Happy I Made It Through My First Week Back At School Day! I don't have an awful lot of time anymore, but be assured that I'm working really hard to keep my updating habits at least semi-regular.
As always, I own nothing.
She knows from the moment Mr. Banks walks in the door that she's about to be reprimanded. She's used to this sort of treatment—whoever is the most ensconced in their own world in a house will almost always blame her for turning it upside down.
She's ready for him; the children have been fed and bathed and she's seen them into their pajamas. She is back in her nursery clothes, prim, proper, and demure—everything to be asked for in a nanny. She descends the stairs as the children tell him about Uncle Albert's and that she said she'd take them there again. "Oh? Mary Poppins said that, did she? Will you please return to your room?" Then he turns his attention to her. "Mary Poppins, will you kind enough to come with me?"
"As you wish," she agrees, nodding her head demurely. The children pause on the stairs but without looking at them, she wills them to keep going and not see this. They do, shooting each other a look looking terribly sad.
"Mary Poppins, I very much regret what I must say to you," he says. She follows him quietly, hands pressed together; he won't find fault with her.
"Good evening, George! Is anything the matter?" Mrs. Banks exclaims in that breathy, excited way of hers.
"I'm afraid there is."
"I'd love to stay," Mrs. Banks says, distracted as always, "but I have to dress for my rally in Hampstead!"
He grabs her wrist to stop her. "Winifred, it is my wish that you be present!"
"Yes, George, of course!" Mary wishes it would have taken Winifred just a moment longer to consent, but that's really none of her business.
"Mary Poppins," Mr. Banks starts, walking away. Mary follows attentively. "I must confess that I'm extremely disappointed in you!"
"She's for it now," Mary hears Ellen whisper from the kitchen. "I've 'eard the master do this speech before."
She remains placid, her face unreadable. She has to let Mr. Banks say his piece first. "I don't deny that I am partially responsible for allowing the children to spend their days on worthless frivolities to the exclusion of all else. But it is high time they learned the seriousness of life!"
"But George," Winifred interrupts, "they're only children."
"Precisely!" Mr. Banks exclaims, though Mary quite agrees with his wife. "And in the light of what has happened-"
"George, are you certain you know what you're doing?" Mrs. Banks interrupts again. Mary could hug her—this is the first time she's seen either of the Banks really invested in what is best for their children. Well, aside from when they hired her, of course.
"I believe I do, Winifred." He then starts in on British banks and British homes. Tradition, discipline, and rules. It's not a horrible formula in theory, although he does seem to think a bit too much rests on the shoulders of precision and order. Disorder and chaos are fine, but her eyes widen when he mentions moral disintegration. That seems a bit excessive. Still, she agrees with him to lay the groundwork.
He continues on about life being a looming battle, which Mary happens to quite disagree with, but no matter. Then he starts in on the nonsensical adventures his children are having. Well, she's quite fine with him thinking his children are the victims of fanciful thinking, but then he calls her outings questionable! That takes her a second to swallow, but she does. For the good of the children. She knows if she loses her temper now, she'll be out on the street within minutes. And then where would Jane and Michael be?
She nearly loses her temper again when he insists that all outings should be practical and educational. Perhaps I should be teaching them French while they sleep, she thinks sarcastically, biting her tongue. Then hopefully there'd be none of this fanciful dreaming.
Still she knows an opening when she sees one and even though she's annoyed beyond belief with Mr. Banks, she knows he needs to spend more time with his children. She also knows that he's providing her with the perfect opportunity to make him think so too.
He's the one who brought up the bank and the raising of the children. From there, it's not a big leap to steamrolling him into taking the children to the bank with him.
She almost laughs on her way up the stairs. Poor Mr. Banks looks dreadfully confused. Then he convinces himself that it really was his idea and goes back to his usual bravado.
The children are waiting for her and spring up the second she opens the door. "Mary Poppins, we won't let you go!" Jane exclaims as they run towards her.
She frowns. "Go? What on earth are you talking about?"
"Didn't you get sacked?" Michael asks as they stand there, looking quite bereft at the possibility of losing her.
"Sacked?" Mary cries, indignant. "Certainly not! I am never sacked!"
"Oh, Mary Poppins!" Jane grins. She and Michael begin dancing excitedly around her with various cries of "Hooray!"
Mary raises her eyes to the ceiling. "Neither am I a maypole. Kindly stop spinning about me."
