Running Away

The dusk had settled on London town, the grey smoke of the factories and chimneys fusing into the ashen sky. And in the cobbled street of Trinity Avenue ran a young boy, his hands and face grimy, his jacket and trousers patched with odd-pieces of material, and his curled hair much longer than his mother approved of.

The bottom of his boots clacked against the stoned path, though he could feel the cold whistling through the hole in the front of his left shoe. He wore socks, though they barely made a difference.

Despite the cold, despite the slight grunt of pain that he emitted as he ran, as if he were aching all over, and despite the redness that had begun to develop in his fingers, a sure sign of the cramp that was forming in the frosted air, he continued steadily through the streets. Stumbling almost as he careened around the corner.

Barely stopping until he came to a housing estate much fancier than one he could ever hope to live in. Still, he seemed to know it well. Scrambling over the fence of a back garden, he continued to climb over each fence until he reached somewhere in the middle of the estate. A house that he clearly knew, his gaze tracing its features with a knowing eye.

Then he picked up the smallest stone he could find, aiming it directly at the window to the right- the one on the second floor. There appeared to be no reaction, but he waited anyway.

A minute later, the back door opened and he was pulled through into the warmth. He felt someone take his hand and they ran together, quickly yet cautiously, through the house. They opened the attic, climbing upward into the dark space above. Once they were there, a candle was lit so that they could see in the darkness, its luminescence revealing that there was a heap of blankets and clothes on one side of the attic, with a small collection of books.

He went to step toward it, as if by habit, but he was pulled back by a short sob and a firm grip.

"Oh, Bert!"

Turning, he stared worriedly at the girl behind him. The one who had let him enter. She was staring back, her bright blue eyes shimmering with tears that she was unable to prevent.

"It's not so bad," he told her.

She lurched towards him, holding him tightly and he reciprocated the gesture, unable to believe his luck. Despite the grime, on his face and clothes, she clung to him, the dirt rubbing onto her white dress. Then she leant back and looked at him again, the sight of his bruised eye merely upsetting her further.

"What did he do to you?" she cried, her hand reaching up to brush lightly against his cheek. "You can't go back. You mustn't."

"I have nowhere else to go," he reasoned.

Herbert had worked most of his life; he knew how to cook, to clean, to mend his own clothes. He knew his way around London like the back of his hand, how to clamber around the rooftops without ever losing his balance, and he knew how to clean a chimney better than anyone else. He was thin and wiry- it was perfect for him. But he didn't know how to live alone, how to find a place to stay. The other sweeps knew his father, and he had no other friends besides them. All except one.

But her parents would not allow it. Though, when he looked into her face, he could see she would rather die than tell them there was a boy sleeping in the attic. Besides, they weren't there, not at the moment. They were out at some party, only the servants were left in the house.

"You can stay here," she urged.

"No, no..."

"Bert."

"I can't do that to you," he protested, suddenly embarrassed that he had decided to see her, though it had not been an entirely conscious decision. "I would only get you into trouble and I couldn't do that to a lady. I'm a man now, I am, and I must make my own way."

"Stay, Bert, please." Tears welled once more, even as her voice was firm. "I will not allow you to leave, not tonight and not ever, if you continue this way. I can hardly stand to see you like this."

"Aw, now, c'mon..."

She hugged him again and he felt all resistance leave him. He could never say no to her. Besides, it would be far better to sleep in an attic than some doorstep or park bench, particularly in the winter.

"Tonight then," he decided.

Holding him around the neck, she exclaimed in happiness, jumping slightly in her joy. He laughed and so did she, their giggles filling the empty space.

She left moments later to fetch a bowl of water and a sponge, carefully wiping the dirt from him, merely to show his face was still covered in purple and blue. The sight distressed her, though nothing was said, and Bert stared at the floor, not wishing to meet her eye. Some clothes were left for him- she had stolen them from a donation box that was meant for the homeless. He had protested when she told him, even as she assured him that it would come to use. As long as he needed them. She was devious when she wanted to be. And he adored her for it.

Huddled under the blankets, he allowed himself to be tucked in. She left a brief kiss on his temple and he stared up at her with visible adoration.

"Goodnight, Bert," she whispered, her raven curls falling around her face, long enough to brush against him and tickle his cheek.

"Goodnight, Mary," he whispered back.

"Don't leave," she warned him.

"Never."

She kissed his temple again, more firmly, and blushed. The motion catching her by surprise more than him. Then she rushed across the attic and down the ladder before anything else was said. He watched her go, smiling happily.

If Bert had only one friend in the world, he was glad it was Mary Poppins. Of all people, she was the best.