Paddington’s Finest Hour Page 6

  “Fingers crossed,” said Judy. “At least we’ve got the orchestra between us and the stage. And we’ve made it in the nick of time, thank goodness!”

  “Optimist,” whispered Jonathan, as everything around them went quiet. “The night isn’t over yet!”

  The words had hardly left his mouth when a man in evening dress appeared from somewhere below the stage and climbed onto a rostrum just in front of them.

  Paddington was most excited. “I could reach out and touch him,” he said. “He might like one of my sandwiches. They were fresh this morning.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t, dear,” called Mrs Brown.

  The man didn’t actually voice his agreement, but having bowed briefly to the audience, he turned his back on them, produced a baton from somewhere close at hand, raised it to shoulder height, and the auditorium suddenly echoed and re-echoed to a brisk selection of foot-tapping tunes.

  Then, as the medley came to an end the house lights were lowered, illuminated signs on both sides of the proscenium arch showed a large figure 1, the main curtain was raised and a troupe of Chinese acrobats swarmed onto the stage.

  The Browns heaved a combined sigh of relief as they settled back in their seats and prepared to enjoy themselves.

  “I’m glad the band were all in tune, Mr Brown,” called Paddington, trying to make himself heard above all the noise.

  “Shh,” replied Mr Brown, trying to make himself as small as possible in the semi-darkness.

  The applause at the end of what had been a boisterous first act, with hoops and dumbbells borne on waves of Oriental whoops threatening at times to drown the orchestra, was heartfelt.

  Paddington’s claps were as loud as anyone’s when a figure 2 appeared on both sides of the stage heralding the arrival of a ventriloquist and his dummy on a unicycle.

  “This is something else we didn’t have in Darkest Peru, Mr Brown,” he announced excitedly.

  “Bicycles are making a comeback these days,” said Mr Brown. “You haven’t seen anything yet …”

  He had certainly been correct when he stressed the fact that the show was Non Stop. The theatre they were in might have lacked the luxury of many in the West End of London, but as act after act followed on seamlessly, one after another, scene changes, presentation, lighting, sound couldn’t be faulted.

  Paddington singled out Corkscrew Charlie’s act for particular praise. “I might try making some of the shapes in front of the bathroom mirror when we get back to Windsor Gardens,” he announced, much to the Browns’ alarm.

  “Don’t forget what I said,” warned Judy. “You need to be careful you don’t get stuck like it.”

  But she needn’t have worried, for even as she spoke a small group of scene shifters in white overalls wheeled what looked like a large upright piano onto the stage and in no time at all Paddington changed his mind and settled on learning to play the xylophone.

  And when that act was followed by a man who had perfected the art of sending a set of white china dinner plates spinning on the end of a row of vertical walking sticks, all at the same time, it was Mrs Bird’s turn to show signs of alarm.

  Having said that, apart from making a mental note to keep a watch on their china when they got back home, she had to admit the time to worry would come if Paddington eventually settled on some new fancy that lasted for more than ten minutes. As she wisely said later that evening: “He couldn’t learn to do most of those things in a month of Sundays and there was no harm in humouring him. It had to stop somewhere.”

  To all intents and purposes that moment came with the arrival at long last of the chimpanzees and, good though they were, Paddington wasn’t sorry when they went away again. Fifteen of them perched on the handlebars of one small bicycle was wonderful in its way, but as they headed downstage at the end of their act he closed his eyes. As far as he could make out no one was actually at the controls and it felt as though they were heading straight for him.

  Much to his relief, when he opened his eyes they had been replaced by a hypnotist called Kurminski the Great, who was not only the Star of the Show, but according to the programme the audience was lucky to see him at all because he was on a world tour prior to his final retirement.

  “I seem to remember seeing a picture of him on a hoarding about twenty years ago,” whispered Mr Brown. “He was plain Igor Kurminski in those days and he was about to retire even then. He’s put on a lot of weight since.”

  “Careful, Henry,” hissed Mrs Brown. “If he hears you say that he may put the ’fluence on you, and you’ll be sorry.”

  But Mr Kurminski’s gaze was already directed to a point way above their heads.

  Following a short demonstration, he commanded all those seated in the upper circle to place both hands on top of their heads, one palm over another, following which he regaled them with what was clearly his stock patter.

  Mr Brown seized the moment. “It’s all part of a hypnotist’s act,” he said knowledgeably. “There are two things to be said about them.

