Mary Poppins Comes Back

by P. L. Travers

  “Oh, why did I speak to him? What has he done?” Mrs Clump cried out in a tinny voice.

  And looking through one of the golden windows, the children saw her collapse on a chair before a small tin pie. She began to cut it with jerky movements as the palace door closed with a bang.

  At that moment the boxes ceased to spin. The music stopped and the attic was silent.

  Down from his box sprang Mr Twigley and ran to the golden palace. With a cry of delight he picked it up and gazed at the scene within.

  “Very clever! I really must congratulate myself. All it needs now is a penny-in-the-slot and then it will do for Brighton Pier. One Penny, Only One Penny, folks! To see the Fat Woman Eating the Pie! Roll up! Roll up! Only One Penny!”

  Waving the palace, Mr Twigley went gaily capering round the room. Jane and Michael, leaping down from their boxes, ran after him and caught his coat-tails. They peered through the windows at Mrs Clump. There was a look of horror on her mechanical face as she cut her mechanical pie.

  “That was your sixth wish!” Michael reminded him.

  “It was indeed!” Mr Twigley agreed. “A Really useful idea, for once! Where there’s a wish there’s a way, you see! Especially if she’s around!” He nodded at Mary Poppins who was stepping off her musical box in the most majestic manner.

  “Get your hats, please!” she commanded sharply. “I want to get home for a Cup of Tea. I am not a Desert Camel.”

  “Oh, just one moment, please, Mary Poppins! Mr Twigley’s got one more wish!”

  Jane and Michael, both talking at once, were tugging at her hands.

  “Why, so I have! I’d quite forgotten. Now, what shall I—?”

  “Cherry Tree Lane, remember, Fred!” Mary Poppins’ voice had a warning note.

  “Oh, I’m glad you reminded me. Just a second!” Mr Twigley put his hand to his brow and a scale of music sounded.

  “What did you wish?” asked Jane and Michael.

  But Mr Twigley seemed suddenly to have become deaf, for he took no notice of the question. He shook hands hurriedly as though, having wished all his wishes, he was now anxious to be alone.

  “You have to be going, you said? How sad! Is this your hat? Well, delighted you came! I hope – are these your gloves, dear Mary? – I hope you’ll pay me another visit when my wishes come round again!”

  “When will that be?” demanded Michael.

  “Oh, in about ninety years or so,” Mr Twigley answered airily.

  “But we’ll be quite old by then!” said Jane.

  “Maybe,” he replied, with a little shrug. “But at least not as old as I am!”

  And with that he kissed Mary Poppins on both cheeks and hustled them out of the room.

  The last thing they saw was his jubilant smile as he began to fix a Penny-in-the-Slot to Mrs Clump’s palace. . .

  Later, when they came to think about it, Jane and Michael could never remember how they got out of Mr Twigley’s house and into Cherry Tree Lane. It seemed as though at one moment they were on the dusty stairs and the next they were following Mary Poppins through the pearly evening light.

  Jane glanced back for one last look at the little house.

  “Michael!” she said in a startled whisper. “It’s gone. Everything’s gone!”

  He looked round. Yes! Jane was right. The little street and the old-fashioned houses were nowhere to be seen. There was only the shadowy Park before them and the well-known curve of Cherry Tree Lane.

  “Well, where have we been all afternoon?” said Michael, staring about him.

  But it needed someone wiser than Jane to answer that question truly.

  “We must have been somewhere,” she said sensibly.

  But that was not enough for Michael. He rushed away to Mary Poppins and pulled at her best blue skirt.

  “Mary Poppins, where have we been today? What’s happened to Mr Twigley?”

  “How should I know?” snapped Mary Poppins. “I’m not an Encyclopaedia.”

  “But he’s gone! And the street’s gone! And I suppose the musical box has gone too – the one he went round on this afternoon!”

  Mary Poppins stood still on the kerb and stared.

  “A cousin of mine on a musical box? What nonsense you do talk, Michael Banks!”

  “But he did!” cried Jane and Michael together. “We all went round on musical boxes. Each of us to our own true music. And yours was ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’.”

