfully. “I expect you’ll manage to get it right in the end.”

  Sunny Climes continued edging away from Paddington, and then came to a sudden halt.

  “You’re standing on my microphone lead,” he said accusingly. Reaching forward to pick up the cable, he gave it a sharp tug.

  As it happened, Paddington, ever anxious to please, beat him to it by a split second, and giving vent to a cry of alarm Sunny Climes disappeared from view round the far side of the lamppost.

  “Oh dear, Mr Climes,” exclaimed Paddington, hurrying to the rescue. “Are you all right?”

  “No!” gurgled Sunny Climes, sounding as though a sudden typhoon had caught him in the midriff. “I am not all right! What a place to leave a shopping basket on wheels! There should be a law against people like you being allowed out by themselves.”

  But it was like water off a duck’s back.

  Paddington was already examining his basket. “You’ll be pleased to know it doesn’t seem to be damaged,” he called. “It’s still got both wheels. Hold on a minute…” His voice grew muffled as he peered inside to see if he could spot any holes in the wickerwork.

  It took him a moment or two to accustom himself to the lack of light and while he was waiting he realised that Mr Climes’ headphones had somehow or other fallen off inside the basket and he could hear everything that was being said outside.

  Mr Climes’ voice in particular came through loud and clear, and although it seemed to have lost much of its sunny quality, every word was distinct.

  “I do not intend,” he said, “repeat, do not intend, allowing myself to be beaten. These things are sent to try us, Adrian. When I started out I knew there would be days like today. In this business there are good days and there are bad days, and this one happens to be the worst day I have encountered in a very long time. I may take up playing the ukulele and become a busker.”

  “Worse things happen at sea,” said a second voice, which Paddington recognised as belonging to the director. “It’s a good job it’s a recording. Just think – we might have been on air! Besides, at least we’ve got our sound levels sorted out.”

  “That’s good,” said Paddington, as he emerged from his basket.

  He held the headphones aloft. “May I go now?”


  Mr Climes, by now back on his feet, managed to summon up a hollow laugh. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “I’ve started so I’ll finish.”

  He turned to the director. “If you have no objection, Adrian, I would like to continue where we left off.”

  “Good man!” exclaimed the director. “Strike while the iron’s hot!” And with that he dashed back to his van.

  Mr Climes took a deep breath, then he did some more counting. “Take seven,” he said, after pausing to allow the director time to get back to his desk.

  “Perhaps you could begin by telling us what part of the world you come from?” he said, pointing the microphone in Paddington’s direction.

  “Phew! Phew!” said Paddington, blowing into it as hard as he could to make sure it was working. “That’s a very good question, Mr Climes. I don’t really remember because I was very young at the time.”

  Sunny Climes permitted himself a wintery smile. “But you must know where it was,” he said. “Everyone has some idea about where they were born.”

  “Not if you come from Darkest Peru,” said Paddington. “It’s a very big place.”

  “Darkest Peru!” Sunny Climes pricked up his ears. Despite everything he looked most impressed. “Perhaps that explains your… er… lack of fundamentals.

  “It must have been dark when they were dishing them out…” he added, laughing at his own joke.

  Paddington gave him a hard stare. “My fundamentals are lacking!” he repeated.

  Mr Climes hastily changed the subject. “It’s what’s known these days as being vertically challenged,” he said. “Please forgive me. Er… Don’t tell me you are over here to participate in the Games?”

  “I won’t if you would rather I didn’t,” said Paddington, not quite sure what the word meant.

  “Aha!” said Mr Climes. “I understand.” He put a finger to his nose. “Top secret, eh? Can we hold it there for a moment?”

  Reaching into his pocket, he took out a sheet of paper and ran his eyes down a long list. “I can’t see any mention of Darkest Peru sending a team… did you receive an official invitation to take part in the Games?”