A Bear Called Paddington （Paddington Bear #1）
Michael Bond
Introduction
Life is full of ups and downs, and one evening when I was doing some last-minute shopping in London’s Oxford Street and it began to snow so heavily I had to seek shelter in the nearest big store that was still open, it struck me as a good example of the latter: a definite downer, in fact.
It was Christmas Eve 1956 and I needed a ‘stocking filler’ for my wife. By then I was getting rather desperate for ideas, and as I wandered disconsolately through an unusually deserted toy department, I caught sight of a small bear sitting all by itself on a glass shelf.
Had it been a doll I wouldn’t have given it a second glance. Not that I have anything whatsoever against dolls, but as the famous actor and expert on these matters, the late Peter Bull, once said rather dismissively: “Dolls are always wondering what they are going to wear next, whereas you feel your secrets are safe with a bear and you never know what they are thinking.’
He was quite right, of course. Bears are a thing apart from all other cuddly toys. Although, from the expression on its face, I think I had a very good idea what was uppermost in its mind at that particular moment.
He looked so lonely and forlorn, the thought of him being alone all through Christmas seemed out of the question, so acting on an impulse I bought him without any further ado.
I little knew what lay ahead.
The next day, looking very much at home, he took up residence on the mantelpiece of our one-room flat near the Portobello Road, and because I had always wanted to use the name Paddington in a story, that’s what we called him, after our nearest main line railway station.
Names are important. Sometimes it is all a person has in their life, and I had been tempted to use it in a series of stories I wrote for the radio about an accident-prone uncle who was always getting into trouble. But a little voice inside me whispered “No”。
Writers should always obey ‘little voices’。 They are invariably right and you disobey them at your peril. As things turned out I was doubly glad to have heeded the warning on this occasion, for it suited the bear down to the ground. It was important without being too grand, and it had a safe ring to it. Dignified, and reliable, it was the kind of name that would withstand the passage of time. Politeness would have been his middle name were it not for the fact that it was already encapsulated in the original.
We found ourselves talking to him. Bears have that kind of effect on people. You can’t ignore them. And in no time at all he became an alter ego.
One spring morning the following year, I found myself sitting at my typewriter with a blank sheet of paper at the ready, fingers itching to go, only to realise with a sinking heart that I didn’t have an idea in my head. Not so much a ‘writer’s block’ as a vast empty space with nothing, absolutely nothing in view.
In desperation I gazed around the room and as my glance fastened on the mantelpiece I found myself wondering what would happen if a real bear ended up on Paddington station; lost and friendless, with nowhere else to go. In order to get my brain working I typed the words: 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.
And that was as far as I meant to go. After all, it was only a doodle to get my mind working. I had no intention of writing a chapter, let alone a book, and a children’s one at that. I didn’t even know any children at that time in my life, although I count that as a plus because they hate being written down to and it is something I have always tried to avoid.
On the other hand … something in the words caught my fancy.
Who were Mr and Mrs Brown? How had they suddenly popped into the picture? And what were they doing on Paddington station? As for Paddington himself, where was he lurking? Somewhere safe from the crowd probably; a dark corner near the Lost Property Office? Half wanting somebody to come to his rescue, the other half hoping nobody would find him.
To say that my fingers were racing to and fro over the keyboard would be a misnomer, because I’m self-taught. But by the evening I had what turned out to be the first chapter of a book on my hands.
Ten days later A Bear Called Paddington contained the answers to all the aforementioned questions.
Luckily I wouldn’t change a word of it. Paddington has his own unique outlook on the world and, as he says, “Things happen to me. I’m that sort of bear.”
Some years and several books later, I received a letter from a small boy to the effect that he was now so used to Paddington being the name of a bear it seemed a funny name for a station.