  Her eyes blazed sternly through the darkness. She seemed to grow larger as she glared.

  “Each to our – weasel? Round and round?” Really, she was so angry she could hardly get the words out.

  “On top of a musical box, did you say? So, this is what I get for my pains! You spend the afternoon with a well-brought-up, self-respecting pair like my cousin and myself. And all you can do afterwards is to make a mock of us. Round and round with a weasel, indeed! For Two Pins I’d leave you – here, on this spot – and never come back! I warn you!”

  “On top of a musical weasel!” she fumed, as she stalked through the gathering dusk.

  Snap, snap, went her heels along the pavement. Even her back had an angry look.

  Jane and Michael hurried after her. It was no good arguing with Mary Poppins, especially when she looked like that. The best thing to do was to say nothing. And be glad there was nobody in the Lane to offer her Two Pins. In silence they walked along beside her, and thought of the afternoon’s adventure and looked at each other and wondered. . .

  * * *

  “Oh, Mary Poppins!” said Mrs Banks brightly, as she opened the front door. “I’m sorry, but I don’t need your cousin, after all. I tried the piano again just now. And it’s quite in tune. In fact, better than ever.”

  “I’m glad of that, ma’am,” said Mary Poppins, stealing a glance at herself in the mirror. “My cousin will make no charge.”

  “Well, I should think not!” cried Mrs Banks indignantly. “Why, he hasn’t even been here.”

  “Exactly, ma’am,” said Mary Poppins. She sniffed as she turned towards the stairs.

  Jane and Michael exchanged a secret look.

  “That must have been the seventh wish!” Michael whispered. And Jane gave an answering nod.

  Jug, jug, jug, jug – tereu!

  From the Park came a shower of wild sweet music. It had a familiar sound.

  “What can that be?” cried Mrs Banks, as she ran to the door to listen. “Good gracious! It’s a Nightingale!”

  Down from the branches fell the song, note by note, like plums from a tree. It burnt upon the evening air. It throbbed through the listening dusk.

  “How very strange!” said Mrs Banks. “They never sing in the city!”

  Behind her back the children nodded and looked at each other wisely.

  “It’s Mr Twigley’s,” murmured Jane.

  “He’s set it free!” answered Michael softly.

  And they knew, as they listened to the burning song that somewhere, somehow, Mr Twigley was true – as true as his little golden bird that was singing now in the Park.

  The Nightingale sang once more and was silent.

  Mrs Banks sighed and shut the door. “I wish I knew where he came from!” she said dreamily.

  But Jane and Michael, who could have told her, were already halfway up the stairs. So they said nothing. There were things that could be explained, they knew, and things that could not be explained.

  Besides, there were Currant Buns for Tea and they knew what Mary Poppins would say if they dared to keep her waiting. . .

  Chapter Three

  THE CAT THAT LOOKED AT A KING

  MICHAEL HAD TOOTHACHE. He lay in bed groaning and looking at Mary Poppins out of the corner of his eye to see if she was noticing.

  There she sat, in the old armchair, busily winding wool. Jane knelt before her, holding the skein. Up from the garden came the cries of the Twins as they played on the lawn with Ellen and Annabel. It was quiet and peaceful in the Nursery. Mary Poppin
s’ ball grew larger and larger. The clock made a clucking, satisfied sound like a hen that has laid an egg.

  “Why should I have toothache and not Jane?” complained Michael. He pulled the scarf Mary Poppins had lent him more tightly round his cheek.

  “Because you ate too many sweets yesterday,” Mary Poppins replied tartly.

  “But it was my Birthday!” he protested.

  “A Birthday’s no reason for turning yourself into a Dustbin! I don’t have toothache after mine.”

  Michael glared at her. Sometimes he wished Mary Poppins was not quite so Perfectly Perfect. But he never dared say so.

  “If I die,” he warned her, “you’ll be sorry. You’ll wish you’d been a bit nicer!”

  She sniffed contemptuously and went on winding.

