Mr. T's Birthday

By: Devryn

It was yet another dreary day on Fleet Street, dreary and gray. Mr. Sweeney Todd, owner and operator of Sweeney Todd's Tonsorial Parlor and the most skillful barber in all of London, would have thought nothing of this particular day, if only it had not been for that wretched candle. Or, more precisely, that wretched candle snuffer.

When he'd woken that morning, Todd had dressed by candlelight, as was his custom. Even though business was improving by leaps and bounds since the re-opening of Mrs. Lovett's pie shop, the baker had thought it best that they spend their earnings on things more important than kerosene lamps – things like hideously-ruffled dresses and decorative boars' heads.

Todd frowned at that thought as he laced his boots. Boars' heads! Could the woman possibly be any more ridiculous? Besides, it wasn't as if he'd have had any place to put a kerosene lamp if he'd had one. His rickety bedside table was barely big enough for the candle, and his bedroom itself was barely a minute bigger than a broom cupboard.

Shrugging on a blue vest, the barber snorted derisively. It probably had been a broom cupboard. Todd refused to use the upstairs rooms for anything more than business and brooding (which were often one and the same when customers were slow in coming in for a shave); the memories those quarters conjured up were too painful. So, Mrs. Lovett had insisted that he stay in the "spare bedroom" downstairs in her apartment.

He nodded to himself as he took a step across the room to the mirror where he made a half-hearted effort to tame his wild, black hair. The eminently practical Nellie Lovett had most definitely created his bedroom from a dingy, dusty, and rarely-used broom closet.

Fully dressed now, Sweeney reached for his candle snuffer, but his hand caught nothing but empty air.

His candle snuffer was gone. It didn't concern him much; it didn't mean anything to him, not like his razors. They were his dearest, and perhaps only, friends. Smiling fondly, Todd reached to his holster and ran his thumb along the top of the razor there, to make sure that it, too, hadn't disappeared mysteriously with the candle snuffer. Sweeney was comforted by the familiar silver handle of his razor, and the feel of it made him eager to hone his neck-slicing skills once more, so he decided to not even bother looking for the missing snuffer and simply blew the candle's flame out with a quick puff of breath.

That's when it struck him. The act of blowing out the candle brought the revelation hurtling to his mind like a runaway carriage. Today was his birthday.

With his lips still pursed to blow out the candle, the barber was frozen in shock. He stared blindly ahead at nothing, not moving, for several good minutes before the banging racket of Mrs. Lovett starting her day of baking snapped him out of his trance. He straightened quickly, almost embarrassed by mindless daze. Even more quickly, he decided that he didn't care that it was his birthday because it didn't matter. All that mattered now was getting to the Judge, and the work would wait until he had the perfect opportunity to slit Turpin's neck from ear to ear. He'd waited fifteen years already, hadn't he? What difference did it make that he was a year older?

Feeling renewed in his determination to avenge his sweet Lucy and dear Johanna, Sweeney Todd stormed out of his room and, crossing the pie shop, made his way toward his barber shop. Mrs. Lovett stopped him halfway, however.

"Now, now, Mr. Todd, where're you rushin' off to in such a awful 'urry? It's only just morning! Surely, you could slow down for just a bit of breakfast? You are lookin' a mite peaky." His neighbor stared up at him, her eyes full of motherly affection and…well…Sweeney didn't really want to ponder what other emotion her wide eyes held. He preferred not thinking about what, exactly, her feelings were for him. She was his neighbor, his business partner! Nothing more. Her affections…disturbed him.

"Mr. T? Are you all right?" Mrs. Lovett asked, concerned. Mr. Todd was staring at the baker with a strange expression on his face, a mixture of confusion and…well…Nellie didn't really want to ponder what other emotion his pale face conveyed. She preferred not thinking about how he didn't always seem to think all that fondly of her. They were friends! Dwelling on such thoughts was…distasteful.

She shook his shoulder gently. "Mr. T?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Lovett. No need to worry yourself." He smiled wanly before storming past her, up the stairs to his shop.

