| |
"Mr and Mrs Brown first met Paddington on a
railway platform. In fact, that was how he came
to have such an unusual name for a bear, for
Paddington was the name of the station."
When I wrote those few words, I had no idea quite what a change
they would eventually make to my life. It was really a case of putting
something down on paper in order to get my brain working that morning.
If you don't press the typewriter keys, no one else is going to do it
for you. My inspiration was sitting on the mantelpiece above the gas
fire in our London flat. I had bought him as a stocking filler for
Brenda the previous year. Taking shelter from the weather that
Christmas Eve, I happened to wander into Selfridges and eventually
found myself in the toy department. There I came across a small toy
bear left on the shelf, looking, or so it seemed to me, rather sorry
for himself. We called him Paddington because for some years
Paddington Station had been my first port of call whenever I travelled
to London, and it was also just down the road from where we were
living at the time. Besides, it had a nice, West Country ring to it;
safe and solid. I hadn't intended writing any more than the first few
words, but they caught my fancy and I carried on, trying to picture
what might happen next. Suppose Mr and Mrs Brown had been my own
parents, what would they have done? I suspect they would have behaved
in much the same way as did the Browns. To me, one of the saddest
sights of any conflict is that of refugees, trudging along some dusty
road, leaving everything they have known and loved behind them as they
head into the unknown. It was the memory of seeing newsreels showing
trainloads of evacuees leaving London during the war, each child with
a label round its neck and all its important possessions in a tiny
suitcase, that prompted me to do the same for Paddington. Please
look after this bear was a message the Browns could hardly resist,
and the addition of Thank you said even more. Having read the
words on the label, and having then been told by the bear that it had
come all the way from darkest Africa as a stowaway in a ship's
lifeboat, my mother would unhesitatingly have taken the line of 'first
things first'. The problem of deciding on a name having been disposed
of ("Seeing we found you on Paddington Station - that's what
we'll call you - Paddington"), clearly some kind of sustenance
was required. Before he knew what had happened, my father, one step
behind as usual and worried about the legality of it all, but always
in the market for a cup of tea, would have found himself sitting in
the station buffet "looking as though he had tea with a bear on
Paddington Station every day of his life". On the very next page
when Judy, home for the school holidays, arrived on the scene and was
introduced to Paddington - by that time covered in jam and cream - it
was a foregone conclusion that he would be going home with the Browns
to number thirty-two Windsor Gardens (in my mind's eye Lansdowne
Crescent - a quiet street of rather grand houses off Ladbroke Grove
and close to Arundel Gardens where we lived).
From then on the story followed a simple but logical process of
development, and before lunch I had written what was to become the
first chapter of a totally unpremeditated children's book. It seemed
sensible to give the Browns two children, one of each, and both away
at boarding school so that if necessary they needn't get in the way
when they weren't contributing to the plot. For the same reason, Mr
Brown would be 'something in the City'; out all day unless required,
at which point the market would unaccountably go slack. It also seemed
to me that any family who would take a strange bear home with them to
live must be a pretty soft touch, so there was need for a stronger
voice in the background. Someone of whom Paddington would remain
slightly in awe. Mrs Bird, the Browns' housekeeper, was an amalgam of
Mary Gorden, who played Mrs Hudson in the Basil Rathbone Sherlock
Holmes films, and a character from my school-days: Tim's Aunt Hetty.
