Like a Horse Made of Air
Chapter Two: One, Two, Three (And Again)The house seems somehow empty after Tommy leaves, despite the chaos. As if his presence somehow filled up the nooks and crannies, and then left them more apparent when he withdrew.
Wren shakes herself back into motion. Tommy or no Tommy, the cleaning won't do itself.
A quick scrub of herself, and a quicker trip out, ends with a date for the sweepers to come around and also basic necessities like groceries for the house.
Then she sets herself to actually looking at what she's doing and not just mechanically moving from one task to the next. She carefully makes sure all the hard surfaces of her home are properly washed and ready for use: from the ceilings to the cupboards to the floors. Then she begins organizing tasks into rooms.
The office becomes the home of any paper-based quandaries she'll need to go through while the largest room in the house becomes the home of all the movable furniture that'll need going over. A room for all the clothes, of which she found many a trunk stashed in closets and the attic, and another for bed linens, towels, and the like. A room for all the photos and paintings and yet another for all the many, many knick-knacks and figurines, the number of which she'd never have guessed anyone could own. She moves all the cookware, cutlery, and dishes into the kitchen.
It's as she's going through all the physical history of the house that she really begins to think about her mother's family.
Owen Ashby had married Isla May and together they'd had eleven children. Only his two daughters had survived, her mother, Sarah, and a younger aunt, Margery, who had long moved out of the country with her husband and family—if they were even still alive. Only the eldest two of those eleven children hadn't been born in this house, and all of them had lived here at one-point decades ago. It's sad that a house that once saw so much life had been left to molder for so many years.
She couldn't say if this would be her forever home, but she made a silent promise to this well-loved haven that she would do her best that it never be abandoned again.
It's proper dark before she's finished getting the kitchen set up and usable. The chaos now sufficiently contained enough to feel manageable. She's pleased with her progress and for the first time in too long feels a genuine desire to sleep.
She makes a simple meal of cold meat and cheese, before drawing up a bath. The warm water soothes tired muscles, and she scrubs herself three times over before she feels satisfied that she's actually clean. Trudging up the stairs she gives herself easily to the little set up she'd made of some bedding.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she slowly sinks to sleep.
She jerks awake with the sound of her sister's laughter and the report of a gun ringing in her ears. When she looks at her hands, she expects them to be spattered with blood. The sight of her clean hands is almost more jarring than the dream. The red had been so vivid, even in the dark.
She's drenched in enough sweat she feels the need for a bath. She contents herself with a quick rub down and a change of clothes. Despite her lacking appetite, she makes a few hard-boiled eggs and grabs a glass of water to start her day.
She has enough money saved that she has a bit of breathing room, but she's going to have to figure out a source of income eventually. She, also, needs to get to the washhouse as the dress she's wearing is the last of the clean usable dresses she has—so laundry is going to have to take precedence today. Getting a bed usable would also be nice, even if the nest of blankets she used last night is better than some of the previous places she's slept in recent weeks.
If she's honest, Wren is grateful for the work. It keeps her out of her head.
She decides to begin airing out a bed first, as it'll take most the day. She wavers for a long moment of whether to use a small mattress meant for the single beds, or wrestle with the bigger mattress meant for the master bedroom. In the end she lands on indulgence, using the excuse that as master of the house she ought to get the master bedroom. Though after wrestling the thing down the stairs, she questions the wisdom of it considering she's going to have to get the heavy thing back up them.
Stepping out into the backyard, she is forcibly reminded of her grandma. Isla Ashby got a license to be a chemist in her late twenties, after the first woman had become a chemist in 1870 in America. She had always been an herbalist, raised with the long traditions of lore and craft passed down through her family. The license simply gave her work legitimacy in the eyes of the law and the church.
While Gram Isla was away for her exam, grandpa redid the backyard as a greenhouse. Setting up glass walls anchored in the stone fence and the house itself. The ceiling goes up three stories and there's a little work area set up just off the side of where the backdoor opens into the glass room. The outhouse sits in the back offhand corner, while the pump sits opposite the back door from the workspace. The plants have long been gone, and the tools neatly put away, but the space still feels like a garden—as if the memory of the green growing things has been embedded into the structure.
