Mary Poppins Comes Back

by P. L. Travers

  Basket and bag were both well stocked as though for some lengthy excursion. And, pushing the perambulator, was an upright figure with bright pink cheeks, bright blue eyes and a turned-up nose – a figure that to the Park Keeper was only too familiar.

  “Oh, no!” he muttered to himself. “Not at this hour, for Heaven’s sake! What’s she doing setting out when she ought to be going home?”

  He crossed the lawn and accosted the group.

  “Late, aren’t you?” he enquired, trying, as far as he could, to look friendly. If he had been some kind of dog, his tail would have given a modest wag.

  “Late for what?” Mary Poppins demanded, looking right through the Park Keeper as though he were a window.

  He quailed visibly. “Well, what I meant to say was – you’re sort of upside down, so to speak.”

  The blue eyes grew a shade bluer. He could see he had offended her.

  “Are you accusing me,” she enquired, “a well-brought-up respectable person, of standing on my head?”

  “No, no, of course not. Not on your head. Not like an acrobat. Nothing like that.”

  The Park Keeper, thoroughly muddled, was now afraid that he himself was the one that was upside down.

  “It just that it’s sort of late in the day, the time when you’re usually coming back – tea and bed and that sort of thing. And here you are, sallying forth, as though you were off on a jaunt.” He eyed the bulging bag and basket. “With all and sundry, so to speak.”

  “We are. We’re having a supper picnic.” Jane pointed to the basket. “There’s plenty of everything in here. You never know when a friend will appear – so Mary Poppins says.”

  “And we’re staying up for hours and hours,” said Michael, swinging his bag.

  “A supper picnic!” The Park Keeper winced. He had never heard of such a thing. And was it even permitted, he wondered. His list of Bye-laws raced through his head and he promptly gave it tongue.

  “Observe the Rules!” he warned the group. “All Litter to be placed in the proper containers. No eggshells left lying about on the grass.”

  “Are we cuckoos,” demanded Mary Poppins, “to be scattering eggs in every direction?”

  “I meant hard-boiled,” said the Park Keeper. “There never was a picnic, ever, that didn’t have hard-boiled eggs. And where are you going, might I ask?” If the picnic was to be in the Park, he felt he had a right to know.

  “We’re off to—” Jane began eagerly.

  “That will do, Jane,” said Mary Poppins. “We will not hob-nob with strangers.”

  “But I’m no stranger!” The Park Keeper stared. “I’m here every day and Sundays. You know me. I’m the Park Keeper.”

  “Then why aren’t you wearing your hat?” she demanded, giving the perambulator such a forceful push that if the Park Keeper had not jumped backwards, it would have run over his foot.

  “Step along, please!” said Mary Poppins. And the little cavalcade stepped along, orderly and purposeful.

  The Park Keeper watched till it disappeared, with a swish of Mary Poppins’ new sprigged dress, behind the rhododendrons.

  “Hob-nob!” he spluttered. “Who does she think she is, I wonder?”

  There was no one at hand to answer that question and the Park Keeper dismissed it. Uppity – that’s what she was, he thought. And no great bargain to look at either. She could go where she liked for all he cared – the Long Walk led to all sorts of places: the Zoo, St Paul’s, even the River – it might be any of them. Well, he couldn’t patrol the whole of London. His job was to see to the Park. So, ready for any misdemeanour, he cast a vigilant eye about him.

  “Hey, you!” he shouted warningly, as the tall man who had washed his face in the fountain bent down to smell a rose – and picked it! “No Picking of Flowers allowed in the Park. Obey the Rules. Remember the Bye-laws!”

  “I could hardly forget them,” the tall man answered. “Considering I was the one who made them.”

  “Ha, ha! You made them! Very funny!” The Park Keeper laughed a mirthless laugh.

  “Well, some of them, I admit, are funny. They often make me chuckle. But, have you forgotten, it’s Midsummer’s Eve? Nobody keeps the Bye-laws tonight. And I myself don’t have to keep them, now or at any time.”

  “Oh, no? And who do you fancy you are then?”

  “One doesn’t fancy. One just knows. It’s the kind of thing one can’t forget. I’m the Prime Minister.”

