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Paddington Here and Now
Michael Bond


Paddington – the beloved, classic bear from Darkest Peru – is back in this fantastically funny, long-awaited, brand new illustrated novel from master storyteller Michael Bond!'I'm not a foreigner,' exclaimed Paddington hotly. 'I'm from Darkest Peru.'Paddington Bear always manages to find himself in tricky situations, sometimes extraordinary situations. Like the time he had a difficult encounter with a policeman or when he found himself in deep water with a newspaper reporter. But since arriving from his native Peru after an earthquake Paddington has always felt at home with the Brown family who found him on Paddington station. Then one day, a surprise visitor arrives at thirty-two Windsor Gardens. Is it time for Paddington to decide where 'home' really is?In 2008 Michael Bond's first novel featuring the adventures of Paddington Bear will celebrate its fiftieth anniversary. Paddington's amazing ability to get into and out of trouble is at the heart of the countless stories that have been loved the world over ever since. However, it is many years since a new novel has been published, and in celebration of this landmark, Michael Bond has written the funniest and the most moving Paddington novel ever.





























Copyright (#ulink_f8cbb2c5-4e05-54f2-957d-fe31202f3524)


First published in hardback in Great Britain by

HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2008

This edition published in 2018

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF.

www.harpercollinschildrensbooks.co.uk

Text copyright © Michael Bond 2008

Illustrations copyright © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2008

Cover illustration copyright © Peggy Fortnum and HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2008

The author asserts the moral right to be identified

as the author of the work.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins eBooks.

Conditions of Sale

This book is sold subject to the condition

that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise,

be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated

without the publisher’s prior consent in any

form, binding or cover other than that in which

it is published and without a similar condition

including this condition being imposed on

the subsequent purchaser.

Source ISBN: 9780007269419

eBook Edition June 2008 ISBN: 9780007281916

Version: 2018-05-23


Contents

Cover (#u64d76d43-4360-5af4-b995-f5bc103a43fa)

Title Page (#u395ba1ee-207b-5397-949c-64b73cf0c517)

Copyright (#u8d1103ef-ad3f-593d-817d-b164c0b1fd8b)

1. Parking Problems (#u935e2177-e351-418d-a17c-13eb6e6243f6)

2. Paddington’s Good Turn (#u0dc4a4c9-3b63-4dbb-b562-a3462dba2c26)

3. Paddington Strikes a Chord (#litres_trial_promo)

4. Paddington Takes the Biscuit (#litres_trial_promo)

5. Paddington Spills the Beans (#litres_trial_promo)

6. Paddington Aims High (#litres_trial_promo)

7. Paddington’s Christmas Surprise (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)










Chapter One (#ulink_84606b47-2b2e-5bf6-93bf-0fef0e9ab02d)




PARKING PROBLEMS


“MY SHOPPING BASKET on wheels has been towed away!” exclaimed Paddington hotly.

He gazed at the spot where he had left it before going into the cut-price grocers in the Portobello Market. In all the years he had lived in London such a thing had never happened to him before and he could hardly believe his eyes. But if he thought staring at the empty space was going to make it reappear he was doomed to disappointment.

“It’s coming to something if a young bear gent can’t leave ’is shopping basket unattended for five minutes while ’e’s going about ’is business,” said one of the stallholders, who normally supplied Paddington with vegetables when he was out shopping for the Brown family. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

“There’s no give and take any more,” agreed a man at the next stall. “It’s all take and no give. They’ll be towing us away next, you mark my words.”

“You should have left a note on it saying ‘Back in five minutes’,” said a third one.

“Fat lot of good that would have done,” said another. “They don’t give you five seconds these days, let alone five minutes.”

Paddington was a popular figure in the market and by now a small crowd of sympathisers had begun to gather. Although he was known to drive a hard bargain, he was much respected by the traders. Receiving his custom was regarded by many as being something of an honour: on a par with having a sign saying they were by appointment to a member of the Royal Family.

“The foreman of the truck said it was in the way of his vehicle,” said a lady who had witnessed the event. “They were trying to get behind a car they wanted to tow away.”

“But my buns were in it,” said Paddington.

“Were, is probably the right word,” replied the lady. “I dare say even now they’re parked in some side street or other wolfing them down. Driving those great big tow-away trucks of theirs must give them an appetite.”

