The Practically Perfect Perils of Agent P

This is a Mary Poppins fan fiction. I have retconned the character and placed her in the Victorian era as a special agent, protecting & serving important British families during that time.

Riding on a gentle East wind, Agent P gripped her photonic wave parasol as she took in the expansive London skyline, where lights twinkled all over the city. It warmed her heart to be back in familiar surroundings after being gone so long. She alighted onto the damp, empty road below. Gaslight streetlamps cast a soft, mysterious glow in the foggy air of the late evening. The brass parrot head of her parasol winked at her as she closed it and tucked it under her arm. With her gloved hand, she tightened her hold on her floral design carpetbag and approached the guildhall entrance. With each step, her heels clicked on the cobblestones, and she knocked three times on the thick oak door reinforced with rusted iron bands. The sound echoed along the silent street.

A peephole door slid open, and a pair of steel-grey eyes surrounded by deep wrinkles stared back at her. “Password?” asked a man in a gruff voice.

“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” answered Agent P.

“Quite atrocious,” he mumbled softly before the peephole door slid shut, and the main door creaked loudly as it opened. Agent P nodded politely at the door guard, a stern-looking man with a scar running across his left cheek, as she passed him. She stopped before an elaborate gilded mirror in the foyer and tucked a few windblown strands of hair back under her black boater hat in order to look presentable for her meeting with Director Albert. Her mirror-image self gave a curt nod of approval.

The central atrium bustled with activity. Agents and clerks hurried to and fro, attending to their duties. Agent P made a beeline for the grand staircase leading to the Director's office. She settled herself on the wrought-iron banister and glided up several flights until reaching the proper floor. She elegantly dismounted and crossed the marble-inlaid floor to the secretary's desk, where he was busily tapping the keys on his black and gold Remington typewriter.

“Good evening, Mr. Parks,” said Agent P.

The man in his crisp gray dress coat looked up from his work and smiled. “Mary Poppins, it’s so good to see you again,” he said, rising to shake her hand.

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Parks. How is he today?” she asked, pointing toward the Director’s office.

Mr. Parks leaned forward. “He’s currently floating near the ceiling. Operative Bert is with him.”

Agent P smiled. “Ah, good. It will be nice to meet with them both again.”

“He’s expecting you. Please go right in,” he said, approaching the door and opening it for her.

Inside the executive suite sat a double-pedestal partner desk made of thick oak timbers. Massive bookcases lined the walls, filled with various leather-bound texts. Flames blazed in the wood-mantled fireplace, where messages flitted through the chimney network. Two small envelopes, singed at the edges, floated out and landed on a silver serving tray lying on the hearth. A soot-stained chimney brush leaned against the wall nearby.

Behind her, Mr. Parks entered with a serving tray holding a tea set and a plate of pastries, and set it on a nearby table. Agent P eyed it longingly before looking up at the Director and Bert, aloft near the glass-domed ceiling.

She cleared her throat loudly before speaking. “Director Albert, you wished to see me?”

“Uncle Albert, my dear girl. We’re all family here,” he replied, chuckling at a joke Bert whispered in his ear.

Agent P huffed in exasperation as the two men spun in the air, laughing heartily at each other's humor, looking like a pair of utter degenerates.

“Can you both please come down so we can have a spot of tea like proper civilized people?” she asked.

“Ah, tea! What a splendid idea.” Uncle Albert waved his hand, causing the table and chairs to rise toward the ceiling.

“Please join us, Mary,” called Bert, settling into one of the chairs.

“I’d much prefer it if we dined down here,” said Agent P, trying to conceal her irritation.

“We’ll come down if you can answer this question,” said Uncle Albert with a wry smile. “What did the hat say to the hat rack?”

“I really don’t know,” Agent P replied.

“You stay here, I’ll go on a head.” Uncontrollable laughter burst forth from the two men.

Agent P covered her mouth but couldn't hold back a giggle at their raucous display. That little slip was all it took, and she felt herself lift off the floor and rise to join them before delicately taking a seat.

“You two are such reprobates,” she said, placing a cube of sugar in her steaming cup of tea.

The two men clinked their tea cups together. “Quite,” they replied in unison, nodding at each other.

“Can we please get down to business?” asked Agent P.

Uncle Albert cleared his throat a few times to settle himself. “Alright, Mary. I understand your last assignment in India went well?”

“Of course. I kept Major General Reese’s children safe, allowing him to focus on military reorganization in Mumbai and Bengal. The area is secure enough now that more British women are moving there to establish courtship relations with our brave soldiers so they’ll return home to England when their tours are completed.”

“Excellent, as always, Mary,” said Uncle Albert.

“Practically perfect, some might say. I’m glad you’re safely home again,” said Bert, sliding his hand toward her to lightly touch her fingers. His clothes were dark with creosote, but it did nothing to detract from his roguish good looks.

Mary blushed and smiled at him before turning her attention back to her uncle. “Where will I be assigned next? Afghanistan? Africa? China?”

“Let me get your file,” said Uncle Albert, waving his hand. The files on his desk began to shuffle around, and one floated up to him. He grabbed it out of the air, opened it, and adjusted his spectacles for a better look. “No, it looks like you’ll be stationed close to home this time.”

Bert breathed a sigh of relief.

“Here, take a look for yourself,” said Uncle Albert, handing her the folder.

Agent P opened it to the first page, revealing the address: “The Banks family, 17 Cherry Tree Lane, London.” She looked up to see Bert gazing at her happily.

