“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?”
She stepped forward angrily and flourished the rolling-pin.
“I-I thought we could spare it, my – er – dear!” Mr Mo quailed beneath her gaze.
“Not unless she pays for it! Spare, spare and your back will go bare!”
“Oh, no, my dear, you’ve got it wrong! Spare, spare and you’ll know no care. Poor people must share and share alike – that’s what makes them happy!”
“Nobody’s going to share anything that belongs to Matilda Mo! Or spare either, if it comes to that. Last week you spared a footstool for your cousin, Mrs Corry! And what have you got to show for it?”
“A lucky threepenny-piece from her coat!”
“Tush! And you mended a table for the Turvy’s—”
“Well, Topsy gave me a charming smile!” Mr Mo beamed at the sweet recollection.
“Smiles won’t fill a sack with gold! And the week before that it was Albert Wigg who wanted his ceiling raised.”
“Well, he needed more room to bounce about in. And it gave me so much pleasure, Matilda!”
“Pleasure? Where’s the profit in that? In future you can get your pleasure by giving things to me. And you too!” added Mrs Mo, shaking her fist at the boys.
“Alas, alas!” muttered Mr Mo. “No rose without a thorn! No joy without annoy!”
“Eenie!” Mrs Mo shouted. “Get me a wedding-wreath this instant! Look at me – a blushing bride – and nothing on my head.”
“Oh, no!” breathed Jane. “You’ll spoil my garden!”
But Eenie, with a look of alarm, had already darted to the flower-beds and plucked a crown of flowers.
“Not good enough, but better than nothing!” Mrs Mo grunted ungraciously as she planted the garland on her knobbly head.
“Coo, coo!” laughed the doves on the buttercup branch.
“They don’t suit you.
Oo-hoo! Oo-hoo!”
“Meenie!” cried Mrs Mo in a rage. “Up with you quickly and catch those birds! I’ll make them into a pigeon pie!”
But the doves merely ruffled their wings and flew away, giggling.
“Two birds in the bush are worth one in the hand,” said Mr Mo, gazing after them. “I mean,” he added nervously, “they sing more sweetly when they’re free! Don’t you agree, Matilda?”
“I never agree,” snapped Mrs Mo. “And I’ll have no singing here. Mynie! Tell that man to be quiet!”
For a lusty voice was filling the air with the words of a well-known song.
“I’ll sing you one-o,
Green grow the rushes-o!”
It was the Ice Cream Man, cycling along the path.
Jane and Michael had no time to wonder how he had managed to get into the little Park, for Eenie, Meenie and Mynie were shouting.
“Papa! Papa! A penny, please!”
“No ices!” bellowed Mrs Mo. “We haven’t the money to spare!”
“Matilda!” Mr Mo entreated. “There’s my lucky threepenny-piece.”
“That is for a rainy day. Not for mere enjoyment.”
“Oh, it’s not going to rain, I’m sure, Matilda!”
“Of course it will rain. And, anyway, it’s my threepenny-piece. From today, Samuel, what’s yours is mine. Get along,” she yelled to the Ice Cream Man, “and don’t come here making foolish noises.”
“It’s not a noise, it’s a song,” he retorted. “And I’ll sing it as much as I like.”
And away he wheeled, singing
“I’ll sing you two-o”
as loudly as he could.
“Out of sight,” sighed Mr Mo, as the barrow disappeared among the trees, “but not, alas, out of mind! Well, we mustn’t grumble, boys!” He brightened. “We still have the wedding-feast. Now, Mrs Hickory, where will you sit?”
Mrs Hickory’s dimples twinkled gaily.
“She won’t sit anywhere, Samuel. She has not received an invitation.”
The dimples disappeared again.
“Oh, but Matilda!” cried Mr Mo, with a crestfallen look on his rosy face.
“But me no buts!” Mrs Mo retorted, advancing towards the table. “What’s this?” she demanded. “Something’s missing! A peach and an orange have disappeared. And who has been eating my apple-pie?”
“I h-h-have,” said Michael nervously. “B-but only a very small slice.”
“And I took a peach,” Jane said in a whisper. She found it hard to make the confession, Mrs Mo looked so large and fierce.
“Oh, indeed?”The knobbly woman turned to the children. “And who invited you?”
“Well, you see,” began Jane, “I was making a Park. And suddenly I found myself – I mean, it happened – I mean – I – well. . .” However could she explain?
“Don’t hum and haw, Jane, if you please. Speak when you’re spoken to. Come when you’re called. And, Michael, do not gape like that. The wind may change and where will you be?”
A voice that was welcome as Nuts in May sounded in their ears.
“Mary Poppins!” cried Michael in glad surprise, staring – in spite of the changing wind – from her to Mr Mo.
For there, beneath the buttercup, was the crowded perambulator. And beside it stood a tidy shape with buttoned-shoes, tulip-trimmed hat and parrot-headed umbrella.
“Oh, Mary! At last! Better late than never! How are you?” cried Mr Mo. He darted round the end of the table and kissed her black-gloved hand.
“I knew he reminded me of someone!” said Michael in a careful whisper. “Look, Jane! Their noses are just the same!”
“Nicely, thank you, Cousin Sam! My goodness, how the boys have grown!” With a ladylike air she offered her cheek to Eenie, Meenie and Mynie.
Mr Mo looked on with a fond smile. But it faded as he turned to his wife.
“And this,” he said sadly, “is Matilda!”
Mary Poppins regarded Mrs Mo with a long and searching look. Then she smiled, to the children’s great surprise, and made a dainty bow.
“I hope,” she said, in a well-bred voice, “that we are not intruding? I wanted Sam – with your permission, of course, Matilda –” she bowed again to Mrs Mo – “to make me a new—”
“It’s ready, Mary!” cried Mr Mo, as he seized his piece of polished wood. “All it wants is –” he flew to the perambulator. – “A nail here and a nail there and another one and it’s finished!”