day and the exhibition was crowded. Everyone was pleased that Paddington looked so much better. His spots had completely disappeared and he ate a large breakfast to make up for missing so much dinner the night before. Only Mrs Bird had her suspicions when she found Paddington’s ‘spots’ on his towel in the bathroom, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
The Browns occupied the middle five seats of the front row where the judging was to take place. There was an air of great excitement. It was news to Paddington that Mr Brown actually painted and he was looking forward to seeing a picture by someone he knew.
On the platform several important-looking men with beards were bustling about talking to each other and waving their arms in the air. They appeared to be having a great deal of argument about one painting in particular.
“Henry,” whispered Mrs Brown, excitedly. “I do believe they’re talking about yours. I recognise the canvas bag.”
Mr Brown looked puzzled. “It certainly looks like my bag,” he said. “But I don’t think it can be. All the canvas was stuck to the painting. Didn’t you see? Just as if someone had put it inside while it was still wet. I painted mine ages ago.”
Paddington sat very still and stared straight ahead, hardly daring to move. He had a strange sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach, as if something awful was about to happen. He began to wish he hadn’t washed his spots off that morning; then at least he could have stayed in bed.
Judy poked him with her elbow. “What’s the matter, Paddington?” she asked. “You look most peculiar. Are you all right?”
“I don’t feel ill,” said Paddington in a small voice. “But I think I’m in trouble again.”
“Oh dear,” said Judy. “Well, keep your paws crossed. This is it!”
Paddington sat up. One of the men on the platform, the most important-looking one with the biggest beard, was speaking. And there… Paddington’s knees began to tremble, there on the platform, on an easel in full view of everyone, was ‘his’ picture!
He was so dazed he only caught scraps of what the man was saying.
“… remarkable use of colour…”
“… very unusual…”
“… great imagination… a credit to the artist…”
And then, he almost fell off his seat with surprise. “The winner of the first prize is Mr Henry Brown of thirty-two Windsor Gardens!”
Paddington wasn’t the only one who felt surprised. Mr Brown, who was being helped up on to the platform, looked as if he had just been struck by lightning. “But… but…” he stuttered, “there must be some mistake.”
“Mistake?” said the man with the beard. “Nonsense, my dear sir. Your name’s on the back of the canvas. You are Mr Brown, aren’t you? Mr Henry Brown?”
Mr Brown looked at the painting with unbelieving eyes. “It’s certainly my name on the back,” he said. “It’s my writing…” He left the sentence unfinished and looked down towards the audience. He had his own ideas on the subject, but it was difficult to catch Paddington’s eye. It usually was when you particularly wanted to.
“I think,” said Mr Brown, when the applause had died down, and he had accepted the cheque for ten pounds which the man gave him, “proud as I am, I think I would like to donate the prize to a certain home for retired bears in South America.” A murmur of surprise went round the assembly but it passed over Paddington’s head, though he would have been very pleased had he known its cause. He was staring hard at the painting, and in particular at the man with the large beard, who was beginning to look hot and bothered.
“I think,” said Paddington, to the world in general, “they might have stood it the right way up. It’s not every day a bear wins first prize in a painting competition!”
THE BROWNS WERE all very excited. Mr Brown had been given tickets for a box at the theatre. It was the first night of a brand new play, and the leading part was being played by the world famous actor, Sir Sealy Bloom. Even Paddington became infected with the excitement. He made several journeys to his friend, Mr Gruber, to have the theatre explained to him. Mr Gruber thought he was very lucky to be going to the first night of a new play. “All sorts of famous people will be there,” he said. “I don’t suppose many bears have that sort of opportunity once in a lifetime.”
Mr Gruber lent Paddington several second-hand books about the theatre. He was rather a slow reader but there were lots of pictures and, in one of them, a big cut-out model of a stage which sprang up every time he opened the pages. Paddington decided that when he grew up he wanted to be an actor. He took to standing on his dressing-table and striking poses in the mirror just as he had seen them in the books.
Mrs Brown had her own thoughts on the subject. “I do hope it’s a nice play,” she said to Mrs Bird. “You know what Paddington’s like… he does take these things so seriously.”
“Oh, well,” said Mrs Bird. “I shall sit at home and listen to the wireless in peace and quiet. But it’ll be an experience for him and he does like experiences so. Besides, he’s been very good lately.”
“I know,” said Mrs Brown. “That’s what worries me!”
As it turned out, the play itself was the least of Mrs Brown’s worries. Paddington was unusually silent all the way to the theatre. It was the first time he had been out after dark and the very first time he had seen the lights of London. Mr Brown pointed out all the famous landmarks as they drove past in the car, and it was a gay party of Browns that eventually trooped into the theatre.
Paddington was pleased to find it all exactly as Mr Gruber had described it to him, even down to the commissionaire who opened the door for them and saluted as they entered the foyer.
Paddington returned the salute with a wave of his paw and then sniffed. Everything was painted red and gold and the theatre had a nice, warm, friendly sort of smell. There was a slight upset at the cloakroom when he found he had to pay in order to leave his duffel coat and suitcase. The woman behind the counter turned quite nasty when Paddington asked for his things back.
She was still talking about it in a loud voice as the attendant led them along a passage towards their seats. At the entrance to the box the attendant paused.
“Programme, sir?” she said to Paddington.
“Yes, please,” said Paddington, taking five. “Thank you very much.”
“And would you like coffee in the interval, sir?” she asked.
Paddington’s eyes glistened. “Oh, yes, please,” he said, imagining it was a kind thought on the part of the theatre. He tried to push his way past, but the attendant barred the way.
“That’ll be seven pounds fifty pence,” she said. “One pound each for the programmes and fifty pence each for the coffee.”
Paddington
