More about Mary Poppins / И снова о Мэри Поппинз

Miss Lark’s Andrew

Miss Lark lived Next Door.

But before we go any further I must tell you what Next Door looked like. It was a very grand house, by far the grandest in Cherry-Tree Lane. Even Admiral Boom had been known to envy Miss Lark her wonderful house, though his own had ship’s funnels instead of chimneys and a flagstaff in the front garden. Over and over again the inhabitants of the Lane heard him say, as he rolled past Miss Lark’s mansion: “Blast my gizzard!* What does she want with a house like that?”

And the reason of Admiral Boom’s jealousy was that Miss Lark had two gates. One was for Miss Lark’s friends and relations, and the other for the Butcher and the Baker and the Milkman.

Once the Baker made a mistake and came in through the gate reserved for the friends and relations, and Miss Lark was so angry that she said she wouldn’t have any more bread ever.

But in the end she had to forgive the Baker because he was the only one in the neighbourhood who made those little flat rolls with the curly twists of crust on the top. She never really liked him very much after that, however, and when he came he pulled his hat far down over his eyes so that Miss Lark might think he was somebody else. But she never did.

Jane and Michael always knew when Miss Lark was in the garden or coming along the Lane, because she wore so many brooches and necklaces and earrings that she jingled and jangled just like a brass band. And, whenever she met them, she always said the same thing,

“Good-morning!” (or “Good-afternoon!” if it happened to be after luncheon), “and how are we today?”

And Jane and Michael were never quite sure whether Miss Lark was asking how they were, or how she and Andrew were.

So they just replied, “Good-afternoon!” (or, of course, “Good-morning!” if it was before luncheon).

All day long, no matter where the children were, they could hear Miss Lark calling, in a very loud voice, things like:

“Andrew, where are you?” or

“Andrew, you mustn’t go out without your overcoat!” or

“Andrew, come to Mother!”

And, if you didn’t know, you would think that Andrew must be a little boy. Indeed, Jane thought that Miss Lark thought that Andrew was a little boy. But Andrew wasn’t. He was a dog – one of those small, silky, fluffy dogs that look like a fur necklet, until they begin to bark. But, of course, when they do that you know that they’re dogs. No fur necklet ever made a noise like that.

Now, Andrew led such a luxurious life that you might have thought he was the Shah of Persia in disguise. He slept on a silk pillow in Miss Lark’s room; he went by car to the Hairdresser’s twice a week to be shampooed; he had cream for every meal and sometimes oysters, and he possessed four overcoats with checks and stripes in different colours. Andrew’s ordinary days were filled with the kind of things most people have only on birthdays. And when Andrew himself had a birthday he had two candles on his cake for every year, instead of only one.

The effect of all this was to make Andrew very much disliked in the neighbourhood. People used to laugh heartily when they saw Andrew sitting up in the back seat of Miss Lark’s car on the way to the Hairdresser’s, with the fur rug over his knees and his best coat on. And on the day when Miss Lark bought him two pairs of small leather boots so that he could go out in the Park wet or fine*, everybody in the Lane came down to their front gates to watch him go by and to smile secretly behind their hands.

“Pooh!” said Michael, as they were watching Andrew one day through the fence that separated Number Seventeen from Next Door. “Pooh, he’s a ninkypoop*!”

“How do you know?” asked Jane, very interested.

“I know because I heard Daddy call him one this morning!” said Michael, and he laughed at Andrew very rudely.

“He is not a nincompoop,” said Mary Poppins. “And that is that.*”

And Mary Poppins was right. Andrew wasn’t a nincompoop, as you will very soon see.

You must not think he did not respect Miss Lark. He did. He was even fond of her in a mild sort of way. He couldn’t help having a kindly feeling for somebody who had been so good to him ever since he was a puppy, even if she did kiss him rather too often. But there was no doubt about it that the life Andrew led bored him to distraction. He would have given half his fortune, if he had one, for a nice piece of raw, red meat, instead of the usual breast of chicken or scrambled eggs with asparagus.

For in his secret, innermost heart, Andrew longed to be a common dog. He never passed his pedigree* (which hung on the wall in Miss Lark’s drawing-room) without a shudder of shame. And many a time he wished he’d never had a father, nor a grandfather, nor a great-grandfather, if Miss Lark was going to make such a fuss of it.

