Paddington Marches On. Michael Bond

you’ll tell me next you’ve lost yer invitation card?”

      “That’s right,” said Paddington. “I had a bit of an accident when I got out of my taxi and it fell down a drain.”

      “Look,” said the gatekeeper crossly. “Pull the other leg – it’s got bells on. I’ve met your sort before. After a free tea, no doubt. The only way you’ll get into this factory, my lad, is through the works entrance like anyone else.”

      He turned as a figure came hurrying out of the main building. “Here’s the foreman. And I’d advise you to watch your step. He doesn’t stand any nonsense.”

      “There’s a young out-of-work bear here, Fred,” he called, as the foreman reached the gate. “I was wondering if you could fix him up.”

      “I told the Job Centre we’re a bit short-handed,” said the foreman, looking Paddington up and down, “but I reckon they must be in a worse state than we are.”

      “Do you know anything about marmalade?” he added, not unkindly.

      “Oh, yes,” said Paddington eagerly. “I eat a lot of it at home. Mrs Bird’s always grumbling about my jars.”

      “Well, I don’t know what to suggest,” said the foreman, as Paddington returned his gaze very earnestly. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to try your paw at?”

      Paddington thought for a moment. “I think perhaps I’d like to see the chunks department first,” he announced. “That sounds very interesting.”

      “Chunks department,” said the foreman, glancing at the gatekeeper. “I don’t know that we’ve got what you might call a chunks department. But I could start you off in the barrel section if you like. There’s no one working there today.

      “It’s where we keep the empty Seville Orange barrels,” he explained, as he led the way across the factory square past several rows of seats and a flower-decorated stand. “They all have to be scrubbed out before they’re sent back to Spain and I daresay you’ll find plenty of old chunks left in them if you’re interested.”

      Paddington, who thought the foreman had said they kept several orange barrels, nearly fell over backwards with astonishment as the man led him into a yard at the side of the factory and he took in the sight before him. There were big barrels, small barrels, barrels to the left and right of him, barrels in front of him, and barrels which seemed to be piled almost as high as the eye could see. In fact, there were so many he soon became dizzy trying to count them.

      “You don’t have to scrub them all,” said the foreman encouragingly. “Only as many as you can. We pay five pence each for the big ones, two pence for the smalls, so the more you clean the more you earn. It’s what we call ‘piece work’.”

      “Five pence each!” repeated Paddington, hardly able to believe his ears. He’d once scrubbed out Mr Brown’s water butt at Windsor Gardens. It had taken him most of one weekend but at least at the end of it all Mr Brown had given him ten pence extra bun money. “I think perhaps I’d like to try my paw in the testing department instead,” he exclaimed.

      The foreman gave him a look. “You’ll be lucky,” he said. “You have to work your way up to a job like that. Your best plan is to start at the bottom.”

      He pointed towards a corner of the yard as he turned to go. “There’s a brush in that bucket over there and you’ll find a hosepipe in the corner. Only no playing about squirting people. There’s a famous film star coming to make his footprint in the ceremonial cement today and if I catch you wandering about it’ll be straight back to the Job Centre and no mistake.”