Work Text:
37 Cherry Tree Lane, London, England
December 25, 1968
It was only once a year that the Banks family all got together. Auntie Jane had moved back into the family home after the kids had graduated, inheriting the vast family wealth that came with it; Joshua Banks moved to Liverpool and met the woman who was now his wife, becoming a banker like his grandfather and raising two young children. Jane's two sons were still childless, so Andrew and Elizabeth Banks were often short on company during the Christmas season.
Even if it had been decades since his childhood, it still felt strange to Michael Banks, being amongst the wealthiest folks in England. It wasn't as if he had only his father's good fortune to thank: his career as an esteemed engineer and astronomer had certainly earned him high above the average living in his day. Still, he remembered the time in his life where they worried if their house would stay theirs, the same home where he now rested his feet on the coffee table and felt the fireplace warm his old heart.
The small family gathered around the fire to open their gifts. One by one the parcels came out from under the lavishly decorated tree, cut from the finest tree farm in the region and decorated with the baubles he and Auntie Jane decorated in the winter of 1912. Most of the gifts 'passed' around the circle inevitably made their way to Andrew and Elizabeth, and their eager little hands ripped each package open and added the gift to their rapidly growing piles which only got bigger each year. Andrew held up another package from Auntie Jane, and turned to look expectantly at Michael.
'Grandpa, why do you only get us one thing?'
'Because,' Michael tapped his cigarette out onto his dish, 'I get you something that is worth more than everything else you get.'
Andrew scoffed. Inside his box was a VHS copy of his favourite movie. Michael then passed him his own gift: a long, thin tube wrapped in brown paper, like something from the grocer's.
'What is it?' Elizabeth asked excitedly.
The two were now eleven and nine, the same age that Michael and Jane had been in 1910, the year they both regarded as the best one of their lives.
'It's a telescope.' Andrew said, pulling its lens in and out.
'Not just any telescope, it was my telescope when I was your age. My nanny gave it to me. It can see stars better than any other telescope in the world.' Michael beamed.
'Your nanny? Miss Poppins? The one that Auntie Jane is always telling us about?' Elizabeth asked, the fire reflecting off of her inquisitive eyes.
'Yes, she gave Grandpa his telescope, and my locket.' Jane smiled, playing with the locket on the replacement chain she wore around her neck each day for the past fifty years.
Andrew held it up to his eye and stared into the fireplace. Elizabeth quickly grabbed it from him and used it to look at the distant portraits of hanging in the parlour hall, those of Mr. and Mrs. Banks, Jane and Michael's late parents.
'Will Miss Poppins ever be our nanny?' Andrew asked.
'I don't think so, you're hardly as misbehaved as we were when we were your age. But don't get any ideas.' Jane shook her finger at the kids.
Michael and Jane Banks looked at each other for a moment.
'I wonder what happened to old Mary Poppins.' Michael said to his sister.
An old and ailing man lay quietly in his bed, in a flat high above the streets of London. His lungs were worn and weak from years of working in the soot of chimneys and rooftops; all he could do was stare at his ceiling and reminisce fondly about his own life.
A quiet shuffle and a swish of the curtains quickly drew his attention. A tall young woman stood by his bedside, appearing as if she had always been there. If he could jump, he would have. The dark of his room shadowed most of her figure, but all it took was a glance at the hat on her head and the large, ebony-handled umbrella draped over her arm for the realization to come flooding to him.
'Mary Poppins.' His voice was raspy and quiet, all that he could muster.
The lamp on his bedside flickered on, seemingly independent of any touch. Mary Poppins' figure lit up with a dancing light, as a familiar smile spread across her face.
'Bert.'
He let out a loud, hacking cough and struggled to catch his breath.
'It's been fifty-eight years.' He muttered.
'Indeed it has. I'm a very busy woman.' Mary said matter-of-factly.
Decades of memories came flooding back into Bert's fading mind.
'I suppose this means I'm going to die.' He laughed weakly. 'I always figured you were a harbinger of some sort.'
'I'd hardly say that. In fact, I like to think that I bring with me only good things.'
'And I would be inclined to agree.' Bert smiled.
Bert lifted up his shaky hand with all the strength he could muster. Mary lay her umbrella down on a chair and placed her hand in his. A wave of nostalgia filled his heart.
'When Mary holds your hand, you feel so grand.' He sang quietly, as Mary Poppins began to hum along.
Bert remembered the day he and Mary Poppins first met: he would always come into the park on Wednesdays to paint the scenery and make conversation with the locals, maybe sell a piece for a couple pence. Mary came by as if by chance, but nothing was ever chance with Mary Poppins. She had planned years in advance to be in that exact spot on that exact date at that exact time, and she planned that he would be there too. He had never met someone so beautiful in his life.
But just like his former loves, they moved on. There was something not quite human about her, that much he knew. Her magic and charm were part of what won him over. He knew she would have to leave some day, but he knew she would never leave his memory. Not even for fifty-eight years.
'You came back for me.'
Mary paused.
'I suppose I did.'
The realization caused even Mary Poppins to step back and think about what had happened.
'Why?' Bert asked.
'I.... I've loved many people in my life, I suppose. Dozens of people over dozens of generations and many I just... left behind.' Mary let go of Bert's hand and began to pace around the room. Bert had never seen Mary act like this before.
'Something in me insisted that I couldn't leave you behind. You're different to any of the others. There's something beyond the superficial. When I think of you, it's not just a memory... it's still there.'
Bert managed a small grin as a tear formed in his eye. While his gray hair and soot-stained skin were bleak and worn with time, his teary eyes were the same bird's egg blue as the day they first met.
'I love you, Mary Poppins.' Bert said with a raspy cough.
'I love you too, Bert.'
Mary leaned down and kissed Bert on the cheek.
'I guess this is goodbye.' Bert said, feeling himself grow weaker.
'That is where you are mistaken.' Mary replied, smiling.
'We will never have to say goodbye again. This is simply goodnight.'
Bert thought about it for a second, and decided it was best to go along with it.
'Goodnight, Mary Poppins.' Bert whispered with what he knew would be his last breath.
'Goodnight, Bert.' Mary picked up her umbrella.
As the last scrap of Bert's consciousness began to fade he saw the curtains rustle, and he was alone in the dark of the gloomy east London flat again, for the last time in his life.
Michael Banks stood in the kitchen talking to his son about stock trading and investments, a subject he only knew about from obligation; Auntie Jane was busy preparing a casserole for Christmas dinner and talking to her youngest son about his doctorate degree. Outside, the snow fell in quiet drifting swirls past the window of their estate. Michael couldn't help feel some untraceable melancholy in the back of his mind as he made conversation.
'Grandpa, grandpa! Look! I found a new star!' Andrew shouted from the parlour.
Michael pulled himself out of his chair immediately and went to investigate.
'Dad, they're just playing games.' Joshua insisted.
'No, the man's found a new star, this is a breakthrough.' Michael joked.
Andrew stood in the darkened parlour with his new telescope pressed up against the window.
'Grandpa, look! A Star! And a big cloud!' He was shaking with excitement.
'Oh, let me see.'
Michael Banks peered through his old telescope for the first time in fourty years.
Sure enough, his grandson was right. Suspended in the crisp starlight of winter was the silhouette of a tall young woman, floating through the air by an ebony-handled umbrella; twinkling proudly above its point as if a guiding light, was a brand new star, one of bright bird's egg blue against the night as black as soot.