Paddington Novels 1-3

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 ofthings 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 hepaused 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 wrappedone 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,