too much to go into his shopping basket on wheels, and the launderette was some way away at the top of a hill.
In the end Mr Brown’s wheelbarrow had seemed the only answer to the problem. But now that he had finished loading it and was about to set off Paddington looked at it rather doubtfully. He could only just reach the handles with his paws and when he tried to lift the barrow it was much heavier than he had expected. Added to that, there was such a pile of washing on board he couldn’t see round the sides let alone over the top, which made pushing most difficult.
To be on the safe side he tied a handkerchief to the end of an old broomstick which he stuck in the front of the barrow to let people know he was coming. Paddington had often seen the same thing done on lorries when they had a heavy load, and he didn’t believe in taking any chances.
Quite a number of people turned to watch Paddington’s progress as he made his way slowly up the long hill. Several times he got the wheel caught in a drain and had to be helped out by a kindly passer-by, and at one point, when he had to cross a busy street, a policeman held up all the traffic for him.
Paddington thanked him very much and raised his hat to all the waiting cars and buses, which tooted their horns in reply.
It was a hot day and more than once he had to stop and mop his brow with a pillowcase, so that he wasn’t at all sorry when he rounded a corner and found himself outside the launderette.
He sat down on the edge of the pavement for a few minutes in order to get his breath back and when he got up again he was surprised to find a rusty old bicycle wheel lying on top of the washing.
“I expect someone thought you were a rag-and-bone bear,” said the stout, motherly lady in charge of the launderette, who came outside to see what was going on.
“A rag-and-bone bear?” exclaimed Paddington hotly. He looked most offended. “I’m not a rag-and-bone bear. I’m a laundry bear.”
The lady listened while Paddington explained what he had come for and at once called out for one of the other assistants to give him a hand up the steps with his barrow.
“I suppose you’re doing it for the whole street?” she asked, as she viewed the mountain of washing.
“Oh, no,” said Paddington, waving his paw vaguely in the direction of Windsor Gardens. “It’s for Mrs Bird.”
“Mrs Bird?” repeated the stout lady, looking at Mr Curry’s jerseys and some old gardening socks of Mr Brown’s which were lying on top of the pile. She opened her mouth as if she were about to say something but closed it again hurriedly when she saw Paddington staring at her.
“I’m afraid you’ll need four machines for all this lot,” she said briskly, as she went behind the counter. “It’s a good job it’s not one of our busy mornings. I’ll put you in the ones at the end – eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen – then you’ll be out of the way.” She looked at Paddington. “You do know how to work them?”
“I think so,” said Paddington, trying hard to remember all that Mr Gruber had told him.
“Well, if you get into any trouble the instructions are on the wall.” The lady handed Paddington eight little plastic tubs full of powder. “Here’s the soap powder,” she continued. “That’s two tubs for each machine. You tip one tubful in a hole in the top each time a red light comes on. That’ll be four pounds, please.”
Paddington counted out Mrs Bird’s money and after thanking the lady, began trundling his barrow along to the other end of the room.
As he steered his barrow in and out of people’s feet he looked around the launderette with interest. It was exactly as Mr Gruber had described it to him. The washing machines, all white and gleaming, were in a line round the walls and in the middle of the room were two long rows of chairs. The machines had glass portholes in their doors and Paddington peered through several of them as he went past and watched the washing going round and round in a flurry of soapy water.
By the time he reached the end of the room he felt quite excited and he was looking forward to having a go with the Browns’ washing.
Having climbed up on one of the chairs and examined the instructions on the wall, Paddington tipped his laundry out on to the floor and began sorting it into four piles putting all Mr Curry’s jerseys into one machine and all the Browns’ washing into the other three.
But although he had read the instructions most carefully Paddington soon began to wish Mr Gruber was there to advise him. First of all there was the matter of a knob on the front of each machine. It was marked ‘Hot Wash’ and ‘Warm Wash,’ and Paddington wasn’t at all sure about it. But being a bear who believed in getting his money’s worth he decided to turn them all to ‘Hot’.
And then there was the question of the soap. Having four machines to look after made things very difficult, especially as he had to climb up on a chair each time in order to put it in. No sooner had a red light gone out on one machine than another lit up and Paddington spent the first ten minutes rushing between the four machines pouring soap through the holes in the top as fast as he could. There was a nasty moment when he accidentally poured some soap into number ten by mistake and all the water bubbled over the side, but the lady whose machine it was was very nice about it and explained that she’d already put two lots in. Paddington was glad when at long last all the red lights went out and he was able to sit back on one of the seats and rest his paws.
He sat there for some while watching the washing being gently tossed round and round, but it was such a nice soothing motion and he felt so tired after his labours that in no time at all he dropped off to sleep. Suddenly he was brought back to life by the sound of a commotion and by someone poking him.
It was the stout lady in charge and she was staring at one of Paddington’s machines. “What have you got in number fourteen?” she demanded.
“Number fourteen?” Paddington thought for a moment and then consulted his laundry list. “I think I put some jerseys in there,” he said.
The stout lady raised her hands in horror. “Oh, Else,” she cried, calling to one of her assistants. “There’s a young bear here put ’is jerseys in number fourteen by mistake!”
“What!” cried Paddington. “I didn’t put them in by mistake – I did it on purpose. Besides,” he added, looking most worried at the expression on the lady’s face, “they’re not my jerseys – they’re Mr Curry’s.”
“Well, whoever they belong to,” said the lady, as she hurriedly switched off the machine, “I hope he’s long and thin.”
“Oh dear,” said Paddington, getting more and more worried. “I’m afraid Mr Curry’s rather short.”
“That’s a pity,” said the lady sympathetically, “because he’s got some long, thin jerseys now. You had the machine switched to ‘Hot Wash’ and you should never do that with woollens. There’s a special notice about that.”
Paddington gazed in horror as the lady withdrew a dripping mass of wool from the machine and placed it in his barrow.
“Mr Curry’s jerseys!” he said bitterly to the world in general