It was this desire of his to be a common dog that made Andrew choose common dogs for his friends. And whenever he got the chance, he would run down to the front gate and sit there watching for them, so that he could exchange a few common remarks. But Miss Lark, when she discovered him, would be sure to call out:

“Andrew, Andrew, come in, my darling! Come away from those dreadful street arabs*!”

And of course Andrew would have to come in, or Miss Lark would shame him by coming out and bringing him in. And Andrew would blush and hurry up the steps so that his friends should not hear her calling him her Precious, her Joy, her Little Lump of Sugar.

Andrew’s most special friend was more than common, he was a Byword*. He was half an Airedale and half a Retriever and the worst half of both. Whenever there was a fight in the road he would be sure to be in the thick* of it; he was always getting into trouble with the Postman or the Policeman, and there was nothing he loved better than sniffing about in drains or garbage tins. He was, in fact, the talk of the whole street, and more than one person had been heard to say thankfully that they were glad he was not their dog.

But Andrew loved him and was continually on the watch for him. Sometimes they had only time to exchange a sniff* in the Park, but on luckier occasions – though these were very rare – they would have long talks at the gate. From his friend, Andrew heard all the town gossip, and you could see by the rude way in which the other dog laughed as he told it, that it wasn’t very complimentary.

Then suddenly Miss Lark’s voice would be heard calling from a window, and the other dog would get up, loll out his tongue at Miss Lark, wink at Andrew and wander off, waving his hindquarters as he went just to show that he didn’t care.

Andrew, of course, was never allowed outside the gate unless he went with Miss Lark for a walk in the Park, or with one of the maids to have his toes manicured.

Imagine, then, the surprise of Jane and Michael when they saw Andrew, all alone, careering past* them through the Park, with his ears back and his tail up as though he were on the track of a tiger.

Mary Poppins pulled the perambulator up with a jerk, in case Andrew, in his wild flight, should upset it and the Twins. And Jane and Michael screamed at him as he passed.

“Hi, Andrew! Where’s your overcoat?” cried Michael, trying to make a high, windy voice like Miss Lark’s.

“Andrew, you naughty little boy!” said Jane, and her voice, because she was a girl, was much more like Miss Lark’s.

But Andrew just looked at them both very haughtily and barked sharply in the direction of Mary Poppins.

“Yap-yap!” said Andrew several times very quickly.

“Let me see. I think it’s the first on your right and second house on the left-hand side,” said Mary Poppins.

“Yap?” said Andrew.

“No – no garden. Only a back-yard. Gate’s usually open.”

Andrew barked again.

“I’m not sure,” said Mary Poppins. “But I should think so. Generally goes home at tea-time.”

Andrew flung back his head and set off again at a gallop.

Jane’s eyes and Michael’s were round as saucers with surprise.

“What was he saying?” they demanded breathlessly, both together.

“Just passing the time of day!*” said Mary Poppins, and shut her mouth tightly as though she did not intend any more words to escape from it. John and Barbara gurgled from their perambulator.

“He wasn’t!” said Michael.

“He couldn’t have been!” said Jane.

“Well, you know best, of course. As usual,” said Mary Poppins haughtily.

“He must have been asking you where somebody lived, I’m sure he must – ” Michael began.

“Well, if you know, why bother to ask me?” said Mary Poppins sniffing. “I’m no dictionary.”

“Oh, Michael,” said Jane, “she’ll never tell us if you talk like that. Mary Poppins, do say what Andrew was saying to you, please.”

“Ask him. He knows – Mr Know-All*!” said Mary Poppins, nodding her head scornfully at Michael.

“Oh no, I don’t. I promise I don’t, Mary Poppins. Do tell.”

“Half-past three. Tea-time,” said Mary Poppins, and she wheeled the perambulator round and shut her mouth tight again as though it were a trap-door. She did not say another word all the way home.

Jane dropped behind with Michael.

“It’s your fault!” she said. “Now we’ll never know.”

“I don’t care!*” said Michael, and he began to push his scooter very quickly. “I don’t want to know.”

