Spring was in full swing some two or so days later and it was the perfect kite flying weather. Bert was in the park, kites in hand, ready for the eager customers out and about to enjoy the warm weather. It had rained the day before, and half the day before that, and people were eager to stretch their legs on the unusually fine, if windy day.
"Hello, Bert!" called an excited voice, and then young Michael and his sister were hurrying over to see him. Michael was holding something in his hands with great care, though the wind was clearly determined to have it, and he had to hold it tight against his body or it would have been gone in a moment. The children's father followed along behind them, holding onto his hat and smiling at his children's enthusiasm.
"Hello Michael, hello Jane. Mr. Banks," said Bert with a tip of his hat.
"Call me George," answered Mr. Banks, and then he paused with a slightly worried look, until Jane whispered to him, "That's Bert."
"Alright then, hello George," said Bert, pleased at the unexpected invitation.
"You've inspired quite a passion in my son," said George. "Not a career, by any means, but do you know, I think he is quite good."
And then Michael was unrolling the thing in his hands that turned out to be a bit of paper with a drawing done on the front. It was, in all honesty, a child's drawing, but the potential it hinted at spoke of hidden talents.
"Amazing," Bert said, "That is this very park, as I live and breathe!"
"Yes," said Michael, glowing at the praise. "And that is us, of course." And it was…after he pointed it out. "And there is Jane, in the flowers, and that…" There was a black smudge that might have been a person. In fact, it quite cleverly looked like a person in motion. This might have been skill on the artist's part…or lack of skill that happily aided him in this instance.
"I suppose that is our little friend that made such a mess of your first work."
"You said I should use the…the mess to make art, so that's what I did."
Of course, that wasn't at all what Bert had meant, but he wasn't about to tell the young artist that now.
"Wonderful!" cried Bert. "This is a real treasure."
"And I kept all your chalk safe," Michael said, starting to go for his pocket (where they'd undoubtedly made a mess of the fabric, but then, who could see inside someone's pockets?).
"And deprive an artist of his tools?" Bert asked. "Keep them."
"Forever and always?" Michael asked.
"Well…until they've been used up at least."
"I wonder where chalk goes when it's used up," said Jane.
"Into the drawing, of course," said Michael. "You always think the strangest things."
"Well, you've shown your masterpiece," said their father before the two could start squabbling. "Why don't we try our hand at kite flying?"
Bert gave Michael back his drawing and held up one of his kites, saying, "I have a beauty right here."
"We've got one," Jane said, "Only we left it at home because Michael was sure we wouldn't fly it."
"I can't fly a kite," said Michael. "My drawing will blow away." And he held it up as though to prove it, which in fact proved it all too well, because a sudden gust tore it right from his hands and sent it spiraling into the sky.
"Oh, oh!" he cried, reaching for it, as though he could ever reach high enough.
"I'm on it!" cried Bert, and he leapt in pursuit. He ran, and the picture danced ahead of him, now alighting on the ground, only to be lifted anew just before his fingers could grasp it. The children tried to follow, but he and the wind left them behind in the end, for Bert was able to leap over some hedges that they had to go around, and he was long gone by the time they did.
Finally, the picture caught on a tree and Bert nabbed it at last. It was rather tattered, but mostly fine, and he rolled it up and tucked it away inside his coat for safe keeping. He was about to turn back and find the children to inform them of the good news, when he heard the laughter.
He knew that laugh. He didn't know why, but he did. And it was coming from high up in that very tree. He looked up, and up, and there was a boy.
Jack, he thought, and then, perhaps unfairly, what mischief is he up to? On the other hand, Jack shouldn't be in the park alone; when the orphanage children came to the park it was always in a group, or at least accompanied. And, it must be said, that it was in that exact moment that Bert made the connection between the soot covered art vandal and the boy laughing high in a tree. Bert was not inclined to give Jack the benefit of the doubt. What was he up to?
