Mary Poppins Opens the Door. P. Travers L.

breathing.

      Mr Banks sat and snored in his study with a newspaper over his face.

      Mrs Banks was sewing new black buttons on his old overcoat.

      “Are you still thinking what you might have done if you hadn’t got married?” she asked.

      “Eh, what?” said Mr Banks, waking up. “Well, no. It’s much too much trouble. And now that Mary Poppins is back, I shan’t have to think about anything.”

      “Good,” said Mrs Banks, sewing briskly. “And I’ll try and teach Robertson Ay.”

      “Teach him what?” Mr Banks said sleepily.

      “Not to give you one black and one brown, of course!”

      “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Mr Banks insisted. “The mixture was much admired at the Office. I shall always wear them that way in future.”

      “Indeed?” said Mrs Banks, smiling happily. On the whole, she felt glad Mr Banks had married. And now that Mary Poppins was back, she would tell him so more often…

      Downstairs in the kitchen sat Mrs Brill. The Policeman had just brought Ellen home and was staying for a Cup of Tea.

      “That Mary Poppins!” he said, sipping. “She’s ’ere today and gone tomorrer, just like them Willy-the-Wisps!”

      “Ow! Don’t say that!” said Ellen, sniffing. “I thought she was come to stay.”

      The Policeman gave her his handkerchief.

      “Maybe she will!” he told her fondly. “You never can tell, you know.”

      “Well, I’m sure I hope so,” sighed Mrs Brill. “This ’ouse is a Model Residence whenever Mary Poppins is in it.”

      “I hope so too. I need a rest,” said Robertson Ay to the brooms. And he snuggled down under Mrs Banks’ shawl and went to sleep again.

      But what Mary Poppins hoped, none of them knew. For Mary Poppins, as everyone knows, never told anyone anything…

      

       Chapter Two MR TWIGLEY’S WISHES

      “OH, DO COME on, Mary Poppins!” said Michael impatiently, dancing up and down on the pavement.

      Mary Poppins took no notice. She was standing in the Lane admiring her reflection in the brass plate on Dr Simpson’s gate.

      “You look quite tidy!” Jane assured her.

      “Tidy!” Mary Poppins snorted. Tidy, in her new black hat with the blue bow? Tidy indeed! Handsome, she thought, would be nearer the mark. Tossing her head, she strode on quickly and they had to run to keep up with her.

      The three of them were walking through the fine May afternoon to find Mr Twigley. For the Drawing-room piano was out of tune and Mrs Banks had asked Mary Poppins to find a piano-tuner.

      “There’s my cousin, ma’am, Mr Twigley. Just three blocks from here,” Mary Poppins had announced.

      And when Mrs Banks said she had never heard of him, Mary Poppins, with her usual sniff, had reminded Mrs Banks that her relatives were composed of the Very Best People.

      And now Jane and Michael, who had already met two members of Mary Poppins’ family, were wondering what Mr Twigley would be like.

      “I think he will be tall and thin like Mr Turvy,” said Michael.

      “I think he will be round and fat like Mr Wigg,” said Jane.

      “I never knew such a pair for thinking!” said Mary Poppins. “You’ll wear your brains out. Turn here, please!”

      They hurried along and turned a corner, and found themselves standing in a narrow street lined with small, old-fashioned houses.

      “Why, what street is this? I never saw it before! And I’ve been here lots of times!” cried Jane.

      “Well, don’t blame me!” Mary Poppins snapped. “You don’t suppose I put it there!”

      “I shouldn’t wonder if you did!” said Michael, as he gazed at the strange little houses. Then he added, with a flattering smile, “You’re so very clever, you know!”

      “Humph!” she said tartly, though her mouth took on a conceited look. “Clever is as clever does. And it’s more than you are, anyway!” And, sniffing, she led them down the street and rang the bell of one of the houses.

      “Pang!” said the bell loudly. And at the same moment an upstairs window swung open. A large head, with a knob of hair at the back, bobbed out like a Jack-in-the-Box.

      “Well, what’s the matter now?” a harsh voice cried. Then the woman looked down and spied Mary Poppins. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” she said angrily. “Well, you can just turn round and go back to wherever you came from. He isn’t in!” The window swung to and the head disappeared. The children felt very disappointed.

      “Perhaps we can come again tomorrow,” said Jane anxiously.

      “Today – or Never. That’s my motto!” snapped Mary Poppins. And she rang the bell again.

      This time it was the front door that burst open. The owner of the head stood before them, glowering. She wore large black boots, a blue-and-white checked apron and a black shawl round her shoulders. Jane and Michael thought she was the ugliest person they had ever seen. And they felt very sorry for Mr Twigley.

      “What – you again!” the huge woman shouted. “I told you he wasn’t in. And in he is not, or my name’s not Sarah Clump!”

      “Then you aren’t Mrs Twigley!” exclaimed Michael with relief.

      “Not yet,” she remarked, with an ominous smile. “Here! Down you come, all of you!” she added. For Mary Poppins, with the speed of a serpent, had slipped through the doorway and was dragging the children up the stairs. “Do you hear me? I’ll have the Law on you, bursting into a decent woman’s house like a set of Vampires!”

      “Decent!” said Mary Poppins, snorting. “If you’re decent I’m a Dromedary!” And she rapped three times on a door at her right.

      “Who’s there?” called an anxious voice from within. Jane and Michael trembled with excitement. Perhaps Mr Twigley was at home, after all!

      “It’s me, Cousin Fred. Unlock the door, please!”

      There was a moment’s silence. Then the sound of a key being turned in the lock. The door opened and Mary Poppins, pulling the children after her, shut it and locked it again.

      “Let me in – you Pirate!” roared Mrs Clump, angrily rattling the handle.

      Mary Poppins laughed quietly. The children glanced about them. They were in a large attic littered with scraps of wood, tins of paint and bottles of glue. Every available space in the room was filled with musical instruments. A harp stood in one corner and in another was a pile of drums. Trumpets and violins hung from the rafters; flutes and tin-whistles were stacked on the shelves. A dusty carpenter’s bench by the window was littered with carpenter’s tools. And on the edge of the bench was a small polished box with a tiny screw-driver tossed beside it.

      In the middle of the floor stood five half-finished musical boxes. Brightly they shone in their fresh new colours and round them, chalked on the boards in large white letters, were the words

      WET PAINT

      The