Aunt Hetty was a familiar figure in England between the wars. There
were a lot of them about. Not professional housekeepers in the strict
sense of the word; they were among the many millions who had lost a
husband or boyfriend in the carnage of the First World War and found
themselves reduced to living with a relative in return for doing all
the housework and cooking. Like me, Paddington would have approved of
Aunt Hetty's herring roes on toast, eaten in front of a roaring log
fire in winter, usually while Tim and I were doing our homework. She
made them taste as no one else every has, either before or since. Some
people have a knack for making even the simplest dish a cut above the
rest. It was another culinary secret denied me. The arrangement worked
well enough for the first few chapters, as Paddington adjusted to his
new surroundings and did various day-to-day things for the first time,
like taking a bath, travelling on the underground, shopping for
clothes in Barkridges, or decorating his new room. With Mrs Bird
keeping a watchful eye on them, the Brown family cheerfully bore the
brunt of his early adventures. The Mr Brown who kept putting off doing
the decorating was very like my father, who used to spend so much time
lighting his pipe when he was preparing wallpaper that the paste -
made with flour and water in those days - had usually dried up by the
time he started work. Once, having papered my bedroom at Gloucester
Road, he announced that he had earned a few wrinkles. When I said that
I could see them he laughed as loudly as anyone and often repeated the
joke. Like Mr Brown he was probably secretly pleased by the knowledge
that he wouldn't ever be asked to do it again. In short, everyone was
a bit too easy-going: there was need for some kind of conflict. Mr
Curry, the Browns' bad-tempered next-door neighbour, was no one person
in particular but an amalgam of all the mean, intolerant and bigoted
crosspatches I had come across over the years. As such, he is a
constant thorn in Paddington's side, and of course, with Paddington's
penchant for misunderstandings and getting into trouble, the reverse
is true. Deserving all he gets, yet always coming back for more, Mr
Curry was to become an invaluable source of plotting material. Mr
Gruber came about simply because it seemed to me that, kind and
sympathetic though the Browns were, they would have no real idea of
what it must be like to find oneself an immigrant in a strange
country, with no money and nowhere to go. Harvey Unna's simply told
tale of his early flight to England always stuck in my mind. Mr Gruber
was born in Hungary and his antique shop in the Portobello Road is an
oasis of peace and quiet in Paddington's life: a retreat where every
day he can share his elevenses, discuss the world in general over
cocoa and buns, and seek sound advice from his friend whenever the
need arises. I came across a number of Mr Grubers during my time with
the BBC Monitoring Service but of all the many different nationalities
I encountered, Hungarians seemed to me to be the most civilized and
philosophical about life's problems. Paddington and Mr Gruber enjoy a
formal yet very special relationship, one of mutual respect, always
addressing each other by their surnames; it wouldn't occur to either
of them that it could be any other way. Paddington's old hat (handed
down to him by his uncle) and his duffel coat were simply replicas of
what I happened to be wearing at the time. The battered old leather
suitcase with its secret compartment, the inside of which we never
see, is reminiscent of the duffel bag belonging to the mother in The
Swiss Family Robinson, indelibly imprinted on my mind from reading
the book over and over again as a small child. The basket on wheels
which become Paddington's trademark whenever he goes out shopping in
the market, was an indispensable part of our own household equipment.
Fortunately, although I have read and enjoyed the Winnie the Pooh
stories many times since, I had not read them at the time, otherwise I
might have been tempted to make Paddington a toy bear. As it was, it
didn't occur to me that he should be anything other than a real, live
character. His love of marmalade came about simply because I happen to
prefer it to honey. Always in the back of my mind were the things I
had learned from reading the Magnet. Frank Richard respected
his audience. He never wrote down and he never preached. His ideals
and sense of values were implicit in the text and in the way the
characters reacted to each other. He was also a deflater of pomposity.
Eight working days later, at the rate of a chapter a day, I realized I
had a book on my hands. It doesn't sound very long, but then it had
taken me twelve years to learn how to do it. After a few minor
modifications and retyping I sent it off to Harvey Unna. He promptly
wrote back:
I have now read your novel, A Bear Called Paddington, and I
think it quite a publishable tale and I like it well. My spies tell
me, however, that you have slipped up in that there are no bears in
Africa, darkest or otherwise. The race of bears in the Atlas
Mountains has been extinct for centuries. Children either know this
or should know this and I suggest you make suitable amends, for
which purpose I am returning herewith the script. There are plenty
of bears in Asia, Europe and America, and quite a few on the Stock
Exchange.
A visit to Westminster Public Library, followed by a trip to the
Regent's Park Zoo, eliminated most other bears on my list of possibles
and I eventually settled on Peru. The few bears still existing there
are about the right size and nothing much is known about them, which
seemed a good thing. Making it Darkest Peru, with a capital D, added a
touch of mystery.
