Have To Hand it to Her
Yes, I know I'm still supposed to be working on "That's the Throat to Slit." And I am, only I keep getting stuck. "Well," says I, "Maybe if I just write something…" So, I wrote this, 'cause Mrs. Mooney cracks me up. It didn't turn out as funny as I thought it would, but I hope you like it.
And no, I don't own Sweeney Todd.
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Strangers might guess she was a bit touched just from the sight of her. Her mouse-brown hair hung in tangles, and her wide blue eyes were so clear that they always held a vacant expression to match the daft little smile that rested naturally on her lips. But Mrs. Madeline Mooney, however well she looked the part, was not a fool.
It took a lot of brains to survive times such as these, and with the market for meat in the state it was, the pie business was anything but promising. And yet - the bakers simple smile widened as she stood in the busy street - her little shop had thrived for twenty-one years.
And she had done it without money, and without finding a rich lover like other women had. Madie had just known Mrs. Burke in Fore Street would get her comeuppance as soon as she had seen her with Major Bounce. And she was right. There no way the wretch could have passed that baby off as her husband's. Mrs. Mooney wanted none of that foolishness. And at any rate, her rather unfortunate looks always made the gentlemen look for better prospects elsewhere.
No, she had done it through her own cunning and her keen eye for opportunity. It wouldn't do to forget, either, the skill it took to fashion edible pies out of plain toast and half-starved cats. And no one suspected a thing. Her fool's eyes gave nothing away as her neighbors consoled their children with hot meat pies after the disappearance of another beloved pet.
Twenty-one years, and she had been certain she could last twenty more, at least. Until the grand reopening of the shop Mrs. Mooney now watched from across the street.
Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium had been a rival in slightly better times, but since dear Eleanor's husband had eaten himself to death years ago, it had been a total failure. But the poor thing had scraped by, alone. Madie could see her now, waiting tables outside her shop. Pretty, in a ghostly sort of way, she was always practical, unflappable. Mrs. Mooney had always liked her, at least as long as she hawked her hideous pies from a deserted shop.
Now Mrs. Lovett was a great success and she didn't know what to think. But she did know that she simply had to taste the culinary wonder that had been born of those inedible lumps of flour and lard, to find out how Nellie had accomplished such a miracle.
She uses dogs, maybe, instead of cats.
Steeling herself, Mrs. Mooney stepped into the street and walk straight across, sitting down at one of the wooden tables set up outside. Her wide cow's eye were as blank as ever as she studied the courtyard - the lanterns and bird cages strung on wires overhead, the loud, contented customers, everything. Overhead, a man stood on the stairway to the old barber shop. Her little smile pulled up again. There was a good deal of gossip in London about her rival and that very man. But that, Mrs. Mooney supposed, ruled out the idea of a rich lover. The barber didn't look as though he could afford to invest much.
A small voice across the table caught her attention. "Your ale, sir." A small boy wearing an apron was serving the man seated opposite the baker. Not Nellie's son, because Madie knew she didn't have one, but a sweet little thing. She smiled again as he turned to her.
"Just a pie, please, son." Her voice was soft and lilting and carried over the din of Mrs. Lovett's many patrons. Mrs. Mooney felt a twinge of jealousy as the lad ran off. She couldn't remember ever having so much business at once.
She had to admit, though, that the pies smelled heavenly and looked exactly as pies should. She watched with a sort of wonder as the boy sat her plate down and waited for his thruppence.
It was a gorgeous pie. The crust was flakey and golden, perfectly crimped around the edges. She took a bite and almost melted in her seat. It tasted, if possible, better than it looked.
But what did she put in it? It wasn't cat, that she was certain of. Neither did it have the too-strong flavor of dog, and it was far too tender and delicately flavored to be rat. And although it had been quite a long time since Mrs. Mooney had tasted real meat, she could never remember eating anything like this.
Her pie rapidly disappeared while she thought, and as she popped the last bite into her mouth, she considered buying another for further analysis. Until she bit down on a lump in the filling. A bone, perhaps? She spit it out triumphantly.
For just a moment, Mrs. Mooney's pale eyes were as vacant as they looked as she stared at the chewed fingertip in her palm. Looking up again, she noticed how the barber seemed to scan the crowd almost hungrily. Perhaps a man with a knife was as good as one with a heavy purse. But who could have imagined that calm, chattery Nellie Lovett would be the one to pull it off?
Now that's what I call enterprise!
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Thanks for reading, and reviews are always appreciated. I'll even read them to my cat.