Mrs. Lovett sighed. Too impatient, 'e was. That was 'is problem. Never slowed down. No wonder 'e always looked 'alf-mad, wot with the way his thoughts was always brewing in 'is head about that bloody Judge Turpin. The baker absent-mindedly made an act of passing a rag over the filthy counter. She'd already told him to wait, take 'is time. It'd helped calm him down, for a bit, but she doubted that trying to force any more patience on the man would result in much good for either of them. He was like to fly into another rage, that's wot. The one time 'e had was outright terrifyin'. Threw 'er against the wall, 'e did, pressed 'is razor to her neck, and told 'er about 'ow everyone deserved to die, including the two o' them. That notion didn't sit well at all with Nellie. She wasn't in no mood for dyin', especially when she had such plans. Another year or two, and, oh, they could live by the sea! It would be so wonderful!

Mrs. Lovett pressed a piece of dough flat with her hands. All her plans depended on, of course, them still bein' alive and cheery in another year or so. Tellin' Mr. Todd to calm down, then, was certainly out of the question. Too dangerous. Her nose wrinkled in concentration as she stared idly out the shop window and pondered what to do about her neighbor. He had to be cheered up, that she knew without a doubt. She couldn't stand him lookin' so glum, mopin' about the shop. Who knows? He might accidentally scare off some o' the customers, an', besides, it made 'er feel just a wee bit guilty 'bout lyin' to 'im, like she had. Was for 'is own good, o' course, but that didn't always make 'er feel any better about it. What was it they said? "It's always 'ard to do the right thing." Somethin' like that. Anyway, Mrs. Lovett knew that she'd done nothin' wrong when she told Mr. T that 'is wife had took that awful poison. So what if 'e thought she was dead? She might as well be, wot with the way she'd lost 'er marbles, wanderin' the streets, not knowin' left from right. Her Mr. Todd would get over Lucy, eventually, she was sure o' it, but in the meantime, she needed to do somethin' to cheer 'im up. But what?

Just then, Nellie's wistful glance caught a glimpse of the confectioner's shop down the street, and inspiration struck. She'd remembered, o' course, that today was Mr. T's birthday. She had the day marked well in 'er mind, ever since the Barkers had moved into the upstairs apartment. He 'adn't mentioned it this mornin', but wouldn't 'e just be tickled by a surprise? After all, everybody likes surprises, don't they? And all women (well, those with any lick of sense, at any rate) know that the way to a man's 'eart is through 'is stomach. And now that she could afford proper ingredients, she was the best baker in London, she knew. If anyone could do it, she could.

Confident in her plan, Mrs. Lovett eagerly dusted the spare flour off her hands and shouted for her shop boy, "Toby!"

She heard his answering shout issue from the parlor. "Coming, mum!" He was such a dear boy, 'e was.

As soon as he'd heard her shout, Toby had left off doin' an inventory of the liquor stores in the parlor. He didn't need the drink as much as 'e had before, now that 'e was with Mrs. Lovett, but, still, 'e liked to make sure that there was enough gin anyway, just in case.

When he entered the kitchen, the boy saw the baker patting away at flour stains on her dress that would never truly come off. Spying him, she leaned over the counter and whispered conspiratorially, "Come 'ere."

Once Toby was near Mrs. Lovett and peering over the edge of the counter, she continued, "Now, Toby dear, you know 'ow much Mr. Todd has done for us?"

Toby didn't feel quite as certain as Mrs. Lovett that their neighbor had done all that much for them, actually. Hardly none of 'is customers ever came back, so 'e couldn't 'ave been that great of a barber. Mrs. Lovett's pies was wot brought all the customers (and their money) every night. He owed the lady everythin', but wasn't at all fond of Mr. Todd. But, 'cos 'e wanted to make 'er happy, 'e nodded in agreement.

Mrs. Lovett seemed happy enough with his response and whispered on, "Well, today is Mr. T's birthday, an' I was thinkin' we ought t' do somethin' special for 'im, show 'im 'ow much we appreciate 'is contributions to our welfare and well-being. So, what do you say t' the idea o' makin' 'im a special pie – you know, a birthday cake, so t' speak?"

