A/N: Hello! This is my first fic ever, so please be gentle. I will appreciate any and all constructive criticism, and I thank you in advance. This collection of extreme fluff came about while I was listening to Vivaldi's concertos The Four Seasons. I figured, "hey, this could work..." and thus it came to be. It's a mix of all three Mary Poppins entities, with bits and pieces from the original books, the classic movie, and the utterly fantastic musical. I hope it flows as well as I imagined it in my head, hahaha. This fic chronicles the relationship of our favourite couple, Mary Poppins and Herbert Alfred, over a fifteen-year period, with each chapter taking place during one of the four seasons. It was a pleasure to write, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
- ACH
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Boo.
This is dedicated to my dear friend and inspiration, without whom my life, I'm sure, would be a ghastly mess. :P
La primavera
1905 London
There is something exceptionally magical about spring. Winter's icy grasp is finally loosened and the land begins to breathe again. The biting, harsh winds diminish, and gentle rolling breezes take their place. Colour returns to London as the hazy shades of winter heave their last breaths and fade. What Bert loved especially, however, was how the last of the glistening snow would melt and the first flowers of the season could determinedly poke their stems up from the thawed ground. They never failed to come, and for him they were yearly reminders that even though one may face the toughest of times, one will always pull through in the end. This winter had been particularly difficult for business; no one really has their chimney swept once the chill envelops the city, after all. Bert was hoping to make up for it by taking on a few more odd jobs this spring. He was never downtrodden, though. He enjoyed working with his hands, and he had all the time in the world. What were a couple new skills to learn? He whistled happily in the late morning sun, gradually making his way to one of the more popular areas of the park. Today Bert was a screever, and he had some wonderfully charming ideas in mind to bring to life with his brightly coloured chalk.
He sauntered leisurely through the park, hands in his pockets, watching the people he passed with great interest. There were children chasing one another, filled with delight that they could finally come outside to play again. Governesses were pushing prams ahead of them, the babies within barely visible beneath their soft, comfortable blankets. A group of teenage boys were fighting over a kite, while a cluster of girls about the same age stood a few feet away, looking on and giggling behind their hands. He sighed contentedly as he walked, remembering when he had been their age. Time certainly flies, doesn't it? He mused. He'd grown from being a somewhat lanky young boy into an exceedingly attractive man. He'd always been a rather handsome gentleman; with striking features and warm brown eyes, so, naturally, he was quite popular with the ladies, despite his less than impressive class status. He hadn't found the right woman for him just yet, though. He still had plenty of time; there was no rush. No rush at all, he thought with a smile.
Upon reaching his preferred spot, he set down his small bag of chalk and kneeled on the pavement. He gazed astutely at his surroundings: the newly green trees swaying in the light breeze; a neat patch of lovely rose bushes lining the path, the buds barely beginning to open; the statue of a boy holding his dolphin companion in a close embrace. He finished surveying the scenery, making sure he didn't miss an ounce of inspiration. Satisfied that he had not, Bert began to materialise his imagination and draw.
