A young woman wandered through Ludgate park. The wind was blowing nicely, but some unscrupulous clouds were wandering in.

Thinking better of it, she took the way back early. She strolled through the quaint lanes in that area. Everyone knew it was a fine way to take advantage of the rest of a cloudy day. It was the second Tuesday of the month and so she stumbled upon the friendly Matchbox Man.

She did not want to buy a rasher of matches, although that day he did have them for sale. And he would be happy to sell them to anyone.

But this woman was quite lucky, because she could have found him singing, or fiddling, or painting if the day was fine. But instead he was doing all three with his cheery fiddle and his baritone voice.

“The lamplight flickers on cobbled stone,

Through streets where shadows walk alone.

The fog rolls in, thick as a sigh,

Hiding dreams that long passed by.

I whistle tunes that no one hears,

Dancing through a world of fears.

Oh, the night holds secrets tight,

As I chase the stars, out of sight.”

The cheerful man danced on the sidewalk singing a sad song. He was busking for spare change on his fiddle and a fair number of passers by had stopped to listen to him sing, play his forlorn fiddle, and they had watched him paint. For he was a screever. He had already painted three landscapes with golden ornate frames within a couple hours.

The young woman stared blatantly at them, as if she might see someone walk by a window in the English countryside.

“Through fog and cobblestones I roam,

A city lost, but still my home.

Magic whispers in the air,

But darkness lingers everywhere.

The streets may glow with mystery,

But the night, it don’t sing back to me.

No, the night, it don’t sing back to me.”

He paused in his playing to dabble a little more on his painting. He was using the bow, with a small attachment he had designed himself to hold the oil pastel.

It was a sunny day in the painting and flowers practically jumped for joy in the blue sky. It was a shockingly happy picture, rebelling against the gray gloomy weather on the lane. The lookers on gossiped that he must have traveled the world. They called him a vagabond. For how else could he have found such a magical place without leaving London?

“I sweep the streets of memories,

Of joy and pain, of long-lost dreams.

The city hums a mournful tune,

Underneath a ghostly moon.

Beneath the bridges, whispers call,

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In alleyways where shadows fall.

Yet I stand, a lonely soul,

Where the midnight winds do blow.”

He paused before the chorus to change out the oil pastel on his clip to a brilliant green. Gently placing the blue he had been using back into a canvas case where all its brothers were resting soundly.

“Through fog and cobblestones I roam,

A city lost, but still my home.

Magic whispers in the air,

But darkness lingers everywhere.

The streets may glow with mystery,

But the night, it don’t sing back to me.

No, the night, it don’t sing back to me.”

The wind began to blow harder and the paintings waited patiently as the man was carried away by his song and fiddle.

“There’s beauty in the broken skies,

In every tear the city cries.

But even magic’s wearin’ thin,

When the cold starts creepin’ in.”

The weather was threatening to sour and an older couple looked up at the clouds darkening. They tossed a couple coins into the man’s hat before hurrying off under their umbrellas.

The rain fell in a couple tentative drops. The painter nodded as the last people left, rain falling in light pixie kisses and chasing them away.

Looks like we’ve made up our mind eh? Don’t cry for my sad song you silly sky!

He packed up his oil-pastels and stowed them in his sack before going back to his song.

He hummed the tune to himself quietly as he put away the fiddle. His hand brushed against something sharp in the bag and he reflexively snatched his hand back.

“Now do you go acting up again.” He chided, suddenly very stern. He ignored the smudges on his hand and sucked on his finger to draw some blood. “I don’t need any more trouble from you.”

He glared around but caught himself.

Now Bert, ye can’t let things like that get ye down or ye’d be sad all day.

Smiling, he picked up his sketchbook and secured it in his bag.

“Safe from the rain ye all are.” He says warmly to his belongings. Then he sang the rest of the song.

“Through fog and cobblestones I roam,

A city lost, but still my home.

Magic whispers in the air,

But darkness lingers everywhere.”

The rain was coming down with purpose now, and Bert cut through Ludgate park with his bag over his head to fend off the rain.

My clothes needed a rinse anyways. Saved me a penny this weather has.

He stoped in a gazebo and watched a few folks run by, caught out in the rain. One of them, a young woman with a perambulator hurried past the gazebo.

“Miss, ye mig’t wait out the wet in ‘ere-“ he offered as she flew past without stopping.

Bert counted the coins in his hat.

Came up short on a short day. More coins than the patches in my shoes. Nothing too bad about that.

Insert a scene where an adult Bert is talking to children while painting with pastels on an easel in the park.

Two young boys storm into the gazebo from the south, laughing and gasping.

“Phil you are positively soaked. Mistress will be furious with you!” One boy shouted.

“You are just as wet as I am, dear brother!” Phillip retorted, yet his smile never left his eyes.

Good kids. This city can make good kids nowadays.

Phillip spotted Bert standing there across from them in the gloom.

“Cuthbert! It’s the Matchbox Man.” He said, his eyes as big as saucers.

Cuthbert squeaked and jumped when he saw the soggy rough figure standing there.

“Evenin’ gents, pay me no mind. I’ve enoug’ coin today I won’t be selling any matchboxes, no’ in t’is rain.” Bert said turning.

“I woul’ give ya a story if ya’s care to listen?” Bert said and waggled his eyebrows. “It’s a story abou’ magic and darker days. When I was a lad, ‘bou t’yer age I’d wager, and when the Matchbox Man was as dangerous as anyone you’d fin’ on these fa’r London streets.”

The two boys were set to run, and that’s appropriate when you are alone with a matchbox man. But Burt won them over with a smile.

“The story t’is free o’charge. And it’s better’n a finga’ in e’ eye. Only you’ ll need to listen until the end.” Bert said.

“How long will this story be?” Cuthbert asked. “Our mistress is expecting us for supper.”

“Ye will make it back. The story will last as long as this rain. If you want a promise I’d give it to you. Believe you me.” Bert said.

They are good lads and will hear the story.

The two boys sat down out of the rain and Bert brought out a little pine pitch lantern in a tin and lit a match to it.

“It was a windy day, like today, but without the rain. That was the first time I saw something magic. I’d thought I’d cracked my loaf, ‘cept my friends Tim and Jimmy saw it too. We was all there when we met Marry Poppins, and we was all there when we met the Matchbox Man.” Bert said, his face took on sharp angles in the flickering light of his tin lamp.

They will hear the story to the end. They are good lads.