A/N: Thanks for reading, and all reviews/favourites etc are very much appreciated! :) (my catchphrase is that now, can't help it)


seventeen


While cutting through strips of fabric and plucking buttons from a tray alongside me, I heard the clatter of the barrels and furious shouts from the workroom. Most mornings, barrels of rum were rolled out into the courtyard for the trucks that waited to prepare them for deliveries. First, though, large sacks of flour were loaded onto the shoulders of those young Jewish boys who worked early hours for Alfie; just for show, those sacks, thrown into a useless pile and usually sold off to a proper Jewish baker for a discounted price.

Lately, I needed to squint at the small holes in those buttons to pull the thread and Alfie always made little comments that perhaps I should consider glasses. For the most part, I had dismissed his suggestions, especially if followed by his devilish grin. Yet I felt the worn prickle of exhaustion behind my eyes from the strain and soon dropped my needle in frustration, blowing out my lips and looking upward in surprise, drawn by the loud bang of the office door once Alfie stormed in, Ollie stumbling behind him.

Coated in a thick layer of flour, Alfie stood in all his wrath, reaching for a cloth. Ollie struggled to blink with eyelashes lined in white, his lips turned into a grimace once he tasted the flour on his tongue. Alfie lifted his eyes and found me looking at him with a devilish smile of my own, leaning backward in my chair. I raised my eyebrows at him, pursing my lips.

"Not a word, Willa," he warned.

I raised my hands in surrender.

"Ishmael dropped a bag of flour from the truck," Ollie explained. "Happened to be standing right beneath it, and –…"

I burst into laughter, unable to help myself. I pushed forward and my chair clapped against the floorboards, my laughter so loud that it muffled the sound. Alfie flopped into his own seat, cursing and glaring at Ollie before tossing him a rag. Ollie mumbled his gratitude and tried to scrub off the white flour from his throat and jaw first, but it only fell in clumps onto his shirt and coat.

"Yeah, you keep laughin', Willa," Alfie muttered, narrowing his eyes at me, "but you'll be the one makin' me and Ollie new shirts, won't ya?"

He leaned his elbows on his table to point at me. I only laughed all the harder once a small lump of flour plopped from the tip of his nose and landed right on his papers. Even Alfie had to loosen up and laugh, shaking his head and running his hands through his hair to shake out all that white powder which fluffed around him like a cloud. I stood from my chair, still a little breathless from all that laughter and scooted around his table to help him. I grabbed a cloth and rubbed it around his skin, gentle on those parts which were still raw and sore.

"Takin' it out o' Ishmael's fuckin' wages, that flour," Alfie grumbled.

I wiped around his mouth and smiled at him. "No, you won't. Accidents happen, Alfie."

"You should have seen Ishmael after he dropped the flour," Ollie said, standing behind the table. "He took one look at Alfie and I bet his life flashed before his very eyes. I thought he might piss himself – or laugh like Willa did, looking at his boss like that."

I felt bubbles of laughter bloom once more, brushing that cloth around his nose and pecking at his cheeks once I wiped them clean of flour. I sat on the edge of his table and lifted my boots onto his chair, pulling him toward me. He rested his hands on my legs as I worked, taking pleasure in this little pampering.

"Gets in all the fuckin' cracks," Alfie huffed. "Be scrubbin' it outta 'em for weeks."

Recoiling from him, I scrunched my lips in disgust and slapped at him with the cloth. "Oh, Alfie –…"

"Fuck, look at me fuckin' rings –…" he cursed, finding them completely encrusted in flour all around the details.

"We can get them cleaned, you big grump," I said. I took his hands, about to take off his rings when he pulled his hands away, suddenly quite sheepish. "What, Alf?"

"I ain't taken that one off since ya gave me it," he uttered lowly, eyes momentarily flashing toward Ollie. Ollie was too preoccupied with shaking his head to rid of his ears of flour. Alfie turned the ring with little carvings of 'W' all around it edges, and I recognised it as the ring that I had bought him on Crescent Street. "Don't want to take it off, neither."

I squeezed his hands and said, "Just for a cleaning. Now, that you can take from Ishmael's wages, can't you?"

His lips lifted into a reluctant smile, both of us knowing that he would do nothing of the sort. "Too fuckin' right."

Behind us, I heard a pained cough. I shifted around to look at Ollie, who lifted a hand to his forehead, feigning a feeble sigh of resignation, before he said, "I think the flour reached my lungs. Might need the rest of the day off, Alfie – to recover and all, you know."

