Paddington on Top. Michael Bond

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      It was short and to the point. It said:

      YOUR SHOPPING BASKET ON WHEELS IS IN SUCH GOOD CONDITION IT SHOWS YOU HAVE CHARACTER, DRIVE AND AMBITION. THIS MEANS YOU ARE JUST THE KIND OF PERSON WE ARE LOOKING FOR.YOU COULD EARN £200 PER WEEK WITH NO MORE EFFORT THAN IT TAKES TO VISIT THE GROCERS. I WILL BE IN TOUCH SOON WITH FURTHER DETAILS.

      It was written in large capital letters and it was signed YOURS TRULY. A WELL-WISHER.

      Paddington read the note several times. He could hardly believe his eyes. Only a moment before he’d been racking his brains to think up ways of earning some extra money so that he could buy Mr Gruber a tin or two of cocoa; and now, out of nowhere, came this strange offer. It couldn’t have happened at a better moment, especially as he’d been tempted to break into the savings which he kept in the secret compartment of his suitcase, and which he held in reserve for important occasions, like birthdays and Christmas.

      It was hard to believe he could earn so much money simply because he’d kept his shopping basket clean, but before he’d had a chance to consider the matter he saw a man in a fawn raincoat approaching. The man was carrying a large cardboard box which seemed to contain something heavy, for as he drew near he rested it on Paddington’s basket while he paused in order to mop his brow.

      He looked Paddington up and down for a moment and then held out his hand. “Just as I thought!” he exclaimed. “It’s nice when you have a picture of someone in your mind and they turn out exactly as you expected. I’m glad you got my note. If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, you should go far.”

      Paddington held out his paw in return. “Thank you, Mr Wisher,” he replied. “But I don’t think I shall go very far this morning. I’m on my way home.” He gave the man a hard stare. Although he was much too polite to say so, he couldn’t really return the man’s compliments. From the tone of the letter, he’d expected someone rather superior, whereas his new acquaintance looked more than a trifle seedy.

      Catching sight of Paddington’s glance, the man hastily pulled his coat sleeves down over his cuffs. “I must apologise for my appearance,” he said. “But I’ve got rid of… er, I’ve obtained so many new clients for my vacuum cleaners this morning I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. I haven’t even had time to go home and change.”

      “Your vacuum cleaners!” exclaimed Paddington in surprise.

      The man nodded. “I must say, sir,” he continued, “it’s your lucky day. It just so happens that you’ve caught me with my very last one. Until I take delivery of a new batch later on, of course,” he added hastily.

      Taking a quick glance over his shoulder, he produced a piece of pasteboard, which he held up in front of Paddington’s eyes for a fleeting moment before returning it to an inside pocket.

      “My card,” he announced. “Just to show that all’s above board and Sir Garnet like.

      “You, too, could become a member of our happy band and make yourself a fortune. Every new member gets, free of charge, our latest model cleaner, and… for today only, a list of do’s and don’ts for making your very first sale.

      “Now.” He slapped the box to emphasise his point. “I’m not asking forty pounds for this very rare privilege. I’m not asking thirty-five. I’m not even asking thirty. To you, because I like the look of your face, and because I think you’re just the sort of bear we are looking for, twenty-five pounds!”

      His voice took on a confidential tone. “If I was to tell you the names of some of the people I’ve sold cleaners to, you probably wouldn’t believe me. But I won’t bore you with details like that. You’re probably asking yourself what you have to do in order to earn all this money, right? Well, I’ll tell you.

      “You sell this cleaner for thirty pounds, right? You then buy two more cleaners for twenty-five pounds each and sell them for thirty, making fifteen pounds in all, right? Then you either keep the money or you buy six more cleaners and sell those. If you work hard, you’ll make a fortune so fast you won’t even have time to get to the bank.

      “Another thing you may be asking yourself,” he continued, before Paddington had time to say anything, “is why anyone who already has a vacuum cleaner should buy one of ours?”

      He gave the box another slap. “Never fear, it’s all in here. Ask no questions, tell no lies. With our new cleaner, you can suck up anything. Dirt, muck, ashes, soot… pile it all on, anything you like. A flick of the switch and whoosh, it’ll disappear in a flash.

      “But,” he warned, “you’ll have to hurry. I’ve a queue of customers waiting round the next corner.”

      Paddington needed no second bidding. It wasn’t every day such an offer came his way, and he felt sure he would be able to buy an awful lot of cocoa for fifteen pounds. Hurrying behind a nearby car, he bent down and opened his suitcase.

      “Thank you very much,” said the man, as Paddington counted out twenty-five shiny one pound coins. “Sorry I can’t stop, guv, but work calls…”

      Paddington had been about to enquire where he could pick up his next lot of cleaners, but before he had a chance to open his mouth, the man had disappeared.

      For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. He felt very tempted to take the cleaner straight indoors in order to test it in his bedroom, but he wasn’t at all sure Mrs Bird would approve. In any case, number thirty-two Windsor Gardens was always kept so spotlessly clean, there didn’t seem much point.

      And then, as he reached the end of the road, the matter was suddenly decided for him. Mr Curry’s front door shot open and the Browns’ neighbour emerged once again carrying a dustpan and brush.

      He glared at Paddington. “Are you still spying on me, bear?” he growled. “I’ve told you about it once before this morning.”

      “Oh, no, Mr Curry,” said Paddington hastily. “I’m not spying on anyone. I’ve got a job. I’m selling a special new cleaner.”

      Mr Curry looked at Paddington uncertainly. “Is this true, bear?” he demanded.

      “Oh, yes,” said Paddington. “It gets rid of anything. I can give you a free demonstration if you like.”

      A sly gleam entered Mr Curry’s eyes. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “it does so happen that I’m having a spot of bother this morning. I’m not saying I’ll buy anything, mind, but if you care to clear up the mess I might consider it.”

      Paddington consulted the handwritten list of instructions which was pinned to the box. He could see that Mr Curry was going to come under the heading of CUSTOMERS – VERY DIFFICULT.

      “I think,” he announced, as the Browns’ neighbour helped him up the step with his basket on wheels, “you’re going to need what we call the ‘full treatment’.”

      Mr Curry gave a snort. “It had better be good, bear,” he said. “Otherwise I shall hold you personally responsible.”

      He led the way into his dining-room and pointed to a large pile of black stuff in the grate. “I’ve had a bad fall of soot this morning. Probably to do with the noise that goes on next door,” he said meaningly.

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