Chapter Three

PADDINGTON AND THE STATELY HOME

Paddington’s friend Mr. Gruber chuckled no end when he heard about the goings-on with Mr. Curry’s hammock.

“There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip, Mr. Brown,” he said. “Or, in this case, ’twixt the hammock and the ground. I think I shall stick to my old horsehair sofa.”

Paddington nodded his agreement from behind a cloud of cocoa steam. It was good to be back in the comparative safety of Mr. Gruber’s antique shop, enjoying a chat over their morning elevenses.

“Mind you,” continued Mr. Gruber as Paddington handed him a bun from his morning supply, “I must say all this talk of hammocks takes me back to the days when I was a boy. Many a happy hour I spent in the garden during the school holidays, munching an apple and reading a book as I swung to and fro in the sunshine.” Mr. Gruber gave a sigh, and a dreamy expression came over his face as he cast his mind back. “It’s probably only my imagination, Mr. Brown, but the summers always seemed longer and warmer in those days—especially in my native Hungary.”

Paddington nearly fell off the sofa with surprise at Mr. Gruber’s words. As long as he’d known him, his friend had always seemed the same—neither young nor old—and it was hard to picture him looking any different.

Mr. Gruber chuckled again as he caught sight of the expression on Paddington’s face.

“All that was many moons ago, Mr. Brown.” He waved his hand in a circular motion over his head to take in the contents of the shop. “In those days lots of the things you see around you here were ordinary everyday objects such as you or I would use—or throw out when we’d finished with them. Now, people pay ten or even a hundred times what they cost in the first place.”

Paddington took another bite out of his bun and then gazed around Mr. Gruber’s shop. He was so used to the scene he rather took for granted all the various items of gold and silver and copper and bronze, the pictures, and the piles of bric-a-brac which sometimes filled it full almost to overflowing. The thought that once upon a time people had actually used some of Mr. Gruber’s antiques had never really occurred to him before, and it made him see everything in a new light.

“Times change,” said Mr. Gruber sadly, “sometimes for the better and sometimes for the not so good. Nowadays the only time you see many of these things is in an antique shop like mine or in a Stately Home.”

“A Stately Home, Mr. Gruber?” exclaimed Paddington. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in one of those.”

It was Mr. Gruber’s turn to look surprised. “You’ve never been inside a Stately Home, Mr. Brown?” he repeated. “Never?”

Paddington considered the matter for a moment while Mr. Gruber topped up his cocoa. “I’ve been to the Home for Retired Bears in Lima,” he said at last. “The one where Aunt Lucy lives. But I don’t think that was very stately.”

Mr. Gruber slapped his knee. “In that case, Mr. Brown,” he said, “I have an idea. Tomorrow is early closing; it’s about time we had one of our little outings, and I’ve been racking my brains trying to think where to take you. Tomorrow,” he said impressively, “tomorrow, Mr. Brown, I will take you to a Stately Home!”

Paddington could hardly believe his ears, and he grew more and more excited as he hurried home in order to tell the others.

Mr. Gruber had also invited Jonathan and Judy along to share the outing, and they, too, could hardly wait when he told them the good news.

That night Paddington had an extraspecial bath in honor of the occasion, and at Mrs. Bird’s suggestion he went to bed early so that he would be fully rested the next day.

“I think Paddington ought to go on more outings,” said Mrs. Brown as he disappeared up the stairs. “I’ve never seen him quite so spick-and-span. He looks like a new bear.”

“Hmm,” said the Browns’ housekeeper. “That’s as may be, but beauty’s only fur deep. It’s still the same underneath, and I’d sooner Mr. Gruber than me. Any home that bear visits is likely to be in a state rather than stately by the time he’s finished with it.”

Mrs. Bird spoke from bitter experience of past outings. Nevertheless, when Mr. Gruber turned up the next day and set off down the road with his party, even she had to admit that Paddington’s appearance would have raised the tone of any expedition.

His duffle coat had been freshly ironed, his hat newly washed, and even his Wellington boots had an extraspecial shine to them.

Mr. Gruber had come armed with a plentiful supply of books and maps to while away their journey, and as they changed from bus to train and then back to a bus again, he told them about Stately Homes in general and the one he was taking them to in particular.

“The problem is,” he explained as they neared their destination, “no one can really afford to run a Stately Home any longer, so the owners have to open them up to the public, and to make the public want to come they have to offer other things besides. Some have safari parks, where they have lots of lions and tigers; others have fun fairs. The one we’re going to is Luckham House, where they specialize in concerts. It has a very good restaurant into the bargain as well. Lord Luckham likes his food.”