All that annoyance rushed back into Alfie so swiftly that he stood from his chair, pointing right at Ollie. "Oh, you'll recover all right, recover from the fuckin' wallopin' I'm about to fuckin' give ya, Ollie – you listen to me, you little –…"

Ollie went out into the hall to avoid that scolding, but Alfie soon followed him, his shouts echoing around the bakery. Suddenly, the boys in the workroom found other tasks to do that meant they could rush out into the courtyard or clean the closets to dodge Alfie in his rants. I sat on the table, the cloth limp and forgotten in my hand. With a fond smile on my face, I lifted my hand to scratch my cheek and accidentally slapped a great cloud of flour against my own skin from the cloth.

Hopping from the table, I thought I might toy with Ishmael myself and shouted his name into the bakery, hands on my hips.

If there were any boys left behind after Alfie had swept through the workroom, they ran all the faster at the sight of me stood in front of them.


ii

Collapsing against an armchair, Franny let out a deep moan of discomfort and shimmied out of her coat, which strained against her swollen stomach. She eyed those cupcakes left on platters in front of her and reached for them before the rest of the women had even settled in their own seats, chatting amongst one another. I had suspected that Alfie was hopeful a little exposure to these women might corral me into making friendships with them and perhaps even consider attending weekly rather than just a handful of times over passing months, like I usually did. It was not that I disliked the women, either.

On the contrary, I found Ruth was a fountain of wit and dry humour, while Dorothy often came out with some shocking remarks on just about everything – but her husband in particular, which always made the women titter and spill little secrets about their own husbands. Edith was shy and it took her quite a while to speak, but she spoke with her mind once she opened her mouth and I found myself more and more comfortable with them.

I only maintained some distance because I felt an odd disconnect between myself and the women, sometimes, like some insurmountable difference.

It sprung out in little ways, this difference. Firstly, none of these women knew much about Gypsies nor did they know much about life in London for those with less cash in their pockets. Most had come from decent families and I thought it was a little amusing that I probably would have stolen the bracelets on their slim wrists had I passed them in Charterhouse in those years before the war.

Secondly, I was not Jewish, and I had never been inside a synagogue. I heard gossip between the women about those trips there, talking about the women from other neighbourhoods and general nonsense about the younger girls, that sort of thing. It was harmless, that gossip, but it only highlighted how little I knew about their community. I had been well exposed to the Jewish men who worked for Alfie. I learned about their families through them, but only in the most vague sense.

I knew who had daughters, I knew who had sons. I knew about wives, I knew about girlfriends.

Finally, I felt a weird sense of betrayal to the Gypsies. It seemed that I had smothered my blood for them, left out little details of me, whole parts of me, just to sit there and share crumpets – and the worst part of it all was that the women were all very nice, apart from the snooty grimace of Rachel. I knew that Franny had never cared that I was of Gypsy blood. But sometimes – just sometimes – I heard my accent and I felt my movements which clashed with all of theirs, like we had been cast from the same mould, but the minute details had been carved by different artists, cutting out chunks for me, colouring in other parts for them.

In those moments when I sat with the women and their talking faded into the floral wallpaper all around us, I saw myself in an empty room instead, as if all the women had left and there I was, alone. Until I saw the old Gypsies with weathered skin sitting across from me, silent. I saw the blackness of their eyes; like bogs in winter, Esther had said, eyes just like mine and always watching.

I felt like a fraud beneath those black eyes, always watching, always silent.

"Brings me a bouquet of flowers," Dorothy snarked.

Blinking, I looked over at her, thrown from my thoughts. The women watched Dorothy, balancing teacups in their laps, poised for delicate sips but also prepared for her snipes and jabs. Franny had icing all around her mouth, a hand reaching out for another slice of cake. She saw that I was looking at her and rolled her eyes.

"What? No one else is eating them," she mumbled.

"No one else wants their hand bitten off if they try," Ruth replied, smirking at her. "I made enough to feed all the poor children of London, there."

"Well, there's one more child in here, isn't there?" Franny retorted, tapping her stomach. "And this child thanks you for your kindness, Ruth."

"He brings me a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates," Dorothy continued.

"But you hate –…" Edith started.

"Hate chocolate," Dorothy nodded.

"Hate chocolate? What kind of woman are you?" Franny gasped.

The women glanced at her, noting that same chocolate smeared on her fingers, their eyebrows raised.

"A woman who knows how to use a napkin, Fran," Dorothy snorted, reaching to toss her one from a pile on the table. "Well, I suppose he made an effort to apologise."

"What was he apologising for, anyway?" Ruth asked.

