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The Fifth of November
It was one of those bleak and chilly mornings that remind you winter is coming. Cherry-Tree Lane was quiet and still. The mist hung over the Park like a shadow. All the houses looked exactly alike as the grey fog wrapped them round. Admiral Boom’s flagstaff, with the telescope at the top of it, had entirely disappeared.
The Milkman, as he turned into the Lane, could hardly see his way.
“Milk Be-l-o-o-ow!” he called, outside the Admiral’s door. And his voice sounded so queer and hollow that it gave him quite a fright.
“I’ll go ’ome till the fog lifts,” he said to himself. “’Ere! Look where you’re goin’!” he went on, as a shape loomed suddenly out of the mist and bumped against his shoulder.
“Bumble, bumble, bum-bur-um-bumble,” said a gentle, muffled voice.
“Oh, it’s you!” said the Milkman, with a sigh of relief.
“Bumble,” remarked the Sweep again. He was holding his brushes in front of his face to keep his moustache dry.
“Out early, aren’t you?” the Milkman said.
The Sweep gave a jerk of his black thumb towards Miss Lark’s house.
“Had to do the chimbley before the dogs had breakfast. In case the soot gave them a cough,” he explained.
The Milkman laughed rudely. For that was what everybody did when Miss Lark’s two dogs were mentioned.
The mist went wreathing through the air. There was not a sound in the Lane.
“Ugh!” said the Milkman, shivering. “This quiet gives me the ’Orrors!”
And as he said that, the Lane woke up. A sudden roar came from one of the houses and the sound of stamping feet.
“That’s Number Seventeen!” said the Sweep. “Excuse me, old chap. I think I’m needed.” He cautiously felt his way to the gate and went up the garden path. . . .
Inside the house, Mr. Banks was marching up and down, kicking the hall furniture.
“I’ve had about all I can stand!” he shouted, waving his arms wildly.
“You keep on saying that,” Mrs. Banks cried. “But you won’t tell me what’s the matter.” She looked at Mr. Banks anxiously.
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“Everything’s the matter!” he roared. “Look at this!” He waggled his right foot at her. “And this!” he went on, as he waggled his left.
Mrs. Banks peered closely at the feet. She was rather short-sighted and the hall was misty.
“I—er—don’t see anything wrong,” she began timidly.
“Of course you don’t!” he said, sarcastically. “It’s only imagination, of course, that makes me think Robertson Ay has given me one black shoe and one brown!” And again he waggled his feet.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Banks hurriedly. For now she saw clearly what the trouble was.
“You may well say ‘Oh!’ So will Robertson Ay when I give him the sack tonight.”
“It’s not his fault, Daddy!” cried Jane, from the stairs. “He couldn’t see—because of the fog. Besides, he’s not strong.”
“He’s strong enough to make my life a misery!” said Mr. Banks angrily.
“He needs rest, Daddy!” Michael reminded him, hurrying down after Jane.
“He’ll get it!” promised Mr. Banks, as he snatched up his bag. “When I think of the things I could have done if I hadn’t gone and got married! Lived alone in a Cave, perhaps. Or I might have gone Round the World.”
“And what would we have done, then?” asked Michael.
“You would have had to fend for yourselves. And serve you right! Where’s my overcoat?”
“You have it on, George,” said Mrs. Banks, meekly.
“Yes!” he retorted. “And only one button! But anything’s good enough for me! I’m only the man who Pays the Bills. I shall not be home for dinner.”
A wail of protest went up from the children.
“But it’s Guy Fawkes’ Day,” wheedled Mrs. Banks. “And you so good at letting off rockets.”
“No rockets for me!” cried Mr. Banks. “Nothing but trouble from morning till night!” He shook Mrs. Banks’ hand from his arm and dashed out of the house.
“Shake, sir!” said the Sweep in a friendly voice as Mr. Banks knocked into him, “It’s lucky, you know, to shake hands with a Sweep.”
“Away, away!” said Mr. Banks wildly. “This is not my lucky day!”
The Sweep looked after him for a moment. Then he smiled to himself and rang the door-bell. . . .
“He doesn’t mean it, does he, Mother? He will come home for the fireworks!” Jane and Michael rushed at Mrs. Banks and tugged at her skirt.