“I don’t know what Mr Gruber is going to say when he hears,” said Paddington. “They were meant for our elevenses.”

“Look on the bright side,” said another lady. “At least you’ve still got your suitcase with you. The basket could have been clamped. That would have cost you £80 to get it undone.”

“And you would have to hang about half the day before they got around to doing it,” agreed another.

Paddington’s face grew longer and longer as he listened to all the words of wisdom. “Eighty pounds!” he exclaimed. “But I only went in for Mrs Bird’s bottled water!”






“You can buy a new basket on wheels in the market for £10,” chimed in another stallholder.

“I dare say if you haggle a bit you could get one for a lot less,” said another.

“But I’ve only got ten pence,” said Paddington sadly. “Besides, I wouldn’t want a new one. Mr Brown gave mine to me soon after I arrived. I’ve had it ever since.”

“Quite right!” agreed an onlooker. “You stick to your guns. They don’t come like that these days. Them new ones is all plastic. Don’t last five minutes.”

“If you ask me,” said a lady who ran a knickknacks stall, “it’s a pity it didn’t get clamped. My Sid would have lent you his hacksaw like a shot. He doesn’t hold with that kind of thing.”

“Pity you weren’t here in person when they did it,” said another stallholder. “You would have been able to lie down in the road in front of their truck as a protest. Then we could have phoned the local press to send over one of their photographers and it would have been in all the papers.”

“That would have stopped the lorry in its tracks,” agreed someone else from the back of the crowd.

Paddington eyed the man doubtfully. “Supposing it didn’t?” he said.

“In that case you would have been on the evening news,” said the man. “Television would have had a field day interviewing all the witnesses.”

“You’d have become what they call a martyr,” agreed the first man. “I dare say in years to come they would have erected a statue in your honour. Then nobody would have been able to park.”

“What you need,” said the fruit and vegetable man, summing up the whole situation, “is a good lawyer. Someone like Sir Bernard Crumble. He lives just up the road. This kind of thing is just up his street. He’s a great one for sticking up for the underdog…” he broke off as he caught Paddington’s eye. “Well, I dare say he does underbears as well. He’d have their guts for garters. Never been known to lose a case yet.”

“Which street does he live in?” asked Paddington hopefully.

“I shouldn’t get ideas above your station,” warned another trader. “If you’ll pardon the pun. They do say ’e charges an arm and a leg just to open ’is front door to the postman.”

“If I were you,” said a passer-by, “before you do anything else, I suggest you go along to the police station and report the matter to them. I dare say they’ll be able to arrange counselling for you.”

“Whatever you do,” advised one of the stallholders, “don’t tell them you’ve been towed away. Be what they call non committal. Just say your vehicle has gone missing.”

He gazed at the large pack of bottled water Paddington had bought in the grocers. “You can leave those with me. I’ll make sure they don’t come to any harm.”

Paddington thanked the man for his kind offer and after waving goodbye to the crowd he set off at a brisk pace towards the nearest police station.

But as he turned a corner and a familiar blue lamp came into view, he began to slow down. Over the years he had met a number of policemen and he had always found them only too ready to help in times of trouble. There was the occasion when he’d mistaken a television repairman for a burglar, and another time when he had bought some oil shares from a man in the market and they had turned out to be dud.

But he had never actually gone into a police station all by himself before, and not knowing what to expect he began to wish he had consulted his friend, Mr Gruber, before taking the plunge. Mr Gruber was always ready to help, and he most certainly would have done so had he heard their buns were missing. He might even have closed his shop for the morning.

And if he couldn’t do that for any reason, there was always Mrs Bird. Mrs Bird looked after the Browns, and she didn’t stand for any nonsense, especially if she thought Paddington was being hard done by.

However, as things turned out, he was pleasantly surprised when he mounted the steps and pushed the door slightly ajar. Apart from a man in uniform behind a counter, the room was completely empty.

The man was much younger than he had expected. In fact, he didn’t seem much older than Mr and Mrs Brown’s son, Jonathan, who was still at school. He looked slightly apprehensive when he caught sight of Paddington, rather as though he didn’t know quite what to make of him.

“Er… Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” he ventured nervously.

