The door between the shop and the parlour cracks open. Nell starts sharp at the sound and whips round the other direction, wood spoon still in her hand. 'Oh! – Mercy, dear,' she says, voice not quite so steady as she'd fancy it being, when she sees it's only Albert standing for his long moment in the doorway. She checks him a smile and turns back round, the odd few drips of half-seasoned gravy landing on the floor by the toe of her boot. 'Good morning,' she says to him over her shoulder.
'Morning, dear,' he says, and stands across the counter from his wife. He sets his papers down, and his elbows go with them. 'Something wrong?'
Nell looks up in his eyes. 'Not a thing, dear,' she says, 'just a bit scatty today.'
She smiles at him; and Albert leaves his papers where they lie. He comes back round the counter to stand with her, peers into the pot she's stewing. 'Gravy, dear,' she tells him, and gives it another stir.
Albert leans over and takes up the wood ladle from her hand. They've both got chubby hands, Nell and Albert have. He gives her a quick look while he fills the ladle with the gravy. 'Don't mind,' he says, 'do you, Nellie dear?'
'No,' she says, and steps off to the side, 'no; go on, take it.'
He leans a bit over the pot, filling up the whole ladle. 'Smells lovely,' he says, and blows on it to cool. 'There onions in that?'
'Yea,' she says. 'Half an onion.' Nell cracks a smile and gives him a short pat on the shoulder. 'Getting awful good at that, you are.' Nell's teaching Albert little things, like how to mix spice and suchlike. Not that, mercy knows, he'll ever use it; but she's not quite so certain she's got anything to teach what he might much use, and she likes teaching it to him anyhow. Someday, she likes thinking, perhaps, when they've got a daughter, Nell can teach her everything there is. Nell bites her lip and gazes in the murky pot for half a minute. They might have had two daughters by now.
Albert tips the ladle quick past his lips, licks the bottom one when he's done. 'Well,' he says, crossing the room to fetch the papers back from the other side of the counter, 'I best be off.'
'Oh! –' Nell leaves the pot to stew where it will, and crosses the room too. 'Well. You have a good day, then, dear,' she says, and reaches up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.
'You, too.' He reaches down and kisses her on the other one. He takes up all his papers and heads for the door. 'Thank you, Nellie dear,' she hears him say, and then the shop bell as the door shuts.
***
Nell dips her finger in the pot, for tasting. It's a bit queer, she's been told; but she's always done it like that. All her fingertips are red and halfway singed from dipping. Quick as she can, she takes her finger out the pot and sticks it on her tongue. She swallows her bit of gravy, and then lets her hand fall all sudden to the countertop. 'Bugger,' she says to herself. It's thick enough, but missing something.
She bends down under the counters for the spice jars. Her hands fall on the coriander; she bites her lip while she stands back up. She stays for half a minute, taking the lid off the jar, the steam from the pot warming her face.
The sky's a lovely colour today, and the sun's out, just over the city, it seems like. But the sun and the sky, she knows perfectly well by now, will make a fool of you if you let them. Sunny out and bloody freezing, it is today. She can tell; she watches out the window, at everyone shivering in their coats. That's what March does, and today is March the fifteenth. She feels it in here, too; the kind of cold what chills your bones no matter where you are. Perhaps in a bit she'll put some coals on.
She sprinkles in the coriander and stirs the pot, and then dips her finger in again. Nell sucks at her burnt finger in the morning sunlight. 'Better,' she nods to herself. She's always loved the taste of coriander and onions.
***
Nell's fingertips are trembling where they lie, on the counter or the spoon. Her hands are shaking so hard that she's dropped a dough-ball on the floor three times this morning – but no matter; no-one knew. She flits round and round the shop, cheeks flushed with an awful fever she didn't see coming at all.
Upstairs, you see, Mr Barker is pacing, and Nell can pretty well feel everything he does. He don't know that, and she won't be the first to say so, but there it is. The floors in the house aren't too thick at all, nor neither aren't the walls. When Mr Barker and his pretty little wife first moved in – round a year past, this was – it got to be a bit unnerving, the way that when he walked round the upstairs, Nell could feel his footfalls in her boots.
But, like she mentioned, it's been a year. A year and two months and fifteen days, actually; they moved in last New Years' Day. So, she's pretty well used to it by now, of course; but he's not usually pacing so hard. Whenever he turns on his heel, she can feel it deep in her bones and it's all she can do not to gasp in her breath.