  The Park Keeper flung back his head and guffawed. “Not in that silly cap, you’re not. Prime Ministers wear black shiny hats and white stripes down their trousers.”

  “Well, I’ve been having a game of cricket. I know it’s too small. I’ve grown out of it. But you can’t wear a top hat when you’re batting – or bowling, for that matter.”

  “I see. And now you’ve had your little game, you’re off to visit the King, I suppose?”The Park Keeper was sarcastic.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I am. An important letter arrived from the Palace as I was leaving home. Now, where did I put the wretched thing? Drat these skimpy flannel pockets! Not in this one, not in that. Can I have lost it? Ah, now I remember!” He wrenched off the offending cap and took from within it an envelope sealed with a large gold crown.

  “DEAR PRIME MINISTER,” he read out. “IF YOU HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO, PLEASE COME OVER TO DINNER. LOBSTER, TRIFLE, SARDINES ON TOAST. I AM THINKING OF MAKING A FEW NEW LAWS AND WOULD BE SO GLAD OF A CHAT.”

  “There! What did I tell you? And tonight of all nights! One never gets a moment’s peace. I don’t mind the chat, that’s part of my job. But I can’t stand lobster. It upsets my digestion. Oh, well, I’ll have to go, I suppose. Bye-laws can always be by-passed, but Laws have to be kept. And anyway,” he said haughtily, folding his arms and looking important, “what has it got to do with you? A perfect stranger accosting me and telling me – me! – not to pick the roses! That’s the Park Keeper’s business.”

  “I-I am the Park Keeper,” the Park Keeper said, shuddering from head to foot as he stared at the regal letter. He had made a terrible mistake and he trembled to think where it might lead him.

  The Prime Minister lifted his monocle, screwed it firmly into his eye and regarded the figure before him.

  “I am shocked!” he said sombrely. “Even stupefied. Almost, I might say, speechless. A public servant in a public place failing to array himself in the uniform provided! I don’t know when I have been so displeased. And what, pray, have you done with your hat?”

  “I-I dropped it in a Litter-basket.”

  “A Litter-basket! A receptacle for orange peel! An employee of the County Council who thinks so little of his hat that he throws it into a – well, really! This kind of thing must not go on. It would bring the country to the verge of ruin. I shall speak to the Lord Mayor.”

  “Oh, please, Your Honour, it just happened. A little slip when my mind was elsewhere. I’ll go through the litter tomorrow and find it. Not the Lord Mayor, Your Worship, please! Think of my poor old mother.”

  “You should have thought of her yourself. Park Keepers are paid to think. To keep their minds here, not elsewhere. And not to let things just happen. However, as it is Midsummer’s Eve – only once a year, after all.” The Prime Minister glared at his watch. “Dear me, it’s far too late for conditions. You’ll just have to solve the problem yourself. I must hurry home and change my trousers.”

  He bent down to pick up his bat. “You a married man?” he enquired, glancing up at the Park Keeper.

  “No, my lord, my Prime – er, no.”

  “Neither am I.A pity, that. Not from my own point of view, of course. But to think that there’s someone dreaming of me – putting a bunch of herbs under her pillow – Lad’s Love, Lavender, Creeping Jenny – and then not finding me, poor woman. Alas, alas, what a disappointment! Tonight of all nights – you understand.”

  And he strode off, swinging his bat and his rose, his white trousers riding up from his ankles as th
ough they had shrunk in the wash.

  The Park Keeper did not understand. Who would be disappointed, and why? What was so special about tonight – except the fact that everyone seemed to be breaking the Bye-laws; using the Public Park as though it were their own back yard? And who could that be, he asked himself, as a curious figure, walking backwards, feet uncertainly feeling their way, came staggering through the Lane Gate?

  It was Ellen from Number Seventeen, Cherry Tree Lane, moving like a sleep-walker, eyes closed, arms outstretched before her, meandering over the newly turfed lawn that he had mown this morning.

  The Park Keeper braced himself. He would not stand meekly by while the Rules were not only not being Observed but illegally flouted. Come what might, this was something he would have to deal with, even without a hat. His eyes fell on a small object lying limply beside the fountain. It was the Prime Minister’s cricketing cap, left behind, apparently, when he hurried off to change his trousers. The Park Keeper seized it gratefully. At least his head would be covered.