“Bless you,” said Paddington, politely raising his hat. “You can borrow my handkerchief if you like.”

The policeman gave him a funny look before trying again.

“Parlez-vous français?”

“Not today, thank you,” said Paddington.

“Pardon me for asking,” said the officer. “But it’s ‘Be Polite to Foreigners Week’. Strictly unofficial, of course. It’s the Sergeant’s idea because we get a lot of overseas visitors at this time of the year, especially round the Portobello Road area, and I thought perhaps…”

“I’m not a foreigner,” exclaimed Paddington hotly. “I’m from Darkest Peru.”

The policeman looked put out. “Well, if that doesn’t make you a foreigner, I don’t know what does,” he said. “Mind you, it takes all sorts. I must say you speak very good English, wherever you’re from.”

“My Aunt Lucy taught me before she went into the Home for Retired Bears in Lima,” said Paddington.

“Well, she did a good job, I’ll say that for her,” said the policeman. “What can we do for you?”








“I’ve come to see you about my vehicle,” said Paddington, choosing his words with care. “It isn’t where I left it.”

“And where was that?” asked the policeman.

“Outside the cut-price grocers in the market,” said Paddington. “I always leave it there when I’m out shopping.”

“Oh, dear,” said the officer. “Not another one gone missing. There’s a lot of it about at the moment, especially round these parts…” He reached for a computer keyboard. “I’d better take down some details.”

“It had my buns in it,” said Paddington.

“That’s not a lot to go on,” said the policeman. “I was wondering what make it is?”

“It’s not really a make,” said Paddington vaguely. “Mr Brown built it for me when I first went to stay with them.”

“Home-made,” said the officer, typing in the words. “Ahhhhh! Colour?”

“I think it’s called wickerwork,” said Paddington.

“I’ll put down yellow for the time being,” said the man. “Did you leave the handbrake on? That always slows them down a bit when they want to make a quick getaway.”

“It doesn’t have a handbrake,” said Paddington. “It doesn’t even have a paw brake. If I need to stop on a hill I usually put some stones under the wheels. Especially if I’ve been to get the potatoes.”

“Potatoes?” echoed the policeman. “What have potatoes got to do with it?”

“They weigh a lot,” explained Paddington. “Especially King Edwards. If my vehicle started to roll down a hill I don’t know what I would do. I expect I would close my eyes in case it hit something and all the potatoes fell out.”

The policeman looked up from his keyboard and stared at Paddington. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said, not unkindly. “That sort of thing wouldn’t go down too well if it was read out in court. You might find yourself ending up in prison.

“Mind you,” he continued. “It’s probably on its way to the Czech Republic or somewhere like that by now.”

“The Czech Republic!” exclaimed Paddington hotly. “But it’s only just gone ten o’clock.”

“You’d be surprised,” said the man. “These people don’t lose any time. A quick going over with a spray gun. Who knows what colour it is by now. A new numberplate… On the other hand we don’t let the grass grow under our feet.” He picked up a telephone. “I’ll put out an all stations call.”

“I don’t have one of those,” said Paddington, looking most relieved.

“One of what?” asked the policeman, holding his hand over the mouthpiece.

“A numberplate,” said Paddington.

The policeman replaced the receiver. “Hold on a minute,” he said. “You’ll be telling me next you haven’t renewed your road tax…”

“I haven’t,” said Paddington. He stared back at the man with growing excitement. It really was uncanny the way he knew about all the things he hadn’t got.

“I’m glad I came here,” he said. “I didn’t know you had to pay taxes.”

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” said the policeman sternly. Reaching under the counter he produced a large card showing a selection of pictures.

“I take it you are conversant with road signs?”

Paddington peered at the card. “We didn’t have anything like that in Darkest Peru,” he said. “But there’s one near where I live.”

The policeman pointed at random to one of the pictures. “What does that one show?”

“A man trying to open an umbrella,” said Paddington promptly. “I expect it means it’s about to rain.”

“It’s meant to depict a man with a shovel,” said the policeman wearily. “That means there are roadworks ahead. If you ask me, you need to read your Highway Code again. Unless, of course…”

“You’re quite right,” broke in Paddington, more than ever pleased he had come to the police station. “I’ve never read it.”

“I think it’s high time I saw your driving licence.” said the policeman.

