Huzzah! Mary is finally appearing and this section will actually be mostly from her perspective with a bit from Bert inbetween. It's going to go back and forth between her and Bert from here on out. This chapter was kinda hard to write and you'll see why. Might want to have a hanky necessary. That's all I'm gonna say on that!
(London, 1923)
"So did he like the classes?" James asked as Michael once again paused to give his voice a bit of a break. Matthew was amused to see that his friend was just as caught up in the story as he was.
"He did." Michael laughed. "So much that he even ended up taking oil painting the next term. Said he'd never tried it before and wanted to see if he could do it. In fact, he was actually painting my portrait when Mary Poppins finally popped in again."
Matthew leaned forward in his chair. This was it. This was the part of the story that he'd really been waiting for. Glancing down at the drawing that was still sitting on the table, he found himself hoping that she would understand and give poor Bert Alfred the chance he deserved.
(London, February 10th, 1917)
The wind was rather cold that day, but Mary Poppins was always prepared to travel at a moment's notice. When one was practically perfect, it wouldn't do to be caught off guard.
She had a wool coat smartly buttoned up to the top as well as a scarf wound around her neck. She was tidy, but it was obvious that these clothes were not new. Still, not very many people had new things with the general economy still recovering from the war.
As her feet touched down, she frowned slightly. She had been pleased to see London coming into her view, but here she was in the park, right by number 17 Cherry Tree Lane! She never came back to the same place twice and wondered if perhaps she had been blown off course.
Still, this felt like where she needed to be. Folding up her umbrella, she strode briskly forward toward the front door. While she did, she heard a man's voice say laughingly, "Come on Michael, 'old still for me! How am I supposed to paint ya when you keep squirmin' on me?"
A deeper voice than she remembered from six years ago responded with just as much teasing. "Sorry Bert. It's not my fault you paint slow."
"Coo, look at the cheek on you my lad!" Bert sassed back and the exchange brought a reluctant smile to her face. It would be wonderful to see her old friend again, as well as see how much Michael and Jane had grown. Jane would be 17 now, and Michael 14.
Raising a hand, she rang the doorbell and heard footsteps come racing down the hall to answer it. That will be Jane she thought to herself. She never could resist a chance to know what was going on before anyone else did.
The heavy door was flung back and before Mary could even have a chance to take a deep breath, a girlish voice shrieked, "Mary Poppins!" and she found herself being hugged so tightly, it was a wonder she could breathe.
"Really Jane!" she said, trying to sound stern but she couldn't keep back a small smile as Jane beamed up at her.
"I'm sorry, Mary Poppins, but it's been ever so long since we've seen you!" the young lady replied as she ushered Mary inside. It was almost unnerving to see just how much Jane resembled her mother.
"Mary Poppins!" a young man exclaimed with glee as he came into the hallway. Michael had gotten so tall that she almost wouldn't have known him if she'd passed him on the street. His smile was as warm as always as he came over and hugged her.
"Hello Michael." she said kindly as she untangle herself from them. Tilting her head toward the living room, she tried to keep her voice light as she asked the question that was eating at her. "Was that Bert I heard when I was on the front stoop?"
Their reactions surprised her. They looked at one another, their smiles fading and there was an almost silent communication going on between them. "Yes." Michael said tentatively, biting his lower lip. "Bert's here but he's...different."
Different? What on earth was that supposed to mean? She furrowed her brow, trying to see if she could glean any additional information from their behavior or facial expressions. Jane seemed almost...sad, somehow and resigned. It was such an adult expression that Mary felt a flicker of fear run through her.
"Bring her in, you lot." Bert called and again, she was struck by how un-Bert his tone sounded. It was reserved, careful, as though he was steeling himself for something unpleasant. Was he not happy to see her? Had he given up on their friendship?
Nodding, Michael offered her his arm like a proper little gentleman and Mary accepted it. Slowly, reluctantly, he guided her into the living room where she got her first of many shocks.
Bert had turned himself to the left in order to see the doorway. His normally bright blue eyes were darker, more guarded. The unabashed joy that had once been in his face had been replaced by something that she couldn't put a name to. His smile was pleasant, but not the beaming expression that had usually greeted her upon her return to London.
There was an easel set up in front of him and a sheet under where he was sitting as well as the wooden structure. On it rested a canvas and she could see that he was right in the middle of painting Michael. He'd always been a good artist, but she wondered when he had taken up painting. And for that matter, it looked like it was oil paints and she knew those were rather pricy. But if he was doing it for the Banks family, she knew that they would want the very best used.