Dorothy tapped her chin, shrugging her shoulders. "Can't remember. He does so many stupid things in a day that I lose count by the time night rolls around."

Shifting around on the sofa between Dorothy and Edith, Rachel leaned forward to sip her tea and latched her eyes on Franny. "What about your Ollie, then?"

Franny smiled, all her pretty features made fresh from love and warmth. "Oh, he tries to do everything for me lately. Worries all the time. He thinks that if I even walk a little faster, I'll do some kind of damage to the baby."

"Enjoy that while it lasts," Dorothy said. "Once the first one is out, he'll jump right back on you –…"

"Dorothy!" Franny laughed. "He can jump as high as the stars, I won't be putting myself through this again!"

"I said the same on Aaron," Edith smiled. "And then Joshua, and then Josephine –…"

The sound of that name that I had not heard aloud in so much time sent a little shiver along my spine: Josephine. I saw the bathroom and saw her in the bathtub with skin bloated and blue, saw her hair damp from lukewarm water and red-hot blood. I let the shiver ripple through me, its wavelets fading with each wobble away from my core until my mind cleared and I could smile along with them, taking a slice of cake even if I did not want to eat it. I just wanted to move my hands before I became frozen and stuck on that chair, somehow.

"And you, Willa?"

Surprised, I looked at Rachel blankly. "What d'you mean?"

"Well, does Alfie ever annoy you?" she asked. "Does he bring you gifts to make up for it?"

The other women bristled at her question and I felt the sudden flood of tension in the room, crawling over the wallpaper and settling like branches from some deadened tree. I glimpsed the black sheen in her pale eyes and knew that she desired gossip or some kind of picking-apart of Alfie, because most of the women here had husbands who worked for Alfie or hung around him in a more general sense.

Rachel had been married for five years to a man named Adam. I had seen him many times because he worked for Alfie in the bakery. He drove trucks full of rum for him, all around the country, and Franny had warned me about her because of it. Rachel had often remarked on Ollie and his position in the bakery, stood right there beside Alfie. She thought, in her own way, that that was the sort of position her husband should have had.

So, I knew that it bothered her that her husband had never been top-fucking-dog. I knew she was baring canines because of it. I just knew I could bare my own, too.

"He brings me gifts," I answered carefully. "But those gifts are usually given out of love or just to surprise me."

Rachel peeled back her lips in a bastardised form of a smile. "Alfie does quite well, I'm sure he can afford some fine gifts."

I heard the undertone, the suggestion, and returned that smile. "Quite well," I repeated. "He does so well, in fact, that your husband can afford to buy gifts for you at all with the wages given to him, Rachel. Or pay your fucking rent."

Beside me, half of the cake that Franny held in her hand broke off and plopped onto her plate, its muffled drop cutting through the silence. Not one woman even looked at the fallen cake. Instead, they glanced between Rachel and I, eyes wide.

She leaned backward as if slapped, her teacup sloshing some cold liquid onto her lap. "I was only joking, Willa, asking if he gets you gifts when he annoys you. I never meant to offend you nor Alfie –…"

Although she had not said it, we all heard it: especially not Alfie, who might break my husband's legs for it.

"I only asked because I was admiring your necklace," she went on, motioning toward the ruby at its centre. "I heard Gypsies like stones like that one. I've heard they like them a lot."

It had never been mentioned in these little gatherings, that little word: Gypsy. Rachel had lathered the word in a light coat of casualness that was accompanied with a faint shrug and an appeasing smile, but the other women had winced and quickly lifted teacups against mouths pursed in worry. Rachel walked a tightrope in their minds, because she had mentioned two things that usually were not discussed in these parties: Alfie and Gypsies.

Alfie was off-limits not only for his aforementioned connection to their husbands as owner of the bakery, but he was also not mentioned because most of the women here held a great respect for him, along with some ounce of fear and wariness in speaking about him – apart from Franny. If his name ever cropped up, it was hastily joined with all sorts of pleasant adjectives like dedicated and generous and thoughtful for all the times he had donated cash to his community or helped Jewish families trapped in a financial bind.

And the word Gypsy was off-limits purely because nobody ever wanted to acknowledge it; its adjectives usually became much less pleasant, too, treading into territory of crafty and greedy and let's talk about the crumpets, instead.

I hummed. "You're right, Rachel. We do like stones, us Gypsies. We also like robbing them. Is that what you wanted to say next, but your coward tongue would not allow it?"

"Willa, I never meant –…"

"I am given many gifts from Alfie," I interrupted. "But I make my own money, too. I can buy my own stones for myself. Can you do that?"

She chewed the inside of her mouth.