“I haven’t got one of those either,” exclaimed Paddington excitedly.

“Insurance?”

“What’s that?” asked Paddington.

“What’s that?” repeated the policeman. “What’sthat?”

He ran his fingers round the inside of his collar. The room had suddenly become very hot. “You’ll be telling me next,” he said, “that you haven’t even passed your driving test.”

“You’re quite right,” said Paddington excitedly. “I took it once by mistake, but I didn’t pass because I drove into the examiner’s car. I was in Mr Brown’s car at the time and I had it in reverse by mistake. I don’t think he was very pleased.”

“Examiners are funny that way,” said the policeman. “Bears like you are a menace to other road users.”

“Oh, I never go on the road,” said Paddington. “Not unless I have to. I always stick to the path.”

The policeman gave him a long, hard look. He seemed to have grown older in the short time Paddington had been there. “You do realise,” he said, “that I could throw the book at you.”

“I hope you don’t,” said Paddington earnestly. “I’m not very good at catching things. It isn’t easy with paws.”

The policeman looked nervously over his shoulder before reaching into his back pocket.

“Talking of paws,” he said casually, as he came round to the front of the counter. “Would you mind holding yours out in front of you?”

Paddington did as he was bidden, and to his surprise there was a click and he suddenly found his wrists held together by some kind of chain.

“I hope you have a good lawyer,” said the policeman. “You’re going to need one. You won’t have a leg to stand on otherwise.”

“I shan’t have a leg to stand on?” repeated Paddington in alarm. He gave the man a hard stare. “But I had two when I came in!”

“I’m going to take your dabs now,” said the policeman.

“My dabs!” repeated Paddington in alarm.






“Fingerprints,” explained the policeman. “Only in your case I suppose we shall have to make do with paws. First of all I want you to press one of them down on this ink pad, then on some paper, so that we have a record of it for future reference.”

“Mrs Bird won’t be very pleased if it comes off on the sheets,” said Paddington.

“After that,” said the policeman, ignoring the interruption, “you are allowed one telephone call.”

“In that case,” said Paddington, “I would like to ring Sir Bernard Crumble. He lives near here. He’s supposed to very good on motoring offences. I don’t know if he does shopping baskets on wheels, but if he does, they told me in the market that he will have your guts for garters.”

The policeman stared at him. “Did I hear you say shopping basket on wheels?” he exclaimed. “Why ever didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

“You didn’t ask me,” said Paddington. “I have a special licence for it. It was given to me when I failed my driving test in a car. They said it would last me all my life. I expect Sir Bernard will want to see it. I keep it in a secret compartment of my suitcase. I can show it to you if you like. At least, I could if I had it with me and I was able to use my paws.”

He stared at the policeman, who seemed to have gone a pale shade of white. “Is anything the matter?” he asked. “Would you like a marmalade sandwich? I keep one under my hat in case of an emergency.”

The policeman shook his head. “No, thank you,” he groaned, as he removed the handcuffs. “It’s my first week on duty. They told me I might have some difficult customers to deal with, but I didn’t think it would start quite so soon…”

“I can come back later if you like,” said Paddington hopefully.

“I’d much rather you didn’t…” began the policeman. He broke off as a door opened and an older man came into the room. He had some stripes on his sleeve and he looked very important.

“Ah,” said the man, consulting a piece of paper he was holding. “Bush hat… blue duffle coat… Fits the description I was given over the phone… You must be the young gentleman who’s had trouble with his shopping basket on wheels.”

He turned to the first policeman. “You did well to keep him talking, Finsbury. Full marks.”

“It was nothing, Sarge,” said the constable, who seemed to have got some of his colour back.






“It seems there’s been a bit of a mix-up with the lads in the tow-away department,” continued the sergeant, turning back to Paddington. “They put your basket on their vehicle for safe keeping while they were removing a car and forgot to take it off again. It went back to the depot with them.

“They’ve put some fresh buns in it for you. Apparently, somehow or other, the ones that were in it got lost en route. Even now, the basket’s on its way back to where you left it. And there’s nothing to pay. What do you say to that?”