He wasn't sooty, and she was shocked to find herself reflecting that he looked more handsome than she'd ever seen him. His hair was shorter and she couldn't help but notice the dark brown trousers he wore with a matching vest over a very white shirt. His sleeves had been pushed up to his elbows, presumably so as not to get paint on them, revealing more muscular forearms than she could remember!
In fact, he just looked more fit than she recalled. As a sweep, he was used to only eating two meals a day and working very hard, so he was always a bit on the stringy side. Now though, he'd obviously had a few square meals and she couldn't exactly complain about the physical results she saw in front of her.
Reminding herself that he was her friend and therefore not to be oogled and gaped at, she focued her attention on his face. "Hello, Bert." she said softly.
She was relieved to see his smile widen a bit, but his eyes were still careful. "Hello, Mary. It's been a fair bit since you were last here."
His speech had changed a bit as well. The Cockney accent was still there, but it had been tempered. His grammer was a bit better and she was curious as to what had happened to him in six years to produce this much of a change.
"Yes, it has." she agreed. "What have you been up to?"
Here, Bert exchanged an unfathomable look with Michael and Jane before his gaze swung back to her and something in her knew that he was about to make some sort of confession.
"Help me up, Michael." he said quietly.
Help him up? Leaning forward, Mary's sharp eyes caught sight of a padded crutch beside Bert's chair. Before she could ask what had befallen him, what the crutch was for, Michael had darted to Bert's side and helped him up.
Turning, with Michael at Bert's right side, Mary could finally see all of him and a hand quickly covered her mouth as she tried not to gasp or scream or react in any way that was going to embarrass him.
His right foot was gone. Completely and utterly gone. She could feel his intent gaze burning into the top of her head as she just stared, but what else could she do? Nothing could have prepared her for this.
Taking a moment to close her eyes, she swung her gaze back up to Bert, whose face was calculatedly placid. She was willing to bet he wasn't so blase on the inside though.
"What happened?" she asked and she was glad to hear that there was no tremble to her voice.
Bert's stiff stance relaxed a bit and he motioned for Michael to turn the chair around for him. The young man did so before going out of the room, Jane with him. Mary was grateful for their unspoken senativity. This discussion was going to be hard enough.
"I got drafted into the army about two years ago." Bert began matter of factly as he got himself settled. "Made it up to sergeant before July 1st, 1916. That was the day of the Battle of the Somme."
It was strange to hear a French word coming out of his mouth, but she made herself focus on his every word, not wanting to miss anything.
"We got the call to go up and over into No Man's Land and while we did, the Germans started to shell us." He tapped his right leg with a casual hand, but from how tightly his left hand was clenched, Mary could see what his carefree attitude was costing him to maintain.
"I was making good progress toward their line, but a shell came down just feet away from me. It threw me backwards and left spots in my eyes. Some medics hauled me away and got me to a hospital. They put me under and tried to save my leg, but the bone was pretty much shattered and it started to get gangrene so Dr. Richards did the only thing 'e 'ad left to do and amputated my leg. Everything below the knee is gone."
She nodded, still keeping a tight rein on herself, as she imagined he must be doing. Why had this happened? And to Bert of all people! He was one of the kindest people she'd ever known. What had he ever done to deserve something like this?
"I'm sorry Bert." It was trite and unhelpful...but it was all she could say. There was no magic she possessed that could fix this for him.
"Don't take on so, Mary." he said kindly. "There's far more chaps who are worse off than I am. Take my mate Robby for instance. He lost both of 'is arms."
A man with no arms? How did he even survive? And how was Bert surviving? She wanted to ask, but she say his face lighten when he mentioned this Robby.
"Tell me about him." she invited and a genuine grin settled onto his face. She was disgusted with herself to find that her knees were a little wobbly.
"Robby...is Robby. There's no other way to describe 'im. 'e's a right force of nature, that one, and the reason I'm doin' all of this." he said, waving his hand toward the painting. "e's a writer and wanted me to do some pictures for his book. I told 'im honest that I needed some help, so 'e signed me up for art classes at Oxford."
Bert? At Oxford? He certainly was intelligent, but that wouldn't have been the first place Mary would have sought him out!
"I wasn't 'appy with 'im a first, but 'e was right about the bank not being the place for me."
Now she knew the world had truly turned on its head. Bert had worked at the bank? However, this would explain why he was here at the Banks home, looking for all the world like another member of the family.