"But-"
She leans down. "Goats butt, birds fly, and children who are going on an outing with their father must get some sleep."
She hustles them to bed, but they're full of questions. And then Jane has the impertinence to suggest that she put the idea in his head! Which, of course, she did, but Jane shouldn't know that.
"What an impertinent thing to say!" Mary exclaims. "Me, putting ideas into people's heads. Really." She rolls her eyes again.
"That one! I want to go there!" Jemima Grey, all of seven years old and redheaded as can be, exclaims, pointing at a chalk drawing.
Mary looks. She could nearly hit Bert for even drawing it—a frozen tundra with a single polar bear ambling along. Jemima thinks it looks wonderful. Mary thinks it looks cold.
"That does certainly look appealing," she says carefully. "Of course, I do have to wonder…"
Jemima looks up. "Wonder? Wonder what?"
"It's just that polar bear. It gives me pause."
"Why?"
"Not all polar bears are nice, you know," Mary informs the girl, her gaze warning Bert to stay out of this.
Jemima frowns. "He's not nice?"
"I didn't say that. Do pay attention to what people say, Jemima."
Jemima reconsiders her decision. "Oh!" she exclaims. "This looks lovely!"
Her latest choice is a deserted beach, complete with dressing tents, umbrellas, and lounge chairs. Quite acceptable. She transports them there quickly before Jemima can change her mind.
She lounges in her bathing suit while Jemima and Bert splash around in the waves and she has to smile. The two make quite a pair, Jemima shrieking with laughter as Bert chases her, lifting his knees high in a silly sort of gait.
Mary closes her eyes. She misses what happens next, but she can surmise—there's a red pail abandoned in the sand, Bert looks at Jemima with that mischievous glint in his eyes and fills the bucket. By unspoken agreement, they silently creep towards Mary Poppins.
Mary's eyes pop open as she senses their approach but it's too late. Jemima flings the cold seawater all over her and nearly collapses in a fit of giggles. Bert grins and covers his laugh with a cough.
She surveys them both coolly. "Oh, you think that's funny, do you?"
Jemima immediately stops laughing, fearing they may have overstepped their bounds.
"I'll thank you both to remember the Golden Rule: treat others as you would have them treat you!"
With that, she snaps and buckets of water fly from the ocean to dump on their heads. Jemima shrieks in delight. Then she sees some chalk children playing, so she runs off to join them.
Mary and Bert both towel off. "Don't think I don't know it was you," Mary comments mildly.
"Me 'oo what?" Bert asks innocently.
"You put that idea in Jemima's head and don't think I'm unaware of the fact."
He laughs and shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. I'm not sure you're in a position to be judging me on that."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I think, by rights, that should 'ave been a snowball, not a pail of water!"
"That tundra looked cold," Mary defends herself. "I can't imagine why you even drew it."
He grins cheekily and moves closer to push a soaked lock of hair behind her ear. "Maybe I was thinking of cuddling up to one Miss Mary Poppins. After all, a person could use an awful lot of warming up in a place like that."
Her cheeks flush and she has to collect herself before speaking. "That would be highly inappropriate," she says. "Allowing a polar bear to eat my charge just so you could have some alone time with me."
He laughs. "And I suppose it would be 'ighly inappropriate if I were to kiss you right now."
"Oh, only moderately, I should think."
"Moderately is an entirely diff'rent story," he says and wraps an arm around her waist, bringing her in for a passionate kiss. "I love you, Mary Poppins."
She smiles but says nothing. It is time for some revenge for the way he just flustered her so easily.
"Well, aren't you going to say it back?"
"I shouldn't think so. Not today."
"Aw, go on, Mary."
She moves out of his reach. "I don't think I shall," she says lightly.
"You loved me yesterday," he points out. "So I know you do."
"Oh, yesterday's an entirely different story."
"I'll not stop bothering you until you say it! Go on, Mary Poppins, say you love me too."
"Alright," she grins, "I love me too."
He glares and sulks on a towel in the sand. She moves to sit next to him, far too close for propriety in London, but they're not in London. "An' just what do you think you're doin'?" he asks.
"You did mention cuddling, did you not? I'm soaking, Bert. From your prank, no less. I could use the warming up."
"What do you say?"
She makes a show of rolling her eyes. "I love you too, Bert. More than anything."
He wraps his arms around her and she settles into his embrace. Then she looks up at him. "Don't think I don't know you put this idea in my head."