“Thank you very much, Mr Sarge,” said Paddington gratefully. “It means I shan’t have to speak to Sir Bernard Crumble after all. If you don’t mind, I shall always come here first if ever my shopping basket on wheels gets towed away.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” said the sergeant. “Although I think I should warn you; it may be a bit heavier now than when you first set out this morning.”

“Quite right too,” said Paddington’s friend, Mr Gruber, when they eventually sat down to their elevenses and Paddington told him the full story, including the moment when he got back to the market and found to his surprise that his basket on wheels was full to the top with fruit and vegetables.






“You have been a very good customer over the years and I dare say none of the traders want to see you go elsewhere. It is a great compliment to you, Mr Brown.

“All the same,” he continued, “it must have been a nasty experience while it lasted. If I were you, I would start your elevenses before the cocoa gets cold. You must be in need of it.”

Paddington thought that was a very good idea indeed. “Perhaps,” he said, looking up at the antique clock on the wall of the shop, “just this once, Mr Gruber, we ought to call it ‘twelveses’.”










Chapter Two (#ulink_aa00b011-38dd-5c79-952a-ec39a78b5f71)




PADDINGTON’S GOOD TURN


LIKE MOST HOUSEHOLDS up and down the country, number thirty-two Windsor Gardens had its own set routine.

In the case of the Brown family, Mr Brown usually went off to his office soon after breakfast, leaving Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird to go about their daily tasks. Most days, apart from the times when Jonathan and Judy were home for the school holidays, Paddington spent the morning visiting his friend, Mr Gruber, for cocoa and buns.

There were occasional upsets, of course, but on the whole the household was like an ocean liner. It steamed happily on its way, no matter what the weather.

So when Mrs Bird returned home one day to what she fully expected to be an empty house and saw a strange face peering at her through the landing window, it took a moment or two to recover from the shock, and by then whoever it was had gone.

What made it far worse, was the fact that she was halfway up the stairs to her bedroom at the time, which meant the face belonged to someone outside the house.

She hadn’t seen any sign of a ladder on her way in; but all the same she rushed back downstairs again, grabbed the first weapon she could lay her hands on, and dashed out into the garden.

Apart from a passing cat, which gave a loud shriek and scuttled off with its tail between its legs when it caught sight of her umbrella, everything appeared to be normal, so it was a mystery and no mistake.

When they heard the news later that day, Mr and Mrs Brown couldn’t help wondering if Mrs Bird had been mistaken, but they didn’t say so to her face in case she took umbrage.

“Perhaps it was a window cleaner gone to the wrong house,” suggested Mr Brown.

“In that case he made a very quick getaway,” said Mrs Bird. “I wouldn’t fancy having him do our windows.”

“I suppose it could have been a trick of the light,” said Mrs Brown.

Mrs Bird gave one of her snorts.

“I know what I saw,” she said darkly. “And whatever it was, or whoever it was, they were up to no good.”

The Browns knew better than to argue, and Paddington, who had been given a detective outfit for his birthday, spent some time testing the windowsill for clues. Much to his disappointment he couldn’t find any marks on it other than his own. All the same, he took some measurements and carefully wrote the details down in his notebook.

In an effort to restore calm, Mr Brown rang the police, but they were unable to be of much help either.

“It sounds to me like the work of ‘Gentleman Dan, the Drainpipe Man’,” said the officer who came to visit them. “They do say he’s usually in the Bahamas at this time of the year, but he could be back earlier than usual if the weather’s bad.






“He didn’t get his name for nothing. He bides his time until he sees what he thinks are some empty premises, and then he shins up the nearest drainpipe. He can be in and out of a house like a flash of lightning. Never leaves any trace of what we in the force call ‘his dabs’, on account of the fact that being a perfect gentleman he always wears gloves.”

The Browns felt they had done all they could to allay Mrs Bird’s fears, but the officer left them with one final piece of advice.

“We shall be keeping a lookout in the area for the next few days,” he said, “in case he strikes again. But if I were you, to be on the safe side, I’d invest in a can of Miracle non-dry, anti-burglar paint and give your downpipes a coat as soon as possible.

“It’s available at all good do-it-yourself shops. Mark my words, you won’t be troubled again, and if by any chance you are, the perpetrator will be so covered in black paint, he won’t get very far before we pick him up.

“Not only that,” he said, addressing Mr Brown before driving off in his squad car, “you may find you get a reduction on your insurance policy.”

