Mary Poppins Comes Back

“I don’t mind, Jane, if it has a purple tail,” hissed Michael presently.

“No, Michael!” said Jane. “I really think a red would be better.”

After that there was no sound in the Nursery but the sound of five people breathing very quietly …

“P-p! P-p!” went Mr Banks’ pipe.

“Click-click!” went Mrs Banks’ knitting-needles.

Mr Banks put his feet up on the study mantelpiece and snored a little.

After a while, Mrs Banks spoke.

“Do you still think of taking a long sea-voyage?” she asked.

“Er – I don’t think so. I am rather a bad sailor. And my hat’s all right now. I had the whole of it polished by the Shoe-Black at the corner and it looks as good as new. Even better. Besides, now that Mary Poppins is back, my Shaving-Water will be just the right temperature.”

Mrs Banks smiled to herself and went on knitting.

She felt very glad that Mr Banks was such a bad sailor and that Mary Poppins had come back …

*

Down in the Kitchen, Mrs Brill was putting a fresh bandage round Ellen’s ankle.

“I never thought much of her when she was here,” said Mrs Brill. “But I must say that this has been a different house since this afternoon. As quiet as a Sunday and as neat as Ninepence. I’m not sorry she’s back.”

“Neither am I, indeed!” said Ellen thankfully.

“And neither am I!” thought Robertson Ay, listening to the conversation through the wall of the broom cupboard. “Now I shall have a little peace!”

He settled himself comfortably on the upturned coal-scuttle and fell asleep again with his head against a broom.

But what Mary Poppins thought about it nobody ever knew, for she kept her thoughts to herself and never told anyone anything …

Chapter Two (#ulink_713866f9-8155-5afa-b833-2cd351a46400)

MISS ANDREW’S LARK (#ulink_713866f9-8155-5afa-b833-2cd351a46400)

IT WAS SATURDAY afternoon.

In the hall of Number Seventeen Cherry Tree Lane, Mr Banks was busy tapping the barometer and telling Mrs Banks what the weather was going to do.

“Moderate South wind; average temperature: local thunder; sea slight,” he said. “Further outlook unsettled. Hullo – what’s that?”

He broke off as a bumping, jumping, thumping noise sounded overhead.

Round the bend in the staircase Michael appeared, looking very bad-tempered and sulky as he bumped heavily down. Behind him, with a Twin on each arm, came Mary Poppins, pushing her knee into his back and sending him with a sharp thud from one stair to the next. Jane followed, carrying the hats.

“Well begun is half done. Down you go, please!” Mary Poppins was saying tartly.

Mr Banks turned from the barometer and looked up as they appeared.

“Well, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded.

“I don’t want to go for a walk! I want to play with my new engine!” said Michael, gulping as Mary Poppins’ knee jerked him one stair lower.

“Nonsense, darling!” said Mrs Banks. “Of course you do. Walking makes such long, strong legs.”

“But I like short legs best,” grumbled Michael, stumbling heavily down another stair.

“When I was a little boy,” said Mr Banks, “I loved going for walks. I used to walk with my Governess down to the second lamp-post and back every day. And I never grumbled.”

Michael stood still on his stair and looked doubtfully at Mr Banks.

“Were you ever a little boy?” he said, very surprised.

Mr Banks seemed quite hurt.

“Of course I was. A sweet little boy with long yellow curls and a lace collar and velvet breeches and button-up boots.”

“I can hardly believe it,” said Michael, hurrying down the stairs of his own accord and staring up at Mr Banks.

“What was the name of your Governess?” asked Jane, running downstairs after Michael. “And was she nice?”

“She was called Miss Andrew, and she was a Holy Terror!”

“Hush!” said Mrs Banks reproachfully.

“I mean –” Mr Banks corrected himself – “she was – er – very strict. And always right. And she loved putting everybody else in the wrong and making them feel like a worm. That’s what Miss Andrew was like!”

Mr Banks mopped his brow at the mere memory of his Governess.

Ting! Ting! Ting!

The front door bell pealed and echoed through the house.

Mr Banks went to the door and opened it. On the step, looking very important, stood the Telegraph Boy.

“Urgent Telegram. Name of Banks. Any answer?” He handed over an orange-coloured envelope.

“If it’s good news I’ll give you sixpence,” said Mr Banks as he tore the Telegram open and read the message. His face grew pale.

“No answer!” he said shortly.

“And no sixpence?”

“Certainly not!” said Mr Banks bitterly. The Telegraph Boy gave him a reproachful look and went sorrowfully away.