Mary Poppins Comes Back

by P. L. Travers

  “Or again, she would weave a necklace of flowers and go to the brook to admire it. And every time she did that she noticed that her eyes were blue – bluer than any periwinkle – and her cheeks like the breast of a robin. As for her mouth – not to mention her nose! – her opinion of these was so high she had no words fit to describe them.”

  “She sounds like you, Mary Poppins,” said Michael. “So terribly pleased with herself!”

  Her glance came darting from the horizon and flickered at him fiercely.

  “I mean, Mary Poppins—” he began to stammer. Had he broken the thread of the story?

  “I mean,” he went on flatteringly, “you’ve got pink cheeks and blue eyes too. Like lollipops and bluebells.”

  A slow smile of satisfaction melted her angry look, and Michael gave a sigh of relief as she took up the tale again.

  Well, she went on, there was the brook, and there was the Goose-girl’s reflection. And each time she looked at it she was sorry for everyone in the world who was missing such a spectacle. And she pitied in particular the handsome Swineherd who herded his flock on the other side of the stream.

  “If only,” she thought lamentingly, “I were not the person I am! If I were merely what I seem, I could then invite him over. But since I am something more than a goose-girl, it would not be right or proper.”

  And reluctantly she turned her back and looked in the other direction.

  She would have been surprised, perhaps, had she known what the Swineherd was thinking.

  He too, for lack of a looking-glass, made use of the little river. And when it reflected his dark curls, and the curve of his chin and his well-shaped ears, he grieved for the whole human race, thinking of all it was missing. And especially he grieved for the Goose-girl.

  “Undoubtedly,” he told himself, “she is dying of loneliness – sitting there in her shabby dress, braiding her yellow hair. It is very pretty hair too, and – but for the fact that I am who I am – I would willingly speak a word to her and while away the time.”

  And reluctantly he turned his back and looked in the other direction.

  What a coincidence, you will say! But there’s more to the story than that. Not only the Goose-girl and the Swineherd, but every creature in that place was thinking the same thoughts.

  The geese, as they nibbled the buttercups and flattened the grass into star-like shapes, were convinced – and they made no secret of it – they were something more than geese.

  And the swine would have laughed at any suggestion that they were merely pigs.

  And so it was with the grey Ass who pulled the Swineherd’s cart to market; and the Toad who lived beside the stream, under one of the stepping-stones; and the barefoot Boy with the Toy Monkey who played on the bridge every day.

  Each believed that his real self was infinitely greater and grander than the one to be seen with the naked eye.

  Around his little shaggy body, the Ass was confident, a lordlier, finer, sleeker shape kicked its hooves in the daisies.

  To the Toad, however, his true self was smaller than his outward shape, and very gay and green. He would gaze for hours at his reflection, but, ugly as it truly was, the sight never depressed him.

  “That’s only my outside,” he would say, nodding at his wrinkled skin and yellow bulging eyes. But he kept his outside out of sight when the Boy was on the bridge. For he dreaded the curses that greeted him if he showed as much as a toe.

  “Heave to!” the ferocious voice would cry. “Enemy sighted to starboard! A bottle of rum and a new dagger to the man who rips him apart!”

  For the Boy was something more than a boy – as you’ll probably have guessed. Inside, he knew the Straits of Magellan as you know the nose on your face. Honest mariners paled at his fame, his deeds were a byword in seven seas. He could sack a dozen ships in a morning and bury the treasure so cleverly that even he could not find it.

  To a passer-by it might have seemed that the Boy had two good eyes. But in his own private opinion, he was only possessed of one. He had lost the other in a hand-to-hand fight somewhere off Gibraltar. His everyday name always made him smile when people called him by it. “If they knew who I really am,” he would say, “they wouldn’t look so cheerful!”

  As for the Monkey, he believed he was nothing like a monkey.

  “This old fur coat,” he assured himself, “is simply to keep me warm. And I swing by my tail for the fun of it, not because I must.”

  Well, there they all were, one afternoon, full of their fine ideas. The sun spread over them like a fan, very warm and cosy. The meadow flowers hung on their stems, bright as newly washed china. Up in the sky the larks were singing – on and on, song without end, as though they were all wound up.

