Paddington Complete Novels. Michael BondЧитать онлайн книгу.
was only enjoying himself.”
“Bear’s boos,” said the manager sternly. “In the Podium circle. And nougat on one of my best seats.”
“Then you shouldn’t sell it,” replied Mrs Bird. “It’s asking for trouble.”
“Well, where is he now?” demanded the manager. “Tell me that. I want to start the big picture. We’re five minutes late already.”
The Browns exchanged anxious glances. Knowing Paddington, he might be anywhere, but before they had time to reply they were all startled into silence by a loud rumbling from the front of the cinema which grew and grew in volume until the whole place began to shake.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the manager as a burst of applause swept through the audience. “It’s Reginald Clove playing ‘Rule Britannia!’ And with one hand, too!”
They all stared over the balcony as the lights dimmed and the organ rose into view bathed in a pink spotlight.
“Mercy me,” cried Mrs Bird, clutching her seat. “And there’s that bear—what on earth is he doing now?”
Paddington felt most important as he rode up on the organ and he wished he could turn and wave to the Browns to let them know where he was, but he was much too busy carrying out Mr Clove’s instructions.
Even so, there was one nasty moment when, in his excitement, he turned over two pages of music at once by mistake. Mr Clove looked most surprised when he suddenly found himself playing a selection from The Gondoliers instead of ‘Rule Britannia’ but he quickly recovered and in the general excitement no one seemed to notice.
The audience applauded all the items and Paddington felt quite sorry when Mr Clove at last pressed a button by his side and the organ began to sink back through the floor. But as it finally disappeared from view and the last notes of the music died away a loud cheer went up from the audience and several voices were heard shouting for more.
Afterwards everyone agreed that good though the big picture was, the organ had been the high spot of the evening. Even the manager of the Podium seemed very pleased and he took the Browns on a tour behind the scenes before they left.
“I don’t suppose,” said Paddington thoughtfully, as they made their way home, “there are many bears who’ve been for a ride on an organ. Especially one that comes up through the floor.”
“And I don’t suppose,” said Mr Brown, as he turned and looked hard at Paddington, “that there are many people who’ve been stuck to their seat by a piece of bear’s nougat.”
But Paddington had his eyes closed. He wasn’t exactly asleep, but he had a lot of things to write in his scrapbook that night when he went to bed. He’d enjoyed his visit to the pictures and it needed a lot of careful thought to put it all into words.
“Two days!” exclaimed Mrs Brown, staring at Doctor MacAndrew in horror. “Do you mean to say we’ve to stay in bed for two whole days?”
“Aye,” said Doctor MacAndrew, “there’s a nasty wee bug going the rounds and if ye don’t I’ll no’ be responsible for the consequences.”
“But Mrs Bird’s away until tomorrow,” said Mrs Brown. “And so are Jonathan and Judy… and… and that only leaves Paddington.”
“Two days,” repeated Doctor MacAndrew as he snapped his bag shut. “And not a moment less. The house’ll no’ fall down in that time.
“There’s one thing,” he added, as he paused at the door and stared at Mr and Mrs Brown with a twinkle in his eye. “Whatever else happens you’ll no’ die of starvation. Yon wee bear’s verra fond of his inside!”
With that he went downstairs to tell Paddington the news.
“Oh dear,” groaned Mr Brown, as the door closed behind the doctor. “I think I feel worse already.”
Paddington felt most important as he listened to what Doctor MacAndrew had to say and he carefully wrote down all the instructions. After he had shown him to the door and waved goodbye he hurried back into the kitchen to collect his shopping basket on wheels.
Usually with Paddington, shopping in the market was a very leisurely affair. He liked to stop and have a chat with the various traders in the Portobello Road where he was a well-known figure. To have Paddington’s custom was considered to be something of an honour as he had a very good eye for a bargain. But on this particular morning he hardly had time even to call in at the baker’s for his morning supply of buns.
It was early and Mr Gruber hadn’t yet opened his shutters, so Paddington wrapped one of the hot buns in a piece of paper, wrote a message on the outside saying who it was from and explaining that he wouldn’t be along for ‘elevenses’ that morning, and then pushed it through the letterbox.
Having finished the shopping and been to the chemist with Doctor MacAndrew’s prescription, Paddington made his way quickly back to number thirty-two Windsor Gardens.
It wasn’t often Paddington had a chance to lend a paw around the house, let alone cook the dinner, and he was looking forward to it. In particular, there was a new feather duster of Mrs Bird’s he’d had his eye on for several days and which he was anxious to test.
“I must say Paddington looks very professional in that old apron of Mrs Bird’s,” said Mrs Brown later that morning. She sat up in bed holding a cup and saucer. “And it was kind of him to bring us up a cup of coffee.”
“Very kind,” agreed Mr Brown. “But I rather wish he hadn’t brought all these sandwiches as well.”
“They are rather thick,” agreed Mrs Brown, looking at one doubtfully. “He said they were emergency ones. I’m not quite sure what he meant by that. I do hope nothing’s wrong.”
“I don’t like the sound of it,” said Mr Brown. “There’ve been several nasty silences this morning – as if something was going on.” He sniffed. “And there seems to be a strong smell of burnt feathers coming from somewhere.”
“Well, you’d better eat them, Henry,” warned Mrs Brown. “He’s used some of his special marmalade from the cut-price grocer and I’m sure they’re meant to be a treat. You’ll never hear the last of it if you leave any.”
“Yes, but six!” grumbled Mr Brown. “I’m not even very keen on marmalade. And at twelve o’clock in the morning! I shan’t want any lunch.” He looked thoughtfully at the window and then at the plate of sandwiches again.
“No, Henry,” said Mrs Brown, reading his thoughts. “You’re not giving any to the birds. I don’t suppose they like marmalade.
“Anyway,” she added, “Paddington did say something about lunch being late, so you may be glad of them.”
She looked wistfully at the door. “All the same, I wish I could see what’s going on. It’s not knowing that’s the worst part. He had flour all over his whiskers when he came up just now.”
“If you ask me,” said Mr Brown, “you’re probably much better off being in the dark.” He took a long drink from his cup and then jumped up in bed, spluttering.
“Henry, dear,” exclaimed Mrs Brown. “Do be careful. You’ll have coffee all over the sheets.”
“Coffee!” yelled Mr Brown. “Did you say this was coffee?”
“I didn’t, dear,” said Mrs Brown mildly. “Paddington did.” She took a sip from her own cup and then made a wry face. “It has got rather an unusual taste.”
“Unusual!”