  “Number one is that they can’t make people do things they would never, ever do of their own free will, so there is no need to worry on that score. That’s an old wives’ tale.

  “Number two is if you get a large group of people and persuade them to clasp their hands on top of their head and leave them in that position for a while, as Kurminski the Great has just done, there are always a few who can’t take them apart without help …

  “I’m willing to bet that even now he has some assistants up there coming to the rescue of those who can’t part them. All it needs is a quick snap of a finger and thumb in front of their eyes.”

  Turning round in their seats, a brief upward glance confirmed the truth of at least the second half of Mr Brown’s rundown on the subject.

  “Did you ever get caught out, Dad?” called Jonathan.

  But for better or worse Mr Brown’s answer was lost as the orchestra struck up a spirited rendering of the ‘Post Horn Gallop’ to cover the confusion which reigned while order was being restored.

  Meanwhile the stage lighting was lowered, leaving the Star Turn bathed in a shaft of light from a single spotlight shining down from the back of the auditorium. The effect was eerie to say the least, and it would have been safe to say that most of those in the first few rows of the theatre were doing their best not to attract Mr Kurminski the Great’s attention as he cast his eyes along the front row.

  In their turn, the occupants of Row A found the word ‘Great’ admirably suited to the person surveying them, for he seemed to tower over them like a veritable Goliath.

  The comparison was Jonathan’s. Apart from fanciful pictures of the Colossus of Rhodes, which in times long past once guarded the entrance to its harbour until it was destroyed by an earthquake, there was no other word for it.

  Mr Brown voiced the thoughts of the other members of the family when he said at least they were getting value for money at Jonathan’s school. Whether or not the previous whispered comments had been overheard was hard to say, but from that moment the Star Turn directed his attention to the middle section of the stalls and there was a gleam in his eyes. Worse still, far from fastening his gaze on the head of the household, he was clearly concentrating on a small figure to Mr Brown’s right.

  “That’s torn it,” groaned Jonathan.

  “I knew it was too good to be true,” said Judy.

  There was no escaping the fact that Paddington was the chosen victim, for another smaller spotlight came into play and at a signal from Kurminski, two girl assistants emerged from the wings and bridged the orchestra pit with a small gangplank.

  It was all carried out smoothly and with such precision it was over before any of the Browns had a chance to talk Paddington out of it, but he allowed himself to be escorted onto the stage with obvious pleasure.

  The comparison with David and Goliath wasn’t lost on others in the front row who earlier on had encountered Paddington in the queue, and the match was so blatan
tly unequal there was a murmur of disapproval. It only needed one to give a loud hiss before the others joined in, but Paddington remained remarkably unabashed and a ripple of applause went round the theatre as he politely raised his hat to bid Kurminski good evening.

  Stifling his surprise, the Great Man felt in a waistcoat pocket and having removed a small gold watch on the end of a chain, he held it aloft and fastened his gimlet gaze on his victim.

  “Look into my eyes,” he said. “Then follow the path of this watch as it goes to and fro like the pendulum of a clock … tick tock … tick tock … tick tock.”

  Paddington obeyed the hypnotist’s instructions as best he could, which wasn’t easy because of the difference in their height, although he was much too polite to say so.

  “You will find yourself falling asleep,” said Kurminski the Great. “But before that happens, I want you to sing me a song.”

  Paddington stared at him, “Sing you a song, Mr Minski?” he exclaimed hotly. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “It is an order from on high,” said Kurminski sternly. “It must be obeyed.”

  “But bears can’t sing,” said Paddington firmly.

  “That’s a first,” said Jonathan. “I’ve never heard Paddington say bears can’t do something before. What do you think is going to happen now?”

  Looking at Paddington as though he was something the cat had brought in, the famous hypnotist went so far as to lower himself slightly and as their eyes met again Paddington gave what must have been his hardest stare ever; twice as hard as the one he had used on the usherette was the Browns’ reckoning later.

  “What did you say you wanted me to do, Mr Minski?” he asked politely.

  There was a pause of several seconds before Kurminski spoke.

  “Me … me … me … me … me …” he gasped at long last.

  Mrs Bird leapt to her feet in the silence that followed. “Mercy me!” she cried. “Whatever next!” Don’t tell me he’s practising his scales.”

  Taking in the situation at a glance the conductor cued a roll of drums from the percussionist and he was only just in time, for at the very same moment the key chain and watch fell to the floor with a clatter where they lay unregarded as the Great Man tossed his head back and in disappointingly cockney accents gave voice to My Old Man’s a Dustman.