I settled back in my seat. "And to answer your earlier question, Rachel – no, Alfie doesn't annoy me. But I can certainly think of another bitch in this room who does."

I smiled at her, looking directly into her eyes. She licked her lips and feigned a tittering laugh as if this was some private joke shared between friends, her eyes flitting about the room and finding the other women silent and awash in discomfort.

"Ruth," Franny announced, drawing all stares toward her. "I think we ought to bring out a fresh pot of tea, don't you? I don't know about you ladies, but I'm feeling quite parched."

Dazed, Ruth blinked slowly at her before she then jumped from her seat. "Tea, yes – of course. Would you like some more cake, Fran? How about you, Dorothy, some chocolate – oh right, well, I can just sort out some –…"

Never did I look away from Rachel, whose cheeks burned in splotches of red and whose hands fumbled with her teacup.

The old Gypsies turned their black eyes toward me and smiled.


iii

Having looped her arm around mine, Franny was bent double in laughter once we left the house. We strolled toward the car waiting for us at the end of the street. She had almost eaten her weight in cake and had slipped another slice into her purse, wrapped in a napkin. It was drizzling and I held an umbrella between us, smiling at her giddiness and guiding her to the car. I saw Caleb stood against its side, arms crossed and smoking a cigarette while he looked around the street. He glimpsed us huddling together from the rain and quickly rushed around to catch the door.

"Her face," Franny giggled. "And I thought Dorothy had a sharp tongue."

"Never as sharp as a Gypsy tongue," I replied.

I glanced around us, always aware of my surroundings after what had happened with Sabini. Caleb held the door open for us. I helped Franny clamber in first because of her rounded stomach and her awkward struggle to lift herself into its backseat. Caleb looked quite distressed, holding out his arm to catch her if she fell backward, but really it was just her giddy mood that had her so loopy as she finally flopped against her seat and let out another rush of laughter.

"Had too much sugar at the party," I told him.

He nodded, flustered. "My aunt Tilly always gets like that after parties once she's had a bottle or two of wine – not that I mean Francine was drunk – I mean – and…"

"Your aunt Tilly and I have a lot in common then," Franny snorted. "Well, if I didn't have this one in me now…"

"Pop into the front, Caleb. I'll sort the umbrella," I said, smiling to reassure him.

Caleb ran around to his side and I pulled down my umbrella, shaking out its droplets. Normally, if Alfie was around, Caleb did all that, but I still thought it unnecessary to make the lad do every little chore. While I shook it out, a man passed, and I had not seen him. I thought that I had sprinkled his trousers in light droplets. Although I had not done it intentionally and it was still drizzling, I turned to apologise anyway, lifting my eyes and taking in his features with a sudden drop in my stomach.

I had seen him once before as a young lad, stood in front of our old flat on Bell Road. I saw him now and he was no longer a lad, his cheekbones sharpened and shed of baby-fat, dressed in a suit made of lush material, more expensive that I had ever anticipated. He heard my mumbled whisper of sorry as it was swept off in the wind around us, barely even finished, before he smiled brightly.

"Not to worry," he said, glancing at me. His eyes narrowed, his throat bobbing once he recognised me. "Willa Sykes? Sorry – I didn't realise –…"

He walked onward in a hastened dash, his hands stuffed into his pockets. I watched him, a little crouched from having bent to close the umbrella. He turned a corner and was swept off into that same wind, far from me.

"Mrs Solomons?"

I fumbled with the door of the car and fell alongside Franny, closing the door and letting her lean against me. Caleb glanced behind worriedly, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but I waved a hand at him and soon we rattled along the cobbled streets, away from Benson Avenue. Franny rambled about Rachel and I stared into another world through the window, a world in which I had slept on a floor with limbs entangled, dressed in clothes always taken from another girl who had outgrown them, a world in which I had once dreamt that Johnny would come and take me away to the fields again, where I might marry Kelly Lee or be free of Esther in some form.

A world in which Charlotte was still around.

I looked into that world because the man on that street had been George; her beau, her lover who had left for Liverpool before she had died, who had known about Fetter Road even when I had not, who had found himself that proper job that Charlotte had once told me he would find.

"Willa, are you even listening?" Franny asked, shaking my arm.

He had all the right in the world to continue onward without Charlotte, for she was in the soil. She had been in the soil for a long while, now.

"I'm listening," I replied.

"Are you going home, Willa? Can I call you this evening?"

"I prefer to wait for Alfie to finish his business at the bakery," I told her. "So, I suppose I'll be home about ten, if you're still up that late."

