Mary Poppins Comes Back

by P. L. Travers

  “Oh, Fred! Don’t tell me it’s the—! Well, wish again, please, wherever you are! I haven’t all day to waste.”

  “All right! I’m coming! No need for excitement!”

  The violins played a stave of music. Then, out of the air – as it seemed to the children – came two short legs clad in baggy trousers. They were followed by a body in an old frock-coat. And last of all came a long white beard, a wrinkled face with glasses on its nose, and a bald head in a smoking cap.

  “Really, Cousin Fred!” said Mary Poppins crossly. “You’re old enough to know better!”

  “Nonsense, Mary!” said Mr Twigley, beaming. “Nobody’s ever old enough to know better! I’m sure you agree with me, young man!” He looked at Michael with his twinkly eyes. And Michael couldn’t help twinkling back.

  “But where were you hiding?” he demanded. “You couldn’t have just come out of the air.”

  “Oh, yes, I could!” said Mr Twigley. “If I wished,” he added, as he skipped round the room.

  “You mean, you just wished – and you disappeared?”

  With a glance at the door, Mr Twigley nodded.

  “I had to – to get away from her!”

  “Why? What would she do to you?” asked Jane.

  “Why? Because she wants to marry me! She wants to get my wishes.”

  “Do you get everything you wish for?” asked Michael enviously.

  “Oh, everything. That is, if I wish on the first New Moon, after the Second Wet Sunday, after the Third of May. And she. . .” Mr Twigley waved at the door. “She wants me to wish for a Golden Palace and Peacock Pie every day for dinner. What would I do with a golden palace? All that I want is—”

  “Be careful, Fred!” warned Mary Poppins.

  Mr Twigley clapped his hand to his mouth. “Tut, tut! I really must remember! I’ve used up two wishes already!”

  “How many do you get?” asked Jane.

  “Seven,” said Mr Twigley, sighing. “My Godmother thought that a suitable number. I know the old lady meant it kindly. But I’d rather have a Silver Mug. More useful. And much less trouble.”

  “I’d rather have wishes,” said Michael stoutly.

  “Oh, no, you wouldn’t!” cried Mr Twigley. “They’re tricky. And hard to handle. You think out the loveliest things to ask for – then Supper Time comes and you’re feeling hungry and you find yourself wishing for Sausage and Mashed!”

  “What about the two you’ve already had? Were they any good?” demanded Michael.

  “Well, not bad, now I come to think of it. I was working on my Birdie there –” Mr Twigley nodded towards his bench – “when I heard her coming up the stairs. ‘Oh, goodness!’ I thought, ‘I wish I could vanish!’ And – when I looked round, I wasn’t there! It gave me quite a turn for a moment. No wonder she told you I was out!”

  Mr Twigley gave a happy cackle as he beamed at the children and swung his coat-tails. They had never seen such a twinkly person. He seemed to them more like a star than a man.

  “Then, of course,” Mr Twigley went on blandly, “I had to wish myself back again in order to see Mary Poppins! Now, Mary, what can I do for you?”

  “Mrs Banks would like her piano tuned, please, Fred. Number Seventeen, Cherry Tree Lane, opposite the Park,” Mary Poppins said primly.

  “They’re Jane and Michael Banks,” she explained, glancing at them with a look of disgust.

  “Delighted. I call this a very great honour!” Mr Twigley bowed and flung out his hands. “I wish I could offer you something to eat but I’m all at sixes and sevens today.”

  A flute rang gaily through the attic.

  “What’s this?” Mr Twigley staggered back. In each of his upturned outstretched hands lay a dish of Peaches-and-Cream.

  Mr Twigley stared. Then he sniffed at the peaches.

  “There goes my third wish!” he said ruefully, as he handed the dishes to the children. “Well, it can’t be helped. I’ve still got four more. And now I shall have to be really careful!”

  “If you must waste wishes, Cousin Fred, I wish you would waste them on Bread and Butter. You’ll spoil their Supper!” snapped Mary Poppins.

  Jane and Michael spooned up their peaches hurriedly. They were not going to give Mr Twigley the chance of wishing them away again.

  “And now,” said Mary Poppins, as the last mouthful disappeared, “say Thank You to Mr Twigley and we’ll get along home.”

  “Oh, no, Mary! Why, you’ve only just come!” Mr Twigley was so shocked that for once he stood quite still.