  The Goose-girl sat among her geese, the Swineherd with his swine. The Ass in his field, and the Toad in his hole, were nodding sleepily. And the Boy and his Monkey lolled on the bridge discussing their further plans for bloodshed.

  Suddenly the Ass snorted and his ear gave a questioning twitch. Larks were above and the brook beneath, but he heard among these daily sounds the echo of a footstep.

  Along the path that led to the stream a ragged man was lounging. His tattered clothes were so old that you couldn’t find one bit of them that wasn’t tied with string. The brim of his hat framed a face that was rosy and mild in the sunlight, and through the brim his hair stuck up in tufts of grey and silver. His steps were alternately light and heavy, for one foot wore an old boot and the other a bedroom slipper. You would have to look for a long time to find a shabbier man.

  But his shabbiness seemed not to trouble him – indeed he appeared to enjoy it. For he wandered along contentedly, eating a crust and a pickled onion and whistling between mouthfuls. Then he spied the group in the meadow, and stared, and his tune broke off in the middle.

  “A beautiful day!” he said politely, plucking the hat-brim from his head and bowing to the Goose-girl.

  She gave him a haughty, tossing glance, but the Tramp did not seem to notice it.

  “You two been quarrelling?” he asked, jerking his head at the Swineherd.

  The Goose-girl laughed indignantly. “Quarrelling? What a silly remark! Why, I do not even know him!”

  “Well,” said the Tramp, with a cheerful smile, “would you like me to introduce you?”

  “Certainly not!” She flung up her head. “How could I associate with a Swineherd? I’m a princess in disguise.”

  “Indeed?” said the Tramp, looking very surprised. “If that is the case, I must not detain you. I expect you want to be back at the Palace, getting on with your work.”

  “Work? What work?”The Goose-girl stared.

  It was now her turn to look surprised. Surely princesses sat upon cushions, with slaves to perform their least command.

  “Why, spinning and weaving. And etiquette! Practising patience and cheerfulness while unsuitable suitors beg for your hand. Trying to look as if you liked it when you hear, for the hundred-thousandth time, the King’s three silly riddles! Not many princesses – as you must know – have leisure to sit all day in the sun among a handful of geese!”

  “But what about wearing a pearly crown? And dancing till dawn with the Sultan’s son?”

  “Dancing? Pearls? Oh, my! Oh, my!” A burst of laughter broke from the Tramp, as he took from his sleeve a piece of sausage.

  “Those crowns are as heavy as lead or iron. You’d have a ridge in your head in no time. And a princess’s duty – surely you know? – is to dance with her father’s old friends first. Then the Lord Chamberlain. Then the Lord Chancellor. And, of course, the Keeper of the Seal. By the time you get round to the Sultan’s son, it’s late and he’s had to go home.”

  The Goose-girl pondered the Tramp’s words. Could he really be speaking the truth? All the goose-girls in all the stories were princesses in disguise. But oh, how difficult it sounded! What did one say to Lord Chamberlains? “Come here!” “Go there!” as one would to a goose? Spinning and wea
ving! Etiquette!

  Perhaps, taking everything into account, it might be better, the Goose-girl thought, simply to be a goose-girl.

  “Well, away to the Palace!” the Tramp advised her. “You’re wasting your time sitting here, you know! Don’t you agree?” he called to the Swineherd, who was listening from his side of the stream.

  “Agree with what?” said the Swineherd quickly, as though he hadn’t heard a word. “I never concern myself with goose-girls,” he added untruthfully. “It would not be fitting or suitable. I am a prince in disguise!”

  “You are?” cried the Tramp admiringly. “Then you’re occupying your time, I suppose, in getting up muscle to fight the Dragon.”

  The Swineherd’s damask cheek grew pale. “What dragon?” he asked in a stifled voice.

  “Oh, any that you chance to meet. All princes, as you yourself must know, have to fight at least one dragon. That is what princes are for.”

  “Two-headed?” enquired the Swineherd, gulping.

  “Two?” cried the Tramp. ‘Seven, you mean! Two-headed dragons are quite out of date.”