“It sounds as though he’s got shares in the company,” said Mr Brown sceptically, as he followed his wife back indoors. “Either that or he has a spare-time job as one of their salesmen.”

“Henry!” exclaimed Mrs Brown.

In truth, the next day was a Friday, and after a busy week at the office Mr Brown had been looking forward to a quiet weekend. The thought of spending it up a ladder painting drainpipes was not high on his list of priorities.

In normal circumstances he might not have taken up Paddington’s offer to help quite so readily.

“Are you sure it’s wise?” asked Mrs Brown, when he told her. “It’s all very well Paddington saying bears are good at painting, but he says that about a lot of things. Remember what happened when he decorated the spare room.”

“That was years ago,” said Mr Brown. “Anyway, the fact that he ended up wallpapering over the door and couldn’t find his way out again had nothing to do with the actual painting. Besides, it’s not as if it’s something we shall be looking at all the time. Even Paddington can’t do much harm painting a drainpipe.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” warned Mrs Bird. “Besides, it isn’t just one drainpipe. There are at least half a dozen dotted round the house. And don’t forget, it’s non-dry paint. If that bear makes any mistakes, the marks will be there for ever more.”

“There must come a time when it dries off,” said Mr Brown optimistically.

“We could get Mr Briggs in,” suggested Mrs Brown, mentioning their local decorator. “He’s always ready to oblige.”

But Mr Brown’s mind was made up, and when he arrived back from his office that evening he brought with him a large can of paint and an assortment of brushes.

Paddington was very excited when he saw them, and he couldn’t wait to get started.

That night, he took the can of paint up to bed and read the small print on the side with the aid of a torch and the magnifying glass from his detective outfit.








According to the instructions, a lot of burglars climbed drainpipes in order to break into people’s homes. In fact, the more he read, the more Paddington began to wonder why he had never seen one before; it sounded as though the streets must be full of them. There was even a picture of one on the back of the tin. He looked very pleased with himself as he slid down a pipe, a sack over his shoulder bulging with things he had taken. There was even a ‘thinks balloon’ attached to his head saying: ‘Don’t you wish you had done something about your pipes?’

Paddington opened his bedroom window and peered outside, but luckily there were no drainpipes anywhere near it, otherwise he might have tested the paint there and then, just to be on the safe side.

Before going to sleep he made out a list of all the other requirements ready for the morning. Something with which to open the tin; a wire brush for cleaning the pipes before starting work; a pair of folding steps – the instructions suggested it was only necessary to paint the bottom half of the pipe, there was no need to go all the way up to the top; and some white spirit to clean the brushes afterwards.

The following morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he waylaid Mrs Bird in the kitchen and persuaded her to let him have some plastic gloves and an old apron.

Knowing who would be landed with the task of getting any paint stains off his duffle coat if things went wrong, the Brown’s housekeeper was only too willing to oblige.

“Mind you don’t get any of that stuff on your whiskers,” she warned, as he disappeared out of the back door armed with his list. “You don’t want to spoil your elevenses.”

Paddington’s suggestion that it might be a good idea to have them before he started work fell on deaf ears, so he set to work gathering the things he needed from the garage. While he was there he came across a special face mask to keep out paint fumes.

Clearly, it wasn’t meant for bears, because although it covered the end of his nose, it was nowhere near his eyes. All the same, having slipped the elastic bands over his ears to hold it in place, he spent some time looking at his reflection in the wing mirror of Mr Brown’s car and as far as he could make out all his whiskers were safely tucked away inside it.

Once in the garden he set to work with a wire brush on a rainwater pipe at the rear of the house.

“I must say he looks like some creature from outer space,” said Mrs Bird, gazing out of the kitchen window.

“At least it keeps him occupied,” said Mrs Brown. “I can’t help being uneasy whenever he’s at a loose end.”

“The devil finds work for idle paws,” agreed Mrs Bird; almost immediately wishing she hadn’t said it in case she was tempting fate.

But much to everyone’s surprise Paddington made such a good job of the first pipes,






even Mrs Bird’s eagle eyes couldn’t find anything amiss when she inspected them. There wasn’t a single spot of paint to be seen anywhere on the surrounding brickwork.

