- Chapter 4 - The Strand

Bert moved quickly. His arms were full. The rat nest, chachka, and wooden case of pastels were cumbersome to carry.

He was not used to having so much to his name. It occurred to him that this is the most he has possessed, that was truely his, burdens and all, in his entire life.

If I run, some upstanding folks will think I’ve stolen everything.

He needed help. Finding Mary Poppins somewhere in London would take a week alone. And with help it may still prove impossible.

She will not be back at the park. I haven’t got the slightest idea where she would be. What do I know about her?

The chachka pulsed in his arms, it drew his eyes west, back the way he had come. He forced his attention forward as he crossed the street at an inconspicuous jog.

It was still early and the foggy weather made it hard to spot carriages before they ran you over.

Is Jimmy over that way? He’s still alive at least. I have half a day left.

Bert mounted the curb and headed north for two blocks before veering west again.

I do know she was posh, and very pretty. She was well dressed. And her bag was filled with magical items.

He waited for a buggy to pass in front of him then left the sidewalk to cross the next street.

“The strand would be a good a place to start as any.” He said.

-

It was not uncommon to see performers of all types on the streets of london. The purest artists needed to eat eventually.

Bert did not think twice about the large crowd on the corner. There was a man making his fiddle sing, and beside him a young boy dancing the best gavotte Bert had ever seen.

The pedestrian flow had stopped completely, and passers by threw coins into the boy’s cap with smiles on their faces.

The song changed then to a slow and melodious tune. The dancer fell into flowing lyrical gestures and spins.

That is Tim! When did he learn to dance? He should be in a grand opera house.

Berts eyes caught a gleam of magic, like a twinkle in the eye, the shoes seemed to smile as the boy leapt and clapped in mid air.

Its Marry Poppins! She gave him dancing shoes.

The pastels in his arm jiggled, begging to be used. As if to say: there is fine sidewalk here, and plenty of passers by. Paint a palace from a far off land, or birds of Parisian menagerie. Spread the wonder of your imagination, get some coins for yourself.

The chachka tugged at his mind and he was able to shake off the trance that Tim’s dancing held him in.

Everyone is captivated. It is certainly got to be magic.

Bert squeezed through the group until he was within arm’s reach of his friend.

“Bert! You are a sight worse for wear today.” Tim said and he spun in a dervish on his knees.

“What? Oh yeah didnt get much sleep.”

“Wheres Jimmy?”

Bert did not hesitate, despite the blame he carried for himself, he told Tim everything in quick hushed whispers.

“He was taken. I need to find the pretty mistress, you know who.” Bert said cautiously. “She can get Jimmy back. I know she can.”

Tim thought for a moment then his face spread in a smile. The song ended and he bowed with a flourish. The people passed coins into his cap and some into the fiddler’s case while Tim bowed again.

“Tim. Tim!” Bert said. “This is important! How can you keep dancing when Jimmy is in trouble? He could be killed! Or worse.”

Recognition flashed across Tim’s face. He took a step towards Bert but the fiddler started up a new song. A seafarer’s tune and folks around started to sing along. That was too much for Tim and he launched into a rollicking jig.

He can’t help it. Those shoes force him to dance.

He looked down at the case of oil pastels. They smiled warmly up at him in his mind. Their promises wriggled into his mind like the roots of a rose bush.

A hand clamped down onto Bert’s arm like iron. It was all he could manage not to drop everything as he was pulled roughly through the crowd.

-

“Now I’ve got you Junior!”

Bert was slapped across the face, and this time he did drop everything. His pastel case, and the nest with Jimmy’s chachka inside ended up in the gutter at his feet.

Atleast the case stayed closed. The pastels are safe.

“Father.” Bert stammered and licked his bleeding lip.

The man before him was a drunk, sober on his worst days and worse on his drunk days. He stood cockeyed, with a club foot. His hair a greasy mess, his cheeks ruddy. His clothes were patched and dirty. The clothes of a working man, except they showed where he’d been unemployed, begging in the streets for too long wore out your clothes differently. This was all that remained of Bert’s father.

Fearing another slap. Bert stepped back and apologized.

“Father, forgive me. I did not see you there.”

His father reached out as fast as a snake and tweaked Bert’s nose between his thumb and two fingers. Bert’s eyes watered and he buckled to his knees.

“Aye! Thats because I am smarter than you. You have been gone for a week this time. Run away again you have!” He said.

The second slap came then, ringing the back of Bert’s head and sending him to the cobblestones. His father crouched over him and glared past his bulbous nose at his son.

“Did you think you could survive without me? London is a vile dangerous place. You are just a child!” He snarled.

“I was only looking to find more coin, and then I could return.” Bert stammered.

“Been begging coins like a good boy?” His father said and a glint appeared in his watery eye. “Thats a good lad, hand them all over.”

I haven’t got enough coin. I spent it on a pot pie yesterday. He will beat me for certain now.

Bert could not stop his eyes, they shot over to rest on his case of pastels.

“Oh wots this now? Brought your father something nice eh?” His father said and stooped to pick up the case.

He will take it! He’s going to sell it to buy more ale. Its magical and he’s too drink addled to see past his next drink.