Perhaps she noticed the faint sheen in my eyes and the shortness of my answers, because she gently squeezed my arms and rested her head against my shoulder. Her laughter had left her. She settled into looking out at the other worlds like I did, out through those windows around us, until the drizzle washed them away and all that was left was the London of our time, looking right back at us.


iv

Slinking through the hall which hummed in a fuzzing yellow from the light-bulbs overhead, I brushed damp strands of hair from my face and shivered in my damp coat. I had left the umbrella in the car with Caleb, too distracted by thoughts of Charlotte to care much about the rain. I felt the familiar warmth of the bakery crash against me once I finally reached the bottom of the staircase, my boots letting out heavy squelches. I bent low on my haunches, arms held out. Cyril lolloped from his bed to come and lash me in his licks and slobber, his tail sweeping in a wild scramble of excitement.

I pushed my face against his wrinkled fur and stood once more to greet those few lads still pushing barrels around and collecting aprons from the pile where I had left them. I was always greeted, usually through mumbles of Mrs Solomons and faint tips of a hat or nervous hand gestures thrown in. I felt watched, like I had felt in the living-room, as if the old Gypsies had been sitting all along me.

Yet I looked around and glimpsed faces quickly turned away, the men scuttling out toward the yard or ducking to lift the barrels.

There was a thickness in the hall that came not from the strong scent of rum nor the fuzzing wires which ran along the walls and crackled in the quiet. I took aching steps forward, as if my boots had been filled with lead and each lift of my heel from the stones beneath me pulled apart joints and muscle. I saw Ollie stood outside of the office with his shoulders hunched. I pushed around him and felt my stomach drop much like it had once I saw George, because in front of me sat another ghost, and its pale blue eyes turned as if he had sensed me, too.

Leaking from his nostril in a thin, dense trickle came a sliver of blood. He lifted a hand to wipe it away, wiggling his nose. He nodded at me in acknowledgement and I saw the blood on his fingertips. Alfie held a gun, its barrel gleaming in brilliant orange beneath the lights of the office.

He aimed it right at Thomas Shelby, who still did not look away from me.

I stepped into the office, sliced open its orange colour to let the blue coldness of the hall spill into its space. Alfie trembled in his wrath and I felt each tremor ripple into the floorboards, ripple right toward the soles of my boots and upward into my bones, rattling me around inside.

"Evening, Willa," Tommy murmured coolly, his hands clasped in his lap.

"Tommy," I said hoarsely. I felt as if my throat was coated in the same flour that had been thrown over Alfie, so that my words came out dry and rasping. I licked my lips and looked at Alfie, whose blazing eyes were still latched onto Tommy – but his lip curled, and I saw his finger inch toward that trigger. "Alfie –…"

"Tommy 'ere comes to me this evenin' and tells me that 'e wants to make friends, yeah?" Alfie drawled. "Tells me that 'e reckons that we could take care o' Sabini together. I ask 'im where 'e got such a fuckin' grand idea…" – Alfie paused, finally dragging his eyes to meet mine – "…and Tommy tells me that 'e got some inspiration from a cousin what already lives in London and what already went to see 'im many months ago, just before 'e got 'is nut kicked in by Sabini."

"Mr Solomons," Tommy tried. "Perhaps we should –…"

"And I think to me-self, right, I think – well, Gypsies got lots o' fuckin' cousins, don't they? Breed like rabbits, them Gypsies, so that every man with Gypsy blood must be a cousin – or every woman," Alfie continued, completely ignoring Tommy who shifted in his seat and let out a sigh. "But then 'e tells me that 'e thinks our alliance would only be stronger 'cause I'm with Willa Sykes – 'you are with Willa Sykes, aren't you, Mr Solomons?' Almost like 'e don't fuckin' know."

In any other moment, I might have laughed at his imitation of Tommy, accent and all, but I only felt a clamminess in my hands that made my palms itch. I knew that red patches flourished on my throat like they always did in times of great distress, because Alfie was so furious that I knew he did not care if he mocked the Gypsies, even if it insulted Tommy or frustrated him – not even if it hurt me in doing so. That was the whole point, for Alfie.

Suddenly, Alfie dropped the gun.

"But then I said, well, y'know, I fuckin' love a good fam'ly reunion with Willa's side, don't I? Oh, fuckin' love it, I do. Always been very fuckin' agreeable for me to 'ave 'er fam'ly 'round. Never been anythin' but pure joy on my part. Ain't it, Willa? What you lookin' so worried for, darlin'? Come on, sit beside your cousin there, that's my girl. Move over, Tommy, be a fuckin' gentleman – oh, that's right, they don't 'ave gentlemen down in Birming'am, do they? Only 'ave the clap and terrible fuckin' rum down there, I 'ear. I know a fella what makes great rum what could do you a deal, don't I?"

