His voice trailed away as he caught sight of the look Paddington was giving him.
It had taken Paddington a long time to get through fifteen boxes of currants, not to mention think up a suitable slogan into the bargain. And, if the expression on his face was anything to go by, the whole thing had left him in need of more medical attention rather than less.
In fact, as he made his way back down the stairs Paddington began to look more and more gloomy. The news that he wasn’t after all the proud possessor of a gleaming new motor car was a bitter blow; one made all the worse because he hadn’t even wanted it for himself – it had really been intended as a surprise for Mr Brown.
Mr Brown’s present car was a bit of a sore point in the Brown household. The general feeling at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens was that it ought to have been pensioned off years ago. But Mr Brown had held on to it because it was hard to find anything large enough to convey the whole of the family, not to mention Paddington and all his belongings, when they went on their outings.
Apart from its age it had a number of drawbacks, one of which was that instead of flashing lights, it relied on illuminated arms to indicate intended changes of direction. It was the failure of one of these arms, when Mr Brown had been turning into a main road one day, that had attracted the attention of a passing policeman who’d taken his number.
Paddington had been most upset at the time because he’d been sitting alongside Mr Brown, ready to help out with paw signals when necessary.
The magistrate had had one or two pointed things to say about drivers who relied on bears for their signals, and much to Mr Brown’s disgust he’d been ordered to retake his driving test.
It was shortly after this disastrous event that Paddington had come across a leaflet in the local supermarket announcing a competition in which the first prize was a car. And it was not just any old car, but a Rolls-Royce. Paddington felt sure that with a car as grand as a Rolls, Mr Brown couldn’t possibly fail his coming test, let alone have any motoring problems ever again.
The competition was sponsored by a well-known brand of currants, and the lady in the supermarket assured Paddington that there had been nothing like it in the dried-fruit world before. When he consulted the leaflet with the aid of his torch under the bedclothes that night, he could quite see what she meant, for it couldn’t have been more simple. All that was required was a suitable slogan to do with currants, together with three packet tops to show that the entry was genuine.
But the thing which really clinched matters for Paddington was the discovery that not only was the result of the competition being announced on the same day that Mr Brown was due to take his test, but that the firm who were running it occupied a building in the very same street as the Test Centre.
Paddington was a great believer in coincidences. Some of his best adventures had come about in just such a way — almost as if they had been meant to happen — and after buying some extra packets of currants in order to make doubly sure of success, he lost no time in sending off his entry.
The fact that in the end it had all come to nought was most disappointing, and as he left the building he paused in order to direct a few more hard stares in the direction of the upper floors. Then he collected his shopping basket on wheels from the car park outside and made his way slowly along the road towards the Test Centre.
He was much earlier than he had expected to be and so he wasn’t too surprised to find Mr Brown’s car still standing where it had been parked earlier that morning. Neither Mr Brown nor Mrs Brown was anywhere in sight, and being the sort of bear who didn’t believe in wasting time, Paddington parked his shopping basket on wheels alongside it. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat and switched on the radio while he awaited developments.
Like the car itself, Mr Brown’s radio had seen better days. It somehow managed to make everything sound the same, rather like an old-fashioned horn gramophone, and in no time at all Paddington found himself starting to nod off. His eyelids got heavier and heavier and soon the sound of gentle snoring added itself to the music.
Paddington had no idea how long he slept, but he was just in the middle of a very vivid dream in which he was driving down a long road, battling against a storm of currants as big as hailstones, when he woke with a start and found to his surprise that two men were standing outside the car peering through the window at him. One of them was carrying a large clipboard to which was attached a sheaf of very important-looking papers, and he was tapping on the glass in no uncertain manner.
Paddington hastily removed his paws from the steering wheel and opened the driver’s door.
“Is your name Brown?” demanded the man with the clipboard, trying to make himself heard above the radio. “From number thirty-two Windsor Gardens?”
“That’s right,” said Paddington, looking most surprised.
“Hmm.” The man gave him an odd look and then consulted the papers on his board. “Er … I take it you are a British subject?” he asked.
Paddington considered the matter for a moment. “Well,” he said, “yes and no …”
“Yes and no?” repeated the man sharply. “You can’t be yes and no. You must be one thing or the other.”
“I live at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens,” said Paddington firmly, “but I come from Darkest Peru.”
“Darkest Peru? Oh!” The man began to look as if he rather wished he hadn’t brought the matter up. Hastily changing the subject, he motioned with his free hand towards his companion. “I take it you won’t mind if we’re accompanied?” he asked. Then, lowering his voice, he gave Paddington a knowing wink. “We instructors have to be tested every now and again as well, you know. It’s my turn today.”
“I didn’t know,” said Paddington with interest. “Perhaps I could ask you some questions on the Highway Code. I’ve been testing the others at breakfast all this week.”
The examiner glared at him. “No you can’t!” he snorted, above the sound of martial music from the radio. He looked as if he would have liked to say a good deal more, but instead he recovered himself and opened the rear door of the car for his superior to enter.
“Colonel Bogey,” said the other man briefly, nodding towards the front of the car as he settled himself in the back seat.
Paddington raised his hat politely as the examiner made his way round the front of the car and climbed into the passenger seat. “Good morning, Mr Bogey,” he said.
The man clucked impatiently. He was about to explain that his superior had only been giving the name of the tune on the radio, not an introduction, but he thought better of it. Instead, he reached forward for the switch. “I think we’ll have the radio off for a start,” he said severely. “I can’t concentrate properly with that row on and I’m sure you can’t eith …” He broke off and a strange look came over his face as he felt the seat. “I’m sitting on something,” he cried. “Something wet and sticky!”
“Oh dear,” said Paddington, looking most upset. “I expect that’s my marmalade sandwiches. I put them there for my elevenses.”
“Your marmalade sandwiches?” repeated the man as if in a dream. “They’re all over my new trousers.”