  The Swineherd felt his heart thump. Suppose, in spite of all the stories, instead of the prince killing the monster, the monster should kill the prince? He was not, you understand, afraid. But he wondered whether, after all, he were not a simple swineherd.

  “A fine lot of porkers you’ve got there!” The Tramp glanced appreciatively from the swine to his piece of sausage.

  A snort of disgust went up from the herd. A raggedy tramp to be calling them porkers!

  “Perhaps you are not aware,” they grunted, “that we are sheep in disguise!”

  “Oh, dear!” said the Tramp, with a doleful air. “I’m sorry for you, my friends!”

  “Why should you be sorry?” demanded the swine, sticking their snouts in the air.

  “Why? Surely you know that the people here are extremely partial to mutton! If they knew there was a flock of sheep – however disguised – in this meadow—” He broke off, shaking his head and sighing. Then he searched among his tattered rags, discovered a piece of plum cake and munched it sombrely.

  The swine, aghast, looked at each other. Mutton – what a frightful word! They had thought of themselves as graceful lambs prancing for ever in fields of flowers – never as legs of mutton. Would it not be wiser, they cogitated, to decide to be merely pigs?

  “Here, goosey-ganders!” chirruped the Tramp. He tossed his crumbs to the Goose-girl’s flock.

  The geese, as one bird, raised their heads and let out a snake-like hiss.

  “We’re swans!” they cackled in high-pitched chorus. And then, as he did not seem to believe them, they added the word, “Disguised!”

  “Well, if that’s the case,” the Tramp remarked, “you won’t be here very long. All swans, as you know, belong to the King. Dear me, what lucky birds you are! You will swim on the ornamental lake, and courtiers with golden scissors will clip your flying feathers. Strawberry jam on silver plates will be given you every morning. And not a care in the world will you have – not even the trouble of hatching your eggs, for these His Majesty eats for breakfast.”

  “What!” cried the geese. “No grubs? No goslings?”

  “Certainly not! But think of the honour!” The Tramp chuckled and turned away, bumping into a shaggy shape that was standing among the daisies.

  The geese stood rigid in the grass, staring at each other.

  Strawberry jam! Clipped wings! No hatching season! Could they have made a mistake, they wondered? Were they not, after all, just geese?

  From something that once had been a pocket the Tramp extracted an apple.

  “Pardon, friend!” he said to the Ass, as he took a juicy bite. “I’d offer you half – but you don’t need it. You’ve all this buttercup field.”

  The Ass surveyed the scene with distaste. “It may be all very well for donkeys, but don’t imagine,” he remarked, “that I’m such an ass as I look. As you may be interested to know, I’m an Arab steed in disguise!”

  “Indeed?”The Tramp looked very impressed. “How you must long, if that is so, for the country of your birth. Sandstorms! Mirages! Waterless deserts!”

  “Waterless?” The Ass looked anxious.

  “Well, practically. But that’s nothing to you. The way you Arab animals can live for weeks on nothing – nothing to eat, nothing to drink, nowhere to sleep – it’s wonderful!”

  “But what about all those oases? Surely grass grows there?”

  “Few and far between,” said the Tramp. “But what of that, my friend?

  The less you eat the faster you go! The less you drink the lighter you are! It only takes you half a jiffy to fling yourself down and shelter your master when his enemies attack!”

  “But,” cried the Ass, “in that case, I should be shot at first!”

  “Naturally,” the Tramp replied. “That’s why one admires you so – you noble Arab steeds. You’re ready to die at any moment!”

  The Ass rubbed his forehead against his leg. Was he ready to die at any moment? He could not honestly answer Yes. Weeks and weeks with nothing to eat! And here the buttercups and daisies were enough for a dozen asses. He might indeed be an Arab steed – but then again, he mightn’t. Up and down went his shaggy head as he pondered the difficult problem.

  “That’s for you, old Natterjack!” The Tramp tossed the core of his apple under the stepping-stone.

  “Don’t call me Natterjack!” snapped the Toad.

  “Puddocky, then, if you prefer it!”

  “Those are the names one gives to toads. I am a frog in disguise.”