Toby nodded again, this time in genuine enthusiasm. The idea of a birthday cake (well, birthday pie) was an exciting one; he'd never had one before, and bet that, as good a baker as Mrs. Lovett was, she could make a splendid one.

"All right, love, you keep this a secret just between you an' me." She fished a coin purse out of the front of her dress, but Toby wasn't paying much attention to her just then. He was too busy trying to imagine what Mrs. Lovett's birthday pie would look like and how it would taste.

She handed him a couple of coins. "Why don't you do me a favor an' run to the confectioner's to pick up some chocolate an' stop by the grocer for a small bag o' sugar?" The baker stood, deep in thought, with one hand on her hips and her index finger on her lips. She then gave Toby two more coins. "Oh, better get some cherries too. It'll be a bit o' a splurge, but what's the point in 'aving money if you aren't goin' t' spend it? An' besides, it's Mr. T's birthday. Birthday's is good reasons to spend a little extra, aren't they?"

Toby suspected that Mrs. Lovett had started mostly talking to herself, not to him, so he tried, politely as he could, to sneak away. She continued babbling away to herself as she took more care than usual to roll out a new, clean sheet of dough. Toby was such a dear boy, 'elpin' 'er out with Mr. T's birthday present, not t' mention 'elpin' 'er run the shop an' all. She couldn't understand at all why the barber'd wanted t' slit the poor dear's throat. He wasn't no trouble, just the opposite, in fact…

Toby could hear the baker chattering as she patted the dough with first her hands and then the rolling pin as he slipped out the shop door and onto the street. She did that a lot, talkin' t' 'erself. She was a bit of a queer woman, wot with 'er daydreams of the sea and 'er strange likin' of Mr. Todd, but, still, she was a fine lady, and 'e loved 'er more than anythin'.

The confectioner's shop bell tinkled as Toby went inside. He took a moment to gawk at the beautiful presentations of rainbow candies in jars. He'd never been in Mrs. Bernshaw's Sweets and Confections before. He'd stared at the window displays, though, when 'e was runnin' errands for Signor Pirelli, but 'e'd never 'ad a reason to venture inside until now.

"Something I can help you with?" A large middle-aged woman, her hair in a stern bun atop her head, frowned at Toby from behind the counter.

"Mrs. Lovett sent me for some chocolate, ma'am," the boy answered nervously, handing the confectioner a coin.

Mrs. Bernshaw couldn't imagine why on earth the lad looked so skittish. The poor boy seemed apt to run away at the drop of a hat.

"Planning to bake with the chocolate, is she?" Mrs. Bernshaw asked.

Toby just shrugged in response. He honestly had no inkling of what Mrs. Lovett was going to do.

The confectioner sighed in frustration. Couldn't the boy's mistress have sent him with more specific instructions? All she knew was that he wanted "some" amount of an unspecified chocolate. Not terribly helpful information, that. Ah, well. She'd just give him a little bit of her simplest, cheapest chocolate. It'd suit him, and probably that Mrs. Lovett as well.

"I'll be back in a moment, boy." And with that, Mrs. Bernshaw spun about quickly and headed toward a storage pantry in the back of the shop.

Abruptly, she whirled back around quickly to face Toby. "Don't. Touch. Anything." She spoke slowly and emphasized each word to make sure the boy understood. She thought he looked a bit daft.

Toby glared at the fat retreating form of the shop owner and, after hastily glancing around to be sure that no one was watching, stuck his tongue out at her. It didn't do 'im no good true, but it made 'im feel better. He didn't appreciate being treated like 'e was a half-wit, especially by such a crotchety old biddy, so, just t' spite 'er, 'e ran 'is fingers over the jars on the counter, smudging them with his fingerprints.

