Paddington Races Ahead. Michael Bond

deserves all he got!” said Mr Brown, rising to Paddington’s defence. “Er… what did we give him in the end?”

      “A tube marked ‘shaving cream’, which was full of icing sugar,” said Mrs Bird, “and a cake with his name written across the top in shaving cream. I can’t think that either of them went down very well, but it serves him right for playing such a mean trick.”

      “I had an accident with the tube,” explained Paddington, “so I borrowed Mrs Bird’s cake-making outfit to get the shaving cream back inside it. Only the bag still had some icing sugar inside it so I put that into the tube by mistake.”

      “And when I came to use it,” said Mrs Bird, “I didn’t realise Paddington had filled it with shaving cream. I couldn’t think why it wouldn’t set.”

      “Which, as things turned out,” said Mrs Brown, “meant that for once Mr Curry couldn’t have his cake and eat it too. Perhaps it’s taught him a lesson. We haven’t had sight nor sound of him since. Let’s hope it lasts.”

      “Pigs might fly,” snorted Mrs Bird.

      “So that’s how I came to have traces of shaving cream over my bathroom mirror,” said Mr Brown. “I thought something must have been going on…

      “Hold on a moment,” he continued, as light suddenly dawned. “Did you say all this happened last Wednesday?”

      “I did,” said Mrs Brown. “Why do you ask, Henry?”

      “Because,” said Mr Brown, “last Wednesday was April the first. You can play any tricks you like before midday. If you ask me, not only was Mr Curry playing an April fool trick, but whoever sold Paddington the shaving cream was probably doing much the same thing.”

      “They didn’t bargain on the fact that there are some bears who happen to have been born under a lucky star,” said Mrs Brown. “Now we are enjoying some peace and quiet for a change, so all’s well that ends well.”

      And that was something no one could argue with, especially when they saw that seemingly almost overnight Paddington’s seeds had begun to sprout. It was nice having things to look forward to.

       Chapter Two

       A FISHY BUSINESS

      PADDINGTON’S BEST FRIEND, Mr Gruber, was most sympathetic when he heard about the goings on at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens.

      “It’s no wonder I didn’t see as much of you as usual last week, Mr Brown,” he said. “I must say my elevenses didn’t feel the same without our having cocoa and buns together.

      “Playing a simple jape on someone because it’s April Fools’ Day is one thing, but trying to get something for nothing is another matter entirely.

      “That Mr Curry deserves all he gets,” he added, echoing Mrs Bird’s words.

      “As for the man who sold you the shaving cream, words fail me.”

      “He wasn’t there this morning,” said Paddington. “I was hoping I might get Mrs Bird’s money back for her.”

      “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Mr Gruber, busying himself at the stove in the back of his shop. “That kind of person gives the market a bad name. The only good thing is they never stay in one place for very long. It’s like I always say, ‘here today and gone tomorrow’.”

      He handed Paddington a steaming mug of cocoa.

      “You must have been quite worn out by it all, Mr Brown. I dare say you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

      “I was still awake at nine o’clock,” said Paddington.

      “Well, there you are,” said Mr Gruber. He settled himself down alongside his friend on the old horsehair sofa at the back of the shop. “That kind of thing isn’t good for a young bear.”

      Paddington sipped his cocoa thoughtfully. There was something very comforting about Mr Gruber’s antique shop. Although it was full of old things, there was always something new to look at. In fact, it was an ever changing scene. As fast as one item disappeared, something else came along to take its place, so it was never entirely the same two days running.

      Today was a good example. An old wind-up gramophone that had enjoyed pride of place on a table in the centre of the shop for several weeks had disappeared. In its place there was a very strange-looking picture which appeared to have been made by someone glueing a mish-mash of different bits and pieces on to a board and then pouring paint all over it.

      Paddington was much too polite to say so, but he preferred the old wind-up gramophone with a dog peering into a huge horn to see where the sound was coming from when it was working. The dog had looked so real he’d often been tempted to offer it one of his buns.

      “That picture is what is known as a collage,” said Mr Gruber, reading Paddington’s thoughts. “It’s made of various bits and pieces glued together in a random fashion. The idea itself is as old as the hills. In fact, many famous artists started out that way… Picasso… Salvador Dali…

      “It may look very modern, but I think it is probably older than it seems. In which case it could be very valuable. It’s called Sunset in Tahiti.”

      Paddington thought it looked more like a rainy day in the Bayswater Road, but he didn’t say anything.

      Mr Gruber knew much more about these things than he did, and he listened carefully as his friend explained the ins and outs of the subject while they had their elevenses.

      “What makes it particularly interesting,” continued Mr Gruber, “is that someone else has painted over the original picture – which often happened at one time, but they were using a method known as egg tempera, which is why it looks so shiny.”

      Paddington licked his lips. “I’ve never heard of a painting made with eggs,” he said.

      “There are other things besides,” said Mr Gruber. “Vinegar, various pigments to provide the colour – and in this case some graphite too, which you can find in any bicycle puncture repair outfit…”

      “I wouldn’t mind having a go at making one of those myself,” said Paddington. “But I expect it’s a bit difficult with paws and I can’t think what I would make a picture of anyway.”

      Mr Gruber eyed Paddington over his mug of cocoa. It was unlike his friend to admit defeat before he had even begun something.

      “You do yourself an injustice, Mr Brown,” he said. “There is no such word as can’t.”

      “When we are out for a drive Mr Brown sometimes says the road has a nasty cant,” said Paddington. “I thought he meant he had just driven over a tin can.”

      “That’s the English language for you,” said Mr Gruber. “The word ‘cant’ pronounced one way means a road has a slant to it, but that same word with an apostrophe between the last two letters is short for ‘cannot’, meaning it is not possible.

      “I think all things are possible if you really set your mind to it, and you never know what you can do until you try.

      “As for finding a subject for your painting…” Mr Gruber rose to his feet as he saw someone about to enter his shop, “…you only have to take a short ride on the top deck of a London bus and all manner of things cry out to be painted: the world is your oyster.”

      Having said goodbye