But he did want to know very badly indeed. And, as it turned out, he and Jane and everybody else knew all about it before tea-time.

Just as they were about to cross the road to their own house, they heard loud cries coming from Next Door, and there they saw a curious sight. Miss Lark’s two maids were rushing wildly about the garden, looking under bushes and up into the trees as people do who have lost their most valuable possession. And there was Robertson Ay, from Number Seventeen, busily wasting his time by poking at the gravel on Miss Lark’s path with a broom as though he expected to find the missing treasure under a pebble. Miss Lark herself was running about in her garden, waving her arms and calling: “Andrew, Andrew! Oh, he’s lost. My darling boy is lost! We must send for the Police. I must see the Prime Minister. Andrew is lost! Oh dear! oh dear!”

“Oh, poor Miss Lark!” said Jane, hurrying across the road. She could not help feeling sorry because Miss Lark looked so upset.

But it was Michael who really comforted Miss Lark. Just as he was going in at the gate of Number Seventeen, he looked down the Lane and there he saw —

“Why, there’s Andrew, Miss Lark. See,* down there – just turning Admiral Boom’s corner!”

“Where, where? Show me!” said Miss Lark breathlessly, and she peered in the direction in which Michael was pointing.

And there, sure enough, was Andrew, walking as slowly and as casually as though nothing in the world was the matter; and beside him waltzed a huge dog that seemed to be half an Airedale and half a Retriever, and the worst half of both.

“Oh, what a relief!” said Miss Lark, sighing loudly. “What a load off my mind!”

Mary Poppins and the children waited in the Lane outside Miss Lark’s gate, Miss Lark herself and her two maids leant over the fence, Robertson Ay, resting from his labours, propped himself up with his broom-handle, and all of them watched in silence the return of Andrew.

He and his friend marched sedately up to the group, whisking their tails jauntily and keeping their ears well cocked, and you could tell by the look in Andrew’s eye that, whatever he meant, he meant business.

“That dreadful dog!” said Miss Lark, looking at Andrew’s companion.

“Shoo!* Shoo! Go home!” she cried.

But the dog just sat down on the pavement and scratched his right ear with his left leg and yawned.

“Go away! Go home! Shoo, I say!” said Miss Lark, waving her arms angrily at the dog.

“And you, Andrew,” she went on, “come indoors this minute! Going out like that – all alone and without your overcoat. I am very displeased with you!”

Andrew barked lazily, but did not move.

“What do you mean, Andrew? Come in at once!” said Miss Lark.

Andrew barked again.

“He says,” put in Mary Poppins, “that he’s not coming in.”

Miss Lark turned and regarded her haughtily. “How do you know what my dog says, may I ask? Of course he will come in.”

Andrew, however, merely shook his head and gave one or two low growls.

“He won’t,” said Mary Poppins. “Not unless his friend comes, too.”

“Stuff and nonsense,*” said Miss Lark crossly. “That can’t be what he says. As if I could have a great hulking mongrel like that inside my gate.”

Andrew yapped three or four times.

“He says he means it,” said Mary Poppins. “And what’s more, he’ll go and live with his friend unless his friend is allowed to come and live with him.”

“Oh, Andrew, you can’t – you can’t, really – after all I’ve done for you and everything!” Miss Lark was nearly weeping.

Andrew barked and turned away. The other dog got up.

“Oh, he does mean it!” cried Miss Lark. “I see he does. He is going away.” She sobbed a moment into her handkerchief, then she blew her nose and said,

“Very well, then, Andrew. I give in. This – this common dog can stay. On condition, of course, that he sleeps in the coal-cellar.”

Another yap from Andrew.

“He insists, ma’am, that that won’t do. His friend must have a silk cushion just like his and sleep in your room too. Otherwise he will go and sleep in the coal-cellar with his friend,” said Mary Poppins.

“Andrew, how could you?” moaned Miss Lark. “I shall never consent to such a thing.”

Andrew looked as though he were preparing to depart. So did the other dog.

“Oh, he’s leaving me!” shrieked Miss Lark. “Very well, then, Andrew. It will be as you wish. He shall sleep in my room. But I shall never be the same again, never, never. Such a common dog!”

