They took each other's hands for comfort and leaning their heads on each other's shoulders they walked along together, thinking of the three bright figures and the gentle fairy steed.
Dusk fell about them as they went. The trees like shadows bent above them. And as they came to the big gate they stepped into a pool of light from the newly-lit lamp in the Lane.
"Let's look at them once again," said Jane. Sad it would be, but also sweet, to see their pictured faces. She took the book from Michael's hand and opened it at the well-known page.
"Yes! The dagger's in his belt," she murmured. "Just as it always was." Then her eyes roved over the rest of the picture and she gave a quick, glad cry.
"Oh, Michael, look! It was not a dream. I knew, I knew it was true!"
"Where? Where? Show me quickly!" He followed her pointing finger.
"Oh!" he cried, drawing in his breath. And "Oh!" he said. And again "Oh!" There was nothing else to say.
For the picture was not as it had been. The fruits and flowers still shone on the tree and there on the grass the Princes stood with the Unicorn beside them.
But now in the crook of Florimond's arm there lay a bunch of roses; a little circlet of coloured stones gleamed on Veritain's wrist; Amor was wearing a paper hat perched on the back of his head and from the pocket of his jerkin there peeped a lace-edged handkerchief.
Jane and Michael smiled down on the page. And the three Princes smiled up from the book and their eyes seemed to twinkle in the lamplight.
"They remember us!" declared Jane in triumph.
"And we remember them!" crowed Michael. "Even if Mary Poppins doesn't."
"Oh, indeed?" her voice enquired behind them.
They glanced up quickly and there she stood, a pink-cheeked Dutch Doll figure, as neat as a new pin.
"And what have I forgotten, pray?"
She smiled as she spoke, but not at them. Her eyes were fixed on the three Princes. She nodded complacently at the picture and then at the Match Man who nodded back.
And suddenly Michael understood. He knew that she remembered. How could he and Jane have dared to imagine that she would ever forget!
He turned and hid his face in her skirt.
"You've forgotten nothing, Mary Poppins. It was just my little mistake."
"Little!" She gave an outraged sniff.
"But tell me, Mary Poppins," begged Jane, as she looked from the coloured picture-book to the confident face above her. "Which are the children in the story — the Princes, or Jane and Michael?"
Mary Poppins was silent for a moment. She glanced at the children on the printed page and back to the living children before her. Her eyes were as blue as the Unicorn's, as she took Jane's hand in hers.
They waited breathlessly for her answer.
It seemed to tremble on her lips. The words were on the tip of her tongue. And then — she changed her mind. Perhaps she remembered that Mary Poppins never told anyone anything.
She smiled a tantalising smile.
"I wonder!" she said.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Park in the Park
Another sandwich, please!" said Michael, sprawling across Mary Poppins' legs as he reached for the picnic basket.
It was Ellen's Day Out and Mrs. Brill had gone to see her cousin's niece's new baby. So the children were having tea in the Park, away by the Wild Corner.
This was the only place in the Park that was never mown or weeded. Clover, daisies, buttercups, bluebells, grew as high as the children's waists. Nettles and dandelions flaunted their blossoms, for they knew very well that the Park Keeper would never have time to root them out. None of them observed the rules. They scattered their seeds across the lawns, jostled each other for the best places, and crowded together so closely that their stems were always in shadowy darkness.
Mary Poppins, in a sprigged cotton dress, sat bolt upright in a clump of bluebells.
She was thinking, as she darned the socks, that pretty though the Wild Corner was, she knew of something prettier. If it came to a choice between, say, a bunch of clover and herself, it would not be the clover she would choose.
The four children were scattered about her.
Annabel bounced in the perambulator.
And not far off, among the nettles, the Park Keeper was making a daisy-chain.
Birds were piping on every bough, and the Ice Cream Man sang cheerfully as he trundled his barrow along.
The notice on the front said:
THE DAY IS HOT
BUT ICE CREAM'S NOT
"I wonder if he's coming here," Jane murmured to herself.
She was lying face downwards in the grass, making little plasticine figures.
