But she couldn’t help wishing that this might be one of the days when Mr Banks came home early.
And, as it happened, it was.
He had got off the bus at the end of the Lane and was sauntering home past Number Twenty-one – Admiral Boom’s house that was built like a ship – past Twenty with its honeysuckle hedge, past Nineteen with the fish pond in the garden, until he came to Number Eighteen.
And there he stopped, full of surprise, and not altogether pleased. Around the gate his neighbours were gathered, all talking earnestly together. The Admiral and Mrs Boom, Mr Twenty and Mrs Nineteen and Miss Lark from Number Sixteen. There was nothing odd in this, of course, a gathering of friends.
But what stopped Mr Banks in his tracks was the sight of a red-and-white striped tent, the kind that is put over open drains and other holes in the road. And beside it stood a brawny workman deep in conversation with the little group of neighbours.
“Ah, there you are, Banks, ship ahoy!” The Admiral’s loud voice hailed him. “You’re just the one to find out what this fellow thinks he’s doing.”
“I don’t think, I know,” said the workman mildly. “I’m looking over this here house to see what repairs it needs.”
“But it’s empty,” Mr Banks said quickly. “It’s been empty for years and years.”
“Well, it won’t be empty for long,” said the man. “There’s tenants coming in.”
“But that’s impossible.” Mr Banks was distressed. “We all like it just as it is. Every street should have its deserted house.”
“What for?”
“Well,” began Mr Banks, a trifle uneasily, “so that people can fill it with their own ideas, the kind of neighbours they would like to have. We don’t want just anyone, you know.”
There was a murmur of assent from them all as they thought of the long-empty rooms of their dear Number Eighteen.
For the Admiral they were inhabited by a sea captain who had sailed with Nelson and was ready at any moment, no matter what the weather, to heave up the anchor and put to sea.
Mrs Boom saw it as the home of a little girl with straight brown hair, the kind of child she would like to have had, who wandered about it, soft as a moth, humming gently to herself.
Mr Twenty, whose wife would never play chess with him, had friends there who were human chessmen – black and white kings and queens, bishops marching from corner to corner, knights riding up and down the stairs.
Mrs Nineteen, who was rather romantic, believed that in the empty house lived the grandmother she had never seen, telling wonderful bedtime stories, knitting pretty garments for her and always wearing silver slippers, even in the morning.
For Miss Lark, from Number Sixteen – the grandest dwelling in the Lane – it was the home of another dog exactly like Andrew, an aristocratic little dog who would never choose, as Andrew had done, a vulgar friend like Willoughby.
As for Mr Banks, he liked to think that in the attic of Number Eighteen, lived an old wise man with a very special telescope which, when you looked through its round glass eye, could show you what the universe was up to.
“Anyway,” he said to the workman, “it’s probably not fit to live in after being empty for so long. Have you examined the drains?”
“All of them in perfect condition.”
“Well, the chimneys. Full of starlings’ nests, I’ll be bound.”
“Clean as a whistle,” said the man.
“What about the furniture? Mice making tunnels in the beds. Cockroaches in the kitchen.”
“Not a mouse, Not a ’roach.”
“And the dust. It must be everywhere, inches thick.”
“Whoever comes into this house,” said the man, “won’t even need a duster. Everything’s as good as new. And anyway,” he began to dismantle his red-and-white tent, “houses are for human beings, not harum-scarum fancies.”
“Well, if it must be, it must be,” sighed Miss Lark. “Come, Andrew, come Willoughby, we will go home.” And she walked away dejectedly, the two dogs at her heels looking equally depressed.
“You should have gone to sea,” said the Admiral, looking ferociously at the workman.
“Why?”
“A sailor would stay on the deck of his ship and not come making trouble for those who live on the land.”
“Can’t bear the sea, it makes me seasick. And anyway, it’s no fault of mine. I have me orders, ‘to be carried out forthwith’, I was told. The tenants are coming in tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” everyone exclaimed. This was terrible.
“Let us go home,” coaxed Mrs Boom. “Binnacle is making curry for supper. You’ll like that, won’t you, dear?”
Binnacle was a retired pirate who daily kept everything shipshape in Admiral Boom’s ship-shaped house.
“Well, heave up the anchor and sail away, shipmates. There’s nothing else to do.”
The Admiral took Mrs Boom’s arm and slouched off along the Lane, followed by Mrs Nineteen and Mr Twenty, both looking forlorn.
“A queer lot you are, I must say.” The workman gathered up tent and tools. “All this to-do over an empty house!”
“You don’t understand,” said Mr Banks. “For us, it’s not empty, far from it.” And he turned towards his home.
Across the Lane, he could hear the Park Keeper doing his rounds. “Observe the Rules. Remember the Bye-laws. “The starling on the top of Number Seventeen’s chimney was giving his usual starling shriek. Laughter and shouting came from the Nursery mingled with the comments of Mary Poppins. He could hear Ellen’s endless sneezing, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the sleepy snores of Robertson Ay – all the familiar sounds of home, everything the same as usual, comfortable, intimate.
But now, he thought, everything would be different.
“I have news for you,” he said glumly, as Mrs Banks met him at the door.
“And I have news for you,” she said. “There’s a telegram on the mantelpiece.”
He took the yellow envelope, ripped it open, read the message and was suddenly very still.
“Well, don’t just stand there, George! Say something! Has anything happened to Aunt Flossie?” Mrs Banks was anxious.
“It is not Aunt Flossie. Aunt Flossie doesn’t send telegrams. I will read it to you:
“Coming to live at Number Eighteen.
Arriving 4.30 tomorrow. Bringing Luti.
No help required.”
Mr Banks paused for a moment. “It is signed,” he said, “Euphemia Andrew.”
Mrs Banks gave a little shriek.
“Miss Andrew! Oh, I can’t believe it. Our dear Number Eighteen!” For Mrs Banks too had a friend in the house, a lady very much like herself who, when Mrs Brill took long days off to see her cousin’s niece’s baby or Ellen had one of her fearful colds or Robertson Ay fell asleep in the rosebed, would throw up her arms when she heard the news and say, “Oh, how dreadful! How will you manage?”
This Mrs Banks found a great comfort. Now she must face her troubles alone.
“And Luti!” she cried. “Who could that be?”
“Probably not who but what. One of her medicines, perhaps.”