Over the next few months the book went the rounds of publishers until
finally it landed on the desk of Barbara Ker Wilson, the then
children's editor at Collins, with a note from her secretary saying it
had made her laugh on her way into work that morning. Fortunately it
made Barbara Ker Wilson laugh too, and went on to receive the blessing
of Sir William Collins himself. 'Billy' Collins was one of the old
school who followed his own judgement and took a keen interest in
every title he published. If he liked something, he expected everyone
else to feel the same way and to put their all behind it. At sales
conferences he used to tell the reps how many copies he expected them
to sell and woe betide them if they didn't.
- On 10 February 1958 Harvey Unna wrote to say A Bear Called
Paddington had been accepted by Collins, who were offering an
advance of £75 against a ten per cent royalty.
- There followed an invitation to lunch at which Barbara Ker
Wilson suggested Peggy Fortnum as a possible illustrator.
- It isn't easy to capture a young bear's likeness in a few lines,
but Peggy does it to perfection with her pen-and-ink drawings. Her
fluid style belies all the effort that goes into her work; it is
the artist's equivalent of a writer's screwed up sheets of paper
in the waste basket. She carries on until she is satisfied, at
which point that's it, take it or leave it. She understands
Paddington perfectly and with a few seemingly deft strokes -
perhaps portraying a back view of him walking down a street, lost
in thought - manages to convey a living, breathing creature. The
eyes, the shagginess, the slightly hunched figure, the purposeful
air say it all.
- We have never corresponded a great deal; there is no need. Apart
from our first meeting she has never consulted me about her
drawings, and I have been perfectly happy for it to remain that
way because I respect her work. But sometimes at Christmas I
receive a specially drawn card - usually with a note of apology
because she has got a bit behind with her shopping that year or
mislaid my address - and they always give me a warm glow. Best of
all, they make me laugh.
- The following winter, soon after the book came out, I attended
my first signing session. It was at Fortnum & Mason and the
previous night there had been a heavy fall of snow over London.
Piccadilly was as deserted as I have ever seen it.
- A few hardy souls taking refuge from the cold had made it to the
fourth floor and were gathered round the table where my book was
on display. Having swiftly disposed of them and dealt politely
with a man who wanted to know where the Biggles books were kept, I
was reduced to slowly signing copies for stock when the lift doors
opened and a slightly seedy, theatrical figure of what appeared to
be the actor-manager manque emerged. Brushing the snow from
his cloak, he bounded towards me.
- "Keep up the good work," he boomed, enthusiastically
grasping a right hand as yet unsullied by writer's cramp. "We
have two great books this year: Montgomery's memoirs and A Bear
Called Paddington."
- I appreciated the gesture and the fact that anyone at all had
bothered to make their way from Collins' offices in St James's in
such foul weather, but I didn't believe a word of it. I wondered
if all their authors received a similarly extravagant massaging of
their egos.
- After he had departed, I learned from Elizabeth Henniker Heaton,
who ran the book department, that Fortnum & Mason's list of
bestsellers put Paddington at number two, just behind Montgomery's
memoirs. No wonder Billy Collins had been pleased.
- The book was still doing well a few weeks later when I had my
next signing two doors away at Hatchard's. The manager, Tommy Joy
- doyen of London booksellers - gave me the visitors' book to
sign.
- General Montgomery had beaten me to it again. 'Montgomery of
Alamein', occupied almost the whole of the left-hand page.
Resisting the temptation to write 'Michael Bond of Hayes'
underneath it, I inscribed my name on the opposite page. Even with
my largest joined-up writing it still looked very insignificant
alongside the other, perhaps reflecting our contrasting careers in
the army.
- Tommy Joy suggested I might like a gin and tonic before I began
work and then hastily withdrew the offer in case, as he put it, I
'breathed fumes over any of the children waiting to get their
books signed'.
- I could have said, 'What children?', but I didn't.
- By Christmas the entire first print-run of A Bear Called
Paddington had been sold and in the following January, Books
& Bookmen listed it as the 'Best Children's Book of 1958'.
- Barbara Ker Wilson wondered if I would consider writing a
sequel.
- As Paddington would say, 'I needed no second bidding', and soon
afterwards I started work on More About Paddington.
- Whether I liked it or not, my career as a writer had been mapped
out for me and it was to keep me increasingly occupied for the
best part of the next twenty or so years. But for the time being
it was still very much a part-time occupation and I still had to
earn my living.
|
|