"Where have those sandwiches gone?" cried Michael, scrabbling in the basket.
"Be so kind, Michael, as to get off my legs. I am not a Turkey carpet! The sandwiches have all been eaten. You had the last yourself."
Mary Poppins heaved him on to the grass and took up her darning needle. Beside her, a mug of warm tea, sprinkled with grass seed and nettle flowers, sent up a delicious fragrance.
"But, Mary Poppins, I've only had six!"
"That's three too many," she retorted. "You've eaten your share and Barbara's."
"Takin the food from 'is sister's mouth — what next?" said the Park Keeper.
He sniffed the air and licked his lips, just like a thirsty dog.
"Nothin' to beat a 'ot cup o' tea!" he remarked to Mary Poppins.
With dignified calm she took up the mug. "Nothing," she answered, sipping.
"Exactly what a person needs at the 'eight of the h'afternoon!" He gave the teapot a wistful glance.
"Exactly," she agreed serenely, as she poured herself another cup.
The Park Keeper sighed and plucked a daisy. The pot, he knew, was now empty.
"Well — another sponge cake, then, Mary Poppins!"
"The cakes are finished, too, Michael. What are you, pray — a boy or a crocodile?"
He would have liked to say he was a crocodile, but a glance at her face was enough to forbid it.
"John!" he coaxed, with a crocodile smile. "Would you like me to eat your crusts?"
"No!" said John, as he gobbled them up.
"Shall I help you with your biscuit, Barbara?"
"No!" she protested through the crumbs.
Michael shook his head in reproach and turned to Annabel.
There she sat, like a queen in her carriage, clutching her little mug. The perambulator groaned loudly as she bounced up and down. It was looking more battered than ever today. For Robertson Ay, after doing nothing all the morning, had leaned against it to take a rest and broken the wooden handle.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" Mrs. Banks had cried. "Why couldn't he lean on something stronger? Mary Poppins, what shall we do? We can't afford a new one!"
"I'll take it to my cousin, ma'am. He'll make it as good as new."
"Well — if you think he really can—" Mrs. Banks cast a doubtful eye on the bar of splintered wood.
Mary Poppins drew herself up.
"A member of my family, ma'am—" Her voice seemed to come from the North Pole.
"Oh, yes! Indeed! Quite so! Exactly!" Mrs. Banks nervously backed away.
"But why," she silently asked herself, "is her family so superior? She is far too vain and self-satisfied. I shall tell her so some day."
But, looking at that stern face and listening to those reproving sniffs, she knew she would never dare.
Michael rolled over among the daisies, hungrily-chewing a blade of grass.
"When are you going to take the perambulator to your cousin, Mary Poppins?"
"Everything comes to him who waits. All in my own good time!"
"Oh! Well, Annabel isn't taking her milk. Would you like me to drink it for her?"
But at that moment Annabel lifted her mug and drained the last drop.
"Mary Poppins!" he wailed. "I'll starve to death — just like Robinson Crusoe."
"He
didn't starve to death," said Jane. She was busily clearing a space in the weeds.
"Well, the Swiss Family Robinson, then," said Michael.
"The Swiss Family always had plenty to eat. But I'm not hungry, Michael. You can have my cake if you like."
"Dear, kind, sensible Jane!" he thought, as he took the cake.
"What are you making?" he enquired, flinging himself on the grass beside her.
"A Park for Poor People," she replied. "Everyone is happy there. And nobody ever quarrels."
She tossed aside a handful of leaves and he saw, amid the wildweed, a tidy square of green. It was threaded with little pebbled paths as wide as a fingernail. And beside them were tiny flower-beds made of petals massed together. A summer-house of nettle twigs nestled on the lawn; flowers were stuck in the earth for trees; and in their shade stood twig benches, very neat and inviting.
On one of these sat a plasticine man, no more than an inch high. His face was round, his body was round and so were his arms and legs. The only pointed thing about him was his little turned-up nose. He was reading a plasticine newspaper and a plasticine tool-bag lay at his feet.
"Who's that?" asked Michael. "He reminds me of someone. But I can't think who it is!"