Mr. Gruber smiled as they alighted from the bus outside some large wrought-iron gates and he caught sight of the expression on Paddington’s face. “I thought that might appeal to you, Mr. Brown,” he said. “I know how much you like music.”

Judy took hold of Paddington’s paw as they made their way up the long drive. “I think someone’s pulling your leg,” she whispered. “I happen to know Mr. Gruber’s treating us all to dinner tonight.”

Paddington licked his lips. He always enjoyed eating out, and to have a meal in a Stately Home sounded very good value indeed.

“They do a very good beef Wellington,” said Mr. Gruber as he caught the tail end of the conversation. “It’s one of Lord Luckham’s specialities. I had one the last time I was here, and I’m looking forward to repeating the experience.”

Paddington had never heard of beef Wellington before, but apart from explaining that it was beef cooked in a special kind of casing, Mr. Gruber refused to be drawn on the subject. “A surprise is not a surprise if you know all about it, Mr. Brown,” he said, and he directed their attention to some of the other delights they had in store.

As it happened, there were so many things to see, Paddington soon forgot about his forthcoming meal, anyway. It was really like strolling through another world: a giant version of Mr. Gruber’s shop and the rest of the Portobello Market rolled into one, with everything from collections of china and dolls to a giant four-poster bed in which, according to Mr. Gruber’s notes, Queen Elizabeth the First had once slept while on her way to York.

Paddington was most impressed. All the same, what with walking through endless galleries lined with pictures, not to mention climbing innumerable flights of stairs—more of which seemed to go up than ever came down again—he was more than glad when at long last Mr. Gruber ushered them into a large chair-filled room where the concert was due to take place.

Paddington had never been to a concert before, and he applauded loudly as a man in a dark suit climbed onto the platform and crossed to a piano.

Mr. Gruber gave a cough. “I rather think,” he whispered, “he’s only come to open the piano lid.” But like the kindly man he was, he joined in Paddington’s applause in order to save his friend embarrassment.

Fortunately, Paddington was able to continue his applause as almost at once a second man approached the front of the stage and began announcing the first item on the program: a selection of songs from famous operas rendered by a Miss Olive Marks and a Mr. Gilbert Street, who were billed as “Partners in Song.” Following Mr. Gruber’s example, he cupped his chin in his paws and then sat forwards eagerly in his seat ready to take it all in.

Gradually, however, his smile became more and more fixed, and he gazed anxiously up at the ceiling as Miss Marks opened her mouth and first one piercing note then another emerged and began rattling the chandeliers overhead. He rather wished he’d put his ears instead of his chin inside his paws, but it was much too late to change his mind.

Miss Marks was nothing if not generous with her notes, although from the look on her face and the way she rolled her eyes, the effort obviously caused her a certain amount of pain, a pain that was certainly being shared by a high percentage of her audience. In fact, it was noticeable that even her partner, Mr. Street, was careful to stand well clear.

That apart, as far as Paddington could make out, it seemed to take her twice as long as anyone he’d ever met before to make up her mind about even the simplest thing. Three times she announced in song that she would like to close the window and as many times again that she was about to leave. However, ten minutes later, when Gilbert Street knelt at her feet in order to sing, the window was still wide open and Miss Marks very much onstage.

Mr. Street had chosen an aria called “Your Tiny Hand Is Frozen,” but there was nothing in the least bit small about any part of the object of his affections, let alone her hand. Far from being tiny, Miss Marks’s hand was one of the largest Paddington had ever seen, and under the heat of the overhead lights, it glistened like a freshly boiled lobster.

Paddington’s applause as the couple finally took their leave was louder than most and caused Mr. Gruber to cast an anxious glance in his direction.

“I shouldn’t clap too loudly, Mr. Brown,” he whispered in an aside. “They might do an encore.”

In his haste to stop clapping, Paddington dropped his program on the floor and, captured by a draft from a nearby door, it sailed several rows away.

“Oh, dear!” Judy caught her brother’s eye and gave a groan as Paddington disappeared from view and began peering between the legs of the people in front.

But luckily for her own and her brother’s peace of mind, the disturbance was covered by the arrival onstage of a group of musicians who were due to play some works by Mozart.

During Paddington’s temporary absence, and while the music stands were being arranged, Mr. Gruber passed the time by explaining the next item to Jonathan and Judy.

“If you look on your program,” he said, “you will see it’s got a number after it . . . K280. That’s the catalog number to make sure the works were always played in the right order. In German it’s called a Köchel number, after the man who cataloged Mozart’s works.”

