Kitabı oku: «More about Mary Poppins / И снова о Мэри Поппинз», sayfa 3

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.

“H’m. Not bad for an hour’s work,” said the King, looking very pleased with himself. “That’s enough for today.” He stood up and arranged his ermine cloak very tastefully.

“Order my coach. I must go to the Barber’s,” he said magnificently.

It was then that he noticed the Red Cow approaching.

He sat down again and took up his sceptre*.

“What have we here, ho*?” he demanded, as the Red Cow danced to the foot of the steps.

“A Cow, your Majesty!” she answered simply.

“I can see that,” said the King. “I still have my eyesight. But what do you want? Be quick, because I have an appointment with the Barber at ten. He won’t wait for me longer than that and I must have my hair cut. And for goodness’ sake stop jigging and jagging* about like that!” he added irritably. “It makes me quite giddy.”

“Quite giddy!” echoed all the Courtiers, staring.

“That’s just my trouble, your Majesty. I can’t stop!” said the Red Cow piteously.

“Can’t stop? Nonsense!” said the King furiously. “Stop at once! I, the King, command you!”

“Stop at once! The King commands you!” cried all the Courtiers.

The Red Cow made a great effort. She tried so hard to stop dancing that every muscle and every rib stood out like mountain ranges all over her. But it was no good. She just went on dancing at the foot of the King’s steps.

“I have tried, your Majesty. And I can’t. I’ve been dancing now for seven days running*. And I’ve had no sleep. And very little to eat. A white-thorn spray or two – that’s all. So I’ve come to ask your advice.”

“H’m – very curious,” said the King, pushing the crown on one side and scratching his head.

“Very curious,” said the Courtiers, scratching their heads, too.

“What does it feel like?” asked the King.

“Funny,” said the Red Cow. “And yet,” she paused, as if choosing her words, “it’s rather a pleasant feeling, too. As if laughter were running up and down inside me.”

“Extraordinary,” said the King, and he put his chin on his hand and stared at the Red Cow, pondering on what was the best thing to do.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet and said, “Good gracious!”

“What is it?” cried all the Courtiers.

“Why, don’t you see?” said the King, getting very excited and dropping his sceptre. “What an idiot I was not to have noticed it before. And what idiots you were!” he turned furiously upon the Courtiers. “Don’t you see that there’s a fallen star caught on her horn?”

“So there is!” cried the Courtiers, as they all suddenly noticed the star for the first time. And as they looked it seemed to them that the star grew brighter.

“That’s what’s wrong!” said the King. “Now, you Courtiers had better pull it off so that this – er – lady can stop dancing and have some breakfast. It’s the star, madam, that is making you dance,” he said to the Red Cow. “Now, come along, you!”

And he motioned to the Chief Courtier, who presented himself smartly before the Red Cow and began to tug at the star. It would not come off. The Chief Courtier was joined by one after another of the other Courtiers, until at last there was a long chain of them, each holding the man in front of him by the waist, and a tug-of-war* began between the Courtiers and the star.

“Mind my head!*” entreated the Red Cow.

“Pull harder!” roared the King.

They pulled harder. They pulled until their faces were red as raspberries*. They pulled till they could pull no longer and all fell back, one on top of the other. The star did not move. It remained firmly fixed to the horn.

“Tch, tch, tch!” said the King. “Secretary, look in the Encyclopedia and see what it says about cows with stars on their horns.”

The Secretary knelt down and began to crawl under the throne. Presently he emerged, carrying a large green book which was always kept there in case the King wanted to know anything.

He turned the pages.

“There’s nothing at all, your Majesty, except the story of the Cow Who Jumped Over the Moon*, and you know all about that.”

The King rubbed his chin, because that helped him to think.

He sighed irritably and looked at the Red Cow.

“All I can say,” he said, “is that you’d better try that too.”

“Try what?” said the Red Cow.

“Jumping over the moon. It might have an effect. Worth trying, anyway.”

“Me?*” said the Red Cow, with an outraged stare.

“Yes, you – who else?” said the King impatiently. He was anxious to get to the Barber’s.

“Sire,*” said the Red Cow, “I beg you to remember that I am a decent, respectable animal and have been taught from my infancy that jumping was no occupation for a lady.”

The King stood up and shook his sceptre at her.

“Madam,” he said, “you came here for my advice and I have given it to you. Do you want to go on dancing for ever? Do you want to go hungry for ever? Do you want to go sleepless for ever?”

