Mary Poppins Comes Back

by P. L. Travers

  “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 not 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 leant 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 finger-nail. 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 ham in a pink ham-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 ham. “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 a delicious broth!”

  “They would 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 spend 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.

  What had happened? Had Mr Mo grown taller, or was it that she herself had dwindled? It was Michael who answered the question.

  “Jane! Jane!” he cried. “We’re in your Park. I thought it was just a tiny patch, but now it’s as big as the world!”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Mr Mo observed. “It only stretches as far as the forest, but it’s big enough for us.”

  Michael turned, at his words, towards the woodland. It was dense and wild and mysterious, and some of the trees had giant blooms.

  “Daisies the size of umbrellas!” he gasped. “And bluebells large enough to bathe in!”

  “Yes, it’s a wonderful wood,” Mr Mo agreed, eyeing the forest with a carpenter’s eye. “My – er – second wife wants me to cut it down and sell it to make my fortune. But this is a Park for Poor People. What would I do with a fortune? My own idea – but that was before the wedding, of course – was to build a little Fun Fair—”

  “I thought of that too,” Jane broke in, smiling.

  “Well, happy minds think alike, you know! What do you say to a Merry-Go-Round? A Coconut-shy, and some Swinging-boats? And free to all, friends and strangers alike? Hurrah, I knew you’d agree with me!” He clapped his hands excitedly. But suddenly the eager look died away from his face.

  “Oh, it’s no good planning,” he went on sadly. “She doesn’t approve of Fun Fairs – too frivolous and no money in them. What a terrible mistake I’ve made – married in haste to repent at leisure! But it’s no good crying over spilt milk!”

  Mr Mo’s eyes brimmed up with tears, and Jane was just about to offer him her handkerchief when a clatter of feet sounded on the lawn and his face suddenly brightened.

  “Papa!” cried a trio of squeaky voices. And three little figures sprang over the path and flung themselves into his arms. They were all alike, as peas in a pod; and the image of their father.

  “Papa, we caught an Indian! We caught him by the toe, Papa! But he hollered, Papa, so we let him go!”

  “Quite right, my lads!” smiled Mr Mo. “He’ll be happier in the forest.”

  “Indians?” Michael’s eyes widened. “Among those daisy-trees?”

  “He was looking for a squaw, Papa, to take care of his wigwam.”

  “Well, I hope he finds one,” said Mr Mo. “Oh, yes, of course there are Indians! And goodness only knows what else. Quite like a jungle, you might say. We never go very far in, you know. Much too dangerous. But – let me introduce my sons. This is Eenie, this is Meenie, and this is Mynie!”

  Three pairs of blue eyes twinkled, three point
ed noses turned up to the sky, and three round faces grinned.

  “And these. . .” said Mr Mo, turning. Then he chuckled and flung up his hands. “Well! Here we are, old friends already, and I don’t even know your names!”

  They told him, shaking hands with his children.

  “Banks? Not the Banks of Cherry Tree Lane? Why, I’m doing a job for you!” Mr Mo rummaged in his tool-bag.

  “What kind of job?” demanded Michael.

  “It’s a new – ah, there you are, Mrs Hickory!”

  Mr Mo turned and waved a greeting as a dumpy little feminine figure came hurrying towards them. Two dimples twinkled in her cheeks, two rosy babies bounced in her arms, and she carried in her loop-up apron a large, bulky object.

  “But she had no children!” said Jane to herself, as she stared at the two fat babies.

  “We’ve brought you a present, Mr Mo!” Mrs Hickory blushed and opened her apron. “I found this lovely loaf on the lawn – somebody dropped it, I expect. My twins – this is Dickory, this is Dock,” she explained to the astonished children – “are far too young to eat fresh bread. So here it is for the breakfast!”

  “That’s not a loaf, it’s a sponge-cake crumb. I dropped it myself,” said Michael. But he could not help feeling that the crumb was a good deal larger than he remembered it.

  “Tee-hee!”

  Mrs Hickory giggled shyly and her dimples went in and out. You could see she thought he was joking and that she liked being joked with.

  “A neighbourly thought!” said Mr Mo. “Let’s cut it in two and have half each. Half a loaf’s better than no bread! And, in return, Mrs Hickory, may I give you a speck of butter?”

  “Indeed you may NOT!” said a furious voice. And the door of Mr Mo’s house burst open.

  Jane and Michael fell back a pace. For there stood the largest and ugliest woman they had ever seen in their lives. She seemed to be made of a series of knobs, rather like a potato. A knob of a nose, a knob of hair, knobbly hands, knobbly feet, and her mouth had only two teeth.

  She was more like a lump of clay than a human being and Jane was reminded of the scrap of Plasticine that had lain behind the summer-house. A dingy pinafore covered her body and in one of her large, knobbly hands she held a rolling-pin.

  “May I ask what you think you’re doing, Samuel? Giving away my butter?”