“What’s that, Mr. Gruber?” called Paddington as he climbed into view again. “We’re going to have some cocoa?” He licked his lips in anticipation at the thought. Crawling about on the floor looking for a program was thirsty work—especially in a duffle coat.

“Not cocoa . . . Köchel . . . ,” began Judy. “That’s quite a different matter.” She gave another sigh. It was sometimes rather difficult explaining matters to Paddington.

“Köchel?” repeated Paddington in surprise. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted any of that before.”

“Ssh!” said someone loudly from behind as the first notes of music filled the air.

Paddington turned and gave the person who’d shushed a hard stare before directing his attention to the platform. He couldn’t see any mugs let alone cups and saucers, and during a particularly loud passage of music he consulted the program once again. It was a bit hard to see, as the lights in the audience had been dimmed. Apart from that there were one or two footmarks where it had been trodden on, which made it even more difficult to read, but for the life of him he couldn’t see any mention of refreshments being served.

It was as he began reading about the item being played that his face fell still farther. According to the notes there were fifteen variations to be got through. Paddington didn’t think much of the original version let alone any possible variations. He was quite keen on music, but his tastes ran more towards the loud kind which could be rendered on a comb and paper rather than the complicated variety.

He stole a sidelong glance at Mr. Gruber, but his friend had his eyes closed in order to concentrate on the music, and beyond him, Jonathan and Judy appeared to be making a close study of the chandeliers.

Paddington came to a decision. He had no wish to offend his friend, especially as he had gone to so much trouble, but from the look of rapture on Mr. Gruber’s face, there was little fear of that.

A few moments later, taking advantage of another loud passage, he made a move, only this time it was in the direction of a door marked EXIT.

It had been a long and tiring afternoon, and Paddington knew just the very spot where he wanted most of all to be at that very moment. It was up some stairs at the end of a long corridor, and it was labeled QUEEN ELIZABETH’S ROOM.

Having a bed with curtains round it seemed a very good idea indeed—especially if you didn’t want to be disturbed.

In much less time than it would have taken Miss Marks to sing “Jack Robinson,” Paddington was up the stairs, into the room, and pulling the curtains tightly round him. They came together with a satisfying swish, and with a sigh of contentment he closed his eyes and lay back with his head on the pillow, drinking in the sound of distant music and the faint aroma of something delicious as it wafted up from the nearby kitchens.

But Paddington’s satisfaction was short-lived. In the normal course of events he was quite good at sleeping; given a few cushions or an armchair by the fire he could be away in no time at all. But gradually it dawned on him that he had never been less comfortable in his life. Compared with his own bed at Windsor Gardens it was like trying to sleep on boards, boards moreover which contained more than their fair share of knots, and he could quite see why Queen Elizabeth the First had only stayed one night.

He tried lying on top of the pillow, but if anything, it was even more lumpy than the bed. The bird used to provide the stuffing had obviously suffered from a bad attack of hardening of the feathers, for the ends stuck out through their outer covering like thorns on a rosebush.

Paddington’s opinion of life in a Stately Home reached a new low, and he was about to try his luck elsewhere when he heard voices, and the door to the room suddenly opened.

Closing his eyes again as tightly as they would go, Paddington lay where he was, hardly daring to breathe. He was only just in time, for a split second later the curtains round the bed were flung open and whoever had been talking broke off in midsentence.

“Blimey!” said a voice. “Is that ’er?”

“That’s what it says in the guide” came a woman’s voice. “Queen Elizabeth slept ’ere on the way to York.”

“Who’d ’ave thought it” came the first voice again. “No wonder she never got married.” The owner of the voice gave a sniff. “Smells of marmalade too. Enough to put anyone off. Course, they never went in for washing much in them days.”

“Didn’t know they wore duffle coats, either,” added his friend. “The things you learn. Only goes to show.”

If stares had been made capable of passing through closed eyelids, the two speakers would have received the full benefit of one of Paddington’s hardest ever. As it was, blissfully unaware of their narrow escape, they pulled the curtains together and continued their tour of the room.

Left on his own again, Paddington was about to relax when all that had been said before was suddenly wiped from his mind as he caught another snatch of conversation.

“Pity about the beef Wellington being off,” said the man. “Sounded a bit of all right, that.”

“I know,” said his companion sympathetically. “’Ad me taste buds all of aquiver it did. The waiter said they was ’aving trouble with the pastry chef and . . .”

