Gift
The water in his shaving bowl was cold and his bowler hat had a hole in it where Robertson Ay had tripped when shining it, the handle of the broom protruding through the black material. Robertson Ay had said it was the broom's fault, but Mr Banks said it was his own fault for hiring the silly man in the first place. Robertson Ay looked sorely wounded, though he said nothing. And he was seen traipsing to the cupboard under the stairs to take a sorrowful nap.
Mrs Brill had hurt her arm. She had slipped on the newly polished floor in the kitchen and had to have her arm bandaged. As Robertson Ay had been sleeping, nobody had heard her calling for a while. So, it was up to Ellen to cook the breakfast. Which was alarming in itself. The two were heard bickering as Mr Banks came down the stairs, and soon after, Ellen came into the dining room, giving him a very sorry sight for breakfast. Burnt toast, scrambled egg with too much salt, and to make it worse- she had given him coffee instead of tea and everyone in England knew Mr Banks didn't like his coffee till the evening when he read the daily paper.
Mrs Banks had to leave early for a demonstration, kissing him lovingly on the forehead. He told her it was unfair- he hadn't finished telling her how much he despised the political column in The Times that morning. It was all stuff and nonsense. She said he could tell her later and they would both have much to say to each other. He huffed, hardly thinking they would. Taking an indignant sip of his drink, he spat it back out again, remembering that it wasn't tea. As he was yelling for Ellen, Mrs Banks had already gone, humming happily to herself and calling behind her that she would see him later.
And then there were the children. Ellen came running down the stairs, almost in tears, apologising for the coffee but, sir, the twins were crying. They couldn't be calmed. Mrs Banks had already left and Jane and Michael were making an awful noise in the nursery. They were singing and laughing, which was aggravating the babies more. Mr Banks called for them, demanding to know what all the hullaballoo was for. They said they were singing poems they had learnt at school. He told them poems weren't for singing but reciting- surely, a school should have taught them that? They said yes, sir. The look on their faces told him they didn't care much either way.
Putting on his hat, he left his barely-touched breakfast and grabbed his umbrella from the stand by the door. There was a great cry from Mrs Brill and Ellen as the house shook, and they grabbed the vases and the pictures. Michael was nearly squashed by the sliding piano, but with Jane's help, he managed to push it back. But to Mr Banks, there was no greater sound than the striking of the hour. It meant peace and quiet- it meant order. Saying a brief goodbye, he hurried out of the house and towards the city centre.
How unfortunate he was to have a wife and children and to have agreed to live with them. Worst of all, how unfortunate to have staff in the house, for Mr Banks liked nothing better than to have well-toasted bread and well-seasoned eggs. It was a very silly household, indeed. Though Mr Banks was the silliest of them all. For, in actual fact, he was very fortunate. He lived a much happier and comfier life than most- if only he could see what was right at the end of his nose.
This prompt was meant to be completely different lmao but I rewatched Mary Poppins and Saving Mr Banks over the New Years, as is customary, and this idea came to me instead.
Also, I'm not going to be uploading these as fast as I used to, it seems. Even though I've finished my Masters now, I've been working on a potential book so this is going to have to stay second. I will aim for at least once a week but they won't be daily like they used to be before I started studying. I'm sorry they can't be any faster, as I enjoy doing them, but these were only meant to be for fun and obviously, life gets in the way.
Hope everyone is safe and well!
