Paddington Takes the Air. Michael Bond
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week.”
Paddington nodded his agreement. “I think,” he announced at last, amid sighs of relief, “I’ll always have my old teeth disposed of in future.”
MRS BIRD HELD a large square of chequered cloth up to the light and examined it with an expert eye. “I must say, Paddington’s made a first-class job of it,” she declared approvingly.
“I’ve seen worse in some shops,” agreed Mrs Brown. “What is it?”
“I think he said it’s a tablecloth,” replied Mrs Bird. “But whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll come in very handy.”
Mrs Brown glanced up at the ceiling as a steady rhythmic clanking came from somewhere overhead. “At least we can leave him on his own for the day without worrying too much,” she said thankfully. “We may as well make the most of it. At the rate he’s going, that sewing machine won’t last much longer.”
Mrs Brown was never too happy about leaving Paddington on his own for too long. Things had a habit of going wrong – especially on days when he was at a loose end – but with Jonathan and Judy back at school after the Easter holiday it couldn’t always be avoided. It happened to be one of those days and she was most relieved to know he was occupied.
Paddington’s interest in sewing had been something of a nine-day wonder in the Brown household. It all came about when he lost his fifty pence a week bun money down a drain one morning as he was on his way to the baker’s to pick up his standing order.
The coin had slipped through a hole in one of his duffle coat pockets, and even the combined efforts of several passing dustmen and a road sweeper had failed to locate it.
Although Mr Brown took pity on him and replaced the money, Paddington had been upset for several days afterwards. He still felt he was going to be fifty pence short for the rest of his life and when some men arrived a few days later to swill out the drains, he gave them some very hard stares indeed.
It was Mr Gruber who finally took his mind off the matter. Mr Gruber kept an antique shop in the nearby Portobello Market and over the years he and Paddington had become firm friends. In fact, most mornings they shared some buns and a cup of cocoa for their elevenses.
One morning, shortly after his loss, Paddington arrived at the shop only to find a mysterious cloth-covered object standing on a table just inside the door.
At Mr Gruber’s bidding he lifted the cloth, and then nearly fell over backwards with surprise, for there, lo and behold, was a sewing machine. And even more exciting, on the side there was a label – with his name on it!
Mr Gruber waved Paddington’s thanks to one side. “We don’t want another day like ‘the one we don’t talk about’ in a hurry, Mr Brown,” he said, referring to ‘bunless’ Friday as they’d come to know it.
“I’m afraid it’s rather an old one,” he continued, as Paddington examined the machine with interest. “It came in a job lot I bought at a sale many years ago and it’s been lying under a chair at the back of my shop ever since. But there’s a book of instructions and it may do a turn if you want to go over some of your old seams.”
Paddington didn’t know what to say. Although Mrs Bird had unpicked the join on his duffle coat pocket and inserted a double-strength calico lining to make doubly sure for the future, he didn’t want to take any more chances and after thanking Mr Gruber very much, he hurried home with the present safely tucked away in his shopping basket on wheels.
Paddington had often watched Mrs Bird in action with her machine, and once she’d even let him turn the handle, but never in his wildest dreams had he pictured actually owning one himself.
Threading the needle by paw had been his biggest problem and the first time it had taken him the best part of a day, but once the cotton was safely through the eye of the needle there was no holding him and soon the steady clickety-clack of the machine had begun to echo round the house.
At first he’d contented himself with joining together some old bits of cloth Mrs Bird had found in her sewing box, but when these ran out he turned his attention to more ambitious things and really and truly he’d been most useful. A new tea towel for Mrs Bird; a set of curtains for Judy’s doll’s house; a bag for Jonathan’s cricket bat, and a smaller one for Mr Brown’s pipe; now the tablecloth – there seemed no end to his activities.
“Just so long as he doesn’t do anything nasty to his new eiderdown,” said Mrs Bird, as they went upstairs to give Paddington his instructions for lunch. “I don’t want to come back and find it turned into a tea cosy.”
Although the Browns’ housekeeper was as pleased as anyone over Paddington’s new-found industry, she didn’t entirely share Mrs Brown’s optimism about leaving him alone for the day.
Nevertheless, even Mrs Bird gave a nod of approval as they entered his room and she caught sight of a pile of old handkerchiefs he was busy repairing.
“That reminds me,” said Mrs Brown as they said goodbye, “the laundry man is due this morning. I’ve put the things by the front door. Mr Curry might call in later – he’s got a pair of trousers he wants altered.”
Mrs Bird gave a snort. “I shouldn’t worry too much about that,” she said meaningly. “It’s only because there’s a special offer of one pound off this week if repairs go with the laundry. If he’s so mean he can’t send any washing of his own then it’s too bad.”
There was little love lost between Mrs Bird and the Browns’ next-door neighbour. Mr Curry had a reputation not only for his meanness but for the way he seized every opportunity to take advantage of others, and the latest example lasted Mrs Bird as a topic of conversation all the way to the bus stop.
It seemed just a matter of seconds after the front door closed behind them that another loud bang sent Paddington hurrying downstairs only to find Mr Curry waiting impatiently on the front step.
“Good morning, bear,” he said gruffly. “I’d like you to put these with your laundry.
“I want two inches off the waist,” he continued, handing over a pair of grey flannel trousers, “no more, and certainly no less. The instructions are all on a sheet of paper in one of the pockets. I lost a lot of weight when I was in hospital last year and I’ve never put it on again. All my clothes are the same.”
“Oh dear, Mr Curry,” said Paddington. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
In saying he was sorry to hear about Mr Curry’s loss of weight, Paddington was speaking the truth, for ever since the unfortunate incident on the golf course when he’d stepped on a marmalade sandwich and ended up in hospital, the Browns’ neighbour had let no opportunity of mentioning the matter go by.
But to Paddington’s relief, for once Mr Curry seemed to have his mind on other things. “I want you to make sure they go in your name,” he said. “It’s most important. They’re doing waistbands for one pound this week and it’s the last day of the offer.”
A thoughtful expression came over Paddington’s face as he took the trousers from Mr Curry. “I know someone who would do it for fifty pence,” he said hopefully. “And give it back to you today!”
“Fifty pence?” repeated Mr Curry. “It seems remarkably cheap. Are you sure they’ll do them in a day?”
Paddington nodded. “It isn’t a they, Mr Curry,” he confided. “It’s a he.”
“Is this person completely reliable, bear?” asked Mr Curry suspiciously.