  Holding his cheek in his two hands he gazed round the Nursery, looking for comfort. Everything there had the familiar look of an old friend. The wallpaper, the rocking-horse, the worn red carpet. His eyes wandered to the mantelpiece.

  There lay the Compass and the Royal Doulton Bowl, the jam-jar full of daisies, the stick of his old Kite and Mary Poppins’ Tape Measure. And there too was the present Aunt Flossie had given him yesterday – the little Cat of white china patterned with blue-and-green flowers. It sat there with its paws together and its tail neatly curled about them. The sunlight shone on its china back; its green eyes gazed gravely across the room. Michael gave it a friendly smile. He was fond of Aunt Flossie and he liked the present she had brought him.

  Then his tooth gave another dreadful stab.

  “Ow!” he shrieked. “It’s digging a hole right into my gum!” He glanced pathetically at Mary Poppins. “And nobody cares!” he added bitterly.

  Mary Poppins tossed him a mocking smile.

  “Don’t look at me like that!” he complained, clasping his aching cheek more tightly.

  “Why not? A Cat can look at a King, I suppose!”

  “But I’m not a king—” he grumbled crossly, “and you’re not a cat, Mary Poppins!” He hoped she would argue with him about it and take his mind off his tooth.

  “Do you mean any cat can look at a King? Could Michael’s cat?” demanded Jane.

  Mary Poppins glanced up. Her blue eyes gazed at the Cat’s green eyes and the Cat returned her look.

  There was a pause.

  “Any cat,” said Mary Poppins at last. “But that cat more than most.”

  Smiling to herself, she took up the ball of wool again and something stirred on the mantelpiece. The china Cat twitched its china whisker and lifted its head and yawned. The children could see its glistening teeth and a long pink cat’s tongue. The Cat then arched its flowery back and stretched itself lazily. And after that, with a wave of its tail, it leapt from the mantelpiece.

  Plop! went the four paws on the carpet. Purr! said the Cat as it crossed the hearthrug. It paused for a moment by Mary Poppins and gave her a little nod. Then it sprang upon the window-sill, dived out into the shining sunlight and disappeared.

  Michael forgot his toothache and gaped.

  Jane dropped her skein and stared.

  “But—” they both stammered. “How? Why? Where?”

  “To see the Queen,” Mary Poppins answered. “She’s At Home every Second Friday. Don’t stare like that, Jane – the wind might change! Close your mouth, Michael! Your tooth will get cold.”

  Michael shut his mouth quickly. Then he opened it again.

  “But I want to know what happened!” he cried. “He’s made of china. He isn’t real. And yet – he jumped! I saw him.”

  “Why did he want to see the Queen?” asked Jane.

  “Mice,” replied Mary Poppins calmly. “And partly for Old Time’s Sake.”

  A far-away look came into her eyes and the hands on the ball of wool fell idle. Jane flung a warning glance at Michael. He wriggled curiously out of bed and crept across the room. The armchair creaked as he leant against it but Mary Poppins took no notice. She was gazing thoughtfully out of the window with distant dreamy eyes.

  “Once upon a time,” she began slowly, as though she were reading from the sheet of sunlight.

  Once upon a time, there lived a King who thought he knew practically everything. I couldn’t even begin to tell you the things he thought he knew. His head was as full of facts and figures as a pomegranate of pips. And this had the effect of making the King extremely absent-minded. The things that clever man forgot were more than the fish in the sea. You will hardly believe me when I say that he even forgot his own name, which was Cole. The Prime Minister, however, had an excellent memory, and reminded him of it from time to time.

  Now, this King’s favourite pursuit was thinking. He thought all night and he thought in the morning. He thought at mealtimes, he thought in his bath. He never noticed what was happening in front of his nose because, of course, he was always thinking about something else.

  And the things he thought about were not, as you might imagine, the welfare of his people and how to make them happy. Not at all. His mind was busy with other questions. The number of baboons in India, for instance; and whether the North Pole was as long as the South; and if pigs could be taught to sing.