She uses the long benches to prop up the mattress and opens the movable windows to allow air to pass through. A search in the cupboards reveals sealed packets of herb mixtures that Gram used to use, including a few for cleaning. She rubs the mattress with one such packet, then grabs a heavy rod to beat the dust and whatever else out of the padding. Whereafter, she leaves it to sit and air.
Then she decides to tackle the washhouse. She sorts out the clothes she brought to wear and also several items from the trunks that are both in reasonable condition and should prove easy to alter to suite her. The cinched waist and flattering curves might be out of style, but Wren can't find it in herself to care. Not when she has mounds of vintage clothing to explore. While there it's easy enough to get Mrs. Connelly to help her mark out where she'll need to make alterations.
From there she gets it all back home and sets to work with needle and thread. With hands busy, but otherwise idle, her thoughts return to her Gram. She knows there are two desks in the office because her grandparents enjoyed spending quiet work hours together. She knows that the books the elder woman had used to study, including all the journals and other work that Gram had collected throughout the years are also in the office. Most if not all the equipment she used for her work should also still be somewhere in the house or work area.
She wonders how hard it would be to pass the exam.
By dinner time she has one new wearable outfit and has begun work on the second, while also having sketched out a tentative plan to look into the chemist and botany courses currently available. She already has had typing classes and simply needs to take the exam for accounting thanks to her Grandpa. Which should, in theory, mean she can start her own business as her Gram had done. Maybe even expand into properties as her Grandpa had, once she has money.
She drags out putting her thoughts on paper while she picks at the sandwich she's made herself for dinner. Eventually she must concede to the creeping need for sleep. She checks on the mattress out back and closes the windows. She snuffs out all but one lamp before ascending the stairs. She changes into a nightshift and blows out the lamp.
She lays down in her nest of blankets and closes her eyes as red fills her mind.
Time seems to skip with seconds dragging out into days while days vanish in seconds.
The house is sorted over the course of a few months, steady work triumphing over the years of grime. Her wardrobe expands with an eclectic variety of pieces, a project always kept ready to hand, and she notices the glances and longer looks she's begun to get when she's out—an upswing in attention she's not used to but that won't dissuade her. The hours spent working on the house transition into hours spent pouring over books, getting the greenhouse going, and taking nursing classes at the hospital.
Her investigation into course work turned out that taking the course isn't required to sit the exam. So long as she can pay the fee, she can sit however many times—and however many exams—she wants. Which, while useful to her circumstance, is vaguely horrifying if she thinks about it too long. Yet more horrifying is that she doesn't even really need a chemists' license to sell the herbal remedies she's been reading about if she's simply mindful of labeling. If she calls her business more akin to a tea shop, she could open her doors right now.
An idea which she is decided to do as of late.
A proper chemist shop undergoes much more rigorous scrutiny than the alternative available to her. And considering the fact she's genuinely leaning into the possibility of making her money off of contraceptives—she's found several different recipes for both women and men—she would be better off avoiding the attention. Honestly, at this point she's only going through with the schooling for her own peace of mind which is why she added the nursing classes to her schedule as well.
If she's going to be providing services "under the table" so to speak, she might as well be prepared for as many eventualities as she reasonably could.
She pulls back her hair, which is in the awkward stage of too long and yet too short, using pins and touches a bit of makeup on as she prepares to head out. She'll sit the exam for accounting today and the ones for chemistry and botany next week. Then she'll be down to just the nursing classes that are due to be over by the end of this month which will free up much of her time. She's never been so grateful for her steel trap memory as she is now.
It's actually working for her rather than against her for once.
Wren steps out of her house, turns to lock up, and then sets out. The university is most definitely not situated in the Small Heath bit of Birmingham, so she has a long walk ahead of her. Horses pull carts, and the odd vehicle rumbles through, while the flow of foot traffic ripples around it all like water in a pond. It's as she's crossing the lane near the Garrison that in her casual looking about the way she finds her eyes meeting a familiar pair of blue.
