Paddington Goes To Town. Michael Bond
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Paddington looked around Mr Brown’s garden and almost immediately spied a small white object nestling among the tomato plants. “Here it is, Mr Curry,” he called. “I think it’s broken one of Mr Brown’s stems.”
“If people don’t take the trouble to build their fences high enough they must expect these things,” said Mr Curry nastily as he took the ball.
He examined it carefully to make sure it wasn’t damaged and then looked thoughtfully at Paddington. “I didn’t realise you were interested in golf, bear,” he remarked casually.
Paddington returned his gaze doubtfully. “I’m not sure if I am yet, Mr Curry,” he said carefully.
On more than one occasion in the past he’d been caught napping by a casual remark from the Browns’ neighbour and had no wish to find himself agreeing by mistake to build a golf course for ten pence.
Mr Curry looked over his shoulder in order to make sure no one else was around and then he signalled Paddington to come closer. “I’m looking for someone to act as caddie for me in the golf competition tomorrow,” he said, lowering his voice. “I have some very expensive equipment and I need someone reliable to take charge of it all.
“If I find the right person,” he continued meaningly, “I might not report whoever it is for nearly poking my eye out with a stick.”
“Thank you very much, Mr Curry,” began Paddington even more doubtfully.
Almost before the words were out of his mouth Mr Curry rubbed his hands together. “Good! That’s settled then,” he said briskly. “I’ll see you on the links at two o’clock sharp.
“Mind you,” he added sternly as he turned to go. “If I let you do it I shall hold you responsible for everything. If any of my balls get lost you’ll have to buy me some new ones.”
Paddington stared unhappily after the retreating figure in the next-door garden. He wasn’t at all sure what duties a caddie had on a golf course but from the tone of Mr Curry’s last remarks he had a nasty feeling that not for the first time he was getting the worst of the bargain.
In the event his worst fears were realised and any ideas he might have entertained of actually having a go himself were quickly dashed the following day when he met Mr Curry at the entrance to the golf course.
The Browns’ neighbour wasn’t in a very good mood, and as the afternoon wore on and Paddington laboured wearily up hill and down dale, struggling with the bag of clubs, his hopes grew fainter still.
Mr Curry seemed to spend most of his time climbing in and out of one or other of the many bunkers scattered about the eighteen holes on the golf course, his temper getting shorter and shorter, and Paddington was thankful when at long last the spot where the big competition of the day was being held came into view and they stood awaiting their turn to start.
“You’ll have to keep your eyes skinned here, bear,” growled Mr Curry, surveying the fairway. “I shall be hitting the ball very hard and you mustn’t lose sight of it. I don’t want it getting mixed up with anyone else’s.”
“It’s all right, Mr Curry,” said Paddington eagerly. “I’ve put a special mark on the side with some marmalade peel.”
“Marmalade peel?” echoed Mr Curry. “Are you sure it won’t come off?”
“I don’t think so, Mr Curry,” replied Paddington confidently. “It’s some of my special marmalade from the cut-price grocers in the market. Mrs Bird always says their chunks never come off anything.”
Paddington glanced around while he was explaining what he’d done. Quite a large crowd had assembled to watch the event and he felt most important as he leaned nonchalantly on Mr Curry’s club in the way that he’d seen Arnold Parker do in some of the many posters advertising the event.
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