I slid into the seat alongside Tommy, still watching Alfie warily. He tossed a rag at Tommy with much less kindness than he had done for Ollie earlier.

"Y'know, I always thought you'd 'ave a great big fuckin' gold ring in your nose," Alfie grinned at Tommy, leaning back in his seat.

From my peripheral, I saw Tommy shift his jaw almost tiredly, seeming unbothered by Alfie and his taunting. I crossed my arms over my chest, narrowing my eyes at Alfie, whose eyes flickered over to me. I saw only cool blankness while Tommy was present. Alfie looked boyish and youthful, all of a sudden, as if the orange light cleansed him of his harshness. Alfie always seemed happier if he was balancing on that scale that I had imagined, throwing himself into the fight. He looked at Tommy and I saw some swirl of pleasure in him, because some part of Alfie liked the war with Sabini in the same way that he liked the radio blared in the kitchen to drown out his thoughts during his blue moods.

"I am sorry. Go on," Alfie smiled facetiously at Tommy. "Tell us your plan."


v

Afterward, I stood with Tommy and walked him into the hall. In the dim light, I saw the harsh gashes which had sunken into the flesh of his cheek and which would leave a scar there. He would see it every time that he looked into the mirror, like I saw the burn on my wrist from an Italian cigarette. Alfie stayed in the office, Ollie now in the seat that Tommy had left. Tommy pulled a cigarette from his pocket and tilted its container toward me, but I shook my head. He rubbed the butt against his lips. I noticed even more intelligence in him than there had been as a child, a calculating glimmer in his eyes once he looked around.

"If I had had the time, Willa," he said quietly, "I would have warned you that I was coming."

"Probably better off," I muttered. I rubbed a hand over my forehead, hoping to smooth the first bloom of a headache that flourished there.

"I plan to visit Ada while I'm here."

I snorted softly. "Not sure she would want to see you, Tommy."

He shrugged his shoulders, a small puff of smoke slipping from his lips. "Not many people want to see me, Willa," he replied. He looked at Alfie in the office behind me. "But see me they do."

"Be easy on her, whatever she says to you," I told him. "She was not treated well by those men, I'm sure you know. But she got a good kick in, hit them right where it hurts most for a man."

He nodded. "Sounds like our Ada."

I smiled. "Hasn't changed in all these years."

It seemed as if we were finished and I reached for the handle of the door when Tommy suddenly said, "What you did for Ada was greatly appreciated, Willa."

He cleared his throat. I knew that Tommy skirted around the simple words of 'thank you' much like Alfie did, but I saw the sincerity in his blue stare.

"You're welcome, Tommy," I replied. "I wanted to help her, anyway. Only taught me that I need to learn how to use a bloody gun properly."

"I thought Alfie would have shown you."

"Oh, it is Alfie now, is it?" I grinned at him. "Not Mr Solomons? 'Oh, Mr Solomons, please can we be best pals, please Mr Solomons' –…"

He rolled his eyes and I thought I caught the faintest twitch of a smile. "Good evening, Willa. Next time, I'll try to warn you before I come here."

"Where would be the fun in that, Tom?" I called to him as he walked away.

He flicked his cigarette onto the ground as he left, unfinished. Although I could not see his face, I was sure that he had smiled.


vi

Rigidly, I sat in the backseat of our car and felt Alfie slide into the seat alongside me. His hands latched around mine, pulling them into his lap, held there even when I felt the tension pool around us in the car, filling it like water sloshing around our legs. He hummed some old Yiddish song beneath his breath and tapped his foot idly, ducking low to look out the window and nodding as if he had confirmed something to himself. He rubbed at Cyril who lay at his feet. I was not sure how to handle him like this, especially when he seemed to touch me delicately, not at all as angry as I had expected. He had not slammed doors, had not yelled at any lads in the yard either. He had not even called Ollie some variation of twat or dickhead.

Pulling into our neighbourhood, Alfie got out first with his usual grumbles and came around to my side. He opened the door and held out his hand, helping me onto the footpath. I glanced at him, but he only handed an even plumper wad of cash to Caleb than usual and told him to stay there until Aaron came for his watch of the house. I followed him into the house, looking behind at Caleb who lifted his hand in a wave. I smiled weakly, turning back.

Alfie whistled for Cyril and the whistle shot through me, startling me. Cyril had been sniffing around the garden but came barrelling after Alfie, skidding into the hall. He looked for his bed almost immediately, sniffing first at his bowl and then huffing when he found that it was not yet filled.