Tommy hasn't exactly become a fixture in her life, but he has become less and less a stranger. Case in point, she isn't surprised when he falls in step beside her. She turns her head to glance up at him, finding his focus outward scanning the crowds, and offers a "morning, Tommy."
He doesn't deign to reply, he almost never does. She finds he rarely speaks without purpose, or really, rarely does anything without purpose. She doesn't take it personally, though. For all he's not much of a conversationalist he's an excellent listener. It's a novel experience for her still, to have someone to talk to who actually hears what she has to say.
As if he hears her thoughts he says, "Exam day, eh? You'll be all finished with the accounting books now."
She smiles up at him and nods, "I'm not even nervous. I'm too ready to just be finished to care."
"Decided on your business then," he responds.
She finds it hard sometimes to tell if he's asking or stating but she answers anyway, "The chemist and apothecary shops have too many requirements. So, I'll open a tea shop that doesn't actually sell tea instead."
He lifts a brow at her to which she tells him, "technically, herbal drinks that don't have any tea leaves in them are called tisanes. But if I said I'm opening a tisane shop, nobody would have a clue what I meant."
"Could be a good draw," he muses with amused blue eyes. "People would stop by out of curiosity."
"Or avoid it out of confusion," she sighs. "Although, with nobody having preconceived notions of what a tisane shop ought to be I could use that to my advantage."
"Would stop people from dropping by for a cuppa," he points out.
"Or cake," she adds wryly. "Suppose I've decided on my business for true this time."
The conversation drops into quiet for a while. The quality of the area and the noise shift as they move away from the poorer sections of Birmingham, though she's always amused to note that the bustle of people never really changes.
"You've a name," he asks apropos of nothing.
For a long moment she's tempted to be a smartass but, "Wren's Respite," she answers with a shrug.
He nods, his mien thoughtful.
He walks her all the way to the university and walks her all the way home. He does it again and again, for her botany and chemistry exams the next week, and even her nursing exam at the end of the month.
"I'm so glad to be done," she sighs happily as they head away from the hospital grounds now that her nursing exam is over.
"You've results yet," he enquires, cigarette between his lips and smoke curling 'round his face.
She hums an affirmative before replying, "All three results in from the uni' as of yesterday. I've official documents proving me qualified with fancy seals and everything."
"Congratulations," he offers.
"Thank you," she responds sincerely. "For helping me that night. For checking on me. For listening to me. For walking with me. For everything. I don't think I'd be where I am now if you hadn't."
He looks at her for a long moment, gaze inscrutable and intense. Then he turns back to the road with a nod of his head. They pass the rest of the trip in silence.
The Doors Are Open (The House is Empty)Establishing a new business is both easier and harder than she expects.
She makes a wide variety of sachets, figuring she'll see what sells before she produces anything in bulk. Then realizes she can't just open her door and wait in her front room for people to start showing up. The perils of a home-based business being that nobody goes to it looking for business. Not without incentive. And after her exams she doesn't have the money to buy a separate shop.
She decides to start simple and heads to the washhouse. She's spent an inordinate amount of time there these last four months, and she's both a familiar sight while being familiar with the women who frequent it. It takes only a few days of networking and careful prodding before she makes her first sale: sachets to remove even ground in stains with significantly less effort on the woman's part. After that she starts to get a trickle of purchases.
Then one day she's walking the lane from the washhouse past the Garrison, when she turns and sees Danny Owens. They call him Danny Whizz-bang now, after the war. The moment she gets eyes on him she knows that he's about to take a turn. Immediately she digs in her bag for a sachet of mints, a recipe meant to be soothing she remembers, taking strides to close the distance between them.
"Hey, Danny," she calls gently.
From this close she can see he's shaking, big body trembling as if cold. His eyes dart from face to face, while he flinches with every loud noise. Her heart breaks for him as she witnesses his struggle.
"Hey now, Danny," she coaxes him as she steps carefully into his wavering view. "Can you see me? Me names Wren, Wren Ashby. I walk with Tommy sometimes. You know Tommy, don't you?"