The Red Cow thought of the lush sweet taste of dandelions. She thought of meadow grass and how soft it was to lie on. She thought of her weary capering legs and how nice it would be to rest them. And she said to herself: “Perhaps, just for once, it wouldn’t matter and nobody – except the King – need know.”

“How high do you suppose it is?” she said aloud as she danced.

The King looked up at the Moon.

“At least a mile, I should think,” said he.

The Red Cow nodded. She thought so, too. For a moment she considered, and then she made up her mind.

“I never thought that I should come to this, your Majesty. Jumping – and over the moon at that. But – I’ll try it,” she said and curtseyed gracefully to the throne.

“Good,” said the King pleasantly, realising that he would be in time for the Barber, after all. “Follow me!”

He led the way into the garden, and the Red Cow and the Courtiers followed him.

“Now,” said the King, when he reached the open lawn, “when I blow the whistle – jump!”

He took a large golden whistle from his waistcoat pocket and blew into it lightly to make sure there was no dust in it.

The Red Cow danced at attention*.

“Now – one!” said the King.

“Two!”

“Three!”

Then he blew the whistle.

The Red Cow, drawing in her breath, gave one huge tremendous jump and the earth fell away beneath her. She could see the figures of the King and the Courtiers growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared below. She herself shot upwards through the sky, with the stars spinning around her like great golden plates, and presently, in blinding light, she felt the cold rays of the moon upon her. She shut her eyes as she went over it, and as the dazzling gleam passed behind her and she bent her head towards the earth again, she felt the star slip down her horn. With a great rush it fell off and went rolling down the sky. And it seemed to her that as it disappeared into the darkness great chords of music came from it and echoed through the air.

In another minute the Red Cow had landed on the earth again. To her great surprise she found that she was not in the King’s garden but in her own dandelion field.

And she had stopped dancing! Her feet were as steady as though they were made of stone and she walked as sedately as any other respectable cow. Quietly and serenely she moved across the field, beheading her golden soldiers* as she went to greet the Red Calf.

“I’m so glad you’re back!” said the Red Calf. “I’ve been so lonely.”

The Red Cow kissed it and fell to* munching the meadow. It was her first good meal for a week. And by the time her hunger was satisfied she had eaten up several regiments*. After that she felt better. She soon began to live her life just exactly as she had lived it before.

At first she enjoyed her quiet regular habits very much, and was glad to be able to eat her breakfast without dancing and to lie down in the grass and sleep at night instead of curtseying to the moon until the morning.

But after a little she began to feel uncomfortable and dissatisfied. Her dandelion field and her Red Calf were all very well, but she wanted something else and she couldn’t think what it was. At last she realised that she was missing her star. She had grown so used to dancing and to the happy feeling the star had given her that she wanted to do a Sailor’s Hornpipe and to have the star on her horn again.

She fretted, she lost her appetite, her temper was atrocious. And she frequently burst into tears for no reason at all. Eventually, she went to my Mother and told her the whole story and asked her advice.

“Good gracious, my dear!” my Mother said to her. “You don’t suppose that only one star ever fell out of the sky! Billions fall every night, I’m told. But they fall in different places, of course. You can’t expect two stars to drop in the same field in one lifetime.”

“Then, you think – if I moved about a bit —?” the Red Cow began, a happy eager look coming into her eyes.

“If it were me,” said my Mother, “I’d go and look for one.”

“I will,” said the Red Cow joyously, “I will indeed.”

* * *

Mary Poppins paused.

“And that, I suppose, is why she was walking down Cherry-Tree Lane,” Jane prompted gently.

“Yes,” whispered Michael, “she was looking for her star.”

Mary Poppins sat up with a little start. The intent look had gone from her eyes and the stillness from her body.

“Come down from that window at once, sir!” she said crossly. “I am going to turn on the lights.” And she hurried across the landing to the electric light switch.

“Michael!” said Jane in a careful whisper. “Just have one look and see if the cow’s still there.”

Hurriedly Michael peered out through the gathering dusk.

“Quickly!” said Jane. “Mary Poppins will be back in one minute. Can you see her?”

“No-o-o,” said Michael, staring out. “Not a sign of her. She’s gone.”

“I do hope she finds it!” said Jane, thinking of the Red Cow roaming through the world looking for a star to stick on her horn.

“So do I,” said Michael as, at the sound of Mary Poppins’s returning footsteps, he hurriedly pulled down the blind…