  “Look where you’re going! Be careful, Miss Ellen! Beware of swings and see-saws and such. Steer clear of benches, borders and baskets.” He strode towards her shouting his warnings.

  Slowly, carefully, sometimes sneezing, Ellen came backing in his direction. Then, just as she was almost upon him, the Policeman, suddenly spying her, neatly inserted himself between them and Ellen landed with a bump against his blue serge jacket.

  “Oh!” she cried joyfully, as she turned about and opened her eyes. “I hoped it might be you– and it is! What if I had made a mistake and bumped into the wrong one!”

  “What, indeed!” The Policeman beamed. “But you didn’t. And I’m the right one, see, and no mistake about it.”

  “It is a mistake to do things like that. You might have knocked someone over or got yourself a broken leg. And then who’d be to blame? Me! No Backing allowed in a Public Park!” the Park Keeper warned her sternly.

  “But I have to. It’s Midsummer’s Eve – atishoo! And if you walk backwards on Midsummer’s Eve, after putting a herb or two under your pillow – Marjoram, Sweet Basil, no matter what – you’ll back into your own true love as sure as nuts are nuts. Unless it’s a gooseberry bush – atishoo! If it is, you have to wait till next year. To try again, I mean.”

  “Well, I’m no gooseberry bush, am I?”The Policeman took her hand in his. “So you won’t have to wait till next year, will you?” He tucked his arm through hers.

  “But what if you never bump into someone? What if it’s always a gooseberry bush?” the Park Keeper demanded. It might be an Old Wives’ Tale she was telling. But with these, he knew, you had to be careful. Unwise to make a mock of them: they were apt to turn out to be true.

  “Oh, it’s got to be someone someday – atishoo! There aren’t all that many gooseberry bushes. And then there’s the cucumber, don’t forget!”

  “What cucumber?” Was this some further silliness? Were they trying to make a fool of him?

  “You don’t know anything, do you?” said Ellen. “Didn’t your Grandmother tell you nothing? Mine told it to me and hers told her. And her Grandmother told it to her, and away and away, right back to Adam.”

  He had been right, the Park Keeper thought. It was an Old Wives’ Tale!

  “Well, this is what you do,” said Ellen. “You rub the juice behind your ears, close your eyes, put out your arms and then start walking backwards. It might be a long time or a short. Atishoo!” She paused to blow her nose. “But at last, if you’re lucky, you meet your True Love.”

  She gave the Policeman a blushing glance. “It’s witchy,” she added, “very witchy. But – you’ll see! – it’s worth it.”

  “Nothing like cucumber!” the Policeman grinned. “Luckiest vegetable in the world! Well, you’ve met yours and I’ve met mine. So the next thing is to name the day. How about next Thursday?”

  He took Ellen firmly by the hand and led her away across the grass, tossing aside, as he did so, a spill of toffee paper.

  The Park Keeper sighed as he picked it up and gazed after the lovers.

  What was to be his lot, he wondered. The world went strolling past in pairs, two by two, hand in hand. Would such a thing ever happen to him? Had herbs been tucked under someone’s pillow in the hope of meeting Frederick Smith, the Park Keeper? Would anyone – Snow White, say, or Cinderella – hide her face in his serge jacket?

  The sun had now laggardly slipped away, leaving behind the long blue twilight – not day, not night, but something in between – the hour that is thronged with fate.

  The Prime Minister had disappeared and was even now, very likely, taking his top hat out of its hat box. Everyone else, apparently, was bent on their own affairs, even if those very affairs were ruining the Park. No one, as far as the Park Keeper could see, was looking in his direction.

  What if – it was nonsense, of course – but what if he gave the thing a try? It certainly wouldn’t do any harm. And it might, oh it might—! He crossed his fingers.

  Straightening his blue flannel cap, the Park Keeper glanced furtively round, slipped a hand into his pocket and brought out the crumbling remains of his lunch – a scrap of cucumber sandwich. Cautiously, stealthily, he rubbed the scrap behind each ear and felt the juice of the cucumber as it trickled down into his collar. He summoned up his determination and drew a long, deep breath.

  “Good luck, Fred!” he said to himself. Then he closed his eyes, stretched out his arms in front of him and began to walk slowly backwards. Easy now! Step by step. He gave himself to the twilight.

