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.”