A/N: Greetings my sweenett guzzling friends! I have no excuses for the lateness of this chapter, except for stupid LIFE, which tends to get in the way of my errant Sweenett/Toddett fantasies. This is going to be a two-part chapter, since I'm currently snow-balled with uni work. Stupid uni work *darts evil barber glares at her professors*
*At last, Mrs Lovett finally gets some attention. It took 20 chapters, but we're getting there people!
~Strawberries and Cream~
"And Mr Darcy proposed, and he and Lizzie Bennett lived happily ever after minus chatty mothers and over-bearing aunts."
Nellie Lovett flung the book against the mantelpiece. It narrowly missed the copper clock, the blue china swan, and the porcelain couple holding hands on the ebony stand. It bounced off the fireplace, and landed by the armchair.
"Flamin' Mr Darcy an' his flamin' gen'lemunly qualities!" Mrs Lovett stared at the book on the floor, and snatched it up.
The point of reading a romance novel, as most ladies of breeding and education knew, was to be pleasantly diverted from the troublesome duties of embroidery work, piano study, and afternoon teas. Well, at least that was what it said in Sarah Saintelm's Women's Advice column in the London papers.
Nellie thought it was a load of codswallop. She barely ever had time for diversion, and when she did have the time, diversions were never much fun. What good were the use of romances, when every widow in London town knew marriage and men only ended up with a coffin, a gold ring that had to be pawned for meat, and fifteen years of misery pining for the man you could never have?
Still, the baker read them. She needed to read them, when all she had was the reality, Mr Grumpy Pants upstairs, moaning and groaning over his lot in life. Yes, reading Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice – all of it kept her sane. Oh, she read other things too. The History of Spain, Mr Darwin's Theory of Evolution, Les Miserables – whatever she happened to pick up on the cheap, really. Nellie prided herself on the fact that her mind didn't match her body. She might waltz about in her low neck outfits, her frill-and-glitter collars, her scandalously figure-hugging outer corsets, and her bursting bustle skirts – but her mind was as sharp as Mr T's razors.
A sudden wave flooded her. The baker pressed her hand against her round forehead. It certainly wasn't the gin – she'd laid off it for the day. Had to be wide-awake for when the snake-woman came for Lunch. There was no way Nellie would miss a poisoning. What was it then?
She'd never had a heart problem in her life, and yet, for what seemed to last ten minutes or so, Nellie felt short of breath. Her chest tightened, and no amount of massaging the hollow in between her breasts would sooth it. She sat very still. Maybe I'm havin' an heart-attack! The thought depressed her – a heart-attack, an' now I'll drop dead an' Mr T an' me will never get the chance ter –
Nellie's heart thudded, thinking of what might pass – what would pass, if she died this very minute. Mr T certainly wouldn't cry. He might feel a little sorry. Who was gonna darn his socks, wash his shirts and bring him bloody cups of tea? He might drop a flower on her grave, if she was lucky. And then three weeks later, perhaps even less, he'd pay a visit to Mrs Sedgewick, and clobber Mr Sedgewick with a sack of potatoes, and run off into the sunset with the new Lucy – that dratted Mrs Snakewick. Yes, Nellie realised glumly. If she died today, her tombstone would read:
Eleanor Lovett, 42, widow, baker, floozy, chatter-box.
That was her grand 'epiphany.'
"Mum!" Toby hollered, bursting into the living room. "Mr Todd wants his tea now. Right away," the boy emphasised, knowing how the barber would fly into his rages when he woke up feeling suddenly disserved by the world. That, and he was bursting to see Mr Todd puff up like a fish and writhe on the floor screaming for someone to ebb the pain. But when Toby's dream came true and he was standing over a helpless, squealing Mr Todd, he would do nothing to stop it. He would laugh, and point, and say "ain't it ironic how all your life you spent servin' up people dead people, and now you is the one poisoned."
"Love, relax," Mrs Lovett said, sitting up her chair and stretching. Pretending to look rested. The book slid off her lap, and landed with a thump on the ground. "Mr will get it in good time, you'll see."
But the boy was agitated. "Gad mum you look awful!" He kept buzzing round her like a house fly until at last she got to her feet, picked up the book, and staggered into the kitchen to face the blinding midday sun.
"All in good time, dearie, all in good time."
She'd spent the past hour on the high-backed chair – naturally she had a stiff back and her legs were still numb after being tucked beneath her heavy skirts. Well, if she couldn't snuggle up to Mr Todd, at least she could pretend with her books.