  He seemed to be in another world. The Park he knew had dissolved itself into the darkness behind his eyes. Voices that had been near and lively grew faint and faded away. Distant music was wafted to him by people singing in chorus – old songs he seemed to have known as a boy, dreamy, gentle as lullabies. And somewhere a hurdy-gurdy was playing. Bert, the Match Man, of course!

  Tch, tch! NO MUSICIANS OR HAWKERS ALLOWED IN THE PARK! But now the Bye-laws would have to wait. He had something else to do. From the right – or was it the left of him? – came the sound of splashing water. Oh, why wouldn’t people look at the notice? NO SWIMMING PERMITTED IN THE LAKE. But perhaps it was just the fish rising, which was what they did at this hour of the day. You couldn’t really blame them for that. Fish, after all, can’t read.

  On, on. His feet felt the bending grass beneath them and the spreading roots of trees. The scent of dandelions rose to his nose, something like dandelions brushed his boots. Where was he? In the Wild Garden? He could not tell and dared not look. If he opened his eyes, he might break the spell. On, on. Backward, backward. His destiny was leading him.

  And now about him were whispering voices, rustlings and stirrings and stifled laughter.

  “Hurry, you boys!” urged a man’s deep voice that seemed to come from far above him. “We haven’t got much time!”

  Good Heavens, thought the Park Keeper. Were people actually up in the trees, breaking the branches as well as the Bye-laws? Never mind. He had to go on.

  “We’re coming!” piping voices answered, from the height of the Park Keeper’s shoulder. “It’s the others who are lagging behind. Come on, Foxy! And you too, Bear! Why must you always be such a slowcoach?”

  Foxes? Bears? The Park Keeper trembled. Could it be that the Keeper of the Zoological Gardens, bewitched by this thing called Midsummer’s Eve, had left the cages open? Might he himself, at any moment, be confronted with a jungle beast, a tiger burning bright?

  “Oh, help!” he cried, leaping aside, as a furry form brushed his ankle. Not a tiger, he thought, too small and fleecy. A rabbit, it must be, a wild rabbit. No rabbits allowed in the Public Parks. He would set a trap tomorrow.

  There were scurryings now all about him and a sudden swoop and clap of wings as an airy shape flew past.

  Something that felt like a cherry-stone rapped on his cap and bounced away. It was as though it had been spat out by someone much taller than himself, imagi
ning him – the Park Keeper – to be a Litter-basket. He was humming, this someone, as he strode by, a refrain that sounded familiar. Could it, perhaps, be Pop Goes the Weasel? If so, it was out of tune.

  The humming died away behind him. All was silent. The world was still, his footsteps the only thing that moved.

  The Park Keeper felt lost and lonely. His outstretched arms were beginning to ache. His eyes were weary of seeing nothing.

  Even so, back and back he went. All things come to an end, he knew. And he would not fail whoever it was who was dreaming her Midsummer dream.

  Blindly stumbling, backwards, backwards. And, after hours, it seemed, and miles – was he even still in the Park? – he heard about him a distant murmur: nothing festive, no great clamour, merely the friendly, sociable chatter of people at one with each other.

  The murmur grew louder as he neared it. Somebody laughed. Voices were raised and then lowered. Conversation went back and forth. How beautiful, the Park Keeper thought, was the sound of human gossip! Whoever these people were, he was sure, the longed-for “she” would be among them. At last, at last, his fate was upon him. The time had come when he, Fred Smith, like everybody else in the world, would go hand in hand, two by two.

  Nearer and nearer came the voices. How many more backward steps were needed? Three would do it, the Park Keeper thought. He took them slowly. One. Two. Three.

  And suddenly – bump! There she was! His spine sensed the shape of a curving shoulder, slender and warm, and his heart leapt. All he need do now was turn and face her. He swivelled round upon his heel and a firm hand thrust him sideways.

  “I’ll thank you not to behave like a carthorse. I am not a lamp-post!” said Mary Poppins.

  The voice was only too well known and the Park Keeper, still with his eyes closed, let out a cry of protest.

  “Never no luck for me,” he wailed. “I might have known it wouldn’t work. Here I come, looking for my True Love, and I have to bump into a gooseberry bush!”