“Mr. Banks' wife is a suffragette, which has caused some chaos in their home. He works for the Bank of London and is overseeing some important international transactions. Your job is to bring peace to the household so that Mr. Banks can concentrate on his work.”

“I shall do my duty in service to The Crown,” said Agent P. She glanced back at the file for the children's names. “Michael and Jane. It seems they’ve gone through a lot of nannies recently. Looks like I’ll have my work cut out for me.”

“Bring them up to the rooftops to visit me and my chimney sweep mates. We can show them how messages are passed along the chimney network throughout the city.”

“I’ll do my best to visit. I’m sure they’ll find it quite fascinating.” Agent P laid down her empty tea cup. “I should get prepared for my next assignment. It’ll be morning soon, and I have a few things to get settled so that I’ll arrive on time at the Bank's home. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

They both rose from their chairs, watching as she alighted onto the marble floor.

“Don’t forget to stop by,” said Bert with a look of admiration.

“I’m sure we’ll cross paths again, Bert.” Agent P waved before leaving the Director's office, ready for her next adventure.

© 2025 Lisa SFF writer

Author's Note

Let me know what you think of this version of Mary Poppins. I like how they retconned Wednesday for the Netflix series, and wanted to try my hand at retconning a character with this fan fiction.

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Reviews

JayG

• Gaslight streetlamps cast a soft, mysterious glow

Seriously? Gaslight is light, no more and no less. I grew up on streets that were lit by gas, and as a scoutmaster I spent a LOT of time with propane lamps, candles, and oil lamps as the only light source. And while candles were pretty dim, even their light wasn't mysterious.

My point? You’re trying to make the telling interesting, as you transcribe yourself storytelling. But storytelling only works because the narrator is PERFORMING both audibly and visually, which takes the place of the actors on the screen and stage. But not a trace of that performance reaches the reader because you give them what amounts to your storyteller’s script, which they would have to perform exactly as you would, as they read. But, how can they do that with no stage directions and rehearsal time?

In short, while I fully support your desire to write, to write fiction you need the skills of fiction writing every bit as much as the screenwriter needs to know that profession’s skills.

So it’s not a matter of talent or how well you write. It’s that the nonfiction report-writing skills of school aren’t up to the task, no matter how vivid and evocative the language.

But…because you ARE the storyteller, and perform as you read, it works perfectly…for you. And in addition to that, you’re thinking visually, and so including a LOT of unnecessary detail. You tell the reader she knocked three times. Can the reader hear or see it? Would the story change in the smallest way were it twice? So, that line was two words longer—two words slower—than needed. And that adds up to slow the pace and impact of the story. Do we care what the door is made of, or that it has metal bands of unknown kind reinforcing it for unknown reasons? No. That's visual detail, seen in an instant as background ambiance on the screen, but spelled out one-word-at-a-time on the page.

So…you have the story. You have the desire. You’ve demonstrated the perseverance. To that, add those missing skills and…there you are.

And that makes sense, given that they’ve been figuring out how to avoid the traps and keep the reader needing to turn the pages for centuries.

To take advantage of that, jump over to Amazon and try a few chapters from some good books on the basics of adding wings to your words, like Jack Bickham’s, Scene and Structure, and Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict.

And for an overview of the traps and gotchas, you might try a few of my articles and YouTube videos.

But whatever you do, hang in there and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

Posted 1 Month Ago

• Gaslight streetlamps cast a soft, mysterious glow

Seriously? Gaslight is light, no more and no less. I grew up on streets that were lit by gas, and as a scoutmaster I spent a LOT of time with propane lamps, candles, and oil lamps as the only light source. And while candles were pretty dim, even their light wasn't mysterious.

My point? You’re trying to make the telling interesting, as you transcribe yourself storytelling. But storytelling only works because the narrator is PERFORMING both audibly and visually, which takes the place of the actors on the screen and stage. But not a trace of that performance reaches the reader because you give them what amounts to your storyteller’s script, which they would have to perform exactly as you would, as they read. But, how can they do that with no stage directions and rehearsal time?

In short, while I fully support your desire to write, to write fiction you need the skills of fiction writing every bit as much as the screenwriter needs to know that profession’s skills.

So it’s not a matter of talent or how well you write. It’s that the nonfiction report-writing skills of school aren’t up to the task, no matter how vivid and evocative the language.

But…because you ARE the storyteller, and perform as you read, it works perfectly…for you. And in addition to that, you’re thinking visually, and so including a LOT of unnecessary detail. You tell the reader she knocked three times. Can the reader hear or see it? Would the story change in the smallest way were it twice? So, that line was two words longer—two words slower—than needed. And that adds up to slow the pace and impact of the story. Do we care what the door is made of, or that it has metal bands of unknown kind reinforcing it for unknown reasons? No. That's visual detail, seen in an instant as background ambiance on the screen, but spelled out one-word-at-a-time on the page.

So…you have the story. You have the desire. You’ve demonstrated the perseverance. To that, add those missing skills and…there you are.

And that makes sense, given that they’ve been figuring out how to avoid the traps and keep the reader needing to turn the pages for centuries.

To take advantage of that, jump over to Amazon and try a few chapters from some good books on the basics of adding wings to your words, like Jack Bickham’s, Scene and Structure, and Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict.

And for an overview of the traps and gotchas, you might try a few of my articles and YouTube videos.

But whatever you do, hang in there and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
Articles:  https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos:  https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

Rating /100