She was blonde. Florence knew as much. On Florence's morning off, a strange blonde woman had waltzed into The Garrison and somehow bagged a job from Harry. She could sing, he said. Florence wondered how on earth singing made you qualified to work in a pub. He wanted to spend more time with Helen, he said. Florence understood. Her stepmother was dwindling by the day. He didn't want to rely solely on Florence to keep the pub running. So, now there was going to be a new blonde singing barmaid, something nice for the men to look at and listen to.
But for some reason, Florence felt uneasy about the whole situation. So she had sung her way into a job? Florence knew the woman must have some kind of charm about her to manage that. Or maybe it was having to work with someone she had never met before. Despite her recent return, Florence still knew of most people that lived in the area, she knew every familiar face. What reason would someone have to come and settle in a place like Small Heath, a stranger to everyone that lived there? Florence was suspicious to say the least. She knew trouble from a mile off, mainly because she was so used to being the one causing it.
Much to her dad's surprise, Florence had actually managed to behave herself over the first week she was home. She'd kept to herself, working shifts in the pub during the day, running errands for her family, and shutting herself up in the room upstairs at a decent hour every night. The war had straightened her out and turned her into a responsible young woman, he thought, no more of this troublemaking nonsense. However, she was still yet to visit her stepmother and she hadn't bothered much with reaching out to her old friends, which he thought was strange. Keeping herself to herself a little too much, he thought.
The morning was brighter than usual in Small Heath. It seemed the smoke had cleared, and Florence could see some blue sky from her window as she awoke. The flat upstairs was small, only one room with enough space for a bed in one corner and a tub and sink in the other. She'd just managed to squeeze a chest of drawers in and a little stove. It would do for the time being. Every morning, she'd wake with the sunrise and make her tea with a dash (or maybe a little more) of whiskey. She wasn't one for eating before midday, so she'd busy herself with getting ready while the warmth of her whiskey-laden tea went to her head. That morning, the morning she was first working with the blonde barmaid, also happened to be her late mother's birthday. Florence put a bit more effort into her appearance that morning, taking the time to brush her hair properly, putting on one of her mother's old dresses she'd kept, and applying red lipstick she'd once stolen from Helen. Florence knew she looked more like her mother when she wore makeup. Normally, she wouldn't bother so much with looking nice, but she made the effort every year for her mum's birthday, just herself feel better in her sad state.
Florence opened the pub a little earlier that morning, just because she felt like it. The new blonde barmaid also arrived early.
"Hello," she'd said, as Florence was checking the stock behind the bar. "Harry asked me to come today. I'm Grace." It sounded more like a question. Florence turned to face her, pulling her hair over her shoulder. The woman was beautiful just as she knew she would be.
Florence cocked her head to one side. "I'm Florence. Harry's girl. You're Irish?" She gave Grace a puzzled look. The only time the Irish came to Small Heath was to cause bother. She'd already heard about the new Irish copper that had been concerning the people. She felt unsure of this woman from the moment she'd spoken her first word to her.
"Yes, from Dublin." Grace nodded at her. She looked wary of Florence, and Florence enjoyed the fact that Grace was intimidated by her in that moment. Florence didn't take her eyes off her, nodding back at her.
"Right. Let's get a move on then. Put your stuff out the back," she gestured to the room behind the bar. "There's not much to do in here at the moment but things will pick up soon. How are you with numbers?"
It turned out, much to Florence's surprise, that Grace wasn't that bad. After their strange introduction, the two women actually managed to find some common ground between them; their mockery of drunken customers. At one point, Florence had to step outside to compose herself because of a remark Grace had whispered to her about the men that were flooding into the pub. They'd been in fits of giggles to the point that she'd gotten a telling off from her dad, who had turned up around lunchtime to help with the rush. He sent her on a break for lunch, which for Florence meant thirty minutes upstairs in her room to sip on more tea and maybe an egg or two to go with it. That day, her late mother's birthday, she made sure to add a bit more whiskey than usual to her lunchtime tea. A drink in honour of her mother, who she knew would be very disappointed with her daughter's drinking habits, but it didn't stop her nonetheless. It kept her in bright spirits and helped the day pass a little quicker. The drinking was just what she expected from herself by now. What she didn't expect though, was for the door to her room to swing open with no warning. What she didn't expect was Thomas Shelby to be standing on the other side.
Florence could feel the effects of the whiskey as she sat cross-legged on her bed, having kicked off her boots. "Tommy," she raised her cup to him, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"
He said nothing, just looked at her for a moment. But she knew the cogs were turning in his head. He was thinking of his next move. Tommy nodded towards her. "You're still here then?" He pulled out a cigarette, taking out a match to light it before sitting on the end of Florence's bed with his back to her.
"Yeah, where else would I be?" She scoffed at his back, sipping on her tea. As much as he'd like her to be, she'd never be scared of him.
"I thought you'd be gone by now. Or moved into your dad's house. I thought I made it clear that you're not welcome to stay here." With that, he turned to look at her, eyes ablaze. Florence didn't even flinch. She stood her ground. She wouldn't be made to feel inferior, especially in her own home. She moved slowly from the bed, walking around to face him.
