“A proper Park Keeper doesn’t go about bumping. And he knows how to get just what he wants. If cucumber, then why bread? You should be more precise.”
“I know what I want,” said a voice from the hedge. “A little of something sweet.”
“Have a finger!” Mrs Corry shrieked, as she broke off one from her left hand and offered it to the Bear. “Don’t worry, it will grow again!”
His small eyes widened with surprise. “Barley sugar!” he exclaimed with delight, and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Nothing for nothing!” said Mrs Corry. “Put a shine on my coat for luck!”
The Bear put his paw upon her collar. “It’ll shine, when it’s time – just wait!” he said.
“What I want is a pair of gloves. I’m going to a party tonight and I like to look well-dressed. “The Fox prinked and pranced beside the Foxgloves, as he tried on flower after flower.
“Parsley!” said the Hare from the Parsley patch.
“For his rheumatism,” the big man explained. “It’s often cold up there and draughty. And Parsley’s good for it.”
“Coo-roo, coo-roo,” the great Bird crooned as he munched his Fennel.
“I do
Like a herb
Or two,
Don’t you?”
The Park Keeper’s eyes, as large as soup plates, swivelled in all directions.
Had he seen? Had he heard? A finger turned into Barley Sugar? Animals speaking in human voices? No, of course he hadn’t! Yes, he had! Was it a dream? Had he gone mad?
“It’s the cucumber!” he cried wildly. “I shouldn’t have done it. Not behind the ears. She said it would be witchy. And it is! But whether it’s worth it, I’m not sure. Maybe I’m not the Park Keeper. Maybe I am somebody else. Everything’s head over heels tonight. I don’t know nothing, not any more.”
And snatching the cricket cap from his head, he flung himself, sobbing, across the lawn and buried his face in his mother’s skirt.
She smoothed his ruffled hair with her hand. “Don’t take on so vainly, Fred. It’ll come right – you’ll see.”
The big man regarded him broodingly.
“A sprig of Heartsease or Lemon balm – either of them would be soothing. Probably needs a rest from himself, whoever he is, poor chap! I even get tired of being Orion.” He sighed and shook his head.
“We don’t need a rest from ourselves, do we?” Castor and Pollux exchanged a grin.
“Ah, that’s because you’ve got each other. But it’s often lonely, away up there.”
“I never get tired of being myself. I like being Michael Banks,” said Michael. “And so does Mary Poppins. I mean, she likes being Mary Poppins. Don’t you, Mary Poppins?”
“Who else would I want to be, pray?” She gave him one of her haughty looks. The very idea was absurd.
“Ah, well, but you’re the Great Exception. We can’t all be like you, can we?” Orion gave her a sidelong glance and picked out another pair of cherries. “That’s for your other ear, my dear.”
“I’ve no complaints,” the Bear bumbled. “I like showing sailors the way home.”
“I’m going to be a sailor,” said Michael. “Aunt Flossie sent me this suit for my birthday.”
“Well, you’ll need the star in my tail to guide you. I am always there.”
“Not if I have Mary Poppins’ compass. I can go right round the world with that. And she can stay here and look after my children.”
“Thank you, Michael Banks, I’m sure. If I’ve nothing better to do than that,” she gave a loud, affronted sniff, “I’ll be sorry for myself.”
“Come to the party, that’s something better – me in my beautiful foxgloves and you in your new pink dress.” The Fox danced on his hind legs and held up his foxgloved paws. “The handsome Mr Vulpecula, arm in arm with Miss Mary Poppins!”
“Handsome is as handsome does.” Mary Poppins, with a toss of her head, tossed aside the invitation.
“There’s poison in Foxgloves,” said Michael glibly. “Mary Poppins never let us wear them in case we happen to lick our fingers and then have to go to bed, and be sick.”
“Foxes do not lick their paws, nothing so vulgar,” said the Fox. “They merely wash them in the evening dew.”
“Parsley,” said a voice from the Parsley patch, with a coughing, choking sound.
Orion sprang from his marble seat.
“Be careful, Lepus, don’t eat it! Spit it out, whatever it is! Ah, that’s better. There’s a good Hare!” He fossicked among the curling fronds and held up a shiny circular object. “A half-crown piece, by all that’s lucky! And he nearly swallowed it.”
The four children clustered about it, gazing greedily at the coin.
“What will you spend it on?” Jane asked.
“How could I spend it? There’s nothing to buy. There are no ice cream carts in the sky, no peppermint horses, no balloons, not even. . .” he glanced at Mrs Corry, “not even a gingerbread star.”
“Well, what is up there? Nothing but nothing?” Michael found that hard to believe.
“Just space.” Orion shrugged his shoulders. “Though you can’t exactly say space is nothing.”
“And there’s lots of room,” said Castor and Pollux. “Pegasus gallops everywhere and we take it in turns to ride him.”
Michael felt a twinge of envy. He wished he could ride a horse through the sky.
“Room? Who wants room?” Orion grumbled. “Down here you have no room at all. Everything’s close to something else. Houses leaning against each other. Trees and bushes crowding together. Pennies and halfpennies clinking in pockets. Friends and neighbours always at hand. Someone to talk to, someone to listen. Ah, well,” he sighed, “each to his fate.”
He tossed the silver coin in the air.
“Tails up, and you two can have it.” He nodded at Jane and Michael. “Heads, and I keep it myself.”
Down came the coin on his outstretched palm. “Heads it is. Hooray!” he cried. “If I can’t spend it, at least I can wear it. I like a bit of bric-a-brac.”
He pressed the half-crown against his belt in line with the three studs already there. “How does it look? Too flimsy? Too vulgar?”
“Oh, it’s lovely!” all four children exclaimed.
“Neat enough,” said Mary Poppins. “You’ll need to keep it polished.”
“Gingerbreadish, I’d say,” giggled Mrs Corry. “A souvenir to remember us by.”
“Souvenir!” Orion growled. “As if I needed reminding.”
“He’s right. He doesn’t,” said Castor and Pollux. “He pines all the year for Midsummer’s Eve – this is our one night of magic – and the Park and the cherries and the music.”
“Don’t you have music up there?” asked Jane.
“Well,” said Orion, “the morning stars sing together, of course. Same old plainsong day in and day out. But none of your cheerful, homely things. Polly Wolly Doodle, Skip to my Lou, Pop Goes the What-you-call-it – all that stuff. Listen! They’re singing down by the Lake. Don’t tell me, I’ll get it in a minute. Ah, yes – Green Grow the Rushes-O.” He hummed a line of the song.