  “Oh, do stay a little longer, Mary Poppins!” Jane and Michael begged. The thought of leaving Mr Twigley all alone with his wishes was too much for them.

  Mr Twigley took Mary Poppins’ hand.

  “I feel so much safer when you’re here, Mary! And it’s ages since we’ve seen each other! Why not stay for a while – I wish you would!”

  Jug, jug, jug, jug!

  A shower of bird notes broke on the air. At the same moment the determined look on Mary Poppins’ face changed to a polite smile. She took off her hat and laid it on the bench beside the glue-pot.

  “Oh, my!” Mr Twigley gasped in horror. I’ve been and gone and done it again!”

  “That’s four!” cried Jane and Michael gaily, shouting with laughter at his look of surprise.

  Four, four, four, four! The bird notes echoed.

  “Dear me! How careless! I’m ashamed of myself!” For a moment Mr Twigley looked almost sad. Then his face and feet began to twinkle. “Well, it’s no good crying over spilt wishes. We must just take care of the ones that are left. I’m coming, my Duckling! I’m coming, my Chick!” he called in the direction of the bird notes.

  And, tripping to the carpenter’s bench, he took up the little polished box. His fingers touched a wooden spring. The lid flew open and the smallest, brightest bird the children had ever seen, leapt up from a nest of gold. Clear jets of music poured from its beak. Its small throat throbbed with the stream of notes.

  Jug, Jug, Jug, Jug – tereu! it sang. And when the burning song was ended the bird dropped back to its golden nest.

  “Oh, Mr Twigley, what bird is that?” Jane looked at the box with shining eyes.

  “A Nightingale,” Mr Twigley told her. “I was working on him when you came in. He has to be finished tonight, you see. Such lovely weather for nightingales.”

  “Why don’t you just wish?” suggested Michael. “Then you needn’t do any work.”

  “What! Wish on my Birdie? Certainly not! You see what happens when I start wishing. Why – he might turn into a Bald-headed Eagle!”

  “Will you keep him to sing to you always?” Jane asked enviously. She wished she could have a little bird like that.

  “Keep him? Oh, dear, no! I’ll set him free! Can’t litter the place up with finished work. I’ve more things to do than take care of a bird. I have to put figures on those. . .” he nodded to the half-finished musical boxes. “And I’ve got a rush order that must be finished – a music box playing ‘A Day in the Park’.”

  “A Day in the Park?” The children stared.

  “The Band, you know!” Mr Twigley explained. “And the sound of fountains. And gossiping ladies. Rooks caw-cawing, and children laughing, and the slow, soft murmur of trees as they grow.”

  Mr Twigley’s eyes glowed behind his spectacles as he thought of all the lovely things he would put in the musical box.

  “But you can’t hear trees growing,” protested Michael. “There’s no music for that!”

  “Tut!” said Mr Twigley impatiently. “Of course there is! There’s a music for everything. Didn’t you ever hear the earth spinning? It makes a sound like a humming-top. Buckingham Palace plays ‘Rule Britannia’; the River Thames is a drowsy flute. Dear me, yes! Everything in the world – trees, rocks and stars and human beings – they all have their own true music.”

  As he spoke, Mr Twigley tripped across the floor and wound up a musical box. Immediately the little platform at th
e top began to turn. And from within came a clear high piping like the sound of a penny whistle.

  “That’s mine!” said Mr Twigley proudly, as he cocked his head to listen. He wound up another musical box and a new tune fell on the air.

  “That’s ‘London Bridge is Falling Down!’ It’s my favourite song!” cried Michael.

  “What did I tell you?” smiled Mr Twigley, as he turned another handle. The tune broke gaily from the box.

  “That’s mine!” said Jane, with a crow of delight. “It’s ’Oranges and Lemons’.”

  “Of course it is!” twinkled Mr Twigley.

  And gaily seizing the children’s hands he swept them away across the attic. The three little platforms turned and spun and the three tunes mingled in the air.

  “London Bridge is Falling Down,

  Dance over, my Lady Leigh!”

  sang Michael.

  “Oranges and Lemons,

  Said the Bells of St. Clements”

  sang Jane.

  And Mr Twigley whistled like a happy blackbird.

  The feet of the children were light as wings as they danced to their own true music. Never before, they told themselves, had they felt so light and merry.