Of course, Mr T didn't think she could read at all, that was how little he knew about her. He'd seen her with a book in her lap and a cup of tea in the other and demanded to know why she was bothering to learn her ABCs at such a late stage in her life.
"We're all dead after forty," he'd said, and stormed up to his barbershop wearing his customary gloomy countenance.
If only the bloomin' bugga knew. What she dared. What she dreamed. Always in her head. It half-irked her sometimes, the way Mr T went harping on about his loved ones, as if Nellie were a clam-shell he'd picked up on the beach and decided to talk to, only because he didn't have anyone else to confide in. He didn't consider that she also mourned for the dead – after all, Mr Todd was as dead as they came.
And now she was up and off to give the great dead thing his tea. Nellie wanted nothing more to retreat to her fantasy world by the sea where she and Mr T shared a giant slice of watermelon between them until they eventually reached the centre and had no more seeds to spit out.
"Mrs Lovett!"
She heard Sweeney roar on the stairs. Ooh, he was cranky that one. Hadn't had his cuppa this morning, and that usually made him as mad as a caterpillar.
"Comin' Mr T!"
Dutifully, she fetched the blasted tea Toby had made, gave it three good stirs, and away she flew.
* * *
"I have a headache."
"Well that ain't my fault Mr T."
"I didn't have one before you came."
"Maybe it's the tea," she suggested, watching the barber down the rest of the cup in one sitting.
He spotted his sleeve against his mouth, and set the cup against the desk. Mrs Lovett had the feeling he was treating the bedroom just as if it were his old tonsorial parlour. It had got to the stage where Mrs Lovett was knocking on the attic door and bringing up his breakfast every morning so that he wouldn't have to face Mrs Lovett's cheery face and Toby's infant one at the breakfast table. Nothing had changed.
"No, it's not the tea. Make it stronger next time, Mrs Lovett."
"You still drank it," she sniffed, taking the empty cup-and-saucer away slightly offended.
"Is…when is lunch?"
Since when did Sweeney Todd care about human sustenance? No, it was blonde locks and angel smiles he was holding out for.
Mrs Lovett turned on the threshold, giving him a withering look. It was pointless putting on pretence in front of her. She could wear a full-button school-marm suit, and a bonnet, and still undress the world with her eyes. "Soon, love. I expect Mrs S will be 'ere any minute. Why don't you just come down?"
Sweeney came.
* * *
Of all the mothers in the world, Mrs Lovett knew she wasn't the best. But, she liked to console herself that she wasn't the worst. When she stumbled into the kitchen or parlour or bathroom in the middle of the night and found Toby dead to the world in a drunken slumber, it disheartened her a little to think she couldn't have hid the gin a bit better. But, being half-drunk herself half the time, it didn't seem fair to let the boy stay sober and watch her having a marvellous time. At least he was getting' his drunken education now, instead of glassin' some helpless old man or child on the street in a gin-fuelled rage if he reached the ripe of age of sixteen.
"Mum, me tummy feels funny."
Toby put the spoon down on the table, and clutched his middle. His eyes were looking unusually dark and ringed.
"The boy gorged himself. He deserves it," Sweeney sneered. He never could stand little boys.
"Don't be daft," Mrs Lovett snapped, pushing past the barber. She dropped on the floor beside the boy, and her heavy skirts protected her knees from the hard tiles.
"Wot's wrong, dear?" Although she knew perfectly well what was wrong.
It was at that crucial moment that Mrs Sedgewick decided to announce her presence.
Three sharp little knocks issued at the door. Sweeney looked up. "I'll answer it," he said, and strode off, taking his purposeful barber steps.
Of course he wouldn't notice anything was wrong.
"Mum, I'm gonna hurl," Toby said, stumbling to his feet in the direction of the bathroom.
"That's it love," she followed after him. "Do wot you gotta do."
"Is anyfin' wrong wif Mr T?" Toby said, in between hurls.
Mrs Lovett felt another stab of guilt. Kind lad. Always thinkin' o' others. Wot would he think o' me, if he knew…."Now Toby, ain't no need to fret. Mr T is strong as an ox. He almost neva gets sick. Woteva tummy bug you 'as, I'm sure you'll be right as rain."
The boy's face contorted, and disappeared over the side of the bath again, retching with all his might into the white tub.
"Now love, you stay there." Nellie got to her feet. "Be back in a tic."
She walked into the kitchen, accompanied by the musical sounds of Toby bringing up the entire bowl of the arsenic-doused porridge.
