Читать книгу Paddington Marches On - Michael Bond - Страница 7

Chapter Two A MOST UNUSUAL CEREMONY

One morning, just as the Browns were sitting down to breakfast, a loud rat-tat-tat sent Mrs Bird hurrying to the front door.

“I didn’t want to push these through the letterbox, ma’am,” said the postman, handing her two large, snow-white envelopes, “in case anything happened to them. One of them is addressed to that young bear of yours.”

The Browns’ postman had once got one of Aunt Lucy’s postcards stuck in their front door and Paddington had given him some hard stares through the letterbox for several days afterwards.

Thanking the man for his trouble, Mrs Bird hurried back into the dining-room clutching the letters. Paddington nearly dropped the marmalade into his tea when he saw that one was addressed to him. He often received a postcard from Peru, and at least once a week a catalogue arrived bearing his name, but he’d never had anything quite as impressive before.

“Here, let me,” said Mr Brown, picking up a knife and coming to his rescue. “You don’t want to get marmalade all over it.”

“Thank you very much, Mr Brown,” said Paddington gratefully. “Envelopes are a bit difficult with paws.”

A gasp of surprise went up from the rest of the family as Mr Brown cut open the envelope and withdrew a large gold-edged card, which he held up for everyone to see.

“Whatever can it be?” exclaimed Mrs Brown. “It looks most important.”

Mr Brown adjusted his glasses. “Sir Huntley Martin,” he read, “requests the pleasure of Mr Paddington Brown’s company at two o’clock on Monday 20th February. There will be a tour of the factory followed by an important ceremony and a special tea.”

“Sir Huntley Martin,” echoed Mrs Bird. “Isn’t he that nice man we met at the Porchester that day Paddington had trouble with his onions?”

“That’s right,” said Judy. “He’s the marmalade king. He said at the time he wanted Paddington to pay him a visit, but that was ages ago.”

“How nice of him to remember,” said Mrs Brown, opening the other envelope.

“Trust old Paddington to get himself invited to a marmalade factory,” said Jonathan. “It’s like taking coals to Newcastle. I wonder what the ceremony is?”

“Whatever it is,” replied Mrs Brown, holding up another card, “he must have known it’s half term. He’s invited the rest of us to see it later in the afternoon.”

“Hmm,” said Mrs Bird, looking at Paddington. “It’s less than a week away. I can see a certain person’s going to have a lot of cleaning up to do.”

“Perhaps it’s a sticky ceremony, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington hopefully.

Mrs Bird began clearing away the breakfast things. “Sticky it may be,” she said sternly. “But no bear goes visiting from this house in the state you’re in at the moment – least of all to a ceremony. You’ll have to have a bath and a good going over with the vacuum.”

Paddington sighed. He always enjoyed going out but he sometimes wished it didn’t involve quite so much fuss being made.

All the same, it was noticeable during the next few days that he paid several trips to the bathroom without once being asked, and as a result his fur became gradually shinier and silkier. By the time the following Monday arrived even Mrs Bird’s eagle eyes could find no fault with his appearance.

It had been arranged that as a special treat Paddington should go on ahead of the others and he felt very excited when he climbed into a specially ordered taxi and settled himself in the back seat, together with his suitcase, the invitation card, several maps and a large Thermos of hot cocoa.

It was the first time he had ever been quite so far afield on his own and after waving goodbye to the others he consulted his map and peered out of the window with interest as the taxi gathered speed on its way through the London streets.

On the map the journey to the factory looked no distance at all, only a matter of inches, but Paddington soon found it was much farther than he had expected. Gradually, however, the tall grey buildings gave way to smaller houses and the familiar red buses grew less in number, until at long last the driver turned a corner and brought the taxi to a halt in a side street near a group of large buildings.

“Here we are, guv’,” he said. “Can’t get right up to the gates, I’m afraid. There’s a bit of an obstruction. But it’s only a few yards up the road. Can’t miss it. Just follow yer nose.”

The driver paused and looked down out of his cab with growing concern as Paddington, after stepping down on to the pavement, began twisting about for several seconds and then suddenly fell over and landed with a bump in the gutter.

“’Ere,” he called anxiously. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” gasped Paddington, feeling himself to make sure. “I was only trying to follow my nose, but it kept disappearing.”

“Well, you ’as to point it in the right direction to start with,” said the driver, as he helped Paddington to his feet and began dusting him down. “You’re in a right state and no mistake.”

Paddington examined himself sadly. His fur, which a moment before had been as clean and shiny as a new brush, was now covered in a thick layer of dust and there were several rather nasty-looking patches of oil on his front as well. Worse still, although he still had tight hold of his suitcase with one paw, the other was completely empty.

“I think I’ve dropped my invitation card down the drain,” he exclaimed bitterly.

The driver climbed back into his cab. “It’s not your day, mate,” he said sympathetically. “If I were you I’d get where you’re going to as quickly as possible before anything else happens.”

