Mary Poppins in the Park (17 page)

On one of these sat a plasticine man, no more than an inch high. His face was round, his body was round and so were his arms and legs. The only pointed thing about him was his little turned-up nose. He was reading a plasticine newspaper and a plasticine tool-bag lay at his feet.

"Who's that?" asked Michael. "He reminds me of someone. But I can't think who it is!"

Jane thought for a moment.

"His name is Mr. Mo," she decided. "He is resting after his morning labours. He had a wife sitting next to him, but her hat went wrong, so I crumbled her up. I'll try again with the last of the plasticine——"

She glanced at the shapeless, coloured lump that lay behind the summer-house.

"And that?" He pointed to a feminine figure that stood by one of the flower-beds.

"That's Mrs. Hickory," said Jane. "She's going to have a house, too. And after that I shall build a Fun Fair."

He gazed at the plump little plasticine woman and admired the way her hair curled and the two large dimples in her cheeks.

"Do she and Mr. Mo know each other?"

"Oh, yes. They meet on the way to the Lake."

And she showed him a little pebbly hollow where, when Mary Poppins' head was turned, she had poured her mug of milk. At the end of the lake a plasticine statue reminded Michael of Neleus.

"Or down by the swing——" She pointed to two upright sticks from which an even smaller stick hung on a strand of darning wool.

Michael touched the swing with his finger-tip and it swayed backwards and forwards.

"And what's that under the buttercup?"

A scrap of cardboard from the lid of the cake-box had been bent to form a table. Around it stood several cardboard stools and upon it was spread a meal so tempting that a king might have envied it.

In the centre stood a two-tiered cake and around it were bowls piled high with fruit—peaches, cherries, bananas, oranges. One end of the table bore an apple-pie and the other a chicken with a pink frill. There were sausages, and currant buns, and a pat of butter on a little green platter. Each place was set with a plate and a mug and a bottle of ginger wine.

The buttercup-tree spread over the feast. Jane had set two plasticine doves in its branches and a bumble-bee buzzed among its flowers.

"Go away, greedy fly!" cried Michael, as a small black shape settled on the chicken. "Oh, dear! How hungry it makes me feel!"

Jane gazed with pride at her handiwork. "Don't drop your crumbs on the lawn, Michael. They make it look untidy."

"I don't see any litter-baskets. All I can see is an ant in the grass." He swept his eyes round the tiny Park, so neat amid the wildweed.

"There is never any litter," said Jane. "Mr. Mo lights the fire with his paper. And he saves his orange peel for Christmas puddings. Oh, Michael, don't bend down so close, you're keeping the sun away!"

His shadow lay over the Park like a cloud.

"Sorry!" he said, as he bent sideways. And the sunlight glinted down again as Jane lifted Mr. Mo and his tool-bag and set them beside the table.

"Is it his dinner-time?" asked Michael.

"Well—no!" said a little scratchy voice. "As a matter of fact, it's breakfast!"

"How clever Jane is!" thought Michael admiringly. "She can not only make a little old man, she can talk like one as well."

But her eyes, as he met them, were full of questions.

"Did
you
speak, Michael, in that squeaky way?"

"Of course he didn't," said the voice again.

And, turning, they saw that Mr. Mo was waving his hat in greeting. His rosy face was wreathed in smiles and his turned-up nose had a cheerful look.

"It isn't what you call the meal. It's how it tastes that matters. Help yourself!" he cried to Michael. "A growing lad is always hungry. Take a piece of pie!"

"I'm having a beautiful dream," thought Michael, hurriedly helping himself.

"Don't eat it, Michael. It's plasticine!"

"It's not! It's apple!" he cried, with his mouth full.

"But I know! I made it myself!" Jane turned to Mr. Mo.

"You did?" Mr. Mo seemed very surprised. "I suppose you mean you
helped
to make it. Well, I'm very glad you did, my girl. Too many cooks make delicious broth!"

"They spoil it, you mean," corrected Jane.

"Oh, no, no! Not in my opinion. One puts one thing, one another—oatmeal, cucumber, pepper, tripe. The merrier the more, you know!"

"The more of what?" asked Michael, staring.

"Everything!" Mr. Mo replied. "There's more of everything when one's merry. Take a peach!" He turned to Jane. "It matches your complexion."

From sheer politeness—for she could not disappoint that smiling face—Jane took the fruit and tasted. Refreshing juice ran over her chin, the peach-stone grated against her teeth.

"Delicious!" she cried in astonishment.

"Of course it is!" crowed Mr. Mo. "As my dear wife always used to say—'You can't go by the look of a thing, it's what's inside that matters.'"

"What happened to her?" asked Michael politely, as he helped himself to an orange. He had quite forgotten, in the joy of finding more to eat, that Jane had crumbled her up.

"I lost her," murmured Mr. Mo. He gave his head a sorrowful shake as he popped the orange peel into his pocket.

Jane felt herself blushing.

"Well—her hat wouldn't sit on straight," she faltered. But now it seemed to her that this was hardly a good enough reason for getting rid of the hat's owner.

"I know, I know! She was always rather an awkward shape. Nothing seemed to fit her. If it wasn't her hat it was her boots. Even so—I was fond of her." Mr. Mo heaved a heavy sigh. "However," he went on gloomily, "I've found another one!"

"Another wife?" cried Jane in surprise. She knew she had not made two Mrs. Mo's. "But you haven't had time for that!"