She wiped her streaming eyes and went on,

“I should never have thought it of you, Andrew. But I’ll say no more, no matter what I think. And this – er – creature – I shall call Waif* or Stray or – ”

At that the other dog looked at Miss Lark very indignantly, and Andrew barked loudly.

“They say you must call him Willoughby* and nothing else,” said Mary Poppins. “Willoughby being his name.”

“Willoughby! What a name! Worse and worse!” said Miss Lark despairingly. “What is he saying now?” For Andrew was barking again.

“He says that if he comes back you are never to make him wear overcoats or go to the Hairdresser’s again – that’s his last word,” said Mary Poppins.

There was a pause.

“Very well,” said Miss Lark at last. “But I warn you, Andrew, if you catch your death of cold – don’t blame me!”

And with that she turned and walked haughtily up the steps, sniffing away the last of her tears.

Andrew cocked his head towards Willoughby as if to say: “Come on!” and the two of them waltzed side by side slowly up the garden path, waving their tails like banners, and followed Miss Lark into the house.

“He isn’t a ninkypoop after all, you see,” said Jane, as they went upstairs to the nursery and Tea.

“No,” agreed Michael. “But how do you think Mary Poppins knew?”

“I don’t know,” said Jane. “And she’ll never, never tell us. I am sure of that…”

The Dancing Cow

Jane, with her head tied up in Mary Poppins’s bandanna handkerchief, was in bed with earache.

“What does it feel like?” Michael wanted to know.

“Like guns going off inside my head,” said Jane.

“Cannons?”

“No, popguns.”

“Oh,” said Michael. And he almost wished he could have earache, too. It sounded so exciting.

“Shall I tell you a story out of one of the books?” said Michael, going to the bookshelf.

“No. I just couldn’t bear it,” said Jane, holding her ear with her hand.

“Well, shall I sit at the window and tell you what is happening outside?”

“Yes, do,” said Jane.

So Michael sat all the afternoon on the window seat telling her everything that occurred in the Lane. And sometimes his accounts were very dull and sometimes very exciting.

“There’s Admiral Boom!” he said once. “He has come out of his gate and is hurrying down the Lane. Here he comes. His nose is redder than ever and he’s wearing a top-hat*. Now he is passing Next Door – ”

“Is he saying ‘Blast my gizzard!’?” enquired Jane.

“I can’t hear. I expect so. There’s Miss Lark’s second housemaid in Miss Lark’s garden. And Robertson Ay is in our garden, sweeping up the leaves and looking at her over the fence. He is sitting down now, having a rest.”

“He has a weak heart,” said Jane.

“How do you know?”

“He told me. He said his doctor said he was to do as little as possible. And I heard Daddy say if Robertson Ay does what his doctor told him to he’ll sack him. Oh, how it bangs and bangs!*” said Jane, clutching her ear again.

“Hulloh!” said Michael excitedly from the window.

“What is it?” cried Jane, sitting up. “Do tell me.”

“A very extraordinary thing. There’s a cow down in the Lane,” said Michael, jumping up and down on the window seat.

“A cow? A real cow – right in the middle of a town? How funny! Mary Poppins,” said Jane, “there’s a cow in the Lane, Michael says.”

“Yes, and it’s walking very slowly, putting its head over every gate and looking round as though it had lost something.”

“I wish I could see it,” said Jane mournfully.

“Look!” said Michael, pointing downwards as Mary Poppins came to the window. “A cow. Isn’t that funny?”

Mary Poppins gave a quick, sharp glance down into the Lane. She started with surprise.

“Certainly not,” she said, turning to Jane and Michael. “It’s not funny at all. I know that cow. She was a great friend of my Mother’s and I’ll thank you to speak politely of her.” She smoothed her apron and looked at them both very severely.

“Have you known her long?” enquired Michael gently, hoping that if he was particularly polite he would hear something more about the cow.

“Since before she saw the King,” said Mary Poppins.

“And when was that?” asked Jane, in a soft encouraging voice.

Mary Poppins stared into space, her eyes fixed upon something that they could not see. Jane and Michael held their breath, waiting.