Shedding my coat, I placed it on the stand and moved into the living-room. I heard him moving around the kitchen. I sat on an armchair, mulling over the plan that Tommy had proposed, all the men that he had promised and the final tipping point that would come for Sabini, sending that scale right in our favour if it worked out. I thought of Ada, too. I wanted to see her and ensure she was all right, especially after our last meeting.

"Bit o' tea, love?" Alfie called.

Almost comically, he came into the living-room with an apron around his waist and a tray in his hands, laid out with a steaming teapot, two cups, spoons and a little bowl of sugar-cubes with biscuits all around the plates. He set it on the table before me, clapping his hands together. I watched him pull the strings of his apron and toss it aside, sensing that I was falling into some kind of trap.

"From what I 'eard, you won't be invited to any more fuckin' tea parties with women in this town – Jewish or otherwise, given your absolutely shockin' and unladylike disposition at Ruth's," he stated with great amusement in his tone, dropping onto the seat in front of mine.

He lifted the teapot and filled a cup, pushing it toward me. He threw three sugar-cubes in there and stirred, knowing I liked it sweet, much too sweet. I reached for the cup, taking a slow sip. "Rachel had a lot to say about Gypsies, Alfie," I muttered.

"Oooh," he said, drawing it out. "I should 'ave fuckin' guessed it, eh? Somethin' to say 'bout Gypsies. Lots of people got stuff to say 'bout Gypsies, Willa."

"Are you one of them?"

His eyes flashed. "Oh, I am. See, I think that Gypsies often get a bad reputation. People say they only stick with their fam'ly, yeah, don't trust people what don't 'ave the same blood. Inbred too, 'cause of that, some people say. But I don't think that."

I shot him a withered glare, but he only smiled.

"No, I don't think that at all. And some people reckon that Gypsies always lie and try to trick you outta your wits, y'know," he continued. "Don't think that neither, me. But I reckon most people don't 'ave lads what will follow their missus into London when she meets 'er cousins in bars and don't 'ave them same lads what will report back and tell 'em just who their missus was talkin' to. Hm."

It had always been a possibility with Alfie, but I thought that if he had suspected it or known about it, then he would have mentioned it by now. It was almost embarrassing to think that he had known about it and never said it, if only because it made me feel all the more like a liar. Tears sprung to my eyes, needling at them.

"I also reckon they don't get to know 'bout letters sent, 'specially if that letter were sent by some cousin what wants to be with their missus. Like I said – seems them Gypsy lads only ever want babies with the cousins what share blood with them, eh?"

"Alfie, why didn't you say anything if you knew?"

"Thought it might benefit me more to stay quiet."

I felt the hard lump of hurt which squeezed through my throat. "Weren't you furious with me?"

Alfie pursed his lips and tapped his fingertips against his armchair. "At first. Almost said it, that night we fought in the kitchen over – over Kelly Lee. But then we 'ad Margate – and I thought, if I work with Shelby, maybe we'll get there all the fuckin' faster, eh?"

I never told him that I always worried that he did not want Margate as quickly as I wanted it. I had seen the delight in his eyes during his little back-and-forth with Tommy. I thought that I might not see the foam and froth of that ocean in Margate for many more years, but now was not the time to delve into it, not when Alfie balanced between this reasonable attitude and his other rage that simmered underneath.

"I went to Tommy because I knew it was our best shot against Sabini."

"Best shot," he repeated. "Yet it failed, because Tommy turned you down."

I put down the teacup, turning fully toward him and scooting forward on my seat to reach for his hands. "Tommy turned me down because he didn't think we could win this war with the Italians. Look at him now, Alf. He came to you. Now, you'll have extra men on your side, Sabini won't see it coming –…"

"You think Darby fuckin' Sabini won't see it comin'? A 'undred Gypsy lads comin' up the canal and you think Sabini will look at 'em and say, 'Oh, must be a Gypsy fam'ly what come to London for their 'olidays, they must 'ave fancied a change from the wagons and caravans'. You think that, eh?"

Standing from my armchair in a sudden rush of anger for my own part, I shouted, "You would rather mock the Gypsies and turn away the only chance you have against Sabini because of your pride, Alfie, always thinking you're better than us –…"

"Us?" he repeated, bolting from his seat. "And just who are you lumpin' yourself with, eh, Willa?"