Jane thought for a moment.
"His name is Mr. Mo," she decided. "He is resting after his morning labours. He had a wife sitting next to him, but her hat went wrong, so I crumbled her up. I'll try again with the last of the plasticine—"
She glanced at the shapeless, coloured lump that lay behind the summer-house.
"And that?" He pointed to a feminine figure that stood by one of the flower-beds.
"That's Mrs. Hickory," said Jane. "She's going to have a house, too. And after that I shall build a Fun Fair."
He gazed at the plump little plasticine woman and admired the way her hair curled and the two large dimples in her cheeks.
"Do she and Mr. Mo know each other?"
"Oh, yes. They meet on the way to the Lake."
And she showed him a little pebbly hollow where, when Mary Poppins' head was turned, she had poured her mug of milk. At the end of the lake a plasticine statue reminded Michael of Neleus.
"Or down by the swing—" She pointed to two upright sticks from which an even smaller stick hung on a strand of darning wool.
Michael touched the swing with his finger-tip and it swayed backwards and forwards.
"And what's that under the buttercup?"
A scrap of cardboard from the lid of the cake-box had been bent to form a table. Around it stood several cardboard stools and upon it was spread a meal so tempting that a king might have envied it.
In the centre stood a two-tiered cake and around it were bowls piled high with fruit — peaches, cherries, bananas, oranges. One end of the table bore an apple-pie and the other a chicken with a pink frill. There were sausages, and currant buns, and a pat of butter on a little green platter. Each place was set with a plate and a mug and a bottle of ginger wine.
The buttercup-tree spread over the feast. Jane had set two plasticine doves in its branches and a bumble-bee buzzed among its flowers.
"Go away, greedy fly!" cried Michael, as a small black shape settled on the chicken. "Oh, dear! How hungry it makes me feel!"
Jane gazed with pride at her handiwork. "Don't drop your crumbs on the lawn, Michael. They make it look untidy."
"I don't see any litter-baskets. All I can see is an ant in the grass." He swept his eyes round the tiny Park, so neat amid the wildweed.
"There is never any litter," said Jane. "Mr. Mo lights the fire with his paper. And he saves his orange peel for Christmas puddings. Oh, Michael, don't bend down so close, you're keeping the sun away!"
His shadow lay over the Park like a cloud.
"Sorry!" he said, as he bent sideways. And the sunlight glinted down again as Jane lifted Mr. Mo and his tool-bag and set them beside the table.
"Is it his dinner-time?" asked Michael.
"Well — no!" said a little scratchy voice. "As a matter of fact, it's breakfast!"
"How clever Jane is!" thought Michael admiringly. "She can not only make a little old man, she can talk like one as well."
But her eyes, as he met them, were full of questions.
"Did you speak, Michael, in that squeaky way?"
"Of course he didn't," said the voice again.
And, turning, they saw that Mr. Mo was waving his hat in greeting. His rosy face was wreathed in smiles and his turned-up nose had a cheerful look.
"It isn't what you call the meal. It's how it tastes that matters. Help yourself!" he cried to Michael. "A growing lad is always hungry. Take a piece of pie!"
"I'm having a beautiful dream," thought Michael, hurriedly helping himself.
"Don't eat it, Michael. It's plasticine!"
"It's not! It's apple!" he cried, with his mouth full.
"But I know! I made it myself!" Jane turned to Mr. Mo.
"You did?" Mr. Mo seemed very surprised. "I suppose you mean you helped to make it. Well, I'm very glad you did, my girl. Too many cooks make delicious broth!"
"They spoil it, you mean," corrected Jane.
"Oh, no, no! Not in my opinion. One puts one thing, one another — oatmeal, cucumber, pepper, tripe. The merrier the more, you know!"
"The more of what?" asked Michael, staring.
"Everything!" Mr. Mo replied. "There's more of everything when one's merry. Take a peach!" He turned to Jane. "It matches your complexion."
From sheer politeness — for she could not disappoint that smiling face — Jane took the fruit and tasted. Refreshing juice ran over her chin, the peach-stone grated against her teeth.