“It was long ago,” said Mary Poppins, in a brooding, story-telling voice. She paused, as though she were remembering events that happened hundreds of years before that time. Then she went on dreamily, still gazing into the middle of the room, but without seeing anything.

The Red Cow – that’s the name she went by. And very important and prosperous she was, too (so my Mother said). She lived in the best field in the whole district – a large one full of buttercups the size of saucers and dandelions* rather larger than brooms. The field was all primrose-colour and gold with the buttercups and dandelions standing up in it like soldiers. Every time she ate the head off one soldier, another grew up in its place, with a green military coat and a yellow busby*.

She had lived there always – she often told my Mother that she couldn’t remember the time when she hadn’t lived in that field. Her world was bounded by green hedges* and the sky and she knew nothing of what lay beyond these.

The Red Cow was very respectable, she always behaved like a perfect lady and she knew What was What*. To her a thing was either black or white – there was no question of it being grey or perhaps pink. People were good or they were bad – there was nothing in between. Dandelions were either sweet or sour – there were never any moderately nice ones.

She led a very busy life. Her mornings were taken up in* giving lessons to the Red Calf, her daughter, and in the afternoon she taught the little one deportment and mooing and all the things a really well brought up calf* should know. Then they had their supper, and the Red Cow showed the Red Calf how to select a good blade of grass from a bad one; and when her child had gone to sleep at night she would go into a corner of the field and chew the cud and think her own quiet thoughts.

All her days were exactly the same. One Red Calf grew up and went away and another came in its place. And it was natural that the Red Cow should imagine that her life would always be the same as it always had been – indeed, she felt that she could ask for nothing better than for all her days to be alike till she came to the end of them.

But at the very moment she was thinking these thoughts, adventure, as she afterwards told my Mother, was stalking* her. It came upon her one night when the stars themselves looked like dandelions in the sky and the moon a great daisy among the stars.

On this night, long after the Red Calf was asleep, the Red Cow stood up suddenly and began to dance. She danced wildly and beautifully and in perfect time*, though she had no music to go by.

Sometimes it was a polka, sometimes a Highland Fling* and sometimes a special dance that she made up out of her own head. And in between these dances she would curtsey and make sweeping bows and knock her head against the dandelions.

“Dear me!” said the Red Cow to herself, as she began on a Sailor’s Hornpipe*. “What an extraordinary thing! I always thought dancing improper, but it can’t be since I myself am dancing. For I am a model cow.”

And she went on dancing, and thoroughly enjoying herself. At last, however, she grew tired and decided that she had danced enough and that she would go to sleep. But, to her great surprise, she found that she could not stop dancing. When she went to lie down beside the Red Calf, her legs would not let her. They went on capering* and prancing* and, of course, carrying her with them. Round and round the field she went, leaping* and waltzing and stepping on tip-toe.

“Dear me!” she murmured at intervals with a ladylike accent. “How very peculiar!” But she couldn’t stop.

In the morning she was still dancing and the Red Calf had to take its breakfast of dandelions all by itself because the Red Cow could not remain still enough to eat.

All through the day she danced, up and down the meadow and round and round the meadow, with the Red Calf mooing piteously behind her. When the second night came, and she was still at it* and still could not stop, she grew very worried. And at the end of a week of dancing she was nearly distracted.

“I must go and see the King about it,” she decided, shaking her head.

So she kissed her Red Calf and told it to be good. Then she turned and danced out of the meadow and went to tell the King.

She danced all the way, snatching little sprays of green food from the hedges as she went, and every eye that saw her stared with astonishment. But none of them were more astonished than the Red Cow herself.

At last she came to the Palace where the King lived. She pulled the bell-rope with her mouth, and when the gate opened she danced through it and up the broad garden path till she came to the flight of steps that led to the King’s throne.

Upon this the King was sitting, busily making a new set of Laws. His Secretary was writing them down in a little red note-book, one after another, as the King thought of them. There were Courtiers and Ladies-in-Waiting everywhere, all very gorgeously dressed and all talking at once.

“How many have I made today?” asked the King, turning to the Secretary. The Secretary counted the Laws he had written down in the red note-book.

“Seventy-two, your Majesty,” he said, bowing low and taking care not to trip over his quill pen, which was a very large one.