Mr. Malmedy's Teddy Bears

Do you remember those old-fashioned shop bells? Open the door and there is that special noise; the anticipation upon hearing that tinkling sound, like the overture to some happy experience. To some it was a magical noise that triggreed expectations. Granted, there were, still are, some shop bells that are happier than othres: bakers' bells, for instance, are always happy and, for the fortunate person who opens the door, that feeling is reinforced by the wonderful smell of freshly-baked bread. Bells that ring when you go into a bicycle shop carry with them the sound of freedom and the open roads and joyful summers' days. I don't know about you but I found the sound of a chemist shop bell to be more serious in tone; something between a snuffle and a polite cough. That's only natural, I suppose, when those who go to the chemist are usually in need of medicine.
Mr. Malmedy had a bell that sounded full of suppressed excitment, as if it could hardly contain itself, like a giggly child involved in some secret involving a surprise party. But, then, on entering his shop you never knew quite what you might find. For those who do not know the street or the shop it should be made clear from the start that Mr. Malmedy was a collector of anything and everything. It didn't matter much what it was so long as it caught his eye. Broken toys were a speciality of his. Broken things in general seemed to find their way to his shop where he would spend hours painstakingly mending them. Teddy bears, for instance, would always find a home on one of his shelves. Not only would the bear be found a home but it would always be given the beast of care and made as near to new as could be. More often than not a bear would enter the shop so bedraggled and worn out through years of hard play and , sad to say, sometimes abuse. Most other people wuold have thrown them out as a waste of time but not Mr. Malmedy.
Behind the shop counter Mr. Malmedy kept several old cardboard boxes. In one would be all the different types and styles of eyes that bears need. In another would be the various types of stuffing needed to bring back the bear's shape. Other boxes contained squeakers and cottons and fur and items that even Mr, Malmedy had no idea as to their purpose.
When business was slack, as it too often was, Mr. Malmedy would pick up a broken bear and start the long, slow process of resurrection. He always sat on a high stool, one saved from the demolition of a public house. Next to his stool was a lamp, saved from a solicitor's office being demolished to make way for a shopping centre.
Anyone who entered the shop would be unable to see Mr. Malmedy straight away. Not only were there stacks of toys and boxes and "things" in the way but the distractions were numerous. Eventually, the shopper would be drawn in to the heart of the shop where Mr. Malmedy would look up from his mending and smile at the newcomer.
Standing between the three dolls' houses and the Victorian perambulator the shopper would make his request, or simply gaze about him open-mouthed. In one corner there were various cabin trunks still with their magical-looking lables from far-away places. Hanging above their head would be a quantity of pots and pans and shaving mugs and coffee cans. A model sailing ship and a stuffed owl occupied their places over the other corner.
The local children who often played on the street had taken to calling him Santa Claus. With his white hair and beard, his gold-rimmed glasses and his portly figure he was the epitome of Father Christmas. To further this illusion amidst the chaos he would know where everything was. Ask about one of the teddy bears and he could give you chapter and verse about its parents and its childhood and what had happened to it before it arrived at his shop door. Then his dark-brown eyes would light up and his voice would take on a subtle texture that reminded many older customers of coffee shops on foreign streets and thick, chocolate cake.
Best of all was when you bought one of his teddy bears. It became more like an adoption. No one could just walk out of the shop with one of the bears. No, you were questioned about what kind of house the bear would live in, who would play with it and many other things besides. If Mr. Malmedy was satisfied with the answers the purchase would proceed. Occasionally, when the answers were unsatisfactory, there would be no sale and regardless of the amount of bluster and fuming Mr. Malmedy would remain obdurate and the customer would leave empty handed.

It should be explained that Mr. Malmedy lived alone except for an old tabby cat who kept herself to the back of the shop, venturing only occasionally into the back garden for those most natural of reasons. She would spend most of the day in the workshop and, at night, wait until Mr. Malmedy was nearly asleep before slinking through the bedroom door and curling up next to him. She thought herself so clever at doing this that it never occured to her that he left the bedroom door ajar on purpose.
A little passed midnight and a noise in the backyard woke the cat. Breaking glass ws unusual in that street. She yawned and stretched and left the warmth and comfort of Mr. Malmedy's pillow and strolled over to the window. By the moon's light she saw movement in their yard. Too big for a fox and too clumsy for any of the local Toms it was a conundrum. To get a better look, and because she was a curious cat, she squeezed through the bedroom door and padded down the stairs to the workshop. She could smell a new smell; an alien smell of dog; but there was no dog. One of the two men who stood in the workshop must be owned by a dog. The stench came from his trousers.
Dressed in dark tracksuit bottoms and with hoods over their heads the two men stood and listened. She listened too. Even the shop held its breath. Then lights shone from their hands as they swung their torches around the room. In the light she cuold see the rows of broken toys, row upon row of other people's jetwam all waiting to be repaired. Only Mr. Malmedy and she were allowed in the workshop. That was a strict rule and now there were these strangers!
Laying down half inside a box full of odd peices of pottery she peered over the top and watched as the two men picked up items and carelessly cast them aside. She heard the two bolts being slid back and the shop door creaking open. The cash register pinged as it was forced open. FRom upstairs she heard the footsteps of Mr. Malmedy as he made his way across the bedroom floor.

Two uniformed police officers arrived in theior panda car at the urging of a neighbour. It ws most unusual said the neighbour to see the shop closed on a weekday. It had never happened before, she insisted. Inside the shop the two officers found the place in a mess: boxes were strewn everywhere, soft-toys scattered over the floor and many had stuffing oozing out of them. There must have been more than a hundred or so lifeless, emaciated little bodies strewn here and there. After an exhaustive search they failed to find the owner, or his cat. The cash register was open and empty. Upstairs, they looked for Mr. Malmedy but he was not there. All his clothes, what few they were, still hung in the old wardrobe or were layed out neatly in the old, oak clothes press. Downstairs, in the shop, all the mended teddy bears waited their new owners. What a pity they couldn't speak, said one of the policemen; we'd have a lot of witnesses.
Apart from his clothes and the food in the kitchen and a complete set of every book Charles Dickens ever wrote there was nothing else of Mr. Malmedy, except, when they moved the bed a little, there was a photograph that had fallen, forgotten, onto the floor. It was a black and white snapshot of a family taken in a garden many years ago, to judge by the clothes. Behind the people were the sorts of trees peopleused to have in the gardens of large houses a long time ago. Beyond the trees you could just make out the roof and upper floor of a large and very un-English looking house.
Amongst the group there was a young man who might have been Mr. Malmedy many years ago, and an old man who looked as if he cuold be Mr. Malmedy (though even the neighbour had to admit that this was impossible). "It's his father, surely," she said. There was an elderly woman sitting on a garden bench next to a beautiful young woman with a radiant smile. Sitting on the grass at their feet was a girl and standing by the young woman stood two boys. It was obvious that the woman ws their mother. Their clothes were old-fashioned and their poses were stiff and formal and proud. Curled up on the lap of the little girl was a tabby cat, asleep. On the back of the photograph, written in pencil were the words: "Paul Lavy and family, Malmedy House, Warsaw, April, 1939."