He turned to his work again with a sigh and the lawn-mower went up and down with a steady, sleepy drone. At the last stripe, where the lawn ended in the Rose Garden, he glanced cautiously round. Now was the moment, he felt, if there was nobody about to report him to the Lord Mayor, to take a little rest.
The Rose Garden was a ring of rose-beds enclosing a little green space. In the middle was a pool, and in the pool stood a fountain of white marble shaped like an open rose.
The Park Keeper peered through the flowering bushes. There, by the fountain, lay Jane and Michael. And just beyond the Rose Garden, on a marble seat, sat an elderly gentleman. He seemed to have forgotten his hat, for his bald head was sheltered from the sun by a peaked cap made of newspaper. His nose was deep in an enormous book, which he was reading with the aid of a magnifying–glass. He muttered to himself as he turned the pages.
Jane and Michael too, had a book. And Jane’s voice mingled with the sound of the fountain as she read aloud to Michael. It was a peaceful scene.
“Quiet for once,” the Park Keeper murmured. “I shall just snatch Forty Winks!” And he lay down cautiously among the bushes hoping that if anyone passed they would mistake him for a rose.
Had he looked in the other direction he might have thought better of behaving so recklessly. For, away under the wisterias, pushing the perambulator backwards and forwards in a rhythmic, soothing movement, was Mary Poppins.
Creak, creak, went the wheels.
Whimper, whimper, went Annabel, who was cutting her first tooth.
“Shoo now! Shoo now!” murmured Mary Poppins, in an absent-minded voice.
She was thinking about her new pink blouse, with the lace-edged handkerchief stuck in the pocket. How nicely it harmonised, she thought, with the tulip in her hat. And she could not help wishing there were more people in the Park to appreciate the spectacle. On every bench and under every tree there should have been an admiring onlooker. “There’s that charming Miss Poppins,” she imagined them saying, “always so neat and respectable!”
But there were only a few scattered strangers hurrying along the paths and taking no notice of anybody.
She could see the Policeman forlornly gazing up at the windows of Number Seventeen. And the fat man with the large cigar who, in spite of all the Park Keeper’s warnings, was walking on the grass. She prinked a little as Bert, the Match Man, biting into a rosy apple, came sauntering through the Gate. Perhaps he was looking for her, she thought, smoothing her neat black gloves.
She could also see Miss Lark, whose two dogs were taking her for an afternoon run. They rushed down the Long Walk laughing and barking, while Miss Lark, with the two leads in her hands, came tumbling behind. Her hat was over one ear and her scarf flapped about like a flag in the breeze. Gloves and spectacles scattered from her, and her necklaces and beads and bracelets were swinging in all directions.
Mary Poppins sniffed. Miss Lark, she thought, was not so tidy as somebody she could mention! She smiled a small self-satisfied smile and went on rocking Annabel.
Now that the lawn-mower was silent, there was hardly a sound in the Park. Only the music of the fountain and Jane’s voice coming to the end of a story.
“So that,” she concluded, “was the end of the Witch. And the King and the Maiden were married next day and lived happily ever after.”
Michael sighed contentedly and nibbled a leaf of clover.
Away beyond the Rose Garden, the elderly gentleman took off his glasses, spread his handkerchief over his face and dozed on the marble seat.
“Go on, Jane. Don’t stop!” urged Michael. “Read another one.”
Jane turned the pages of The Silver Fairy Book. It was worn and faded, for its life had been long and busy. Once it had belonged to Mrs Banks, and before that it had been given to her mother by her mother. Many of the pictures had disappeared and the drawings had all been coloured with crayons, either by Jane and Michael or by their mother. Perhaps, even, by their Grandmother too.
“It’s so hard to choose,” Jane murmured, for she loved every one of the stories.
“Well, read wherever it falls open – the way you always do!”
She closed the book, held it between her hands for a second, and then let it go. With a little thud it fell on the grass and opened right in the middle.
“Hooray!” said Michael. “It’s The Three Princes.” And he settled himself to listen.
“Once upon a time,” read Jane, “there lived a King who had three sons. The eldest was Prince Florimond, the second Prince Veritain, and the third Prince Amor. Now, it so happened that—”
“Let me see the picture!” interrupted Michael.
It was a drawing he particularly liked, for he and Jane had coloured it one rainy afternoon. The Princes were standing at the edge of a forest and the branches that spread above their heads bore fruit and flowers together. A saddled Unicorn stood beside them, with its rein looped round the arm of the eldest.
Prince Florimond was in green crayon with a purple cap. Prince Veritain had an orange jerkin and his cap was scarlet. And little Prince Amor was all in blue, with a golden dagger stuck in his belt. Chrome-coloured ringlets fell about the shoulders of the two elder brothers. And the youngest, who was bareheaded, had a yellow circlet of short curls, rather like a crown.
As for the Unicorn, he was silvery white from mane to tail – except for his eyes, which were the colour of forget-me-nots; and his horn, which was striped with red and black.
Jane and Michael gazed down at the page and smiled at the pictured children. And the three Princes smiled up from the book and seemed to lean forward from the forest.
Michael sighed. “If only I had a dagger like Amor’s. It would just be about my size.”
A breeze rustled the trees of the Park and the coloured drawing seemed to tremble.
“I never can choose between Florimond and Veritain,” Jane murmured. “They are both so beautiful.”
The fountain gave a laughing ripple and an echo of laughter seemed to come from the book.
“I’ll lend it to you!” said the youngest Prince, whipping the dagger from his belt.
“Why not choose us both?” cried the two eldest, stepping forward on to the lawn.
Jane and Michael caught their breath. What had happened? Had the painted forest come to the Park? Or was it that the Rose Garden had gone into the picture? Are we there? Are they here? Which is which? they asked themselves, and could not give an answer.
“Don’t you know us, Jane?” asked Florimond, smiling.
“Yes, of course!” she gasped. “But – how did you get here?”
“Didn’t you see?” asked Veritain. “You smiled at us and we smiled at you. And the picture looked so shiny and bright – you and Michael and the painted roses—”
“So we jumped right into the story!” Amor concluded gaily.
“Out of it, you mean!” cried Michael. “We’re not a story. We’re real people. It’s you who are the pictures!”
The Princes tossed their curls and laughed.
“Touch me!” said Florimond.
“Take my hand!” urged Veritain.
“Here’s my dagger!” cried Amor.
Michael took the golden weapon. It was sharp and solid and warm from Amor’s body.
“Who’s real now?” Amor demanded. “Tuck it into your belt,” he said, smiling at Michael’s astonished face.