Paddington Races Ahead. Michael Bond

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 scrambled out of harm’s way, and then stared after the bus as it pulled away from the kerb and continued on its journey for a few more yards.

      He sat down on his suitcase at the side of the road for a moment or two in order to consider his next move.

      Mr Brown was right. Only the other day he had been saying that what with credit cards and computers and something called ‘shopping on the net’ it wouldn’t be very long before paying for things with real money would be a thing of the past, but he hadn’t mentioned the possibility of having to use an oyster to get on a bus. It was no wonder he went on an underground train when he travelled to and fro from his office in the city.

      With that thought uppermost in his mind, Paddington picked up his suitcase and set off for the nearest fishmongers.

      Overtaking the bus which was held up by yet another hole in the road, he raised his hat to the driver, who gave him a gloomy thumbs up sign in return, and shortly afterwards, having reached a row of shops, he made for the one he had in mind. It was where Mrs Bird went whenever she was shopping for fish.

      “I would like an oyster, please,” he announced, raising his hat politely to a boy behind the counter, who was busy making sure all the fish heads were facing the same way.

      “There’s a young foreign gent wants an oyster,” repeated the boy over his shoulder.

      “I’d like a day return one, if I may,” added Paddington, trying to be helpful.

      “I’m afraid we don’t get any returns here,” said the assistant. “They’re fresh in from France twice a week and once they’re gone they’re gone…”

      “In that case I’d better have two,” said Paddington. “One for going and one for coming back.”

      The assistant didn’t actually say ‘we’ve got the last of the big spenders here’, but his look said it all. “I’ll have to ask the manager,” he said.

      “He wants two!” he called. “One for going and one for coming back. I think it’s some kind of outing.

      “We usually sell them by the dozen,” he explained, addressing Paddington, “and the only returns you get is if there’s a bad one, and if that happens you’ll wish you’d never gone wherever it was in the first place. Ho! Ho! Ho!”

      “Tell him there aren’t many around at the moment,” shouted a voice from the back of the shop. “And there won’t be any at all soon when there isn’t an R in the month.”

      The assistant repeated the message for Paddington’s benefit.

      Paddington gave him a hard stare. “There isn’t an M in a lot of months,” he said. “But that doesn’t stop Mrs Bird giving me marmalade for breakfast.”

      “Tell him we’ve got some kippers,” shouted the manager. “Fresh in this morning.”

      “Can you get very far on a kipper?” asked Paddington hopefully.

      “You can if you set light to its tail and hang on tight,” said the assistant. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

      “We don’t normally have oysters all through the summer,” said the manager, as he emerged from a back room to see what was going on. “It’s the breeding season.”

      “It must make travelling difficult in August,” said Paddington.