“Oh, I can’t promise anything, children!” she sighed, as she looked at her face in the front hall mirror.
And she thought to herself—Yes, I’m getting thinner. One of my dimples has gone already and soon I shall lose the second. No one will look at me any more. And it’s all her fault!
By her, Mrs. Banks meant Mary Poppins, who had been the children’s nurse. As long as Mary Poppins was in the house, everything had gone smoothly. But since that day when she had left them—so suddenly and without a Word of Warning—the family had gone from Bad to Worse.
Here am I, thought Mrs. Banks miserably, with five wild children and no one to help me. I’ve advertised. I’ve asked my friends. But nothing seems to happen. And George is getting crosser and crosser; and Annabel’s teething; and Jane and Michael and the Twins are so naughty, not to mention that awful Income Tax——
She watched a tear run over the spot where the dimple had once been.
“It’s no good,” she said, with sudden decision. “I shall have to send for Miss Andrew.”
A cry went up from all four children. Away in the Nursery, Annabel screamed. For Miss Andrew had once been their Father’s governess and they knew how frightful she was.
“I won’t speak to her!” shouted Jane, in a rage.
“I’ll spit on her shoes if she comes!” threatened Michael.
“No, no!” wailed John and Barbara miserably.
Mrs. Banks clapped her hands to her ears. “Children, have mercy!” she cried in despair.
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” said Ellen the housemaid, as she tapped Mrs. Banks on the shoulder. “The Sweep is ’ere for the Drawing-room Chimbley. But I warn you, ma’am, it’s my Day Out! And I can’t clean up after ’im. So there!” She blew her nose with a trumpeting sound.
“Excuse me!” said the Sweep cheerfully, as he dragged in his bags and brushes.
“’Oo’s that?” came the voice of Mrs. Brill as she hurried up from the kitchen. “The Sweep? On Baking Day? No, you don’t! I’m sorry to give you notice, ma’am. But if that Hottentot goes into the chimney, I shall go out of the door.”
Mrs. Banks glanced round desperately.
“I didn’t ask him to come!” she declared. “I don’t even know if the chimney wants sweeping!”
“A chimbley’s always glad of a brush.” The Sweep stepped calmly into the Drawing-room and began to spread out his sheet.
Mrs. Banks looked nervously at Mrs. Brill. “Perhaps Robertson Ay could help—” she began.
“Robertson is asleep in the pantry, wrapped in your best lace shawl. And nothing will wake him,” said Mrs. Brill, “but the sound of the Last Trombone. So, if you please, I’ll be packing my bag. ’Ow! Let me go, you Hindoo!”
For the Sweep had seized Mrs. Brill’s hand and was shaking it vigorously. A reluctant smile spread over her face.
“Well—just this once!” she remarked cheerfully. And she went down the kitchen stairs.
The Sweep turned to Ellen with a grin.
“Don’t touch me, you black heathen!” she screamed in a terrified voice. But he took her hand in a firm grip and she, too, began to smile. “Well, no messing up the carpet!” she warned him, and hurried off to her work.
“Shake!” said the Sweep, as he turned to the children. “It’s sure to bring you luck!” He left a black mark on each of their palms and they all felt suddenly better.
Then he put out his hand to Mrs. Banks. And as she took his warm black fingers her courage came flowing back.
“We must make the best of things, darlings,” she said. “I shall advertise for another nurse. And perhaps something good will happen.”
Jane and Michael sighed with relief. At least she was not going to send for Miss Andrew.
“What do you do when you need luck?” asked Jane, as she followed the Sweep to the Drawing-room.
“Oh, I just shake ’ands with meself,” he said, cheerfully, pushing his brush up the chimney.
All day long the children watched him and argued over who should hand him the brushes. Now and again Mrs. Banks came in, to complain of the noise and hurry the Sweep.
And all day long, beyond the windows, the mist crept through the Lane. Every sound was muffled. The birds were gone. Except for an old and moulting Starling who kept on peering through the cracks in the blinds as if he were looking for someone.
At last the Sweep crept out of the chimney and smiled at his handiwok.
Copyright 1943 by P. L. Travers
Copyright renewed 1971 by P. L. Travers
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