Spellbinding
Astonishing, thought Mrs Banks. Truly remarkable.
The house was silent. As if there was no life within, although she knew that to be untrue. She looked into the nursery, finding Jane writing about why Elizabeth Barrett Browning was her favourite poet, and Michael was studiously painting the new constellation he'd seen through the telescope. As for John and Barbara, they were playing nicely together, rolling the beads back and forth on the abacus.
It was unheard of, unseemly- for such quiet and concentration. They never behaved like this.
She said so to Mary Poppins as the nanny brought in the washing from the wire line outside.
"They are working so hard. I've never seen them concentrate so much!" Mrs Banks thought little of what she was saying, so amazed was she. "Why, it must be magic. Did you do something to them, Mary Poppins?"
An innocent joke at her own expense. The nanny looked furious as she passed, as if she had been tied up and thrown into the river. Accused of witchcraft. She insisted that such a thing was impossible and a horrid allegation at best. Speaking over Mrs Banks, whose poor cheeks turned a quick shade of red as she tried to apologise.
However, the joke was not lost on Mary Poppins. A smile began to appear as she made her way back to the nursery, slower than usual, as if she had not much to do but work in peaceful, comforting silence. Using magic on the children? All because they were working hard? Why, what a wild, impertinent thing to say. Mary Poppins would not be accused of such a thing. Whether she had or not was another matter. But she would not be blamed.