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After the pie shop closed for the day,- the time of which got later and later as the pies became more profitable- Mrs. Lovett and her helper boy would retire into the parlor. Most days, it seemed that Mrs. Lovett would rather spend this time with Mr. Todd, but at some point she must’ve decided to settle for Toby instead. Looking back, these were the happiest times between them. Toby thought so, at least. He tried to keep his evaluation of these memories clinical; His assumptions about Mrs. Lovett had to be detached from any feelings he might’ve had. He was proud of himself for this. Using his head.
He couldn’t stand to do either: Relive the past or live in the present. His old life was better, of course, but it’d all been ruined. Too many feelings. Now, he lived a very clinical life. It was very simple. Simple existence for simple people, he thought. He lived in one blank room, then they brought him out to gather sometimes. Then back in. They cut his hair. They fed him indistinct slop. He sometimes slept. He didn’t think about much. In that way, they might’ve helped him.
They let him keep the scarf. He’d only noticed it around his neck after they’d lugged him out of the bakehouse and into the light, dragging him away on some cart that bounced and made him nauseous. He ripped the itchy cloth off of him and then vomited. The cart kept bouncing. They’d taken away all his previous belongings, and yet, they let him keep the scarf. He must’ve fought for it. He must’ve really wanted it.
He hated the scarf. He couldn’t stand it. He kept it under his pillow. He’d sleep with the crushing knowledge that it was there. It was always there.
When the day was done, Mrs. Lovett would pour one out for the both of them, and as she grew more fond of him, she’d hold him close as she told him all about her life. These were the happiest memories for Toby. Addled with gin and laying all his body weight on hers, he could focus simply on following the sound of her voice. He would let himself be maneuvered any way she wanted him, as she seemed to enjoy keeping him close. He was happy just for that. He’d fall halfway asleep, and she’d always prod him awake, laughing. ‘Silly boy,’ she’d say. That’s all he’d ever be. ‘You’ve got no clue, don’t you?’
Remembering this now, he could shake his head and say, “No, ma’am.” The things she told him were true. Everything told him it was true. His life wasn’t so different, now, surrounded by walls of grey and others and sometimes-sleep. It was true.
Panic pricked at his skin. He reached under his pillow and felt the itchy fabric, and pulled it out. He felt it a little more, rubbing his fingers along. He held it close to himself. He put his mouth to it, keeping it lodged just beneath his nose.
He wanted to believe she loved him. A little part of him thought, she must’ve. The same part of him that cuddled with the scarf, trying and failing for comfort. She took him in, and held him close, and kept him warm, and loved him. She knit him scarves. He would always be shy about rough, dirty hands, but it was alright, because hers were, too. When she spent those nights with him, sitting interlocked together on the floor, there must’ve been something there. There had to be. She liked him enough, she couldn’t just- She must’ve- She couldn’t lie to him like that.
And then, came her laughing once again. ‘Oh, you stupid boy.’ She never loved him. ‘Fancy thinking that.’ She couldn’t have. ‘What are they teaching you, these days?’ She tried to kill him. ‘Listen to me, darling. I know what’s best for you.’ He was just as expendable as anything else. As soon as he lost his purpose, as soon as he got in her way. Of course she’d lie. All she ever did was lie. Just to lie him down and put him to sleep and keep him pliant. He could’ve felt her hand on his forehead as he lay in his bed, now, her voice soft in his ear. ‘Because I love you.’
He couldn’t resist wrapping the scarf around his neck once again. Though rough and uncomfortable, he could imagine it as a warm embrace. He shut his eyes, curled up again. It had been rather cold without it. He needed it. Of course. He always would.