CHAPTER TWO


Ellen, the maid, always took the children to the park on Mary Poppins' days off, and today was no exception. After they departed, Winifred slipped into Mary's room. There was a remarkable lack of personal touches, aside from several pieces of furniture Winifred felt sure were not hers ('But how did she get them in without me noticing?' thought Winifred).

Mary Poppins' rather unassuming carpet bag sat neatly at the foot of the bed, ready to be packed at any time. Seized with an uncharacteristic fit of curiosity, she opened it and found... nothing.

She felt rather a fool when she set the bag back down. What was she expecting to find – love letters? She should have realised that Mary Poppins would be too clever to store such private keepsakes where anyone – especially the children – could find them.

Winifred eyed Mary's bed. Would she dare touch the place where Mary Poppins slept? She shook her head at her silliness. It wasn't as though it was a sacred place, even if it did couch such a remarkable woman in her slumbers. She sat down on Mary's bed, marvelling at how her scent seemed to envelop her. But it wasn't enough. Taking a deep breath, she stretched out on the bed, burying her face against Mary's pillow.

It smelt of cherry blossoms and gingerbread, as well as a fragrance that was uniquely Mary Poppins. As she lay amongst her bed sheets, she sighed deeply, feeling happy for once. She closed her eyes, an image of Mary Poppins undressing coming to the forefront of her mind. As Mary undressed, just as she had in Winifred's dream the night before, Winifred began to unbutton her bodice, then unlace her corset. As she caressed herself, she imagined Mary's hands in place of her own. In her fantasy, Mary's expression was one of pleasure, her face a picture of concentrated bliss.

She moaned as she imagined Mary kissing her, her hands slipping beneath her skirts. As Mary's hands travelled up her legs, Winifred gasped and writhed with impatience. When Mary's slender fingers finally reached where Winifred needed her the most, she felt a wave of bliss surround her – a feeling she had not experienced for years. With a final, shuddering cry of Mary's name, Winifred opened her eyes, removed her hand from its place between her thighs, and smoothed down her skirts, utterly ashamed of herself.

What was she doing? She had to control herself – it wasn't at all proper to lie on the nanny's bed, breathe in her scent with a reverence that only befitted a sacrament, and fantasise! What if someone had interrupted her?

Beginning to panic, lest she be discovered, Winifred quickly re-laced her corset and buttoned her bodice. Cursing the fact that she had no idea how to make a bed, she smoothed the rumpled sheets as best she could, hoping that Mary would not notice. Satisfied with her tidying, she left Mary's room, closing the door softly behind her.

***

As Mary Poppins lay in his bed, sheets tangled around her, she watched as Bert made them breakfast. Stretching languidly, she closed her eyes for a moment, resting her head against his rather ragged pillow.

Unbidden, her mind produced an image of Winifred Banks lying in Mary's bed, unlacing her corset, slipping a hand between her thighs... Mary moaned despite herself, feeling a gush of wetness between her legs.

Bert, who had turned at her moan, was quite surprised to see her staring at him, her eyes dark with desire.

'Mary?' he asked curiously, approaching her.

'Bert...' she practically purred, reaching for him. He obliged, joining her on the bed, encouraging her to sit on his lap. She lowered her hand, beginning to rub his growing erection, as he groaned softly.

'Mary...'

'Bert, I need you,' she whispered quietly, half-embarrassed at her words. She had never said that before, to anyone – but she did need him, needed him now...

He was incredibly surprised, but her words caused a surge of desire to shoot through him. He captured her lips with hers hungrily, taking liberties he had never taken before. As he ran his hands down her sides, she began kissing him passionately, clutching at his back, trying to encourage him to take her.

'Bert, Bert, Bert,' she moaned, lying back against the rumpled bedcovers. 'God, Bert!'

She looked incredibly beautiful to him now, more beautiful than she ever had before. There was something wild about her now, untamed, passionate – and he responded to her in a completely different way.

For once, he was not gentle and restrained; for once she seemed... less than perfect, but more than perfect at the same time. Gone was the delicacy and elegance that typified her, present now was a sensuous, sinuous creature, one of fire and passion and desire.

She cried out his name loudly, something she had never done before. Practically perfect people did not scream... or so she had thought. Apparently, she was wrong.

He pushed into her once more, then climaxed, collapsing on top of her. For once, he did not worry about crushing her, as she wrapped her arms tightly around him, holding him against her.

Suddenly, she pushed him off her.

'What's wrong?' he asked as she leapt out of bed.

'Our breakfast!' she gasped, surveying his kitchen, dismayed.

He laughed.

***

It was late – the sun had set and the moon had risen – but she was still with Bert. As she lay in bed with him, she felt something stir within her breast, felt some peculiar change in her being. She did not yet know what these changes were, only knew they occurred.

As she looked into the face of her sleeping lover, she felt a wave of tenderness wash over her. Perhaps, finally, she had surrendered herself to loving him... but then why did the face of Winifred Banks flash into her mind?

He woke as she began to kiss him – soft, gentle kisses as delicate as a butterfly's wing. He smiled up at her, wrapping strong arms around her slender waist.

'I do love you, Bert,' she said, carding her fingers through his thick, dark hair. Her smile was tender as she looked down at him, her blue eyes shining with a humanity they had never before possessed.

He looked into her eyes and replied, not with words, but with a kiss that said all he was too ineloquent to say. She seemed content with his response and, resting her head against his chest, allowed herself to fall asleep.

As she slept, he pondered the obvious changes in her. What had happened to change her so dramatically? What it permanent, or would she soon revert to her practically perfect, yet almost unapproachable façade? For that was what it must be – a façade. Was this the real Mary Poppins, the one lying in his arms?

***

As Winifred Banks sat at her vanity, brushing her hair, she closed her eyes and remembered her fantasy from earlier in the day. She was still ashamed and embarrassed at her lack of control, still unnerved by the vividness of her dreams about Mary Poppins.

But she could not help herself, try as she might.

Sighing, she turned away from the mirror and joined her husband in bed. He was reading, but set the book aside when she spoke to him.

'George, do you suppose we might...?'

His reading glasses were quickly discarded as he wrapped his arms around her. They hadn't been together for quite some time – ever since John and Barbara were born – and Winifred was relieved that she still felt the same quiet love for her husband that she had always possessed. Sighing in relief, she gave herself up to the moment, allowing her husband to love her and loving him in return.

But afterwards, as she lay in his arms – just as Mary laid in Bert's arms – she imagined Mary's slender form resting beside her instead.

***

Outside the weathervane rotated. The West Wind had come.