WET PAINT
The whole attic smelt deliciously of wood-shavings, paint and glue. There was only one thing missing from it. And that was Mr Twigley.
“Will you let me in or shall I go for the Police?” shouted Mrs Clump, banging again. Mary Poppins took no notice. And presently they heard her thumping downstairs, muttering furiously as she went.
“Has she gone?” a thin voice cackled anxiously.
“She’s gone downstairs and I’ve locked the door! Now, what have you done with yourself, please, Fred?” Mary Poppins gave an impatient sniff.
“I’ve wished, Mary!” chirped the voice again.
Jane and Michael stared round the dusty attic. Where could Mr Twigley be?
“Oh, Fred! Don’t tell me it’s the—! Well, wish again, please, wherever you are! I haven’t all day to waste.”
“All right! I’m coming! No need for excitement!”
The violins played a stave of music. Then, out of the air – as it seemed to the children – came two short legs clad in baggy trousers. They were followed by a body in an old frock-coat. And last of all came a long white beard, a wrinkled face with glasses on its nose, and a bald head in a smoking cap.
“Really, Cousin Fred!” said Mary Poppins crossly. “You’re old enough to know better!”
“Nonsense, Mary!” said Mr Twigley, beaming. “Nobody’s ever old enough to know better! I’m sure you agree with me, young man!” He looked at Michael with his twinkly eyes. And Michael couldn’t help twinkling back.
“But where were you hiding?” he demanded. “You couldn’t have just come out of the air.”
“Oh, yes, I could!” said Mr Twigley. “If I wished,” he added, as he skipped round the room.
“You mean, you just wished – and you disappeared?”
With a glance at the door, Mr Twigley nodded.
“I had to – to get away from her!”
“Why? What would she do to you?” asked Jane.
“Why? Because she wants to marry me! She wants to get my wishes.”
“Do you get everything you wish for?” asked Michael enviously.
“Oh, everything. That is, if I wish on the first New Moon, after the Second Wet Sunday, after the Third of May. And she. . .” Mr Twigley waved at the door. “She wants me to wish for a Golden Palace and Peacock Pie every day for dinner. What would I do with a golden palace? All that I want is—”
“Be careful, Fred!” warned Mary Poppins.
Mr Twigley clapped his hand to his mouth. “Tut, tut! I really must remember! I’ve used up two wishes already!”
“How many do you get?” asked Jane.
“Seven,” said Mr Twigley, sighing. “My Godmother thought that a suitable number. I know the old lady meant it kindly. But I’d rather have a Silver Mug. More useful. And much less trouble.”
“I’d rather have wishes,” said Michael stoutly.
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t!” cried Mr Twigley. “They’re tricky. And hard to handle. You think out the loveliest things to ask for – then Supper Time comes and you’re feeling hungry and you find yourself wishing for Sausage and Mashed!”
“What about the two you’ve already had? Were they any good?” demanded Michael.
“Well, not bad, now I come to think of it. I was working on my Birdie there –” Mr Twigley nodded towards his bench – “when I heard her coming up the stairs. ‘Oh, goodness!’ I thought, ‘I wish I could vanish!’ And – when I looked round, I wasn’t there! It gave me quite a turn for a moment. No wonder she told you I was out!”
Mr Twigley gave a happy cackle as he beamed at the children and swung his coat-tails. They had never seen such a twinkly person. He seemed to them more like a star than a man.
“Then, of course,” Mr Twigley went on blandly, “I had to wish myself back again in order to see Mary Poppins! Now, Mary, what can I do for you?”
“Mrs Banks would like her piano tuned, please, Fred. Number Seventeen, Cherry Tree Lane, opposite the Park,” Mary Poppins said primly.
“They’re Jane and Michael Banks,” she explained, glancing at them with a look of disgust.
“Delighted. I call this a very great honour!” Mr Twigley bowed and flung out his hands. “I wish I could offer you something to eat but I’m all at sixes and sevens today.”
A flute rang gaily through the attic.
“What’s this?” Mr Twigley staggered back. In each of his upturned outstretched hands lay a dish of Peaches-and-Cream.
Mr Twigley stared. Then he sniffed at the peaches.
“There goes my third wish!” he said ruefully, as he handed the dishes to the children. “Well, it can’t be helped. I’ve still got four more. And now I shall have to be really careful!”
“If you must waste wishes, Cousin Fred, I wish you would waste them on Bread and Butter. You’ll spoil their Supper!” snapped Mary Poppins.
Jane and Michael spooned up their peaches hurriedly. They were not going to give Mr Twigley the chance of wishing them away again.
“And now,” said Mary Poppins, as the last mouthful disappeared, “say Thank You to Mr Twigley and we’ll get along home.”
“Oh, no, Mary! Why, you’ve only just come!” Mr Twigley was so shocked that for once he stood quite still.
“Oh, do stay a little longer, Mary Poppins!” Jane and Michael begged. The thought of leaving Mr Twigley all alone with his wishes was too much for them.
Mr Twigley took Mary Poppins’ hand.
“I feel so much safer when you’re here, Mary! And it’s ages since we’ve seen each other! Why not stay for a while – I wish you would!”
Jug, jug, jug, jug!
A shower of bird notes broke on the air. At the same moment the determined look on Mary Poppins’ face changed to a polite smile. She took off her hat and laid it on the bench beside the glue-pot.
“Oh, my!” Mr Twigley gasped in horror. I’ve been and gone and done it again!”
“That’s four!” cried Jane and Michael gaily, shouting with laughter at his look of surprise.
Four, four, four, four! The bird notes echoed.
“Dear me! How careless! I’m ashamed of myself!” For a moment Mr Twigley looked almost sad. Then his face and feet began to twinkle. “Well, it’s no good crying over spilt wishes. We must just take care of the ones that are left. I’m coming, my Duckling! I’m coming, my Chick!” he called in the direction of the bird notes.
And, tripping to the carpenter’s bench, he took up the little polished box. His fingers touched a wooden spring. The lid flew open and the smallest, brightest bird the children had ever seen, leapt up from a nest of gold. Clear jets of music poured from its beak. Its small throat throbbed with the stream of notes.
Jug, Jug, Jug, Jug – tereu! it sang. And when the burning song was ended the bird dropped back to its golden nest.
“Oh, Mr Twigley, what bird is that?” Jane looked at the box with shining eyes.
“A Nightingale,” Mr Twigley told her. “I was working on him when you came in. He has to be finished tonight, you see. Such lovely weather for nightingales.”