"Sergeant Major," he mumbles as he brings a fisted hand up against his head. He's almost focusing on her now, and she can't help but wonder if he's trying to salute.
"Yeah, he was Sergeant Major during the war," she agrees. "But the war is over, Danny. It's over yeah? He's Tommy now. Just like you're Danny now. You are Danny, aren't you? Danny Owens?"
She gets a jerky nod, but he's focusing a bit better now. His fist has fallen away from his head to his chest and doesn't look quite so tight.
"Can you do me a favor, Danny," she keeps coaxing. "It's an important favor, and only you can help me out. You gonna help me out, Danny?"
"You need," he starts and stops slowly. "You need me help?"
"I do," she affirms. "I need you to count breathes with me. See, sometimes I get a bit stuck in me head, you know? And so, me Gram, she taught me to count me breathes. Gives me something easy to focus on. To help pull me out of the rut me brain stalled out in. Will you count with me?"
The poor man's face shows plainly how lost he is, but he nods and agrees.
"It goes like this, Danny," she tells him softly. "Breath in one, two, three. Hold one, two, three. Breath out one, two, three."
"Breath in one, two, three," Danny echoes.
"That's right, Danny," she tells him warmly as she watches his breathing shift. "You're doing good, yeah. You're doing alright. Think you can count to four with me? Breath in one, two, three, four. Hold one, two, three, four. Breath out one, two, three, four."
Danny picks up the rhythm steadily. His shaking subsides and he isn't clutching at himself or clenching his fists anymore.
"You're doing so good, Danny," she reassures. "So, so good. Just a few more rounds, huh? Think we can go to five now? Breath in one, two, three, four, five. Hold one, two, three, four, five. Breath out one, two, three, four, five."
After a few rounds of five he seems much more aware. He's tracking better and looks less haunted.
"Just a little bit more, Danny," she comforts. "Just six questions and we'll feel better, yeah? Can you answer six questions for me?"
"I can, I can answer I think," Danny replies.
"Thank you, Danny," she tears open the sachet of mints and taps one out. When she hands it to the man, he almost automatically pops it into his mouth. He blinks a bit as the taste registers.
"First question, Danny," she continues. "Can you name something you can taste for me?"
"Mint," he says, clearly a bit amused.
"I did give you a mint," she smiles up at him. "Made it meself. Second question, can you name something you smell?"
"Coal smoke," he says after a thoughtful pause.
"Well, we are right near the fires aren't we," she agrees. "Third question. Can you name something you can hear?"
He takes a moment to listen, but then a horse cart goes clopping by, and he answers, "a cart."
"Looks like your cart is bringing in more coal," she tells him. "Fourth question: can you name something you can touch?"
His hands flex and wander a moment before he grabs his cap off his head, "me hat. It's wool."
"Bet it keeps your head warm," she comments lightly. "Now, Danny, fifth question, yeah? Can you name something you see?"
He blinks a moment before his eyes focus past her shoulder and he says, "Tommy. Tommy Shelby, just a bit behind you leanin' on the wall."
She becomes aware of the rest of the world again all at once. She hadn't even realized she'd so completely blocked it out. Wren doesn't resist the impulse to look over her shoulder. And, indeed he's right, just a bit behind her is Tommy. Blue eyes readily meet hers a moment before he shifts his gaze to Danny and gives the other man a nod.
"So he is," she says as she turns back to Danny. "Last question, alright? Sixth question: where are you, Danny?"
"Small Heath, Birmingham," Danny replies confidently. "Garrison Lane."
She grins at him as she reaches out slowly and squeezes his hand, "that's a right proper answer, Danny. Thank you."
He laughs a bit, like he can't help it. And she presses the open sachet of mints into his hand.
"Here, I want you to have these," she tells him. "The recipe I used says they're supposed to be soothing. And I thought so when I tried them, but it always helps to have a second opinion. So, you take 'em and you give 'em a try and you let me know what you think. Is that alright?"