The afternoon trickled away slowly. People passed him by, some more curious than others, stopping to take a gander at his work and, occasionally, to leave a penny or two in his hat. By the time the sun had passed its zenith, he had drawn a fine array of pictures. One was of peaceful, sun-drenched shores with large palm trees growing at odd angles; another was of a shady forest with golden beams of light filtering through the tree branches that gave off a faint otherworldly feel. Another of his chalk drawings depicted a traditional British castle that was so realistic and detailed it was almost as if King Arthur and his Knights would ride straight out of it and into the London streets. His fourth picture portrayed a majestic tiger and her cubs, pouncing on a snow-covered mountain slope. He looked on them with pride as he made small adjustments here and there with a loving, attentive hand. Some of my best work, if I do say so m'self, he thought with a pleased smile. Packing up his now worn chalk, he relocated to a nearby bench to sit and relax. He counted the coins in his hat and his smile dipped a little. Not as much as he would have liked, but it was a start. You can always make more money, he thought. But there will never be another day the same as this. He stretched his legs and leaned back into the bench, his everlasting optimism back to full strength and his smile as luminous as it was before. He watched as a chirping robin flew back and forth overhead, collecting twigs and pieces of grass with which to make his nest. Just like me, he thought, whistlin' while he works. That's the only way to do it, that is. His gaze wandered across the park to the cherry trees that were soon to be bursting with bright pink and magenta blossoms. I'll have to come back and draw them once they bloom, he thought. They're sure to be remarkably beautiful after such a brutal winter. His eyes left the trees and found the teenagers with the kite once more. They were having a great deal of trouble trying to keep it in the air. His interest piqued, he watched as they rolled the long string back up for another attempt. One boy held on to the yellow kite, its red ribbon tail flitting around in the breeze, while another boy readied the string for the kite's ascent. A sudden gust of wind blew the kite and the boy let go, and it quickly rose into the sky, soaring above their heads while they shouted in excitement and happiness. It seems the wind is on their side, Bert mused laughingly. He took a deep breath of the new spring air, and slowly released it. He noticed that the air felt slightly different than it did before. He didn't exactly know how to explain it, but there was something unusual about it; it was a subtle change: cooler, fresher. He attributed it to the coming of the season and shrugged it off. Just me and my overactive imagination at work, he thought with a smile. He allowed his eyes to linger on the boys with the kite for a little while longer, and then unhurriedly shifted his gaze to the nearby rose bushes. For a fleeting moment he felt as though time had stopped; he had never before in his life seen a woman more beautiful than she who was leaning over the budding roses.
Her dark brown hair was swept into a tight bun on the back of her head with a few stray wisps playing about her ears. She wore a form-fitting royal purple coat with black pockets and cuffs over a black skirt that just barely covered her ankles, and black boots that shone in the afternoon sunlight. A black hat adorned with daisies sat primly atop her head, and she carried a rather odd carpetbag and a green parrot-headed umbrella in her black gloved hands. The woman set her bag and umbrella down beside her as she sat on a bench not far from the one Bert was occupying. Bert realised he was staring, and he averted his eyes, hoping she hadn't seen him with his mouth agape ogling her. He had been coming to this exact spot in the park for years now, and he had never seen her here before. She was a breath of fresh air, and he surreptitiously watched her out of the corner of his eye as she gazed upon the statue of the boy and the dolphin, and, to Bert's surprise, winked at it. He looked at the statue now, thinking somebody else must have been beside it to warrant the action, but there was no one present. He confusedly looked at the stone boy, and if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn it winked back at her. My imagination must be really active today, he thought. My mind must be playing tricks on me. He secretly glanced back over at the mysterious woman, who had pulled a rather large book out of her bag and had flipped to a page in the middle and begun reading. Ever the artist, Bert memorised her face and her hands, and the way her skirt draped across her daintily crossed legs. He took his sketchpad and charcoal from his own bag and, with painstaking care, began to draw her. He had not had such a lovely subject for as long as he could remember, and he was inspired.
The two sat that way for quite a while; she silently reading, and he sketching away on the cream-coloured paper. Finally, she closed her book on a sigh, and returned it to the recesses of her carpetbag. She delicately pulled off her black lace gloves and placed them in her bag, as well. He clandestinely looked at her again, and saw that she was gazing with a smile at the rosebuds. She tenderly held one in her hand and, to Bert's utter amazement, it unfolded at her touch. He noted she didn't look surprised at all; in fact, she looked quite pleased with herself. Her smile grew and reached her stunning blue eyes as the rest of the buds on the rose bush bloomed, and soon it was covered with vivid, deep red flowers, and the heady scent of the roses was carried on the breeze over to Bert. He breathed in their aroma and smiled to himself. This woman is one of a kind, make no mistake, he thought. He had a sudden idea of how to properly meet her, and he hoped that she would come again to this place in the park tomorrow. In his mind, he bade the mystifying, beautiful woman a silent farewell and left the park, walking through the dark, meandering streets to his modest home in the heart of London.