"No time? Why, I've all the time in the world. Look at those dandelions!" He waved his chubby hand round the Park. "And I had to have someone to care for the children. Can't do everything myself. So—I troubled trouble before it troubled me and got myself married just now. This feast here is our wedding-breakfast. But, alas——" He glanced around him nervously. "Every silver lining has a cloud. I'm afraid I made a bad choice."

"Coo-roo! Coo-roo!
We told you so!"

cried the plasticine doves from their branch.

"Children?" said Jane, with a puzzled frown. She was sure she had made no children.

"Three fine boys," Mr. Mo said proudly. "Surely you two have heard of them! Hi!" he shouted, cupping his hands. "Eenie, Meenie, Mynie—where are you?"

Jane and Michael stared at each other and then at Mr. Mo.

"Oh, of course we've heard of them," agreed Michael.

"Eenie, Meenie, Mynie, Mo,
Catch an Indian by the——

But I thought they were only words in a game."

Mr. Mo smiled a teasing smile.

"Take my advice, my dear young friend, and don't do too much thinking. Bad for the appetite. Bad for the brain. The more you think, the less you know, as my dear—er—first wife used to say. But I can't spend all day chattering, much as I enjoy it!" He plucked a dandelion ball and blew the seeds on the air.

"Goodness, yes, it's four o'clock. And I've got a job to do."

He took from his tool-bag a piece of wood and began to polish it with his apron.

"What kind of work do you do?" asked Michael.

"Can't you read?" cried the chubby man, waving towards the summer-house.

They turned to Jane's little shelter of twigs and saw to their surprise that it had grown larger. The sticks were solid logs of wood and instead of the airy space between them there were now white walls and curtained windows, Above them rose a new thatched roof, and a sturdy chimney puffed forth smoke. The entrance was closed by a red front door bearing a white placard.

S. MO
(it said)
BUILDER
AND
CARPENTER

"But I didn't build the house like that! Who altered it?" Jane demanded.

"I did, of course." Mr. Mo grinned. "Couldn't live in it as it was—far too damp and draughty. What did you say—
you
built my house?" He chuckled at the mere idea. "A little wisp of a lass like you, not as high as my elbow!"

This was really too much for Jane.

"It's you who are little," she protested. "I made you of straw and plasticine! You're not as big as my thumb!"

"Ha, ha! That's a good one. Made me of hay while the sun shone—is that what you're telling me? Straw, indeed!" laughed Mr. Mo. "You're just like my children—always dreaming. And wonderful dreams they are!"

He gave her head a little pat. And as he did so she realised that she was not, indeed, as high as his elbow. Beneath the branch of yellow blossoms Mr. Mo towered above her. The lawns that she herself had plucked now stretched to a distant woodland. And beyond that nothing could she see. The big Park had entirely disappeared, as the world outside disappears when we cross the threshold of home.

She looked up. The bumble-bee seemed like a moving cloud. The shimmering fly that darted past was about the size of a starling and the ant that gave her a bright black stare was nearly as high as her ankle.

What had happened? Had Mr. Mo grown taller or was it that she herself had dwindled? It was Michael who answered the question.

"Jane! Jane!" he cried. "We're in your Park. I thought it was just a tiny patch, but now it's as big as the world!"

"Well, I wouldn't say that," Mr. Mo observed. "It only stretches as far as the forest, but it's big enough for us."

Michael turned, at his words, towards the woodland. It was dense and wild and mysterious, and some of the trees had giant blooms.

"Daisies the size of umbrellas!" he gasped. "And bluebells large enough to bathe in!"

"Yes, it's a wonderful wood," Mr. Mo agreed, eyeing the forest with a carpenter's eye. "My—er—second wife wants me to cut it down and sell it to make my fortune. But this is a Park for Poor People. What would I do with a fortune? My own idea—but that was before the wedding, of course—was to build a little Fun Fair——"

"I thought of that, too," Jane broke in, smiling.

"Well, happy minds think alike, you know! What do you say to a merry-go-round? A coconut-shy, and some swinging-boats? And free to all, friends and strangers alike? Hurrah, I knew you'd agree with me!" He clapped his hands excitedly. But suddenly the eager look died away from his face.

"Oh, it's no good planning," he went on sadly. "
She
doesn't approve of Fun Fairs—too frivolous and no money in them. What a terrible mistake I've made—married in haste to repent at leisure! But it's no good crying over spilt milk!"

Mr. Mo's eyes brimmed up with tears, and Jane was just about to offer him her handkerchief, when a clatter of feet sounded on the lawn and his face suddenly brightened.

"Papa!" cried a trio of squeaky voices. And three little figures sprang over the path and flung themselves into his arms. They were all alike, as peas in a pod; and the image of their father.

"Papa, we caught an Indian! We caught him by the toe, papa! But he hollered, papa, so we let him go!"

"Quite right, my lads!" smiled Mr. Mo. "He'll be happier in the forest."

"Indians?" Michael's eyes widened. "Among those daisy trees?"

"He was looking for a squaw, papa, to take care of his wigwam!"

"Well, I hope he finds one," said Mr. Mo. "Oh, yes, of course there are Indians! And goodness only knows what else. Quite like a jungle, you might say. We never go very far in, you know. Much too dangerous. But—let me introduce my sons. This is Eenie, this is Meenie, and this is Mynie!"

Three pairs of blue eyes twinkled, three pointed noses turned up to the sky and three round faces grinned.

"And these——" said Mr. Mo, turning. Then he chuckled and flung up his hands. "Well! Here we are, old friends already, and I don't even know your names!"

They told him, shaking hands with his children.

"Banks? Not the Banks of Cherry Tree Lane? Why, I'm doing a job for you!" Mr. Mo rummaged in his tool-bag.