Paddington strained his ears in an effort to catch the rest of the conversation, but it was cut off in midair by a click as the door swung shut and the speakers continued on their way.

For a moment he lay where he was, growing more and more upset. It wasn’t often Mr. Gruber gave himself a treat, and when he did, he always made sure he shared it with others. One of the things he’d specially mentioned about the present outing was the beef Wellington, and the thought of his being done out of it was most upsetting. Paddington had a strong sense of right and wrong. When he finally sat up, the look on his face was not dissimilar to the one the previous occupant of the bed, Queen Elizabeth the First, must have worn the day she ordered Sir Francis Drake to do battle with the Spanish fleet. It was a look which Paddington kept reserved for very special occasions, and it boded ill for anyone who got in his way before his plans were complete.

Carefully removing his boots, he picked them up in his paw, tiptoed across the room, opened the door, peered out in order to make sure the coast was clear, and then hurried off down the corridor in the direction of the kitchen as fast as his legs would carry him.

Mr. Gruber picked up his knife and fork and gazed reflectively across the dining table as he prepared to do justice to his meal.

There was something distinctly odd about the way Paddington was behaving. It wasn’t just the guilty expression on his face, or the fact that he’d arrived back in the concert hall only seconds before the end of the program; the two might well have gone together. It wasn’t even the patches of white stuff—rather like flour—all over his duffle coat. It was almost as if something was missing, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what it could be.

Then there was the question of the meal. Mr. Gruber would have bet anything that Paddington would have chosen the same as everyone else, but in the event, he’d stuck out very firmly for steak and kidney pie.

“Aren’t you going to make a start, Mr. Brown?” he asked. “You don’t want to let it get cold.”

“I’d really like to see how you get on first, Mr. Gruber,” said Paddington politely.

Mr. Gruber hesitated. After making so much of the beef Wellington, he felt rather bad about complaining, but it really was giving off a very strange odor. Rubbery almost. Also, although the knife looked extremely sharp, he was finding it difficult, if not impossible, to cut beyond the pastry covering.

Jonathan and Judy exchanged glances. The same thought was passing through both their minds, but before they had a chance to say anything, there was a commotion at a nearby table as a man threw down his cutlery and jumped to his feet.

“I demand to see Lord Luckham!” he exclaimed. “This meat is as tough as old boots. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“Old boots!” exclaimed Paddington hotly as he jumped to his feet. “They’re not old. They’re my best Wellingtons. I wore them specially for the occasion, and I only cleaned them last night.”

Jonathan took a quick look down at Paddington’s feet, and as he did so, his jaw dropped. “Crikey!” he groaned as a tall, distinguished-looking man hurried across the Great Hall towards them. “Here we go again!”

If it took the combined efforts of Mr. Gruber, Jonathan, and Judy some while to explain to Lord Luckham and the other diners the whys and wherefores of how Paddington’s Wellington boots came to be inside their pastry, it took them even longer to explain to Paddington why they shouldn’t have been there in the first place. He looked most aggrieved about the whole idea of calling something by the wrong name. It was very confusing.

In the end it was Lord Luckham himself who came to the rescue. He announced that not only would anything else his guests like to order be “on the house” that evening, but that he would be inviting all those present to a special Gala evening just as soon as it could be arranged.

“I shall personally supervise the making of our famous beef Wellington,” he boomed amid general applause, “and I shall serve it with some of my own béarnaise sauce into the bargain.”

“To tell you the truth,” he said later that evening when Mr. Gruber thanked him for his generous action, “I happen to know there’s a certain person from a well-known newspaper here tonight, and I don’t doubt we shall be reading all about it in tomorrow’s editions.

“We at Luckham House can always do with publicity,” he added as he shook Paddington by the paw. “If you have any other ideas, we shall be pleased to hear about them. I’m sure you’ll agree it will be a very sad day if we ever have to give up what we are doing.”

Paddington joined in the general agreement at this last remark. One way and another, despite all that had gone wrong, he’d enjoyed his visit to a Stately Home. Now he was looking forward to going back to the comfort of his own bed at Number thirty-two Windsor Gardens.

“It was very kind of Lord Luckham to invite us back,” said Judy as they waved good-bye and made their way back down the long drive.

“Very kind,” agreed Mr. Gruber. “You’ll be able to see what a real beef Wellington tastes like, Mr. Brown. Will you like that?”

Paddington considered the matter for a moment. “I think so, Mr. Gruber,” he announced at last. “But if you don’t mind, I won’t have any ‘bear’s-nose’ sauce with mine. I don’t think that sounds very nice at all.”