I recoiled ever so slightly from the sudden difference in height, with Alfie towering and hunching his shoulders in a subconscious effort to corner me. I looked into his eyes and felt my own watering spill over onto cheeks that had once been covered in flour. "Alfie, I am not Jewish. You wanted me to sit with those women –…"

"For your own fuckin' good, to make friends, to –…"

"And I don't fit in right," I continued softly. "And it isn't because I'm not Jewish, is it? I didn't fit in there just because I didn't – simple as that."

"A fuckin' tiff between some natterin' women and you think you don't fit in with what? The whole fuckin' community what lives 'ere?"

"You're making it about sides," I replied. "You're making it Jewish or Gypsy and nothing in between. I went to Tommy because I thought we could work together with him – we. You and me, Alf. Jewish and Gyps. What does it matter? Same enemy, same fear –…"

"I ain't afraid o' that fuckin' wop!"

"I am," I said. "I'm scared of him. I've been scared of him since I got shot, Alfie. I've been scared of him shooting you. Did you ever think about what I would do then, if you died?"

He opened his mouth and I saw the wrath and bitterness around his gums, poisoning his words.

"Don't say that I would go to Kelly Lee," I interrupted before he could speak. "Don't say that I would run off with that man when you know I would never do it, Alfie. I have never known another man other than you. Never want to know another. Maybe I would stay with Johnny, or maybe I would stay in this house with Cyril. Which would you prefer, hm? You know I would never be able to cope with you dying, Alfie, not at the hands of Darby fucking Sabini."

He straightened, his jaw tight and his brow furrowed. "I prepared for it."

The river had been cold that day that I leapt into it with Tommy, back in times of childhood. I felt that sudden coldness splash against my skin now once again. "What d'you mean?" I asked hoarsely.

"Sorted me will, ain't I?" he muttered uncomfortably. "After you got shot, Willa. I thought about it. I thought about if it 'ad been me what got shot, right, what would 'appen to ya? Kept me up at night, it did. So, I got it sorted. You wouldn't need to worry 'bout money or needin' some place to stay. Wouldn't need to be stealin' nothin' to get by. Wouldn't be left alone in this 'ouse with all them worries on ya. You could keep the bakery or give it away. Left you the choice."

Stunned, I hardly felt his hands on my arms until he leaned close to me and pulled me into his chest, surprising me with a hug. He rested his chin on the top of my hair and I felt him chuckle.

"Always could make ya speechless, couldn't I? Only one that fuckin' could, with your gob," he murmured.

I snorted, lightly smacking his chest. "Watch it, Alfie."

"Bit of a wild spark, that Tommy Shelby."

"Where does he get that from?" I mused.

"Betrayed Billy Kimber, 'e did. Works with coppers, too."

I pulled away from him to look into his eyes. "Wouldn't that be better, Alfie? Not having to think about police raids or being arrested out of the blue just because Sabini snaps his fingers."

"It were a policeman what beat you in that alleyway."

I was momentarily thrown by the softness of his words, how his hand glided along my jawline. He traced it like he had traced me in that photograph taken at the fairground, all those years beforehand, the same one that he kept in the pocket on the chest of his shirt everywhere that he went.

I swallowed. "There are a lot of beatings in this world, Alfie. It never matters who they come from – the only thing that matters is what you get from it."

His eyes were dark. "If I work with Tommy now," he uttered, "it does not mean that I will always work with 'im, Willa. It don't make us friends. If I work with 'im, I will work with 'im like I work with every other fucker in this city – to me own fuckin' ends, and that end is in Margate with you. I need you to understand that."

I wanted to protest, but I knew better. "All right, Alf. I understand."

"Tommy Shelby ain't your real fam'ly, neither. Whether your Johnny Dogs calls 'im cousin for lack of any other word, whether 'e was your fuckin' brother and you didn't even know it – 'e ain't your fam'ly, Willa. 'E would sell you out in a second if it meant 'e got what 'e wanted. I saw it in 'is eyes, in the office. Saw 'ow 'e looked at me. I know 'cause it's the same look in me own fuckin' eyes when I meet with men like Sabini or any other man what thinks 'e can outdo me in me own fuckin' game."

I looked away from him, but he quickly caught my chin in a tighter grip and turned me right back to him.

"I will not be kind to Thomas Shelby," he whispered, dangerously close to me. "I will do whatever I think is fuckin' best for us, for our fuckin' people, for us – us, yeah – and if I 'ave to go 'round 'im to get what I want, I will do it."

"Tommy is a smart man," I warned him. "He always ran rings around everyone when we were younger."

"Yeah, well, we're a lot fuckin' older, and Tommy's in London now, Willa. So 'e best start fuckin' runnin' to catch up with the rest of us, eh?"