  Bang! The front door slammed and shook the house. Mr Twigley paused on one toe and listened. Thump! Thump! came the footsteps on the stairs. A loud voice rumbled across the landing.

  Mr Twigley gave a gasp of horror, and swung his coat-tails over his ears.

  “She’s coming!” he shrieked. “Oh, dear! Oh, my! I wish I were in a nice safe place!”

  A blast of music came from the trumpets. And then a strange thing happened.

  Mr Twigley, as though by an unseen hand, was snatched from the floor of the attic. Off he went, hurtling past the children, like a seed of thistledown tossed by the wind. Then choking and gasping, shaking and panting, he landed upon his musical box. He did not seem to have grown smaller nor the box larger. Yet, somehow, they fitted perfectly together.

  Round and round Mr Twigley spun and upon his face spread a smile of triumph.

  “I’m safe!” he yelled, as he waved to the children. “She’ll never catch me now!”

  “Hooray!” they were just about to shout, but the word was caught in their throats, like a hiccup. For something had seized them by the hair and was flinging them both across the attic. Their arms and legs went sprawling wildly as they landed upon their musical boxes. They wobbled a little for a moment, but soon they were steadily whirling round.

  “Oh!” panted Jane. “What a lovely surprise!”

  “I feel like a spinning top!” shouted Michael.

  Mr Twigley gave a little start and stared at them in astonishment.

  “Did I do that? Good Gracious me! I’m getting quite clever at wishing.”

  “Clever!” said Mary Poppins, sniffing. “Ridiculous – that’s what I call it!”

  “Well, at least it’s safe,” said Mr Twigley. “And rather pleasant. Why don’t you try it!”

  “Wish!” urged Michael, with a wave of his hand.

  “Ah! She doesn’t need to,” said Mr Twigley, with a curious glance at Mary Poppins.

  “Well, if you insist. . .” she said with another sniff. And placing her two feet neatly together she rose from the floor and swept past the rafters. Then, without a smile, not even a wobble, she alighted upon a musical box. Immediately, though no one had wound it, the tune broke gaily out.

  “Round and round the Cobbler’s bench,

  The Monkey chased the Weasel,

  The Monkey said it was all in fun –

  Pop goes the Weasel!”

  it sang.

  And round and round went Mary Poppins, as calmly as though she had turned and spun from the very day she was born.

  “Now we’re all together!” Jane cried happily. She glanced at the window and waved her hand to draw Michael’s attention.

  Outside in the street the little houses were revolving on their foundations. Above in the sky spun two white clouds. And the attic itself, like the musical boxes, was turning round and round.

  But loudly though the four tunes rang, another sound could be heard above them. Thump! Thump! The heavy steps came nearer.

  And the next moment somebody banged on the door.

  “Open, I say, in the name of the Law!” cried a voice that was somehow familiar.

  A strong hand twisted the rickety lock. And then, with a crash, the door burst open. On the threshold stood Mrs Clump and the Policeman. They stared. Their eyes popped. Their mouths fell open with astonishment.

  “Well, of all the shameful sights!” cried Mrs Clump. “I never thought to see this house turned into an Amusement Park!” She shook her fist at Mary Poppins. “You’re going to get your reward, my girl. The Policeman here will deal with you! And as for you, Mr Twigley, down you get from that silly razzle-dazzle and comb your hair and put on your hat. We’re going off to be married!”

  Mr Twigley shuddered. But he swung his coat-tails jauntily.

  “Don’t shout and thump

  Please, Mrs Clump,

  It makes me jump!”

  he sang as he sped round. The Policeman took out notebook and pencil.

  “Come on! Stop spinning, all of you. I’m as giddy as a Garden Goat. And I want an Explanation!”

  Mr Twigley gave a gleeful cackle.

  “You’ve come to the wrong place, Officer dear! I’ve never yet made an Explanation. And what’s more, as I used to say to my boy, Methuselah, I don’t believe in ’em!”

  “Now, now, joking’ll only make things worse. You can’t tell me you’re Methuselah’s father!” The Policeman smiled a knowing smile.

  “Grandfather!” Mr Twigley retorted, as he sailed gracefully round.