Bert listened, heard birdsong warbling above, and then he saw the nest. And he saw Jack reaching into the nest, while a mama bird swooped around his head and her babies shrieked in terror.
The boy was robbing hatchlings from a bird's nest.
There is mischief, and then there is just plain wicked.
"Hey!" shouted Bert, some rare ire in his voice, "You let those birds alone!"
This was extremely, and rather unfortunately, effective. The boy startled at the shout. The mama bird swooped once more at the intruder, startling him in the other direction. And for the first time, Bert saw exactly how precarious Jack's hold on the branch was, just a bit too late, as the boy tumbled right off it.
It was a high tree, and the boy was falling head first and Bert didn't think he'd ever moved so quickly in all his life as he reached. Later, he'd say it almost felt like flying. Well, perhaps he did, a bit. It was a windy day.
Heart beating in terror, Bert had Jack in his arms almost before he understood the boy's peril. The force of it almost knocked him clear off his feet, and there was a long moment when both were too surprised to do more than just breathe.
Then Jack started to squirm a bit, and Bert flipped the boy over (he'd caught him upside down, of course) and set the boy on his feet and then just sort of looked him up and down, holding him firmly in place while his heart settled into a less frantic pace. And as Bert came to understand what hadn't happened, that the boy was fine, his anger returned three times the stronger for the scare.
"What were you thinking?" he shouted. "You could have died! And for what? Stealing babies from an innocent songbird?! Well? What have you do say for yourself?!"
The boy stared up at him with wide, shocked eyes, one hand clinched into a tight fist and the other pulling nervously at his own shirt, and he still didn't say a word.
"Well, Jack?" Bert yelled at him, and the boy sort of tensed, shrinking away, and in that moment all the anger and the fear drained from Bert, leaving behind a horrible cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was not a nice feeling, and one Bert rarely felt, but he was human and he did know it from time to time as all humans do: shame. Because all at once, Bert knew this situation intimately, the grown man leaning over the child, demanding words, except now the world had flipped and Bert had become his father.
Before he could let go of Jack, or apologize, or try to explain, a feathery ball of fury dove about his head with a warbled war cry, and he was so startled that he let go of Jack completely. And Jack was off like a shot, and Bert was left standing by the tree, wondering what had just happened.
The anger returned in the end. Because Bert was only human, and anger is easier than shame, and, after all, Jack was the one in the wrong. Theft was never a good trait in a boy, but stealing babies from their mama…that was reprehensible. Jack hadn't deserved the fall, of course, but it did serve him right to have a bit of a scare.
And he stole Angus's bread. And he got into fights. And he was the little art vandal who destroyed their work and laughed.
And he had scared Bert half to death.
"It's okay," he told the bird, who was determined to drive him away, now that the little thief was gone. "Your babies are safe from me."
And he went back to find Michael and Jane. This took some time, for the park was a large place, but he did find them in the end, and showed Michael his drawing, still safe and sound (though slightly more creased than it had been to start; catching Jack hadn't been good for it).
Michael was so pleased to have it back at all that he only looked a little disappointed that it wasn't absolutely pristine.
"Thank you, Bert," he said, because he was a polite boy who knew his manners. At least he did after his sister nudged him a time or two.
"No problem," said Bert. "I enjoyed the chase." Which was true, except for the ending, and Michael didn't need to know that the same little boy responsible for destroying his first artwork was also responsible for his second being a bit smashed.
When they got back to the kites, they found Mr. Banks, apparently having the time of his life, handing out kites to passersby.
"It's not banking," he said as they approached, "But it will do. Here you go, er…Bert. Your profits."
And then he went kite flying with his children after all while Bert looked after Michael's drawing. At the end of the day, when he tried to give it back, Michael looked surprised.
"Why, I drew it for you!" he said.
And Bert was so touched, he might have been admitted to have teared up, just a bit. Now there was a polite little boy who cared about others. Not at all like that Jack.