dolevalan | Fanfic 100, 094. Independence

Title: Arrival
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: (Beadle) Charlie Bamford, Harrison, Mr. Mooney
Prompt: 094, Independence
Word Count: 952
Rating: G
Summary: A chance reunion in the big city.
Author's Notes: This term has been eating my life. But I am still here, regardless.

“Bamford!” The sharp cry made him turn, one hand unconsciously going to the fine gentleman’s hat which still felt odd on his head. He smiled a little, weakly, as he saw his schoolmate, Harrison, running to catch up with him, dodging through the crowd flowing down the London street.

The young man was almost panting when he arrived, green eyes glinting in the gas lights, lit even mid-day for the fog. “Bamford, chap. You’ve made it to London, have you? Fancy seeing you all dressed up like a swell. What’s the world coming to?”

Charlie Bamford looked slightly embarrassed at his friends’ examination, very conscious of being fresh off the mail coach. “Good to see you, Harrison. What’ve you been doing?”

“Studying to be a soliciter, I am. It’s a lark, Bamford, a ruddy lark. Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.” He linked his arm through Bamford’s, beginning to lead him off to the left.

Hesitating a moment, he said “I don’t know if I can find the chambers I’m renting again if you take me too far – I just arrived.”

Harrison grinned, his aquiline nose wrinkling a little with amusement. “No need to tell me that, gov – I’ve got eyes. I’ll deposit you back on your doorstep, no mistake.” He chuckled, and suddenly seemed much older than the Harrison that had been at school only a scant number of years previously. “Don’t tell me you’re too much of a swell to be seen with a chap from the old days…”

“No! No, of course not. That is…” Bamford smiled at little, slightly nervous, but conciliating. “I’m very happy to see you.”

“Course you are. Lost as a lamb in a lion’s den. Come on, then.”

Harrison began leading Bamford through the foggy, crowded streets, and the new arrival tried to resist the temptation to look around him in wonder. He had never been to a proper city, or even a large town before; but his father had found him a place in London where there was no place at home. And here was Harrison, re-planted in the gritty soil and thriving.

Finally, they arrived at a small eating establishment. The sign read: MOONEY’S MEAT PIES – THE BEST PIES IN LONDON. Harrison grinned wider, a little cat-like. “Well, that may be a touch of exaggeration, mate, but they aren’t half awful, and the old cove likes me.” He winked and ushered his friend inside.

There was a man working behind the counter who wasn’t much older than they were, and he called back orders to a man who was likely his father. They could hear him pounding out the crust back in the kitchen with an insistent, heavy thudding. The younger Mr. Mooney told them it would only be a minute – they needed to get the freshest batch out of the oven.

As they sat at a plain but clean table, Harrison leaned in. “So… how’s it feel to be here, on your own? Away from that town that’d eat it’s own tail for supper if it could? Breath of fresh air, eh?”

Privately, Bamford found the phrase “a breath of fresh air” utterly inappropriate for any part of London he had yet to encounter, but smiled a little and said, “It’s certainly different.”

Harrison snorted, lithe fingers playing against the top of the hat resting on his knee. “’Course it’s different.” He looked out the plate glass window, where a sleek tabby was washing its paws, looking over at the young men occasionally with the typical feline indifference. “But a man knows where he is, here. No one to answer to but himself. You can look about you, see what’s what.”

Bamford nodded, non-committally but encouragingly as Mr. Mooney brought out two Shepherd’s Pies for them, piping hot from the oven. They were a bit grittier, and substantially smaller than Bamford was used to, but the taste wasn’t bad, especially if you washed it down quickly with ale.

“I mean,” Harrison continued, tucking into his dinner with relish, “take my firm. One of the partners, Mr. Turpin – he’s just been made Judge Turpin, he has. And him only just 40, if a day. That could be me, in a couple years, if I reach out and take it.” He looked up, amusement crinkling the edges of his face. “Fancy, Bamford … banker’s son from the backwoods of Belbroughton, a London judge, coo.” In his excitement, his accent slipped a little from the quick, clipped syllables of a Londoner, and Bamford wondered how much his own tongue branded him a country boy. He resolved to practice the manner of speech he heard around him until his old accent disappeared completely, even under stress.

“Judge Turpin, you say?” Bamford took a thoughtful mouthful of the pie he was slowly becoming accustomed to. “I’ve heard the name… I think I’m to be assigned to his district, if I remember a-right.”

“A peeler, Bamford, you? What a lark!” Harrison seemed inexpressibly tickled. “You bag ‘em, and I’ll ship ‘em away to the colonies, eh? Pity the underworld of London!” He raised his tankard in a toast. “To justice!”

Bamford raised an eyebrow, but touched his tankard to his old schoolfellow’s. “To justice.” He took a sip, and filed the name Turpin in his mind. It was clear the way to deal with London – find friends to climb like a ladder. Equally clear was the fact that Harrison had only so many rungs to offer, and would only do for a short time. Bamford did not intend to remain on the ground with the fog and the muck indefinitely. Yes… London might not be so bewildering after all. Bamford ate a forkfull of pie and smiled.