"I wasn't so subtle with that one, was I?"
"No. You can kiss me, you know."
"Oh," he chuckles. "Now oo's putting ideas into people's 'eads?"
"I am doing nothing of the sort. Do you or do you not want to kiss me?"
"More than anything," he says agreeably.
"Well, then."
"But Mary…"
"Yes?"
"That polar bear was a nice chap."
She laughs and he takes the opportunity to cover her mouth with his.
The children drop the subject and start asking her about their outing. Jane gets so excited when she mentions that they're going into the city, anticipating Mr. Banks showing them all the sights. Mary frowns slightly, remembering a lesson she learned when she was only a little older than Jane.
"Well, most things, he can," Mary interjects. "Sometimes a person we love, through no fault of his own, can't see past the end of his nose."
"Past the end of his nose?" Jane asks.
Mary retrieves her snow globe from her room and smiles gently. "Yes. Sometimes a small thing can be quite important."
Mary surveys the city mutely. She was supposed to be with her father today. He was supposed to take her to see the sights. He had shown her the cathedral on their way to work and the bank where a good chunk of their personal fortune was held. An emergency had called him away without so much as a backwards glance. She tried to behave like a good girl, she really did. But Father's office wasn't decorated with entertaining a ten-year-old girl in mind. She shuffled some paper around on his desk, toyed with a pen, but it was all so boring. She settled for watching the clock.
He'd been gone nearly two hours. She was certain he'd forgotten about her. And then she got angry. He wouldn't even notice if she were to go missing. So, she decided, she'd go missing.
Only now she's back at the cathedral and she doesn't know where to go. Her family's estate isn't anywhere near here. She's not quite regretting her impulsive move, but she's feeling rather uncomfortable. A lot can happen to a little lost girl.
"Feed the birds? Tuppence a bag." Mary turns at the sound. An older, bedraggled woman offers her a bag of bird feed.
"Oh!" Mary exclaims excitedly, reaching out before her face falls. "Oh, I'm afraid I don't have any money."
The woman smiles and pats the stone step beside her. Against her better judgment, Mary sits down. "What's your name, dear heart?" the woman asks.
"What's yours?" Mary, whose measurement at the time read "suspicious and prone to flight," responds quickly.
The lady laughs, a deep, bawdy sort of laugh from the bottom of her stomach. "It's been so long, dear one, so long that even the birds have forgotten it!"
"You speak to the birds?" Mary feels a little skip in her heartbeat. Just last week, a lark landed on her windowsill and she would have sworn he said hello.
"They speak to me, dear one, yes."
"And you know what they say?"
"I do. For example, that one over there, he's very hungry, but the one next to him has children to feed."
"I wish I could help," Mary sighs, placing her head in her hands.
The bird lady pulls out a bag and hands it to her. "Oh no, I couldn't!" Mary exclaims.
"Dear one, you keep that genuine heart. It will serve you well."
They feed the birds for awhile in silence until the bird lady speaks again.
"Where are your parents? Surely a pretty girl such as yourself has a warm bed to get home to."
Mary looks down at her patent leather shoes and is suddenly ashamed of them. She scuffs them on purpose. It feels deliciously naughty. "No one will notice if I'm gone."
"Nonsense, dear one. Anyone would miss you, I should think. Now, come along, I'll walk you home."
When they reach the formidable gate, Mary could almost die of embarrassment. But the bird lady doesn't notice it. "Now, you come back and visit me, dear one. I'm here every day, all day."
"I've never seen you," Mary frowns.
"Then you didn't look past the end of your own nose," the bird lady says. "Don't ever forget the birds, dear one."
Mary goes inside. No one hugs her, delighted over her safety. No one even berates her. She might as well be invisible. In that moment, she promises that she'll always stop to speak to the bird lady from now on.
She has kept that promise ever since and she's proud to number the bird lady amongst her dearest friends. And when Mary had introduced her to Bert, the bird lady had nodded happily, secure in the knowledge that her dear one had found someone who could see far, far past the end of his nose.
The children fall asleep as she tells them of the bird lady. Mary tucks them in, trying to tamp down a surge of tenderness. It fails and she smoothes Jane's hair with a smile.
It worries her that she has the urge to kiss both their foreheads and tuck them in a second time.
I hope you liked it!
-Juli-
P.S. Somewhere in there, there's a really, really unsubtle reference to another movie.