***
Night had fallen and a hush descended upon the city. Sleep would not come, and Bert could not get that woman off his mind, so he went to his favourite spot to think. One wouldn't normally believe the rooftops of London to be a comfortable, or even safe, abode, but Bert knew otherwise. Only a sweep could truly appreciate the beauty and peace of the rooftops, he thought. He leaned against a chimney and looked up into the cloudy sky. The stars were desperately trying to peek through, and every so often he would get a glimpse of their brilliant light. He had brought his sketchpad with him, and he glanced at the portrait he had drawn of the extraordinary woman in the park. It was an exquisite sketch, but it was still lacking a certain spark; that vitality she seemed to carry with her in her eyes and cheeks. Who is she? Bert wondered. Where did she come from? Why have I never seen her before? Hundreds of questions raced through his head, not the least of which was whether or not he had been dreaming, or if she had really done what he saw her do; whether by sleight of hand, or by some other unknown force, he did not know. He was determined to figure her out, assuming he ever saw her again, of course. He became frustrated at that thought. He simply had to see her again. Something in her presence had struck a chord within him, and he didn't want to let that go.
His mind wandered back to the stars as did his earnest gaze. He wondered where she was at that very moment, and what she was doing, and if she were looking up into the same clouded sky. The wind blew a few of the clouds away and opened the sky just enough that the stars could fully shine down on him. He smiled and yawned; his exhaustion finally catching up with him after the excitement of the day. He wished the stars goodnight, lightheartedly saluted to Big Ben, and deftly climbed down from the rooftops. Bert did not have to concentrate on the footholds and railings anymore; he had followed this route enough times to know it by heart. What Bert didn't know, however, was that if he had been paying attention, he would have observed, peering at him from behind a chimney, the deep blue eyes of the very woman he could not shake from his thoughts.
***
The following morning, Bert awoke bright and early in order to begin his work. He slung his bag of chalk over his shoulder and quickly made his way through the early morning fog toward the park. It was practically empty at this hour; the birds were quiet and very few people were strolling about. The only sounds were the wind rustling the leaves and the soft clap of his shoes against the pavement. Upon arriving at the location of his previous drawings, he tossed his bag on the ground and knelt beside it. He drew from memory; the instant of her nurturing that rose had fastened to his mind, and he wanted to recreate it for everyone, though above all for her, to see. He worked meticulously, not wanting to miss even the slightest nuance. The image poured from his mind onto the pavement, and soon he was looking at her chalk likeness. He slowly got up and brushed the colourful powder from his hands and his black jacket and trousers. He looked upon it and beamed, putting away his chalk. Now this is m'best work, he thought. No doubt about that. Bert had been so immersed in his effort that he hadn't realised that the normal boisterous activity of the park had begun. People were out and about as usual, and Bert had nothing left to do but wait, so he returned to the same bench from the preceding day to participate in one of his favourite pastimes of people-watching. One can learn a lot about a person by observing them, Bert knew, and he would be keeping a vigilant eye out for the particular woman whose portrait now graced the sidewalk.
Time passed slowly; the soft morning glow had turned into the strong rays of the early afternoon, and Bert remained on the bench waiting. He had received comments (and a few pence, to be fair) from multiple people praising his work, but none of them really mattered to him. He wanted to hear only one person's thoughts and, so far, she had not appeared as he'd hoped she would. He tore his gaze from a mother and her little girl to look at the statue of the boy and his dolphin friend. Bert was half inclined to ask the marble boy where exactly the woman was, but he stopped himself before he could rise. Silly thing, really, he thought, talking to a statue. It would be a rather one-sided conversation. He chuckled at the idea of him carrying on a discussion with a park statue. I may just be losing my mind, he had luckily remembered to bring his sketchpad along, so he retrieved it from his bag and started to draw a pair of robins that were perched in a nearby tree. He was soon engrossed in his drawing, and he didn't notice when the woman entered the park from behind a grove of trees. She ambled down the path, umbrella tucked securely under her arm, smoothing out her coat with one hand as she simultaneously checked her makeup with a compact in the other. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, seeing as how she wasn't looking ahead or paying much attention at all to her surroundings. Bert arbitrarily glanced up from his drawing and immediately saw her, and his breath caught in his throat. She had exchanged her purple coat from the other day for a slightly shorter, brilliant blue one that matched her eyes. Her skirt was also blue, and her black gloves were now white, but everything else, from the tips of her laced up boots to tight bun of her hair, remained the same. If it were possible, and if Bert could have spoken at that moment, he'd have said that she looked even more radiant this day than she had the day before. He watched her absorbedly as she neared his drawing, all the while trying to ignore the butterflies that had suddenly begun flying about in the pit of his stomach. The woman approached the picture and stopped. She looked down upon it and a smile lit up her face. She blushed slightly, and looked over at the bench Bert was sitting on. He was now pretending not to pay heed to her, but was failing miserably, as he kept moving his eyes to hers. He rose from his seat, politely tipped his hat and, as calmly as he could, moved toward her.