The chachka jittered in the rat nest. Bert’s father stared at it for a moment. That was all the time Bert had to scoop up the case and jump back.

“Do not disobey me junior.” He father warned. “I’ve had a terrible week, without you, people think I am a jobless bum. I am your father. Providing for you all on my own!”

Stolen novel; please report.

The only thing you have given me is a proper beating. Ever since mum left us, you’ve been horrible.

Bert’s father lunged for him but he ducked below his arms. Bert scrambled in the gutter and scooped up the rat nest. He was sprinting down the block a second later.

“Junior! Get back here you bastard!”

-

Bert ran for several blocks with tears in his eyes. He ran hard, he did not stop when he was out of breath. He did not stop until he saw spots.

He’s right about one thing. I am a bastard. I ain’t got a father anymore.

Bert collapsed against a wall and took huge gasping breaths.

Fleet Street was abuzz with activity. The pedestrians did not see him. They were too busy selling the newsprint of the day.

Boys ran every which way, some hawking papers, some running letters. Fleet street could have gotten its name from these fast boys, but that was not close to the truth.

The street was infested with printing presses, bookstores, newsies, and law offices. They were all snuggled up against eachother.

The Times called this street its own and so did the Daily Telegraph.

Journalists, typesetters and editors flowed down the street on their way to work.

A solicitor kicked Bert’s foot aside as he passed.

“Mangey urchin.” He said loud enough for Bert to hear.

Bert picked himself up and moved to Bride’s church. The small plaza out front always had a sunny spot to sit.

The meager sunlight warmed him, and Bert had soon gathered his wits about him.

I’ll check the shops around here, and if I don’t find her, then I’ll have to head to cheapside.

Bert dusted himself off as best he could and started down one side of the street. He often walked in the gutter to avoid any more rough treatment.

Bert tried looking in a dress shop, a hat shop, and a salon. But the proprietors of each store quickly chased the dirty urchin away.

After a full circuit down and then up the other side of the street Bert ended up back under the sympathetic gaze of the frescoes at Bride’s Church. There were a number of market stalls selling a bite to eat, but they all had attentive eyes and they had not lost track of Bert as he walked casually past.

It was lunch time and the midday sun was doing its best to break through the stout london haze.

No sign of an easy lunch. If I’m going to buy anything I need some coin.

Bert set the rat nest with Jimmy’s chachka down behind him and opened up the oil pastels.

They are beautiful.

He could see rolling green hills, manicured rose gardens, cold and stark edifices of banks, a red and green sunset over the Thames.

If I draw her will she find me?

The pastels were cool and comfortable in his hands as he started to paint. He lost himself for a time but then a moment came where the messy outlines and shadows needed to become something specific. Someone specific.

Mother. Could the pastels find you? Could I capture the moment in time that you are experiencing right now? Would that be a happy scene?

Bert decided and the pastels painted a prim and stern woman, she was in the garden of a fine London home. A mansion.

The manicured flowers and hedges were a vibrant green and their flowers shone like spotlights, white and red and yellow.

“Well isn’t that lovely.” A woman’s voice cooed.

Bert turned to see a young nun. Her habit pinned tightly around her face.

“Thank you ma’am.” Bert said, still half in a daze.

“Is that your home? It is lovely.”

“No.” Bert smiled sadly. “I am happy you like it.”

The nun smiled at him and turned to leave.

“Please sister, I am not asking for a handout, but my cap would be happy for a copper or two.”

“Sorry my child, I carry no coin of my own to give.”

She smiled at him and left.

Bert turned back to his painting but the image had blurred.

What? I must have smudged it.

A light rain flirted with the idea of falling. A few drops smattered the painting. Enough that Bert decided to start over from scratch.

I missed her once already. The garden scene took too long. Could I just paint her?

The pastels began to move again and Bert let their magic guide him.

The initial details took much longer this time. He could not place her anywhere in the painting. Finally he stopped focusing so hard and laid down a backdrop of yellow around the silhouette of a woman.

Her form shifted, and he had to paint the profile of her nose and lips several times before they would settle.

He made rapid progress for nearly a minute. Her hair done up in a proper bun, her long lashes, her prim lips.

But then the spell broke. The woman in the painting turned her back on him.

“Mary Poppins! I believe in you! I need your help! Please! I have to save my friend.” He cried.

His hand trembled and tears streamed down his cheeks mixing with the painting.

He grabbed the brown pastel and scribbled all over the portrait.

She won’t help me! She said that she was going to spread happiness but she can’t save everyone can she! I have to do it myself! I made a promise. I will save Jimmy!

His scribbling coalesced into a rectangle, twice as tall as it was wide. His hands moved quicker now, black, silver, white, gold. His knuckles scraped on the concrete as he frantically added more details. Yellow accents glinted off the door knob and Bert was able to focus on what he had painted.

It was a four panel door, solid red oak, with a brass knob and hinges. A fanged face snarled at him. Bert jumped back from the Faery knocker as if it had tried to bite him, yet the brass face remained motionless.

I’ve found her!

Bert grasped the knocker, it was warm to the touch, as if the room beyond had a fully stocked fireplace.