  “Oh, happy creature!” the Tramp exclaimed. “Sitting on lily-leaves all night, singing a song to the moon.”

  “All night? I’d take my death of cold!”

  “Catching spiders and dragon-flies for the lady-frog of your choice!”

  “None for myself?” the Toad enquired.

  “A frog that would a-wooing go – and you are certainly such a one! – wouldn’t want to catch for himself!”

  The Toad was, however, not so sure. He liked a juicy spider. He was just deciding, after all, that he might as well be a toad, when – plop! – went a pebble right beside him and he hurriedly popped in his head.

  “Who threw that?” said the Tramp quickly.

  “I did,” came the answer from the bridge. “Not to hit him! Just to make him jump!”

  “Good boy!” The Tramp looked up with a smile. “A fine, friendly lad like you wouldn’t hurt a toad!”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. Or anything else. But don’t you call me boy or lad. I’m really a—”

  “Wait! Don’t tell me! Let me guess! An Indian? No – a pirate!”

  “That’s right!” said the Boy, with a curt nod, showing all the gaps in his teeth in a terrible pirate smile. “If you want to know my name,” he snarled, “just call me One-eyed Corambo!”

  “Got your cutlass?” the Tramp enquired. “Your skull and crossbones? Your black silk mask? Well, I shouldn’t hang about here any longer! Landlubbers aren’t worth robbing! Set your course away from the North. Make for Tierra del Fuego.”

  “Been there,” the Boy said loftily.

  “Well, any other place you like – no pirate lingers long on land. Have you been –” the Tramp lowered his voice – “have you been to Dead Man’s Drop?”

  The Boy smiled and shook his head.

  “That’s the place for me,” he cried, reaching for his monkey. “I’ll just go and say goodbye to my mother and – ”

  “Your mother! Did I hear aright? One-eyed Corambo hopping off to say goodbye to his mother! A pirate captain wasting time by running home – well, really!” the Tramp was overcome with amusement.

  The Boy looked at him doubtfully. Where, he wondered, was Dead Man’s Drop? How long would it take him to go and come? His mother would be anxious. And apart from that – as he’d reason to know – she was making pancakes for supper. It might be better, just for today, to be his o
uter self. Corambo could wait until tomorrow, Corambo was always there.

  “Taking your monkey along as a mascot?”The Tramp looked quizzically at the toy.

  He was answered by an angry squeal. “Don’t you call me a monkey!” it jabbered. “I’m a little boy in disguise!”

  “A boy!” cried the Tramp. “And not at school?”

  “School?” said the Monkey nervously. “ ‘Two and two make five,’ you mean, and all that sort of thing?”

  “Exactly,” said the Tramp gravely. “You’d better hurry along now before they find you’re missing. Here!” He scrabbled among his rags, drew two chocolates from under his collar, and offered one to the Monkey.

  But the little creature turned its back. School – he hadn’t bargained for that. Better, any day of the week, to be a moth-eaten monkey. He felt a sudden rush of love for his old fur coat and his glass eyes and his wrinkled jungle tail.

  “You take it, Corambo!” The Tramp grinned. “Pirates are always hungry.” He handed one chocolate to the Boy and ate the other himself.

  “Well,” he said, licking his lips, “time flies and so must I!” He glanced round at the little group and gave a cheerful nod.

  “So long!” He smiled at them rosily. And thrusting his hands among his rags, he brought out a piece of bread and butter, and sauntered away across the bridge.

  The Boy gazed after him thoughtfully, with a line across his brow. Then suddenly he threw up his hand.

  “Hey!” he cried.

  The Tramp paused.

  “What is your name? You never told us! Who are you?” said the Boy.

  “Yes, indeed!” came a score of voices. “Who are you?” the Goose-girl asked; and the Swineherd, the geese, the swine and the Ass echoed the eager question. Even the Toad put out his head and demanded: “Who are you?”

  “Me?” cried the Tramp, with an innocent smile. “If you really want to know,” he said, “I’m an angel in disguise.”

  He bowed to them amid his tatters and waved as he turned away.

  “Ha, ha, ha! A jolly good joke!”