"Did your classes go well?" she asked, genuinely curious.
"See for yourself." Bert told her, handing her a book with a slightly sheepish grin.
Opening it, she saw the title page. "What The Sweep Saw: A Royce and Bertie Mystery" by Robert Graves. There was a drawing of a chimney sweep peering over the edge of a roof as a cart was being wheeled away. A hand was poking out from under the cover and Mary shivered a little. She didn't read many mystery novels but she had to admire Bert's eye for detail. And this drawing was better than anything she'd ever seen him produce in the park. Directly under the drawing, the bold type read, "Illustrations by Herbert Alfred"."
She felt...proud. Very proud, in fact. Bert was obvously still able to do something that he loved doing and she was glad of that. Flipping through the book, she paused at each of his drawings, silently marvelling at them. The classes had indeed helped.
"They're wonderful, Bert." she told him, handing the book back. "And I mean that. "
He ducked his head a bit and shrugged but before he could say anything, Cook and the other members of the household came in to say hello to her and once Mrs. Banks had arrived, she lost track of him entirely. Her old employers had insisted she stay with them and put her in the old nursery where she didn't see Bert again until Jane and Michael fetched her at one in the morning.
He woke up and knew it was going to be another rough night. Everything had been going so well but now the ghost pain was back with a vengeance.
No doctor could tell him why this happened, just that it was a common side effect of amputation. Fat lot of comfort that is he grumbled in his head before stuffing his head into his pillow, just doing his best to keep quiet.
It hurt, like nothing he'd ever known before and he reckoned it just was't fair that not only did he have to lose his leg, but he had this business to look forward to for the rest of his life.
A soft whimper escaped his lips, but he was just glad it wasn't one of the ones where he woke up screaming bloody murder. Everyone had been nice about it, though. Especially Mrs. Banks and Jane, who'd taken turns holding his hand and talking to him so it would get his mind off of it.
Rolling over, Bert squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe in and out slowly. A sudden stab made him yelp and footsteps immediately trotted into his room. "Another ghost pain, Bert?" Michael asked softly.
"Yes." he hissed. "Bad one this time."
"I'll get Jane." the young man promised and was out the door before he could reply.
Sucking in a quick breath, Bert placed his pillow over his face and let himself yell a bit, the sound muffled by all of the down. He writhed and twisted but nothing would make the pain go away.
Tossing the pillow aside, he looked upward silently, as though begging for deliverance from heaven. He clenched his jaw tightly, willing himself to be quiet and not wake anyone.
Footsteps finally came back down the hall and he turned his head, sweat already forming on his brow but there was an extra set. Frowning, he wondered who it could be until Michael and Jane came through the door...with Mary Poppins behind them
Before he could say anything, a lightening hot pain seized him and he cried out, hands curled so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. Dimly, he was aware of Michael putting a pillow under his head and Jane pulling up three chairs so they could sit with him but the thing he focused on most was the feel of Mary's small hand resting on his balled up right fist.
Mary had been sleeping peacefully when Jane and Michael had roused her from her bed. She was used to getting up sometimes and wondered what on earth was the matter but as soon as the word "Bert" fell from Jane's lips, she was up and pulling a robe around herself.
As she pulled slippers on, Michael explained what a ghost pain was and she found her heart aching for Bert anew. It seemed like he could not get a break anywhere.
Hurrying down the hall with the two teens in front of her, she was completely unprepared for the sight in front of her as they came to the doorway. Bert lay there, his entire body rigid with pain. He turned his head toward them, but before he could speak, a shudder ran through his tall frame and he cried out wordlessly.
Her heart felt like it had been wrenched from her chest and as Jane and Michael made their familiar preparations, she went to his side and rested her hand on his. She could see the agony etched into every feature of his face and wished that she could take even a little of this burden onto herself.
"We usually talk to him, something to take his mind off of it." Jane whispered.
She couldn't think of anything to talk about, so she sang instead. Gently rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand, she sang the song that had put Jane and Michael out six years before.
As she sang, she could feel his hand relaxing and cast a critical eye over him. The rest of him was following suit and after another couple of times through, Bert was finally back to sleep.
Smoothing the hair back from his damp brow, Mary didn't see the looks Michael and Jane exchanged as she bent down and lightly kissed his forehead. "Sleep well, Bert." she whispered before creeping quietly back to her own bed. The tears didn't start until she was laying down again.