“Mary Poppins?” He whispered.

Bert tried the knob then, it would not move in the slightest. He gave it a tug. It was impossibly heavy. The door did not rattle in its frame at all.

“Mary Poppins! I need your help! Pretty please!” He cried. “I have to stop the matchbox man from hurting Jimmy. I believe in you.”

The sound of a latch shifting cut through Bert’s wailing.

She is there! She is opening the door!

“Go away.”

“Mary Poppins!”

“You do not come calling unannounced. You do not have an invitation. You have no claim upon my door.” She said sternly. “Now, go away!”

Bert tried the knob again but it came off in his hand. All trace of the knob ever having beep part of the door blurred then faded from the painting. The door continued to lose detail slowly and Bert scrambled for his pastels to add the details back in.

“Mrs Mary Poppins! It is Bert!” He cried. “It’s Bert! You gave me these pastels!”

“Oh Bert?” She said through the door. “Bert you must stop this magic. It is too dangerous. You will break your pastels.”

The door shifted back and forth out of focus again. Once it came into focus again there was a wrought iron viewing window.

“Bert! Now I said stop that this instant!” Maury Poppins said sternly.

Bert reached down and flipped the small window open. He got a glimpse of a small nursery with a child tucked stiffly into bed and sleeping soundly. The walls were plastered with yellow paper featuring chicks and goslings in sailor’s caps. There on the dresser, next to a ficus, was Mary Poppins’s carpet bag. And her jacket and hat were there hanging on a hat rack.

A stern face blocked his view.

“That’s quite enough young man!” She chided. “How did you do this? This is magic. Real magic has a price. End the spell, remove this door at once!”

Bert’s hands were shaking. He wrung his cap in his hands to keep them busy.

“Mary Poppins, ma’am. So sorry to intrude, please forgive me.” Bert said and pressed his cap to his chest. “I really must speak with you and I had no way of finding you.”

“I should think not. I quite like to be impossible to find. I can assure you it will not happen again.” She said.

Bert could tell she was quite cross with him. He knelt down even lower in apology.

“Please. I need your help. An evil man has put my friend under a spell.”

“Who is this man?” She asked.

“Will you help me?” Bert asked.

“Bert! Do not play words with me! Answer my questions freely with no strings attached.”

He had made her very cross now and a shiver went down his spine. Bert told her the whole story. How the matchstick man had put Jimmy to sleep with a word, had woven a rat nest into a trap for her, how he had sent him to find and trap her.

“He said he was looking for you but you were too smart at hiding. He could not track you down.”

“I knew someone was looking for me, but not who.” She said tapping her chin thoughtfully.

Bert waited her judgement, having said all he could.

“Well let’s see now.” She said thoughtfully. “Well we could… no certainly not.”

She left his view and he averted his eyes. He was smart enough not to peek a second time.

Mary Poppins returned and her demeanor was quite serous with concern.

“You are not ready for a word of power.” She said. “And you do not have something to exchange for one anyways.”

“You could have back the pastels! I’d rather have my friend back.” Bert said.

“No no. You must keep them. We made a promise, there is magic in that. Breaking a promise will only diminish the magic.”

She stood up on her toes to peer through the window at Bert’s feet.

“Where is the rat nest?” She asked. “It was a gift was it not?”

“It is here.” Bert said holding it up. “And this is the chachka of my friend.”

She grimaced at the chachka so Bert set it down out of her view.

“Nasty magic. An effigy made of blood brings no good.”

“Bert. Set the nest down at the foot of the door. But not touching it!” She warned.

He did and stepped back.

“No come closer.” She encouraged. “You have helped me greatly Bert. You have brought me this trap, but now it is a present from you to me. It is a powerful spell that would have harmed me. For this I am grateful.”

“Thank you ma’am I am honored by your gratitude.” Bert said anxiously.

“Bert, break the hex.” She said suddenly.

“What?” He stammered.

“Break it Bert!” She hissed. “Break it now!”

Bert stomped on the rat nest, the fibers and twigs twisted and crunched but it held together. He stomped on it with both feet, jumping on it to no effect.

It is too strong!

“It is as I thought. Bert listen closely. I have a word for you. If you are smart it can save your friend.” She said solemnly. “Listen close now, this is a strong word, it may hurt you to hear it.”

“I am ready.”

“Yes, I believe you are, this is how it goes.”

Her mouth moved then, too fast to track. The word enveloped Bert and he was nearly undone. The word was atrocious and wondrous, awful and beautiful. Time stopped and he did not exist beyond this word.

The stones in the ground listened closer around him as the word echoed once like a great ringing bell. It was the greatest word he had ever heard. It terrified him.

“Do not speak this word aloud. It is costly. That would be a waste.” She said. “Bend that hex and think the word. Think it quietly, that will be enough.”

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

Bert broke the matchstick man’s terrible hex. It snapped easily in his hands. Something passed from the broken hex into the air. Mary Poppins reached through the viewing window, and with one hooked finger, grasped it like it was smoke. She brought the wisp into her fist and crushed it.

“There it is done. This power is vile but it holds currency. Go back and save your friend with this word.” She said. “But only speak it once or it will destroy you.”