  There was a moment’s pause and then a deafening wave of applause swept through the theatre, although whether it was for Kurminski the Great’s rendering of the song or for Paddington’s hard stare was anybody’s guess.

  Clearly the orchestra was taken by surprise for there was a flurry of music sheets, but almost at once, led by the pianist, they produced a suitable backing. For a few moments all was confusion.

  The stage manager rushed on and ordered them to play something lively, so they broke into the ‘Tritsch Tratsch Polka’, which was clearly kept for any emergency.

  “It’s all your fault, bear!” he barked, turning to address Paddington. “Do something!”

  “Click your paws,” called the conductor. “Can’t you see? He’s in a trance.”

  “I’m afraid bears can’t click their paws either,” said Paddington.

  “Well, you shouldn’t be going around hypnotising people then,” said the stage manager accusingly.

  Paddington gave him another of his hard stares.

  The stage manager backed away. “Go away,” he said.

  “It’s his summer birthday,” called Mrs Bird. “Bears have two every year – like the Queen.” She turned to the others, “What a shame his Aunt Lucy isn’t here to witness it.”

  “I wouldn’t mind betting she heard the applause in Darkest Peru,” said Judy. “It felt loud enough.”

  Cries of “More! More!” came from all sides, from the stalls and from the circle until it felt as though it would never stop – then, as suddenly as it had started it came to a halt.

  It was a masterstroke on the part of the stage manager. He could have had a riot on his hands. Instead of which he ordered the national anthem to be played.

  One moment it had been a bedlam of noise with people thronging the aisles – the next it had disappeared as they shuffled quietly out through the open doors leaving only the sound of ladies with dustpans and brushes and vacuum cleaners to show where they had all been.

  The usherette selling the programmes came rushing up. “To think,” she said. “He gave me one of his hard stares! Can I have his autograph?”

  For those who saw the parallel with David and Goliath it had undoubtedly been Paddington’s Finest Hour and soon a small queue began to form so they were the last to leave the theatre.

  “It’s been a lovely birthday,” he said, as they eventually drove out of the car park and the sound of My Old Man’s a Dustman faded into the distance. “Bears’ stares last for a long time, but they don’t last forever.”

  “That’s life, Paddington,” said Mr Brown. “One moment you’re up – the next moment you’re down. That applies to us all.”

  “I think,” said Paddington, “when we get back home I wouldn’t mind taking singing lessons.”

  “That’s exactly what I meant,” said Mr Brown, amid general agreement. “One way and another it applies to us all. Someone has to suffer.”

  Paddington Bear had travelled all the way from Darkest Peru when the Brown family first met him on Paddington station. Since then their lives have never been quite the same …

  Click on the cover to read more

  When Paddington attempts home decorating, detective work and photography, the Brown family soon find that he causes his own particular brand of chaos.

  Click on the cover to read more

  “Oh, dear!” said Paddington,

  “I’m in trouble again.”

  Trouble always comes naturally to Paddington.

  What other bear could catch a fish in his hat,

  or cause havoc in the Browns’ kitchen

  just trying to be helpful?

  Click on the cover to read more

  The Browns are going abroad and a certain bear is planning the trip. But, as Mrs Brown worries, with Paddington in charge, “There’s no knowing where we might end up!”

  Click on the cover to read more

  “Even Paddington can’t come to much harm in half an hour,” said Mrs Brown.

  But who else could hang Mr Curry’s lawnmower from a treetop or set Father Christmas’ beard on fire?

  Click on the cover to read more

  “I’m not a foreigner,” exclaimed Paddington,

  “I’m from Darkest Peru.”

  One day, a mysterious visitor arrives at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens. Is it time for Paddington to decide where ‘home’ really is?

  Click on the cover to read more

  Find out what happens when Paddington causes a London bus to be evacuated, and is mistaken for a Peruvian hurdler!

  Click on the cover to read more

  By the Same Author

  A Bear Called Paddington

  More About Paddington

  Paddington Helps Out

  Paddington Abroad

  Paddington at Large

  Paddington Marches On

  Paddington at Work

  Paddington Goes to Town

  Paddington Takes the Air

  Paddington on Top

  Paddington Takes the Test

  Paddington Here and Now

  Paddington Races Ahead

  Love from Paddington

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