Mrs. Bernshaw huffed impatiently. Of course she would have secured her supply of cheap chocolate on the highest shelf in her pantry! Climbing the ladder, she cursed Mrs. Lovett and her shop boy under her breath. She'd heard tell that Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium was the finest in all London, but she simply hadn't the time to investigate herself, of course. Pulling the box of chocolate from its resting place, she thought that the baker's new-found popularity was more than a tad suspicious. A couple months ago, everyone (well, every decent sort, that is) avoided that woman and her…establishment, and now they flocked to her business like pigeons to bread crumbs? Descending the ladder, Mrs. Bernshaw shook her head in disapproval. It didn't make any sense at all. But it wasn't that she was jealous of Mrs. Lovett's success, surely not! What a ridiculous thought!

"Here's your chocolate." Mrs. Bernshaw handed Toby the small package and pocketed the coin she had laid on the counter. The boy thanked her and then speedily backed out the door. She sniffed disdainfully. If the confectioner had a boy to run her shop and do her errands, he'd be much more well-mannered. Of course, she hadn't any need of a shop boy. She was more than capable of handling things herself, and she certainly didn't succumb to such excesses….

Eager to escape from Mrs. Bernshaw's sight before she realized that he'd smudged the clear glass of her sweets jars, Toby dashed the short distance down the street to the grocer, a tall, lanky fellow with a fringe of gray hair around his otherwise bald head.

"Hullo, Toby," Mr. Fredericks greeted the boy. He knew Mrs. Lovett's shop boy fairly well and was quite used to see him come in to fetch various odds and ends would want; her whims, while not expensive, ran the gamut from apricots to zucchini at seemingly random occasions, so the grocer was not at all surprised when Toby requested sugar and cherries.

Passing the packages to the boy, Mr. Fredericks asked, "Anythin' else you need for Mrs. Lovett, then?"

Toby paid the grocer two coins. "Ah, no, sir. Thank you."

Mrs. Lovett glanced up from slightly bloody red meat she'd been plopping into a pie crust she had been filling with it when she heard the shop door open. "Toby! Have you got what we wanted, love?"

"Yes, mum." Toby glanced around for a place to set the packages, but couldn't find any location clear of pots, pans, flour, or half-formed pie crusts.

Sensing the lad's confusion, Nellie unceremoniously shoved a stack of pots out of the way along with her unfinished pie. "We'll just finish that later, won't we?"

She gestured at the cleared spot with a dusty hand. "Just sit 'em down there, and we'll have a look-see."

"Mrs. Bernshaw gave me the most awful time when I was at the confectioner's," Toby offered.

"Did she now, dear?" Mrs. Lovett murmured distractedly, inspecting the chocolate.

"Oh, yes'm. Even though I hadn't done a thing, she was orderin' me about an' starin' me down like…"

"How much did she charge you for this chocolate?" The baker opened the package of the bar of chocolate.

"Sixpence."

"Sixpence?" She asked in some alarm. "Me poor Albert -- was always fond of 'is sweets, 'e was -- used to get chocolate for only threepence from some other confectioner a few streets over! Can't hardly recall 'is name, now, but I don't s'pose it matters much now."

Ruffling Toby's hair, she smiled, "Oh, well, 's not your fault, is it now, dearie? We just won't visit – what was 'er name?"

"Mrs. Bernshaw."

"Right. We just won't bother with Mrs. Bernshaw and 'er sixpence chocolate anymore, that's wot." Mrs. Lovett positioned a stool near the counter and pushed Toby toward it. "Now you just sit you down 'ere, an' I'll see about makin' a nice, lovely pie for Mr. T."

Toby was always fascinated by Mrs. Lovett's baking. She seemed so haphazard and chaotic, but somehow managed to make the most delicious pies anyhow. He watched in awe as she mixed the cherries, some sugar, water, cinnamon, and some kind of oil he didn't recognize together in a pot on the stove. It was so amazing, it was. He'd never had much t' eat when 'e was in the workhouse, so 'e really did feel like the Good Lord had sent Mrs. Lovett for 'im. She left her goopy concoction in its pot.

"You probably didn't celebrate any birthdays when you was working for that dreadful Italian?" Mrs. Lovett asked, as she scooped her cherry mixture into the pie crust.