Her fingers grip round the edge of the counter, waiting to stop feeling so heart-sick. What in bleeding hell is wrong with her today, she'd like to know. Most times she's quite all right, even living next to him. She flicks her eyes up to the ceiling, sighs once, quiet. Perhaps, today not so much.
Mr Barker likes the mornings; and every morning, like clock-work, he comes down the side stairs at eight o'clock with a lovely smile on his lips, to go for a walk before the customers come in. Sometimes, when he's in the finances for it, he comes back with a bunch of yellow daisies for his wife, who likes them quite, so he's told Nell; or a lavender hair tonic for Mrs Barker's birthday, or something like that.
Every day, too, when he's either on his way out or on his way back, he stops in the shop for no reason but to have a chat with Nell; so the mornings have got to be her favourite part of the day too. But not this morning; it's half past nine and he hasn't come.
'Oh, dear,' Nell sighs out loud as she pours flour into a bowl. If he only knew how raving mad he's driving her, just with footfalls; but he can't know that, never. It's just a foolish sentiment; that's all it is. He's got a wife, and she's got a husband; but she can't help her foolish, gentle heart no matter what she tries. She's just got awful good at pretending; she's just silent about it.
She hears a groan from above her, belonging to lovely little Mrs Barker. Nell flicks her eyes up again, less urgent this time. She's everything a woman should be, Mrs Barker is. She's got a pair of the loveliest hands Nell thinks she's ever seen, and she's seen quite a few pairs of hands. Her eyes are lovely too, the kind of clear eyes what have never seen anything they shouldn't. Mrs Barker is still seventeen years old, won't be eighteen 'til August. Mr Barker turns nineteen in May; and Nell's nineteen since January.
Upstairs, Mrs Barker groans again, a bit louder now. Mr Barker takes a turn and says something to her. Through the ceiling, Nell can't hear what it is he's saying, but in his tone he's consoling and gentle. Downstairs, Nell stirs batter, slow with the spoon. She's staring at her fingernails, and all sudden she's got a screaming headache. She stirs away hard at the odd mix of flour and water, doing what she can to steady her breathing, but she knows her cheeks are flushed, the both of them. She touches her fingertips to her forehead and finds it burning. She's got a fever somehow, it seems like. She didn't have one when she got up today.
Nell hears a blind scream from upstairs, and looks up for a bit longer than a moment. 'Mercy,' she says to the room; when there's no one in the shop, she thinks everything out loud. When she screams, it turns out, Mrs Barker is high-pitched and shrill. But for now, Nell never has heard her raise her voice above a hum.
***
Mr Barker's footfalls tumble hasty down the stairs outside. Quick as she can, Nell ducks down under the counters and sticks her head in the drawers, just in time for the shop door to slam open. She can't even see him, but she knows he's standing there in the middle of the room; he has no idea if she's there or not. 'Mrs Lovett?' he calls, voice all gone hesitant.
Nell does an over-drawn gasp, mostly on purpose, and sticks her head up on the counter where he can see it. 'Oh! –' she says. 'Mr Barker!' She switches to a kneel on the floor and puts one hand up to the edge of the counter. 'You give me such a fright, sir,' she tells him, catching back the breath she lost on intent; 'I didn't expect you there.' She switches her eyes up to him, and her heart starts up the pounding in her ears.
'Well,' he says, and seems to be just catching up with his breath, too, 'I'm very sorry, I'm sure.' He takes a few steps toward her, puts his hands down on the counter-top. 'But the thing is,' he leans down to tell her, 'I'll need to go and fetch a doctor to my wife; she's soon to have the child.'
'Oh ….' Nell tosses her head up and stumbles to her feet, quick to brush the dust and flour off the front of her dress. 'Yea; I thought that might be.' She casts him a glance; even when she's standing up, he's so much taller than she is. She don't expect him to give back the glance to her, but he does; and her face flushes deep red. 'I mean,' she goes on to calm it, 'the walls ain't so thick, that's what I mean.' She offers him a halfway tossed-up smile, afraid she might have said something she oughtn't to, and hoping it don't make him think different of her at all.
'Yes,' he nods to her with a smile. He crosses round the counter, standing close by her. 'I wondered, Mrs Lovett,' he asks her, and what a gracious man he is, 'if I might ask you to sit in with her, just while I'm away.'
