disappeared. In its place there was a very strange-looking picture which appeared to have been made by someone glueing a mish-mash of different bits and pieces on to a board and then pouring paint all over it.
Paddington was much too polite to say so, but he preferred the old wind-up gramophone with a dog peering into a huge horn to see where the sound was coming from when it was working. The dog had looked so real he’d often been tempted to offer it one of his buns.
“That picture is what is known as a collage,” said Mr Gruber, reading Paddington’s thoughts. “It’s made of various bits and pieces glued together in a random fashion. The idea itself is as old as the hills. In fact, many famous artists started out that way… Picasso… Salvador Dali…
“It may look very modern, but I think it is probably older than it seems. In which case it could be very valuable. It’s called Sunset in Tahiti.”
Paddington thought it looked more like a rainy day in the Bayswater Road, but he didn’t say anything.
Mr Gruber knew much more about these things than he did, and he listened carefully as his friend explained the ins and outs of the subject while they had their elevenses.
“What makes it particularly interesting,” continued Mr Gruber, “is that someone else has painted over the original picture – which often happened at one time, but they were using a method known as egg tempera, which is why it looks so shiny.”
Paddington licked his lips. “I’ve never heard of a painting made with eggs,” he said.
“There are other things besides,” said Mr Gruber. “Vinegar, various pigments to provide the colour – and in this case some graphite too, which you can find in any bicycle puncture repair outfit…”
“I wouldn’t mind having a go at making one of those myself,” said Paddington. “But I expect it’s a bit difficult with paws and I can’t think what I would make a picture of anyway.”
Mr Gruber eyed Paddington over his mug of cocoa. It was unlike his friend to admit defeat before he had even begun something.
“You do yourself an injustice, Mr Brown,” he said. “There is no such word as can’t.”
“When we are out for a drive Mr Brown sometimes says the road has a nasty cant,” said Paddington. “I thought he meant he had just driven over a tin can.”
“That’s the English language for you,” said Mr Gruber. “The word ‘cant’ pronounced one way means a road has a slant to it, but that same word with an apostrophe between the last two letters is short for ‘cannot’, meaning it is not possible.
“I think all things are possible if you really set your mind to it, and you never know what you can do until you try.
“As for finding a subject for your painting…” Mr Gruber rose to his feet as he saw someone about to enter his shop, “…you only have to take a short ride on the top deck of a London bus and all manner of things cry out to be painted: the world is your oyster.”
Having said goodbye to his friend for the time being, Paddington was about to head back home, when he had second thoughts.
The sun was shining and for once, instead of his shopping basket on wheels, he only had his suitcase, so as soon as he came across a bus stop, he held out a paw and stopped the first one that came into view.
As the doors opened he climbed aboard and headed for the stairs.
“And where do you think you’re going, young-feller-me-bear?” called the driver.
“Nowhere in particular, thank you very much,” said Paddington. “I’m looking for ideas.”
“Well you’ve picked the right route for not going anywhere in particular, I’ll say that,” said the driver gloomily. “We’ve been stuck in traffic jams all the morning.” He pointed to a long line of waiting cars ahead of them. “It’s all them roadworks. Never-ending they are, and as fast as they fill one hole in, someone else comes along and digs it up again.”
“I’m looking for something to paint,” said Paddington, raising his hat politely.
“That’s as may be,” said the driver, not unkindly. “And I promise not to tell anyone if they ask. But you’re not doing any of it on my bus – not without a ticket. Rembrandt ’imself wouldn’t be allowed on without one. It’s as much as my job’s worth if an inspector gets on.
“If I might make a suggestion,” he continued, “you’d be better off painting a picture of one of them holes near where you were standing. It’s what they call a still life.”
Paddington was about to explain that he needed some eggs first, but he thought better of it. He wasn’t too sure how to go about it himself without a book of instructions.
“I thought you might give me a ticket,” he said. “I can pay for it.”
Having made sure nobody was looking over his shoulder, he opened his suitcase and felt inside the secret compartment.
“It’s a sixpence,” he explained, holding up a small coin gleaming in the morning sun for the driver to see. “I’ve been keeping it polished for a rainy day.”
“When was the last time you travelled on a bus, mate?” asked the driver. “Even if it was raining cats and dogs, which it isn’t, and even if your coin was valid, which it isn’t – it wouldn’t take you any further than the next stop… if that. Besides, you have to get a ticket from a machine. I don’t carry them.”
He took a closer look at the coin. “It isn’t even a sixpence!” he exclaimed. “It’s a Peruvian centavo.”
“I’ve never been on a bus by myself before,” admitted Paddington. “They don’t have any in Darkest Peru, and whenever I’ve travelled on one in London it’s usually been with Mr Gruber on one of his outings, and he insists on paying.”
Hearing an outbreak of tooting from behind as the traffic in front showed signs of moving, the bus driver reached for his dashboard.
“Well,” he said, since I’m not in a position of being able to wait around on the off chance your Mr Gruber might come past, I suggest you take yourself on an outing right now and vacate the platform. I’ve got a busy schedule to keep up and we’re running late as it is.
“If you’re going to be doing a lot of travelling,” he added, “your best bet is to get yourself an Oyster.”
Paddington pricked up his ears. “Mr Gruber says you can go anywhere in the world on an oyster,” he exclaimed excitedly.
“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, not in this traffic,” said the driver. “But in principle you can go wherever you like within the Greater London area.”
With that he pressed a button and a metallic voice from somewhere inside the bus called out, ‘Stand Clear. Doors Closing. Stand Clear. Doors Closing’.
Paddington