Paddington thanked the driver for his advice and then hurried off down the road in the direction of an imposing-looking building with a large illuminated jar on its side. As he drew near the entrance he sniffed several times. There was a definite smell of marmalade in the air, not to mention one or two kinds of jam, and he quickened his step as he approached a small office to one side of the gates where a man in uniform was standing.

The man eyed Paddington up and down. “We’re not taking on any bears at the moment,” he said sternly. “I should try the ice-cream factory next door.”

“I haven’t come to be taken on,” exclaimed Paddington hotly, giving the man a hard stare. “I’ve come to see Sir Huntley Martin.”

“Ho, yes,” said the gatekeeper sarcastically. “And who are you, pray? Lord Muck ’isself?”

“Lord Muck!” repeated Paddington. “I’m not a Lord. I’m Paddington Brown.”

“’Ave you seen yourself in a mirror lately?” asked the gatekeeper. “Lord you may not be – but mucky you certainly are. I suppose you’ve left yer Rolls round the corner?”

“My rolls?” said Paddington, looking most surprised. “I didn’t bring any rolls. Only some cocoa. I thought I was going to eat here.”

“’Ere, ’ere, said the gatekeeper, taking a deep breath. “I don’t want no cheek from the likes of you. There’s an important ceremony taking place this afternoon. They’re opening a new factory building and I’ve strict instructions to keep the gates clear. We don’t want no young unemployed bears hanging about letting the place down.

“If you want a job,” he continued, picking up a telephone inside his office, “I’ll call the foreman. Though what he’ll think of it all I don’t know. It says ‘Hands Wanted’ on the board. It doesn’t say anything about paws.”

Paddington looked more and more upset as he listened to the gatekeeper. “But I haven’t come about a job,” he exclaimed,when at long last he could get a word in. “I’ve been invited to Sir Huntley’s ceremony.”

“Ho, yes,” said the gatekeeper disbelievingly. “And I suppose you’ll tell me next you’ve lost yer invitation card?”

“That’s right,” said Paddington. “I had a bit of an accident when I got out of my taxi and it fell down a drain.”

“Look,” said the gatekeeper crossly. “Pull the other leg – it’s got bells on. I’ve met your sort before. After a free tea, no doubt. The only way you’ll get into this factory, my lad, is through the works entrance like anyone else.”

He turned as a figure came hurrying out of the main building. “Here’s the foreman. And I’d advise you to watch your step. He doesn’t stand any nonsense.”

“There’s a young out-of-work bear here, Fred,” he called, as the foreman reached the gate. “I was wondering if you could fix him up.”

“I told the Job Centre we’re a bit short-handed,” said the foreman, looking Paddington up and down, “but I reckon they must be in a worse state than we are.”

“Do you know anything about marmalade?” he added, not unkindly.

“Oh, yes,” said Paddington eagerly. “I eat a lot of it at home. Mrs Bird’s always grumbling about my jars.”

“Well, I don’t know what to suggest,” said the foreman, as Paddington returned his gaze very earnestly. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to try your paw at?”

Paddington thought for a moment. “I think perhaps I’d like to see the chunks department first,” he announced. “That sounds very interesting.”

“Chunks department,” said the foreman, glancing at the gatekeeper. “I don’t know that we’ve got what you might call a chunks department. But I could start you off in the barrel section if you like. There’s no one working there today.

“It’s where we keep the empty Seville Orange barrels,” he explained, as he led the way across the factory square past several rows of seats and a flower-decorated stand. “They all have to be scrubbed out before they’re sent back to Spain and I daresay you’ll find plenty of old chunks left in them if you’re interested.”

Paddington, who thought the foreman had said they kept several orange barrels, nearly fell over backwards with astonishment as the man led him into a yard at the side of the factory and he took in the sight before him. There were big barrels, small barrels, barrels to the left and right of him, barrels in front of him, and barrels which seemed to be piled almost as high as the eye could see. In fact, there were so many he soon became dizzy trying to count them.

“You don’t have to scrub them all,” said the foreman encouragingly. “Only as many as you can. We pay five pence each for the big ones, two pence for the smalls, so the more you clean the more you earn. It’s what we call ‘piece work’.”

“Five pence each!” repeated Paddington, hardly able to believe his ears. He’d once scrubbed out Mr Brown’s water butt at Windsor Gardens. It had taken him most of one weekend but at least at the end of it all Mr Brown had given him ten pence extra bun money. “I think perhaps I’d like to try my paw in the testing department instead,” he exclaimed.

The foreman gave him a look. “You’ll be lucky,” he said. “You have to work your way up to a job like that. Your best plan is to start at the bottom.”

He pointed towards a corner of the yard as he turned to go. “There’s a brush in that bucket over there and you’ll find a hosepipe in the corner. Only no playing about squirting people. There’s a famous film star coming to make his footprint in the ceremonial cement today and if I catch you wandering about it’ll be straight back to the Job Centre and no mistake.”