"Did you draw this?" She asked him.
He almost lost his train of thought at the sound of her voice. He was expecting it to be beautiful, but not as melodious and full of life as it was.
"Yes, I did," he managed to choke out. He mentally kicked himself for his idiocy. She seemed not to notice, or if she did, she didn't care, and she continued to gaze at his portrait of her with admiration.
"It's gorgeous work, truly it is," she commended him, and he beamed with cheerfulness and relief. She then shifted her gaze to meet his, and her eyes sparkled with recognition. "Ah, yes! You're the man who kept staring at me yesterday afternoon," she said with a teasing smile.
Bert's face turned as red as the scarf tied around his neck. He frantically tried to explain and apologise in an attempt to save himself from complete mortification, but she quieted him with a laugh.
"It's quite alright, no need to become flustered," she smiled. "I didn't mind."
That eased Bert's now troubled brain only slightly, and he apologised profusely again.
"Honestly, it's fine," she assured him. "You have nothing to worry about, Mr…"
"Oh, yes, sorry. Herbert. Herbert Alfred." He extended a hand for her to take, and she did amiably.
"I am delighted to meet you Mr. Alfred," she smiled and shook his hand.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, as well," he said. "And please, call me Bert."
She grinned at his request. "And you may call me Mary Poppins," she laughed.
"Mary Poppins? That's a lovely name."
"Thank you, I've always liked it." She looked down at their still joined hands with a mysterious glint in her eye. "This will bring me luck, won't it? You are a sweep, are you not?"
Baffled, he nodded in the affirmative as they released each other's hands. "How'd you know that?"
Her eyes shone mischievously as she responded. "I have definitely seen you around before, though you may not have seen me."
Bert looked at her in wonder and tugged on the hems of the red vest he wore underneath his jacket. "I would remember if I had seen you on the rooftops," he said, a blush creeping into his cheeks.
"You flatter me too much, Bert," she laughed, patting her dark hair. She took a quick, furtive look around and, satisfied that no one was watching, she gracefully reached her hand past the very solid boundary of the pavement and into his chalk picture, and pulled out a living red rose, as if she had just as easily plucked it from one of the nearby bushes. "Thank you," she whispered as she handed the flower to him. With a last smile and glance, she turned on her heel and left as swiftly as she had come.
"Will I see you again?" Bert called after her.
She stopped for a moment and spun to face him. Her eyes still held that incandescent light and her smile grew tenfold.
"Anything can happen!" She answered. And with that, she turned again, and with a flourish of her skirts, she was briskly on her way out of the park.
Bert watched her until she completely faded from his sight. He stood in place staring at the rose in his hand, in complete shock and awe. Mary Poppins, he thought. He liked the way her name flowed, sort of like the way she moves, he realised. Repeating her name in his head, he grabbed his bag off the bench and joyfully whistled as he returned to his apartment. He danced half the way home; shaking hands with every person he met, so as to spread his apparent wonderful luck. He couldn't recall a time when he had been happier, and never before had he such reason for joviality. He carefully stroked the silky petals of the rose with his thumb, and his smile became wider than ever, because he knew his life was about to become a little brighter, a little better, and, he laughed in exhilaration, a little magical.