"Yeah, thank you," Danny agrees. "Thank you, yeah, I'll try 'em. Thank you."
"It was no trouble, Danny," she tells the man as he backs away.
If he had done it any less gently, she thinks she would have startled. They walk together on a semi-regular basis, but he doesn't generally touch her except incidentally. As it is, Tommy is so careful when he strokes his hand from her shoulder to the small of her back that she simply turns a bit into the press of his fingertips as she looks up at him.
She's always thought him intense. Often feels like he can see right through to her soul. But the look in his eye when she meets his gaze then… She has no word for it. It isn't a blow, so much as a burning. Like the weight of his gaze has kindled a fire beneath her skin.
There's movement in his face like he has something he wants to say, a shift in his brows and a flex in his jaw. What he says is, "I'll walk you home."
She nods her agreement, and they walk silently back to her place. His hand never leaves her the entire trip there, not even when she steps forward to unlock and open the door.
He follows her in, his hand falling away as they hang up their coats. She moves to the kitchen and checks the fire in the oven with half a thought to put the kettle on. Decides against it and pulls down the unopened bottle of amaretto she'd found and two glasses. She uses the wine opener to get the cork out then pours for both glasses. Setting first one down before Tommy where he's settled at the table; his cap off and cigarette already lit. Then she settles next to him with the second.
She's actually tried amaretto before. Her grandpa letting her have a sip here and there from his glass. So, she doesn't cringe or choke when she takes a mouthful from her cup while she lets Tommy sort out his words.
Eventually he says, "Your Grandma taught you that?"
"She did," Wren answers. "She was an herbalist and wisewoman even before she got her license as a chemist. She knew a lot about the things that ail people, even the things that leave wounds that you can't see. I'd have… she'd call them episodes. Where me own mind would turn against me, and I'd get wound up bad. She taught me to count me breath and ask me about the things I could see and such 'til me head cleared."
"You didn't have to help Danny," he states evenly as he sips from his cup.
"I didn't have to," she agrees. "But there was nothing in me that saw him and didn't want to help."
"He could have hurt you," Tommy points out.
"Once," she tells him, "I was so far gone that when Gram tried to help me, I lashed out. Hit her hard more than a few times. Left bruises and split her lip. I felt like the worst person in the world, when I came back 'round. I told her she should of just left me. Do you know what she told me?"
She holds blue eyes for a long moment, "she told me that the pain she felt when I hit her, is nothing to the pain we feel when the hidden wounds bleed. That if her little hurts could spare me some suffering, then she accepted them gladly. And when I saw Danny? I understood Gram in a way I hadn't before. He was a man lost, his suffering plain to see. And if I got struck helping him find his way back? I'd have considered it fair payment if that was what it took."
He's looking at her again with that look. She feels the heat of it inside her and struggles to hold her ground. She won't let him mistake her movement for doubt, though, so she holds herself steady. He reaches for her, his progress slow. She can't tell if he's trying to give her time to pull away or if he's trying not to spook her. Maybe both.
His fingertips brush at the corner of her brow before gliding gently down her cheek, soft as a breeze.
She feels caught, somehow. As if his touch sets off a trap she didn't know to look for. She's overwarm and her heart is racing while a fine tremor ripples through the muscles in her lower belly. She doesn't know what to do, finds her hand already reaching to brush against his. Freezes when they meet, afraid it will shatter the moment and he'll pull back.
She doesn't want him to pull back.
The moment holds for a beat, the air straining and taught between them. Then it unspools and his hand falls away with hers falling with it. He throws back the last of his drink and stands up. His cap is in hand and a cigarette between his lips as he makes for the door.
But he pauses just enough to turn a bit back to her, "nothing is worth your pain, whether you consider it a little hurt or not."
"Life hurts, Tommy," she replies firmly. "Everyone is born covered in their mother's blood. It's not about never getting hurt. It's about finding the moments that make the pain worth it. And only I can decide which moments are worth it for me, same as only you can decide what's worth it for you."
His fingers twitch and his head bows a moment. Then he straightens and walks away.