"Oh, no, ma'am. He wouldn't have allowed anythin' like that, an' we didn't have birthdays in the workhouse either. Though, t' tell the truth, I don't know when me birthday is. I was in the workhouse as long as I could remember, but I don't know 'ow I got there or when I was born."

Mrs. Lovett pressed a flat section of dough to cover the pie. "Oh, you poor dear! Havin' t' live like that, without any family o' any sort – simply awful."

"I really do appreciate you bein' so kind t' me, takin' me in like this," Toby thanked her.

"It's been no trouble at all, dearie. You've been a great 'elp t' me." The baker spread a layer of chocolate atop. "Look at it, now! All done, 'cept for the bakin', o' course."

She practically danced down the stairs and tucked the birthday pie in the oven on a shelf of its own, separate from the other pies. She and Toby "tidied up" the shop for nearly an hour while the pie baked. She fetched it from the bake house then, and spread a layer of melted chocolate on the pie and then plopped a single cherry in the center next to a tiny candle.

The pair stepped back to admire their – well, her – handiwork. The poor pie was a little lopsided, cherry gunk leaked out the edges, and the chocolate dripped off the sides sloppily.

"Well, now, 's not that bad-lookin', now is it? Looks downright fancy, I'd wager!" Mrs. Lovett chirped happily.

Toby agreed. It was the finest-lookin' thing 'e'd ever laid eyes on.

"Let's take it t' Mr. T!"

Toby followed Mrs. Lovett as she bustled up the stairs, dramatically brandishing the pie, its candle's flame flickering in fear as it neared the barbershop door.

Sweeney stopped his pacing immediately when he heard the shop door creak open. He turned slowly, plastering what he hoped was a friendly expression on his face, thinking it was a customer.

Alas, no, it was only Mrs. Lovett. "What are you doing here?" he asked her. Spying Toby, he added, "And the boy?"

She looked…happy. Too happy. "Aww now, Mr. T, no need t' look so glum. We brought you somethin' t' cheer you up!"

Mr. Todd was not at all comforted by her tone. Or her smile. It was alarming and reminded him uncomfortably of the day she'd babbled on about a seaside wedding.

"Toby!"

Sensing that the boy was hesitating behind her, Mrs. Lovett glanced over her shoulder at him. "Go on now, love. Just like we said before."

Sweeney was doing his best to ignore them both and entertain himself by imagining yet another scenario in which he could exact his revenge on that smug bastard Turpin. Maybe if he snuck into the courthouse and hid amongst the spare robes and wigs in the judge's changing room….

A flash of brown and pink snapped him out of his daydream. A pie-shaped...blob hovered before him.

"Well, what do you think?" Mrs. Lovett demanded impatiently.

Todd eyed the flickering candle with disgust. Surely it couldn't be….

"What is that?"

"Jus' a little somethin' me n' Toby cooked up for your birthday."

"Me birthday?"

"Get on with it; blow the candle out 'fore the wax ruins everythin'."

The barber did as he was bid, but only because he couldn't think how he could hide two bodies without anyone suspecting.

Giddy, Mrs. Lovett clasped her hands near her chin. "Try it, love."

Sweeney breathed a sigh of dread and slowly bit into the pie; the thin, chocolate-coated crust crunched under his teeth, and pink cherry goop oozed from the corners of his mouth and dribbled down his chin onto his fingers. He silently cursed the baker and willed himself to chew the pie. It was too messy, it was too sweet, it was too pink, and it was too….good? Surprised, Todd ate a bit more. Yes, it was good.

Mrs. Lovett watched him devour the rest of her birthday pie and asked, "What do you think, Mr. T?"

Todd grunted a reply, and she looked delighted.

"Well, then, now I just have to find me 'at, an' we can go out."

"Out?"

"Oh yes, Mr. T! It is your birthday after all. We'll have to have a picnic in the park, maybe, or shoppin' 'stead o' that. We never did pick out any boars' heads for the shop. Or, p'rhaps we could…."

Mr. Todd sighed in frustration and fingered his razor's handle, wondering where on earth his candle snuffer could've got to.