There she found them, Mrs Sedgewick already seated in Nellie's chair, and Mr T sitting across from her. Mrs Sedgewick was laughing like a linnet bird in a starched white dress complete with a heavy silver cross. Mr Todd was, predictably, stone-cold unresponsive. But he was staring at her.
"Well now, seems you two is nice an' cosy," Nellie said in her best busy-and-bustling voice. In one swift movement she swiped away the empty porridge bowl off the table, and began making fresh cups of tea.
"Charming little kitchen, Mrs Stowe. And what a charming yellow dress!" Mrs Sedgewick watched her from the table, also decorated in a yellow table-cloth. But she made no move to help.
Nellie turned from the sink, bearing two fresh cups of tea. "Yes, I 'ave a fondness for yellow. Reminds me o' the sun." At the mention of 'yellow', Mr Todd bristled. It didn't escape Nellie's notice. She dumped the tea-cups on the cloth, not out spite, but because Nellie never strived to be delicate. Quite deliberately, she reached over and gave Mr T's hand a squeeze. "Drink it down, love."
At every available opportunity throughout the lunch, Mrs Lovett did her best to show off her wedding ring. When she stirred the tea, she made sure the ring was facing the snake-woman. When she took lumps of sugar from the sugar tin, and spoonfuls of porridge, she stopped to give the ring a good twist and turn.
It was painfully obvious to Sweeney what Mrs Lovett was doing, and he wished he could have taken her left hand and chopped off her left finger that wore the glittering reminder.
Mrs Lovett was wishing she'd poisoned the entire pot of porridge that morning. That way, at least one of them might be put out of their misery.
And Mrs Sedgewick….she was full of admiration for the man who'd married his wife simply because he pitied her for being a penniless widow. Generous Mr Stowe!
For the second time that day, domestic bliss was interrupted by a knock on the door.
As far as Mrs Lovett was concerned, it couldn't have come any sooner. She'd rather stick pins in her own eyes than be stuck a moment more in the same room as that woman. She got up.
"Now, who could that be?"
"Mum!" Toby shrieked, on the verge of another vomiting cycle.
Nellie stood, torn between the door and the boy.
"Allow me," Mrs Sedgewick smiled frostily, clearly put off by the cacophany in the next room. "You have a sick child that needs attending."
She got up and minced to the door, leaving Mr and Mrs Stowe to face their demons.
* * *
"Is there a Mr and Mrs Stowe available?"
Mrs Sedgewick remembered the man well.
It wasn't a habit of Mrs Sedgewick's to pay much attention to men of the law – but this one was different. He wasn't at all handsome. His skin wasn't of that fine, porcelain quality that so well matched Mr Sedgewick's flame-red hair. Lithgow was rough and weathered like the outside panes of a London shop-front, and it suited him nicely. In a sense, that wary, bearded face was intriguing in the same manner that Mr Stowe's face intrigued her. Neither men were particularly educated or gentlemanly handsome, but here Mrs Sedgewick was, smiling like a virgin at a tea-party, admiring Constable Lithgow's weathered brown eyes.
They were the exact colour, she observed, of crumbling autumn leaves just before the winter was due.
"Constable Lithgow, is it?"
He nodded, tipping his bowler hat. "Mrs Sedgewick. I wasn't aware you lived here," he half-jested.
"I don't. Visiting neighbours, you see…" She trailed off. "They are currently engaged," Mrs Sedgewick continued pleasantly, "with an ill child."
"I hope it's nothing serious," said Lithgow automatically, his face deliberately blank.
"So do I. Perhaps it would be more prudent to call again later?"
The constable tipped his hat again. "I shall do so."
Mrs Sedgewick followed him as he trailed the garden path to the gate. "When?" As handsome as he was, she didn't like the idea of him intruding on her and Mr...
"I will return." He didn't elaborate. The constable had travelled very far, talked to hundreds of strangers. It paid to be wary.
* * *
Was it possible to lose someone, when you never had them to begin with?
This was what Nellie found herself pondering on the staircase, after she'd tucked Toby in bed and sung him some silly nonsense songs until the poor child's exhausted eyes shut in fairy-sleep. If he died tomorrow and never woke up, Nellie knew exactly what her fate would hold. No more roses. No more meringues and gardening and dreams of cutting the silver streak out of Mr Todd's hair. If she lost Toby, she'd be sent straight to that special part of hell reserved for murdering mothers.
The baker could protest until she was blue in the face, but no one in those merciless fiery pits would forgive her or show her a jot of mercy. And why should they? She and Mr T had never known, or shown much mercy. It was all an' eye for an' eye in this bitter, blinking world.
