“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’ returning footsteps, he hurriedly pulled down the blind. . .
IT WAS NOT very long afterwards that Michael woke up one morning with a curious feeling inside him. He knew, the moment he opened his eyes, that something was wrong but he was not quite sure what it was.
“What is today, Mary Poppins?” he enquired, pushing the bedclothes away from him.
“Tuesday,” said Mary Poppins. “Go and turn on your bath. Hurry!” she said, as he made no effort to move. He turned over and pulled the bedclothes up over his head and the curious feeling increased.
“What did I say?” said Mary Poppins in that cold, clear voice that was always a Warning.
Michael knew now what was happening to him. He knew he was going to be naughty.
“I won’t,” he said slowly, his voice muffled by the blanket.
Mary Poppins twitched the clothes from his hand and looked down upon him.
“I WON’T.”
He waited, wondering what she would do, and was surprised when, without a word, she went into the bathroom and turned on the tap herself. He took his towel and went slowly in as she came out. And for the first time in his life Michael entirely bathed himself. He knew by this that he was in disgrace, and he purposely neglected to wash behind his ears.
“Shall I let out the water?” he enquired in the rudest voice he had.
There was no reply.
“Pooh, I don’t care!” said Michael, and the hot heavy weight that was within him swelled and grew larger. “I don’t care!”
He dressed himself then, putting on his best clothes, that he knew were only for Sunday. And after that he went downstairs, kicking the banisters with his feet – a thing he knew he should not do as it woke up everybody else in the house. On the stairs he met Ellen, the housemaid, and as he passed her he knocked the hot-water jug out of her hand.
“Well, you are a clumsy,” said Ellen, as she bent down to mop up the water. “That was for your father’s shaving.”
“I meant to,” said Michael calmly.
Ellen’s red face went quite white with surprise.
“Meant to? You meant – well, then, you’re a very bad, heathen boy, and I’ll tell your Ma, so I will—”
“Do,” said Michael, and he went on down the stairs.
Well, that was the beginning of it. Throughout the rest of the day nothing went right with him. The hot, heavy feeling inside him made him do the most awful things, and as soon as he’d done them he felt extraordinarily pleased and glad and thought out some more at once.
In the kitchen Mrs Brill, the cook, was making scones.
“No, Master Michael,” she said, “you can’t scrape out the basin. It’s not empty yet.”
And at that he let out his foot and kicked Mrs Brill very hard on the shin, so that she dropped the rolling-pin and screamed aloud.
“You kicked Mrs Brill? Kind Mrs Brill? I’m ashamed of you,” said his Mother a few minutes later when Mrs Brill had told her the whole story. “You must beg her pardon at once. Say you’re sorry, Michael!”
“But I’m not sorry. I’m glad. Her legs are too fat,” he said, and before they could catch him he ran away up the area steps and into the garden. There he purposely bumped into Robertson Ay, who was sound asleep on top of the best rock plants, and Robertson Ay was very angry.
“I’ll tell your Pa!” he said threateningly.
“And I’ll tell him you haven’t cleaned the shoes this morning,” said Michael, and was a little astonished at himself. It was his habit and Jane’s always to protect Robertson Ay, because they loved him and didn’t want to lose him.
But he was not astonished for long, for he had begun to wonder what he could do next. And it was no time before he thought of something.
Through the bars of the fence he could see Miss Lark’s Andrew daintily sniffing at the Next-door lawn and choosing for himself the best blades of grass. He called softly to Andrew and gave him a biscuit out of his own pocket, and while Andrew was munching it he tied Andrew’s tail to the fence with a piece of string. Then he ran away with Miss Lark’s angry, outraged voice screaming in his ears, and his body almost bursting with the exciting weight of that heavy thing inside him.
The door of his Father’s study stood open – for Ellen had just been dusting the books. So Michael did a forbidden thing. He went in, sat down at his Father’s desk, and with his Father’s pen began to scribble on the blotter. Suddenly his elbow, knocking against the inkpot, upset it, and the chair and the desk and the quill pen and his own best clothes were covered with great spreading stains of blue ink. It looked dreadful, and fear of what would happen to him stirred within Michael. But, in spite of that, he didn’t care – he didn’t feel the least bit sorry.
“That child must be ill,” said Mrs Banks, when she was told by Ellen – who suddenly returned and discovered him – of the latest adventure. “Michael, you shall have some syrup of figs.”
“I’m not ill. I’m weller than you,” said Michael rudely.
“Then you’re simply naughty,” said his Mother. “And you shall be punished.”
And, sure enough, five minutes later, Michael found himself standing in his stained clothes in a corner of the nursery, facing the wall.
Jane tried to speak to him when Mary Poppins was not looking, but he would not answer, and put out his tongue at her. When John and Barbara crawled along the floor and each took hold of one of his shoes and gurgled, he just pushed them roughly away. And all the time he was enjoying his badness, hugging it to him as though it were a friend, and not caring a bit.
“I hate being good,” he said aloud to himself, as he trailed after Mary Poppins and Jane and the perambulator on the afternoon walk to the Park.
“Don’t dawdle,” said Mary Poppins, looking back at him.
But he went on dawdling and dragging the sides
