We Could Get By

xxvii.

Toby had had a terrible nightmare. Even at his age (eleven, as it turned out, so they had not been too far off in their estimations), it had been enough to shake him. He had creaked open the door to Nellie's bedroom and wedged himself, wordlessly, between she and Sweeney. Only when Mrs. Lovett stretched her arms out languidly to keep him close did she realize that this was most certainly not her husband. She would have screamed if Toby had not interrupted with a wobbly, “Sorry, mum.” Nellie had muffled a sad little cry in the short ruffle of his hair and squished him into her.

“Oh, darling!” She had said, cradling him in the outward bend of her body. Toby could no longer recall the nightmare enough to relate it to her in a way that might make any coherent sense, but Nellie comforted him all the same. The commotion had been enough to awaken Sweeney, but he had turned onto his side and resumed his snuffly snoring as if nothing was amiss. The man could sleep through just about anything.

Now, what felt like an eternity later though it was likely only an hour or so, Nellie wished desperately that she could tiptoe to the parlor for a stiff drink. The instant Toby had come creeping into the bedroom, sleep had slipped quietly out the door and into the night where she would never find it again. Toby's face rested in the warm crook of her neck, his breath tickling her throat. She kissed the top of his head absently, trying to picture slogging through her morning routine after spending most of the night unfortunately awake. It would be a struggle just to lift the dead weight of her arms to pin up her hair or powder her face.

“Are ya scared?” Toby's voice seemed so small and uncertain muffled against her skin. Nellie dragged her fingers through his hair thoughtfully, her chin resting atop his head.

“‘Course I am. Never had a baby before. But I s’pose it's a bit late to back out, hm?” she teased. Sweeney shifted on the other side of Toby, grunting as if the motion took some great effort. Nellie could only imagine what a sight he must be, his face smushed at some odd angle into the pillow, his arms folded uncomfortably beneath his head.

“I wish I had memories,” Toby said, readjusting himself and pressing his chin down into the hollow of her collarbone.

“Of what, love? Ya got mem’ries.”

“I mean like, of bein’ small. Like I keep thinkin’... that I wish that you was my real mum this whole time. And that you could tell me stories of things what I couldn't remember.”

Nellie's bottom lip quivered and she could feel the tears bubbling up in her throat. She paused a moment in an attempt to collect herself, but it did nothing to keep the waver from her voice. “Well, I'm ya mum now. I can make up stories, if it’ll make ya feel better. An’ I'm glad every day that me ‘n Mister T picked ya up away from that nasty Italian.”

The room was silent for so long that Nellie thought perhaps the boy had dropped suddenly off to sleep. She began to relax again when Toby piped up softly, “I know Mister Todd killed Señor Pirelli.”

“Boys an’ their fancies! Hush now, love, get some sleep,” she whispered, fighting to keep her voice steady. Nellie wondered if Toby could feel the tremor of her hands against his head, if he noticed the rigidity that grabbed hold of her bones.

“Mum, I ain't dumb. I know what happened.”

“It was an accident, Toby dear, he didn't mean no harm,” she lied, her heart hammering wildly in her throat and ringing in her ears. The words fell clumsily off her tongue before she could think about them. Better word vomit than actual vomit, though Nellie supposed the latter might not be too far off. She prayed Sweeney would stay sleeping. If he ever found out that Toby knew the truth, that would be the end of the poor boy- and probably the end of her, as well, for defending him should the need arise. “Jus’ a misunderstandin’, an argument what got outta hand- He was-”