"Where is she?" She found Mr Todd tending quietly to the fireplace, as if he were feeding a new-born child with the remains of its mother's milk.
"Gone. You took a while, Mrs Lovett."
"Yes well 'e wos sick. Not that you'd give a damn if eitha o' us dropped – "
Sweeney turned, still crouching amidst the heated coals. "He's your child, Mrs Lovett, not mine."
It was a barren little place, their living room, for all its colour. Nellie collapsed in the armchair, feeling as heavy as a pregnant woman. Not that she really knew how that felt. In all her years, Nellie had watched the people she loved curl and wilt about her like rotten orchids. There was Benjamin, her two miscarriages, Albert, and later all the customers she'd watched go up for a shave and watched descend into her foul bakehouse. Yes, Nellie was adept at taking life.
Toby was just the matchstick in the bonfire.
"I have a proposition, Mrs Lovett."
The baker shut her eyes. She was sick o' Mr T and his damn 'propositions.' "Oh leave me alone, Mr T."
She heard the crackling of flames, and the barber spoke: "There must be imps in the air, my pet."
Mrs Lovett nodded, as if she were in a dream. "Why is that, love?"
"Normally, it is my job to refuse, and yours to proposition." He half-smiled.
It was a dream. Mrs Lovett shot up. "Wot's wrong love? Is you dyin'?"
His face briefly glowered under the ebb of the flames. "Not today, my dear." He took out his razor, and began to carve slits into the upholstery of the armchair across from her.
Nellie shivered. "Wot you hangin' round for then?" She entertained the briefpossibility…
"How would you like, Mrs Lovett, to go for a….picnic."
He's really flipped, she thought, staring at those incomprehensible depths. But who was she to question the way those cogs turned? "Wot, now?" Nellie could hardly believe it.
"Carpe diem, my love." And he stalked off to wait for her in the garden.
* * *
It wasn't surprising that Mrs Lovett was late. It was no surprise either, to see her emerge from the house decked head to toe in a red bathing suit with white bows, cuffs and buttons and a detachable bustle skirt at the back, red boots with white ribbons, a white parasol with a red handle and frame, and hair piled high with red and white satin ribbons. In her right arm, she heaved a wicker picnic basket through the front door, laden with hell knows what rubbish.
"Heading for the circus, are we my pet?"
Mrs Lovett frowned, biting her lip instead of returning the comment. At least he called her 'his pet.'
"Is we off now, Mr T? Or should you insult me some more?"
"That, my dear, is entirely up to you." He took her arm, swept the basket onto his spare arm, and guided them out the garden and down the lane.
"Where is we goin', dear?" As usual, Mrs Lovett had done most of the chatting, and hadn't noticed the crooked laneways disappear into hedge and shrub and wild rose bushes. Well, she'd noticed, but hadn't paid it much mind. And now they were wandering up a curious dusty path that led them further and further away from the village and up to where the clouds foamed like whipped cream and the sky took on a freer hue.
"Away, Mrs Lovett. Away for a while."
"You couldn't know how long I dreamed this, Mr T," Nellie sighed, suffocating his arm as though she were a crab crunching him with her pincer.
He couldn't. He'd never dreamed of such trifles.
"Where is you takin' me, Mr – "
Nellie gasped. Row by row, the crumbling grey tombstones comfortably lined the grassy field like ancient troops clinging to their place of battle. They wandered among the freshly cut tombs with angels and cherubims, among the moss-ridden, unreadable graves. Nellie bent down, and made out 1783 on one of the graves. "Blimey, Mr T, these are fair ancient."
She straightened, clutching his arm again. His eyes scanned the unspoiled field. "Just beyond here, my dear."
He led her to where the white iron fence was peeling, and a little beyond that, a grass field covered in dandelions appeared to have sprung up overnight.
"Mr T, the sea!"
Below them, the ocean lay flat, like some gorged monster. They couldn't see the cliff, for the weeds came up in a spindly mess just where the field ended. But less than ten steps away, Sweeney knew, lay the crashing platform where land met sea, and the tide gargled and spat itself around the rocks. It too, was a graveyard for the poor souls who had thrown themselves down into that white-foam oblivion.
"Come away from the edge, my dear," he cautioned, dragging Mrs Lovett back into the middle of the field.
For all her bubbling happiness, Mrs Lovett couldn't fathom it. Why was he suddenly calling her 'his pet,' 'his dear,' 'his love.' Hadn't he been telling her all this time to forget anything more than cold partnership between them?
