Paddington Complete Novels - Michael Bond

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      “Have a marmalade sandwich,” said Mrs Brown. “It’ll help take the taste away.”

      Mr Brown gave his wife an expressive look. “Two days!” he said, sinking back into the bed. “Two whole days!”

      Downstairs, Paddington was in a bit of a mess. So, for that matter was the kitchen, the hall, the dining-room and the stairs.

      Things hadn’t really gone right since he’d lifted up a corner of the dining-room carpet in order to sweep some dust underneath and had discovered a number of very interesting old newspapers. Paddington sighed. Perhaps if he hadn’t spent so much time reading the newspapers he might not have hurried quite so much over the rest of the dusting. Then he might have been more careful when he shook Mrs Bird’s feather duster over the boiler.

      And if he hadn’t set fire to Mrs Bird’s feather duster he might have been able to take more time over the coffee.

      Paddington felt very guilty about the coffee and he rather wished he had tested it before taking it upstairs to Mr and Mrs Brown. He was very glad he’d decided to make cocoa for himself instead.

      Quite early in the morning Paddington had run out of saucepans. It was the first big meal he had ever cooked and he wanted it to be something special. Having carefully consulted Mrs Bird’s cookery book he’d drawn out a special menu in red ink with a bit of everything on it.

      But by the time he had put the stew to boil in one big saucepan, the potatoes in another saucepan, the peas in a third, the Brussels sprouts in yet another, and used at least four more for mixing operations, there was really only the electric kettle left in which to put the cabbage. Unfortunately, in his haste to make the coffee, Paddington had completely forgotten to take the cabbage out again.

      Now he was having trouble with the dumplings!

      Paddington was very keen on stew, especially when it was served with dumplings, but he was beginning to wish he had decided to cook something else for lunch.

      Even now he wasn’t quite sure what had gone wrong. He’d looked up the chapter on dumplings in Mrs Bird’s cookery book and followed the instructions most carefully; putting two parts of flour to one of suet and then adding milk before stirring the whole lot together. But somehow, instead of the mixture turning into neat balls as it showed in the coloured picture, it had all gone runny. Then, when he’d added more flour and suet, it had gone lumpy instead and stuck to his fur, so that he’d had to add more milk and then more flour and suet, until he had a huge mountain of dumpling mixture in the middle of the kitchen table.

      All in all, he decided, it just wasn’t his day. He wiped his paws carefully on Mrs Bird’s apron and, after looking around in vain for a large enough bowl, scraped the dumpling mixture into his hat.

      It was a lot heavier than he had expected and he had a job lifting it up on to the stove. It was even more difficult putting the mixture into the stew as it kept sticking to his paws and as fast as he got it off one paw it stuck to the other. In the end he had to sit on the draining board and use the broom handle.

      Paddington wasn’t very impressed with Mrs Bird’s cookery book. The instructions seemed all wrong. Not only had the dumplings been difficult to make, but the ones they showed in the picture were much too small. They weren’t a bit like the ones Mrs Bird usually served. Even Paddington rarely managed more than two of Mrs Bird’s dumplings.

      Having scraped the last of the mixture off his paws Paddington pushed the saucepan lid hard down and scrambled clear. The steam from the saucepan had made his fur go soggy and he sat in the middle of the floor for several minutes getting his breath back and mopping his brow with an old dish-cloth.

      It was while he was sitting there, scraping the remains of the dumplings out of his hat and licking the spoon, that he felt something move behind him. Not only that, but out of the corner of his eye he could see a shadow on the floor which definitely hadn’t been there a moment before.

      Paddington sat very still, holding his breath and listening. It wasn’t so much a noise as a feeling, and it seemed to be creeping nearer and nearer, making a soft swishing noise as it came. Paddington felt his fur begin to stand on end as there came the sound of a slow plop… plop… plop across the kitchen floor. And then, just as he was summoning up enough courage to look over his shoulder, there was a loud crash from the direction of the stove. Without waiting to see what it was Paddington pulled his hat down over his head and ran, slamming the door behind him.

      He arrived in the hall just as there was a loud knock on the front door. To his relief he heard a familiar voice call his name through the letterbox.

      “I got your message, Mr Brown—about not being able to come for elevenses this morning,” began Mr Gruber, as Padddington opened the door, “and I just thought I would call round to see if there was anything I could do…” His voice trailed away as he stared at Paddington.

      “Why, Mr Brown,” he exclaimed. “You’re all white! Is anything the matter?”

      “Don’t worry, Mr Gruber,” cried Paddington, waving his paws in the air. “It’s only some of Mrs Bird’s flour. I’m afraid I can’t raise my hat because it’s stuck down with dumpling mixture – but I’m very glad you’ve come because there’s something nasty in the kitchen!”

      “Something nasty in the kitchen?” echoed Mr Gruber. “What sort of thing?”

      “I don’t know,” said Paddington, struggling with his hat. “But it’s got a shadow and it’s making a funny noise.”

      Mr Gruber looked around nervously for something to defend himself with. “We’ll soon see about that,” he said, taking a warming pan off the wall.

      Paddington led the way back to the kitchen and then stood to one side by the door. “After you, Mr Gruber,” he said politely.

      “Er… thank you, Mr Brown,” said Mr Gruber doubtfully.

      He grasped the warming pan firmly in both hands and then kicked open the door. “Come out!” he cried. “Whoever you are!”

      “I don’t think it’s a who, Mr Gruber,” said Paddington, peering round the door. “It’s a what!”

      “Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr Gruber, staring at the sight which met his eyes. “What has been going on?”

      Over most of the kitchen there was a thin film of flour. There was flour on the table, in the sink, on the floor; in fact, over practically everything. But it wasn’t the general state of the room which made Mr Gruber cry out with surprise – it was the sight of something large and white hanging over the side of the stove.

      He stared at it for a moment and then advanced cautiously across the kitchen and poked it with the handle of the warming pan. There was a loud squelching noise and Mr Gruber jumped back as part of it broke away and fell with a plop to the floor.

      “Good heavens!” he exclaimed again. “I do believe it’s some kind of dumpling, Mr Brown. I’ve never seen quite such a big one before,” he went on as Paddington joined him. “It’s grown right out of the saucepan and pushed the lid on to the floor. No wonder it made you jump.”

      Mr Gruber mopped his brow and opened the window. It was very warm in the kitchen. “How ever did it get to be that size?”

      “I don’t really know, Mr Gruber,” said Paddington, looking puzzled. “It’s one of mine and it didn’t start off that way.

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