  He not only worried about these things himself. He forced everybody else to worry about them too. All except the Prime Minister who was not at all a thinking kind of person but an old man who liked to sit in the sun and do absolutely nothing. But he was careful not to let this be known for fear the King would cut off his head.

  The King lived in a palace made entirely of crystal. In the early days of his reign it had shone so brightly that passers-by would hide their eyes, for fear of being dazzled. But gradually the crystal grew duller and the dust of the seasons covered its brightness. Nobody could be spared to polish it, for everyone was far too busy helping the King think his thoughts – even the cooks and the maids and the scullions. At any moment they might be ordered to leave their work and hurry away on the King’s business. To China, perhaps, to count the silkworms. Or to find out if the Soloman Islands were ruled by the Queen of Sheba. When they came back with their lists of facts, the King and the courtiers would write them down in large books bound in leather. And if anyone returned without an answer, his head was at once cut off.

  The only person in the palace who had nothing to do was the Queen. All day long she sat on her golden throne, twisting the necklace of blue-and-green flowers that was clasped about her throat. Sometimes she would start up with a cry and pull her ermine robes about her. For the palace, as it grew more and more dirty, became infested with mice. And mice, as anyone will tell you, are the things no Queen can stand.

  “O-o-o-h!” she would say, with a little gasp, as she leapt on the seat of the throne.

  And each time she cried out the King would frown.

  “Silence, please!” he would say, in a fractious voice, for the least little noise disturbed his thinking. Then the mice would scatter for a while and no sound would be heard in the room. Except for the scratching of goose-quill pens as the King and the courtiers added new facts to the one in the leather books.

  The Queen never gave orders, not even to her Ladies-of-the-Bedchamber. For as likely as not the King would countermand them.

  “Mend the Queen’s petticoat?” he would say crossly. “What petticoat? Why waste time talking about petticoats? Take a pen and write out these facts about the Phoenix!”

  And the Lady-in-Waiting would have to obey, while the Queen either mended her own petticoat or wore it with a tear in it.

  What a dreadful state of affairs, you will say! And, indeed, I would not blame you. But you must not think it was always like that. The Queen, sitting lonely upon her throne, would often remind herself of the days when she first had married the King. How tall and handsome he had been, with his strong white neck and ruddy cheeks, and locks of hair folded round his head like the leaves of camellia flowers.

  “Ah!” she would sigh, remembering back. How he had fed her with honey-cakes and fingers of butt
ered bread from his plate. How his face had been so full of love that her heart would turn over in her breast and force her to look away, for sheer joy.

  But at last there came a fateful evening.

  “Your eyes are brighter than stars,” he said, as he glanced from her face to the shining sky. But instead of turning to her again as usual, he continued to gaze upwards.

  “I wonder,” he said dreamily, “just how many stars there are! I think I shall count them. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—” And he went on counting till the Queen fell asleep beside him.

  “One thousand, two hundred and forty-nine. . .” he was saying as she woke up. So she knew he was still counting.

  After that he would not be satisfied till he got the courtiers out of their beds and set them to counting stars. And as no two answers came out alike the King was very angry.

  That was how it all began.

  The next day, the King exclaimed, “Your cheeks, my Darling, are like two roses!”

  And the Queen was very happy till he added, “But why roses? Why not cabbages? Why are cheeks pink and cabbages green? And vice versa? This is a very serious question. I must think about it.”

  The third day he told her that her teeth were like pearls. But before she even had time to smile, he went on –

  “And what if they are? Everybody has, after all, a certain number of teeth, and most of them are pearly. Pearls themselves, however, are very rare. It is more important to think about them.”

  So he summoned the best divers in the kingdom and sent them down under the sea.

  And from that day onwards he was always thinking. He was only concerned with gaining knowledge and he never even looked at the Queen. Indeed, if he had glanced in her direction, he would probably not have seen her, for he worked so hard at his books and papers that he soon became very short-sighted. His round, red face grew thin and wrinkled, and his hair turned grey at an early age. He ate practically nothing – except for a cheese-and-onion sandwich whenever the old Prime Minister told him that dinner was on the table.