Nellie didn't speak for a while. She helped Mr Todd to spread out the picnic basket, and then set about putting out the plates and knives and forks and the fresh punnet of strawberries and the little jar of whipped cream she'd loaned from the kind woman down the road.
"Strawberries and cream." Sweeney raised a brow.
"Wot, don't tell me you is gonna object to a little desert, Mr T?" Nellie beamed, and shoved the wicker basket out of the way. She detached the bustle from the back of her bathing suit, so that she was left wearing the red-bloomer suit. "And I thought we wos off to go bathin'."
Sweeney escaped to the edge of the blanket as if he were about to plunge off a ledge.
Nellie got up from her side of the blanket, brought the strawberries and cream, and plopped down beside him. "Now Mr T, this whole picnic idea wos your idea. Don't be anti-social, love."
The barber folded his arms into his lap, looking at the flowers flopping in the field. Yellow. All of it yellow. He looked up, and saw her absent-mindedly spooning large helpings of cream on-top of the strawberries on her plate. Didn't she know how hard this was?
"Did you mourn Albert?"
Mrs Lovett paused mid-spoon. "Course I did," she said, regarding him sharply. "Only it wos different wif 'im." She began to eat the strawberries, and the cream dribbled down the side of her mouth and onto her chin.
"I'm at a loss, Mrs Lovett." He left the strawberries untouched.
"Don't see 'ow. He lived, 'e died. I cared for 'im, in me own way."
"You mean loved," Sweeney corrected.
Mrs Lovett wasn't eating now. He'd hit on a nervy subject. "No, I mean wot I say. Love ain't that simple definin'."
"I loved Lucy," Sweeney offered. It was as simple as that. What could be so difficult to define?
"Yes love," Mrs Lovett sighed, pushing the plate away. "I know you do. But a person can feel different things for different people."
He didn't know what she was on about, or if he did, he didn't want to ponder it. Mrs Lovett watched him shovel the punnet of strawberries around with his fork. She took a breath, smoothed down her corset, and moistened her lips. It was now or never.
"Close your eyes, Mr T."
He stared at her, wondering why she was staring at him so intently all of a sudden, and why she kept touching the corners of her lips as if she were afraid they might fall off…
"I'm not in the habit of playing games."
"Neitha am I, my love," she said, her voice noticeably lowering. She looked down at the strawberry punnet at the same time he did. It was all done very deliberately, and like a person watching an accident from the sidelines, he found himself frozen in stasis.
Nellie picked a strawberry, and with her free hand gripped his shoulder suddenly. She got up on her knees in the bathing-suit, bent forward, and….
"I'm not a dog, Mrs Lovett. I will feed myself."
"Just open them, love. It'll be ova before you know it."
Sweeney found himself obeying.
She bent forward, and slipped the strawberry into the depths of his mouth. For some odd reason, Mrs Lovett found it necessary to close her eyes, and shiver as if she were cold. Sweeney kept his eyes open, and chewed carefully on the fruit until it was nothing but crushed red juice that ran down his throat like the blood of the slain.
"'ow wos that, Mr T?" she repeated, hand still gripping his shoulder.
"I've had better," Sweeney said stone-faced, concentrating on the grass beneath the blanket.
"Wot about this one, then? Close your eyes this time, mind. Please," she began.
Sweeney realised the dangerous path of chatter that Mrs Lovett was wandering on, and he closed them. Just to shut her up.
"That's betta," he heard her say, and he opened his mouth, expecting another red fruit.
Instead, cool hands pressed against the sides of his cheeks, and something that was not fruit darted against the corners of his lips.
Nellie was in her dreams.
She tested his thin little lips, and moistened them against her own. It was like stealing inside the monster's cave. The taste of strawberries still lingered between them, and she eased her mouth on top of his, encircling him as if they were two buds pressed together. She waited, her fingers still stuck against those forbidden cheeks. Even a little breeze threatened to shake them apart. She felt his cheeks warm against her. He leaned forward, hesitating. She felt him exhale against the tip of her nose, and he pressed back, those chafed, worn lips doing their best to meet her.
And then the wind shook. The plates scattered. Benjamin forgot who he was.
He got up, and left her breathless from merely sitting.
"Where are you going…?"
"Forgot the…tea," Sweeney said. "The tea, Mrs Lovett, the tea."
It happened before Nellie even knew it happened. He'd leapt to his feet, shaken his jacket free of grass, and ran off through the graves.
He'd left her alone to mind the strawberries and cream.
* * *
So – two people have been poisoned, and the romantic interlude has taken place. BUT – who is going to get clobbered with a sack of potatoes? Special mention to those smart cookies who can guess!