  “Now, that’s enough. You just come down! This spinning and twirling is bad for the ’Ealth. And not permitted in Private Dwellings. ’Ere! ’Oo’s that pulling me! Let me go!” The Policeman gave a frightened shriek as he shot off his feet and through the air. A music box broke into noisy song as he dropped like a stone upon it.

  “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do!

  I’ve gone crazy, all for the love of you!”

  it shouted.

  “’Elp! ’Elp! It’s me – PC 32 calling!” The Policeman wildly snatched at his whistle and blew a resounding blast.

  “Officer!” shouted Mrs Clump. “You do your duty or I’ll have the Law on you too. Get down and arrest that woman!” She thrust a huge finger at Mary Poppins. “I’ll have you put behind bars, my girl. I’ll have you – Here! Stop spinning me round!” Her eyes grew wide with angry amazement. For a curious thing was happening.

  Slowly, on the spot where she stood, Mrs Clump began to revolve. She had no musical box, no platform, she simply went round and round on the floor. The boards gave a loud protesting creak as the huge shape turned upon them.

  “Well, that’s fixed you!” cried Mr Twigley.

  “Try and jump

  Dear Mrs Clump!”

  he advised her, with a gleeful shriek.

  A shudder of horror shook Mrs Clump as she tried to move her large black boots. She struggled. She writhed. She wriggled her body. But her feet were firmly glued to the floor.

  “Clever girl, Mary! I’d never have thought it!” Mr Twigley smiled at Mary Poppins with pride and admiration.

  “This is your doing – you wilful, wicked, cold-hearted Varmint!” Mrs Clump gave an angry shout as she tried to clutch at Mary Poppins. “But I’ll get even with you yet – or my name’s not Sarah Clump!”

  “It’ll never be Twigley, anyway!” shrieked Mr Twigley joyously.

  “I want to go home! I want the Police Station!” wailed the Policeman, spinning madly.

  “Well, nobody’s keeping you, I’m sure!” said Mary Poppins, sniffing. As she spoke the Policeman’s box came to a standstill and he stumbled off it, panting.

  “Scotland Yard!” he cried, staggering to the door. “I must see the Chief! I must make a Report.” An
d, blowing a frantic peal on his whistle, he fled downstairs and out of the house.

  “Come back, you Villain!” screamed Mrs Clump. “He’s gone!” she went on, as the front door banged. “Oh, what shall I do? Help! Murder! Fire!”

  Her face grew red as she tried to free herself. But it was no good. Her feet were firmly fixed to the floor, and she flung out her arms with a cry of anguish.

  “Mr Twigley!” she begged. “Please help me, sir! I’ve always cooked you tasty meals. I’ve always kept you clean and tidy. You won’t have to marry me, I promise. If you’ll only wish for something to set me free!”

  “Be careful, Fred!” warned Mary Poppins, as she twirled in a dignified manner.

  “A Wish in Time saves Nine! Now let me think!” murmured Mr Twigley.

  He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Jane and Michael could see he was making an effort to wish Something Really Useful. For a moment he spun round, deep in thought. Then he looked up, smiling, and clapped his hands.

  “Mrs Clump,” he cried gaily. “You shall be free! I wish for you a Golden Palace and Peacock Pie every day for dinner. But –” he winked across at Mary Poppins – “my kind of palace, Mrs Clump! And my kind of pie!”

  A roll of drums boomed through the attic.

  Mrs Clump looked at Mary Poppins and smiled a smile of triumph.

  “Aha!” she said smugly. “What did I tell you?”

  But even as she spoke the proud smile faded. It changed to a look of purest terror.

  For Mrs Clump was no longer a large fat woman. Her buxom body was rapidly shrinking. Her feet as they spun on the creaking floor grew smaller with every turn.

  “What’s this?” she panted. “Oh, what can it be?” Her arms and legs grew short and skinny as her figure dwindled to half its size.

  “Police! Fire! Murder! SOS!” Her voice grew thinner as she shrank.

  “Oh, Mr Twigley! What have you done? Police! Police!” squeaked the tiny voice.

  As she spoke the floor gave an angry heave and flung her, spinning, into the air. She bounced back with a frantic shriek and stumbled away across the room. And as she ran she grew smaller than ever and her movement more and more jerky. One moment she was the size of a kitten and the next no bigger than a small-sized mouse. Away she went, stumbling and bouncing and tripping, till at the end of the attic she dashed into a tiny golden palace that had suddenly appeared.