"Delicious!" she cried in astonishment.
"Of course it is!" crowed Mr. Mo. "As my dear wife always used to say—'You can't go by the look of a thing, it's what's inside that matters.'"
"What happened to her?" asked Michael politely, as he helped himself to an orange. He had quite forgotten, in the joy of finding more to eat, that Jane had crumbled her up.
"I lost her," murmured Mr. Mo. He gave his head a sorrowful shake as he popped the orange peel into his pocket.
Jane felt herself blushing.
"Well — her hat wouldn't sit on straight," she faltered. But now it seemed to her that this was hardly a good enough reason for getting rid of the hat's owner.
"I know, I know! She was always rather an awkward shape. Nothing seemed to fit her. If it wasn't her hat it was her boots. Even so — I was fond of her." Mr. Mo heaved a heavy sigh. "However," he went on gloomily, "I've found another one!"
"Another wife?" cried Jane in surprise. She knew she had not made two Mrs. Mo's. "But you haven't had time for that!"
"No time? Why, I've all the time in the world. Look at those dandelions!" He waved his chubby hand round the Park. "And I had to have someone to care for the children. Can't do everything myself. So — I troubled trouble before it troubled me and got myself married just now. This feast here is our wedding-breakfast. But, alas—" He glanced around him nervously. "Every silver lining has a cloud. I'm afraid I made a bad choice."
"Coo-roo! Coo-roo!
We told you so!"
cried the plasticine doves from their branch.
"Children?" said Jane, with a puzzled frown. She was sure she had made no children.
"Three fine boys," Mr. Mo said proudly. "Surely you two have heard of them! Hi!" he shouted, cupping his hands. "Eenie, Meenie, Mynie — where are you?"
Jane and Michael stared at each other and then at Mr. Mo.
"Oh, of course we've heard of them," agreed Michael.
"Eenie, Meenie, Mynie, Mo,
Catch an Indian by the—
But I thought they were only words in a game."
Mr. Mo smiled a teasing smile.
"Take my advice, my dear young friend, and don't do too much thinking. Bad for the appetite. Bad for the brain. The more you think, the less you know, as my dear — er — first wife used to say. But I can't spe
nd all day chattering, much as I enjoy it!" He plucked a dandelion ball and blew the seeds on the air.
"Goodness, yes, it's four o'clock. And I've got a job to do."
He took from his tool-bag a piece of wood and began to polish it with his apron.
"What kind of work do you do?" asked Michael.
"Can't you read?" cried the chubby man, waving towards the summer-house.
They turned to Jane's little shelter of twigs and saw to their surprise that it had grown larger. The sticks were solid logs of wood and instead of the airy space between them there were now white walls and curtained windows, Above them rose a new thatched roof, and a sturdy chimney puffed forth smoke. The entrance was closed by a red front door bearing a white placard.
S. MO (it said)
BUILDER
AND
CARPENTER
"But I didn't build the house like that! Who altered it?" Jane demanded.
"I did, of course." Mr. Mo grinned. "Couldn't live in it as it was — far too damp and draughty. What did you say—you built my house?" He chuckled at the mere idea. "A little wisp of a lass like you, not as high as my elbow!"
This was really too much for Jane.
"It's you who are little," she protested. "I made you of straw and plasticine! You're not as big as my thumb!"
"Ha, ha! That's a good one. Made me of hay while the sun shone — is that what you're telling me? Straw, indeed!" laughed Mr. Mo. "You're just like my children — always dreaming. And wonderful dreams they are!"
He gave her head a little pat. And as he did so she realised that she was not, indeed, as high as his elbow. Beneath the branch of yellow blossoms Mr. Mo towered above her. The lawns that she herself had plucked now stretched to a distant woodland. And beyond that nothing could she see. The big Park had entirely disappeared, as the world outside disappears when we cross the threshold of home.
She looked up. The bumble-bee seemed like a moving cloud. The shimmering fly that darted past was about the size of a starling and the ant that gave her a bright black stare was nearly as high as her ankle.
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