And even if it meant she would never be able to use her plastic gloves or her apron again, she didn’t have the heart to complain. It was a small price to pay for having number thirty-two Windsor Gardens made secure, and keeping Paddington occupied into the bargain.

“What did I tell you, Mary?” said Mr Brown, looking up from his morning paper when she passed on the news.

“I only hope he doesn’t try shinning up the pipes to see if it works,” said Mrs Brown. “You know how keen he is on testing things.”

“It’s a bit like giving someone a hot plate and telling them not to touch it,” agreed Mrs Bird.

As it happened, similar thoughts had been going through Paddington’s mind most of the morning. At one point when he stopped for a rest he even toyed with the idea of hiding round a corner in the hope that Gentleman Dan might turn up, but with only one more drainpipe to go he decided he’d better finish off the work as quickly as possible.

It was the one just outside the landing window at the side of the house, which had been the cause of all the trouble in the first place, and he had left it until last because he wanted to make an especially good job of it for Mrs Bird’s sake.

Having scrubbed the bottom section of the pipe clean with the wire brush, he mounted the steps and began work on the actual painting.

He hadn’t been doing it for very long before he heard a familiar voice.

“What are you doing, bear?” barked Mr Curry.

Paddington nearly fell off the steps with alarm. The last person he wanted to see was the Browns’ next-door neighbour.

“I’m painting Mr Brown’s drainpipes,” he announced, regaining his balance.






“I can see that,” growled Mr Curry suspiciously. “The thing is, bear, why are you doing it?”

“It’s some special paint which never dries,” said Paddington. “It’s very good value.”

“Paint which never dries?” repeated the Browns’ neighbour. “It doesn’t sound very good value to me.”

“It was recommended to Mr Brown by a policeman,” said Paddington importantly. “I’ve nearly finished all the pipes and I haven’t used half the tin yet.

“Mrs Bird saw a face at the window when she came home from her shopping the other day,” he explained, seeing the sceptical look on Mr Curry’s face.

“The policeman thought it might have been someone called ‘Gentleman Dan, the Drainpipe Man’ who climbed up this very pipe. Mrs Bird said it gave her quite a turn. She hasn’t got over it yet.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Mr Curry. “Let’s hope they catch him.”

“I don’t think he’ll be back,” said Paddington. “Not if he saw Mrs Bird on the warpath, but Mr Brown thinks it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Hmm,” said Mr Curry. “What did you say it’s called, bear?”

“Miracle non-dry paint for outside use,” said Paddington, reading from the can. He held it up for Mr Curry to see. “You can buy it at any good do-it-yourself shop.”

“I don’t want to do-it-myself, bear!” growled Mr Curry. “I have more important things to do. Besides, I’m on my way out.”

He paused for a moment. “On the other hand, I would be more than interested in having my own pipes done. I do have some very valuable items about the house. Family heirlooms, you know.”

“Have you really?” said Paddington with interest. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an heirloom before.”

“And you’re not starting with mine,” said the Browns’ neighbour shortly.

“I don’t have them on display for every Tom, Dick and bear to see. I keep them tucked away - out of the sight of prying eyes.”

Paddington couldn’t help thinking if that were the case there was no point in the Browns’ neighbour having his drainpipes painted, but Mr Curry was notorious for being unable to resist getting something for nothing, even if it was something he didn’t need.

A cunning look came over his face. “Did you say you have over half a tin of paint left?” he asked.

“Nearly,” said Paddington. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t mentioned it in the first place.

Mr Curry felt in his trouser pocket. “Perhaps you would like to have a go at my pipes while you’re at it,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have very much change on me, but I could stretch to ten pence if you do a good job.”

Paddington did a quick count-up on his paws. “Ten pence!” he exclaimed. “That’s less than tuppence a pipe!”

“It’s a well-known fact in business,” said Mr Curry, “that the bigger the quantity, the less you pay for each individual item. It’s what’s known as giving discount.”

“In that case,” said Paddington hopefully, “perhaps I could do one of your pipes for five pence?”

“Ten pence for the lot,” said Mr Curry firmly. “That’s my final offer. There’s no point in having only one done.”

“I think I’d better ask Mr Brown if he minds first,” said Paddington, clutching at straws. “It is his paint.”




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