Paddington Races Ahead. Michael Bond

his way.

      Even if the wrapping paper did look as though it had seen better days, he still thought it was the best morning’s shopping he had done for a long while, and he hurried back to number thirty-two Windsor Gardens as fast as his legs would carry him in order to break the news to Mrs Bird and give her the change from her five pound note.

      The Browns’ housekeeper could hardly believe her eyes when she saw what Paddington had bought. “I’ve never seen such a big tube,” she said. “I do hope you haven’t been taken for a ride. Even bears don’t get something for nothing these days.”

      “The man said it was the same as some of the crowned heads of Europe used in the old days,” said Paddington.

      “That’s as may be,” said Mrs Bird. “But as I recall, most of them had beards, so there can’t have been much demand for it.”

      “Perhaps that’s why they had a lot left over,” said Paddington.

      “Perhaps,” said Mrs Bird. It sounded like typical salesman’s patter to her, but she didn’t want to be a wet blanket.

      However, her words weighed heavily on Paddington’s mind as he made his way upstairs to his bedroom.

      Removing the tube from its box, he examined it carefully. There was no sign of a dent, but if it really had fallen off the back of a lorry it might well have become bent.

      To make doubly sure all was well, he fetched Mr Brown’s special shaving mirror on a stand from the bathroom. Although one side of the glass was just like an ordinary mirror – the other side made things seem much larger than they really were and that was the one he wanted.

      Placing the stand carefully in the centre of his bedside table, he laid his old leather suitcase flat on the floor in front of it and picked up Mr Curry’s present.

      Having climbed on top of the case, he carefully unscrewed the cap on the end of the tube and held the nozzle up to the mirror before giving the tube itself a gentle squeeze.

      A tiny white blob the size of a small pea appeared momentarily, then went back inside again.

      Paddington stared at the nozzle. Disappearing shaving cream wouldn’t be a good start to anyone’s day if they were in a hurry. In his mind’s eye he could already hear cries of, “Bear! Where are you, bear?” issuing from Mr Curry’s bathroom window.

      Knowing the Browns’ neighbour of old, he would be demanding his money back even though he hadn’t paid for it.

      Bracing himself, Paddington gritted his teeth and had another go. This time he used both paws and gave the tube a much harder squeeze.

      For a moment or two nothing happened and he was about to give up when he felt a minor explosion in his paw and a stream of white foamy liquid shot everywhere. It left Mr Brown’s mirror looking as though it had been buried by a major blizzard at the North Pole.

      Paddington was so taken by surprise he let go of the tube like a hot cake and hovered to and fro on top of his suitcase before finally losing his balance.

      Stepping backwards into space, it could only have been a split second or so before he landed on the floor, but the tube had beaten him to it.

      As he lay where he had fallen, his legs and arms waving helplessly in the air, he was aware of a further eruption, and through half-closed eyes he saw what remained of the tube’s contents flying in all directions.

      The largest lump of all hit the ceiling right above his head, and as it slowly detached itself, Paddington jumped to his feet.

      He gazed mournfully round the room. It was a long time since he had seen it in quite such a mess, and it had all come about in the twinkling of an eye; so fast, in fact, there was nothing he could possibly have done to stop it.

      Hastily returning Mr Brown’s mirror to the bathroom before anything else untoward happened, Paddington held it under the tap for a while before returning it to its rightful place.

      It took rather longer than he had bargained for, because the hot water made the cream turn into foam and he was soon enveloped in bubbles. That was another thing about messes; they tended to spread, and the more you tried to put things right the worse they became.

      It was while he was drying everything as best he could with the towels that his gaze alighted on a wall cabinet above the basin. He knew from past explorations that it was full of interesting things in bottles and packets, but apart from a small spoon and some nail files, he couldn’t remember there being any other likely tools. All the same, he took them back to his bedroom, just in case.

      Once there, he consulted the instructions on the side of the tube. There was a great deal on the subject of what a wonderful shaving experience lay in wait for the user, but there was nothing at all about how to get the cream back into the tube if too much had come out.

      Removing as much as he could from the walls and the furniture before getting down to work, Paddington soon discovered it wasn’t as easy as he had expected.

      Holding the tube with one paw and applying shaving cream to the nozzle with the spoon, he couldn’t help but grip the tube so tightly to stop it bending that in the end most of the cream landed on the floor.

      His friend, Mr Gruber, often said that what comes out doesn’t necessarily go back in again, and the wisdom of his words was soon confirmed.

      In fact, Paddington was concentrating so much on the task in hand he didn’t hear Mrs Bird until she was outside his room.

      “How are you getting on with wrapping Mr Curry’s present?” she called.

      “I haven’t even started on that, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington.

      Opening the door as little as possible, he peered through the gap.

      “Do you have to do it in your bedroom?” asked Mrs Bird.

      “I do now,” said Paddington sadly.

      “Well, let me know if you need a hand with the knots,” said Mrs Bird. “I shan’t be long. I’ve run out of candles for Mr Curry’s cake, and I don’t doubt he’ll be counting them. I’d better make sure I use enough or that’ll be wrong. On the other hand, I don’t want to use too many and risk him catching the house on fire.

      “I haven’t even started on the lettering yet. If anyone phones, tell them I shall be back in a quarter of an hour or so.”

      Mrs Bird sounded flustered, as well she might with all that was going on, but after a short pause, Paddington heard the sound of the front door closing and as it did, so it triggered off another of his ideas.

      Hurrying downstairs, he made his way to the kitchen and there, sure enough, lay the answer to his problem. Mr Curry’s freshly-iced cake was sitting in the middle of the table, and alongside it was exactly what he needed: a canvas bag on the end of which there was a tiny metal funnel. It must have been meant.

      “I think,” said Mr Brown, over tea in the garden the following week, “my handiwork with the fence must have paid off. I haven’t seen old Curry looking over it for ages.”

      “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that, Henry,” replied Mrs Brown. “It’s all to do with his birthday.”

      “If I hadn’t been in such a rush the morning after Paddington planted his seeds, I wouldn’t have stopped him in the middle of what Mr Curry said was a list of the presents he wanted,” agreed Mrs Bird.

      “When I had the chance to take a proper look it had things on it like a tin of peas…”

      “And half a cabbage!” added Paddington indignantly. “It was his shopping list, and we bought him a present too!”

      “Hold on a minute,” said Mr Brown. “What has all that got to do with the garden fence?”

      “He