'Oh,' she says back to him, quick as the words are out his mouth, 'of course I will, Mr Barker.' She hasn't even thought of what he's asking her. He's standing right by her, on her side of the counter. She stands for a moment longer than she likely should, eyes big while she looks in his. Mr Barker, beautiful Mr Benjamin Barker, has got the most wonderful eyes there ever was. Nell has never been out of London, or even out this end of London, but they're what she'd imagine a stormy sea's got to look like, his eyes are. 'Don't even worry about a thing,' she declares to him, all gentle, and never looking away for even half a moment.
He takes another half-step in her direction, and everything about him is scrambling, it seems like. His hand brushes over hers for no longer than a piece of a second, and he says: 'Thank you, thank you.' Nell forces a smile over her lips for him, kindly and put together nice, while her knees threaten to give way from under her. Mr Barker turns and bustles out the door, which slams shut as he goes.
It's the slam on the door what brings her back to herself, and she starts all sharp, standing by herself in the shop. 'Oh, Hell,' she says in another second. She starts up taking a turn round the room. 'I've not said …' she mutters to herself, and then draws a sharp breath. 'Oh Hell.' She curses herself, she does, but she couldn't very well say no, could she, now, not with him standing there like that. She has doubts as she could very well tell Mr Barker no over anything at all.
Well, she's said yes; she's told him she'll bloody sit in with his wife, so she will. Nell's never been one to back out a promise. She'll go, but it'll be for him, and not for Mrs Barker. She takes up the bowl of half-mixed batter and tosses it out the window; it won't be of much use by the time she gets back, any-how.
She crosses the room quick and goes to the cabinet, takes out the gin bottle she bought last week. She uncaps it and tips it down her throat twice, straight off the bottle. She swallows a couple of deep breaths; the burn makes her eyes water at first. After her insides calm down a bit, she puts the cap in the bottle and closes it back in its place in the cabinet.
She goes out the door and up the side stairs, comes in the door into Mr Barker's empty shop. She don't see the harm in looking about for a minute, this whole thing being Mr Barker's idea in the first place. She knows; 'cause she knows if she was Mrs Barker, Nell would be the last person in God's green earth she'd want with her. So, look about she does. It's a lovely room, it really is, especially with the bay window. You can see the whole city from here, you can.
She's been in his shop before, of course, but she wasn't looking about then; she was looking at him, and at her hands in the moments she thought he might notice. She's sat there, in the chair across the room, while Albert's got shaved. At midday, the sun will hit just there, at Mr Barker's face. He's like a painter, she's thought, with all them lovely blades of his. He's always happy, doing what he does; it's an art to him.
And, of course, she's been in the shop to have her hair cut. Twice a month Mr Barker works on Nell's hair, and gives her half-price; another one of his ideas. The haircuts are bleeding agony, sure and true, they are. With his fingers cradling the locks of her hair, and his wrist-bones always brushing up against the back of her neck; it's so wonderful she can't hardly stand it. She coughs to get rid of the heartbeat, and her breathing gets shallow; so Mr Barker thinks Nell has always got a cold.
She shakes her head. Not today, she reminds herself; she isn't here for that today. She's just here because he's asked her a favour, and she's all too happy to oblige him, really. Nell bites her bottom lip and glances up towards the door to the side bedroom, where of course she's never been. 'Of all the bleeding things …' she murmurs to herself while she straightens out her skirt. She really does wish he'd have asked her for something else, anything else. He's never asked her a favour before.
She takes her steps across the room and knocks at the bedroom door. Nothing happens, but she thinks she can hear Mrs Barker's skirt rustling through the door; perhaps she's knocked too soft. She raps at the door again. 'It's Mrs Lovett,' she says.
'Oh,' says Mrs Barker, speaking soft like usual. 'Come in, then.'
Nell bites down hard at her bottom lip again and turns the knob. The door's lighter on the hands than you'd think it would be. She shoves hard at it, and it swings right open, leaving her nearly tripping into the room. Mrs Barker sits across the room in a green dress, her clear eyes on Nell, the pretty eyebrows raised. Nell's eyes hit the floor. 'Morning, Mrs Barker dear,' she says, voice a bit quiet, while she takes two steps round the room. Even today, Mrs Barker looks like a bloody painted portrait.