Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; they belong to PL Travers and the folks at Disney. "The Chimpanzoo" I'm pretty sure was written by the awesome Sherman brothers.

Author's Note: This is NOT a songfic. "The Chimpanzoo" was supposedly a deleted song from the first "Mary Poppins" movie- and based on the SPOILER drop of the bonus features on the Blu-Ray, there's another song similar to it that was either filmed or considered for "Mary Poppins Returns." I thought it would make an interesting premise. I'll post the first couple of chapters and see what everybody thinks.

Prologue

How the mighty have fallen.

William Weatherall Wilkins walked past the bank every day at quarter to eight. Not into it, mind you, for he had been unceremoniously fired from his position there. Just past it. He couldn't afford his driver any longer, so he used his two feet to get around or drove his own car. The soles of his expensive shoes were wearing thin. His suit did little to keep the fall chill out.

Yet he walked past the bank every day, as he had for the past month since he'd been fired, and he watched.

There he is.

Michael Banks, briefcase in hand, tipped his hat to the newsboy on the corner and bought a paper. He tucked it under his arm and took the stairs into the bank two at a time. He was whistling.

Wilkins hated that tune. Hated that Michael Banks had gotten a promotion from Mr. Dawes, Jr. Michael Banks, he had heard, had gotten his very own office. One that had been vacated a month ago.

Not by choice, mind you. "Corrupt," was the word Mr. Dawes, Jr. had used.

Harsh. Hard. Strict. All words he'd much more prefer than corrupt. Such a bad connotation with corrupt. No, he had been good at his job. Things had gotten done. And maybe he had taken a few shortcuts to get those things done, but they'd gotten done.

Except repossessing the Banks' home, the voice in his head reminded him, and he clenched a fist.

How had they done it? That night haunted his dreams. He could hardly sleep. Somehow, the clock had turned back five minutes. Midnight had come on his watch, a fine Swiss creation. But it hadn't come to the rest of London. And in those five minutes, Wilkins had lost both the Banks home and his job.

And your reputation, and your income, the voice added unhelpfully.

Wilkins looked up at the bank. Michael Banks was inside, now. Probably sitting at his old desk.

My desk, Wilkins seethed inwardly as he turned away, nearly running the young newsboy over. The boy shouted in protest but Wilkins ignored him.

He just wanted to know. How had the Banks' family managed to stop time and beat him? He'd thought about banging on their door (17 Cherry Tree Lane, an address he would remember forever) and demanding an answer, but knowing that they'd just as likely not open the door.

And then there was the balloon. How was it that the balloon had instantly dropped when he chose it from the bunch?

All he could think was that he was going mad. That was the only explanation. Clocks do not just decide that they want to stop on a whim, or turn back time on a whim, and balloons that were floating one moment don't just cease to float if they're full of air.

But the Banks family knew. He knew they did. If anyone had answers, they would. But asking outright wouldn't do. Wilkins ran a hand down his face, no longer clean-shaven but showing signs of five o'clock shadow and age. He shoved his hands in his jacket pocket and stalked off down the street, the wheels turning.