Leaning close to his face, she spoke in a soft tone. "I thought I made it clear that I didn't give a fuck about what you've got to say. I'll live how I want to live and where I want to live. I don't care." Without a moment's thought, Florence plucked the half-burned cigarette from Tommy's lips and placed it between her own, turning to walk to the window on the far side of the room.
Tommy took a deep breath to calm himself, watching as she wandered over to the window, her bare feet barely audible against the wooden floor, a hint of her calves visible beneath the hem of her dress. As Florence observed the street below from the window, she could feel his eyes on her. She turned to look at him as she heard him stand and cross the room towards her, but she couldn't read the expression on his face. At least he didn't look disappointed anymore.
Taking the cigarette back from Florence, he placed it between his own lips, standing next to her at the window. She placed her hands on her hips and revelled in the silence. The tension they had experienced during their previous encounter was gone. To Florence, it was calm, stoic even. To any onlookers from the street, the sunlight silhouetted the two of them, a man and woman standing side by side. And they looked a picture together, the lady with the ruby-red lips and the gentleman with the piercing eyes. Tommy finally broke the silence. "You haven't changed, have you? You still can't take orders from anyone."
With a look of utter disdain (from the fact he'd interrupted their moment of peace, as well as his stern words), Florence turned to face him. "Orders? You're not being serious, Tommy?" She shook her head at him, turning to collect her tea cup and plate from her bedside cabinet and place them in the small sink in the corner. As she approached the sink, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She'd forgotten she was wearing makeup that day and almost didn't recognise herself. She watched Tommy behind her in the mirror, still standing by the window, facing her. For some reason, she hadn't noticed how different he looked when they'd talked before. His close-cropped hair and sharp jawline were new to her, as well as the dark circles under his eyes that made him look as though he hadn't slept for months.
"The reason why you can't stay here is because it's not safe for you." He took a small step towards her, awaiting her response. He knew she'd have something to say on the matter since she'd had a quip for everything he'd said since he'd walked through the door. Tommy knew Florence, and she wasn't one to back down easily, if at all.
Florence turned on her heel, losing her patience with him. "You don't think I know that already? I'm not stupid. I've got a gun," she gestured to the bag on the floor in the corner. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling on her discarded stockings. The familiarity of the sight of Florence hiking her stockings up her legs shocked Tommy. It was as if he'd forgotten how comfortable they'd once been with each other, as if he didn't remember all of the times they'd gone skinny dipping in ponds together or curled up beside one another barely clothed in his bed when she'd been too drunk to get home.
Tommy raised his eyebrows, nodding slowly at her. "Well, you're not clever coming back here." Each word was punctuated by him pointing his cigarette at her.
Florence spoke as she tied the laces on her boots. "I didn't expect this from you, Tommy. Maybe from John, I would understand it from John, but not from you. What have I done to make you so mad at me? I thought we'd always be friends, Tom." Once her laces were tied, she stood from the bed, approaching him slowly as if she was trying not to spook him. "You told me that. That we'd always be friends." Florence's hands hung limply at her sides. She wanted to reach out to him, take his hand, stroke his arm, touch him in some way. That had always been the way between the two of them. Though it had never turned romantic before, the physical affection between them was something neither of them could explain.
Tommy avoided her gaze. He'd come here, expecting her to submit to him and let him have control. Instead, she was breaking down the emotional walls that had taken him years to build in a matter of minutes. He didn't know what she was doing to him, and neither did she. "Greta died a few months after you left." He blurted it out before he could think about what he was saying. It was as if he couldn't control himself around her. When Florence spoke, he heard her louder and clearer than the banging against the walls in his head.
Florence brought her hand up to the bridge of her nose before sliding it down the side of her face. She gave him a sympathetic look. "I know. I heard. And then the war started. I'm so sorry, Tom." She'd heard about what had happened with Greta through letters from her dad after she went away. She'd wanted to write to Tommy but couldn't bring herself to. She remembered how much he loved her. At that moment, one of the many pieces of Tommy fell into place for Florence. Much like her, the pain he had experienced since she had been gone had been so raw and deep; he was truly broken. Like her, he wasn't the same person as before.
Tommy made his way towards the door. He'd had enough of Florence and her digging around for one day. The way she had looked at him had almost sprung tears to his eyes. It's as if she knew exactly what he felt. She still understood him in a way that no one else did. "Things are different now, Florence," he said, with his back turned to her.
Florence was quick to respond, grabbing her apron from the bed. "You don't think I know that already?" She was already tying it around her waist when he finally turned to face her again. Tommy's eyes had turned cold and expressionless, like they had been before. He looked almost angry at her. She took a step of defiance towards him in the doorway, tucking her hair behind her ears. He didn't have the power to intimidate her.
"It's busy downstairs, you better get to work." Tommy's voice was raised as he turned down the stairs, leaving Florence alone. Things are always easier alone, she thought to herself, taking a deep breath before following him. She was torn between not letting him bother her anymore and pushing him to let her in. Florence had a tendency of letting fate decide how things played out.
In the hours after their confrontation Florence knew Tommy was in and out of the pub that afternoon, but she made the conscious decision to let Grace deal with him. She didn't know if she'd be able to bite her tongue and with her dad around, she didn't want to be letting loose and causing a scene. Luckily, the pub was packed with men on their way to watch the football, so Florence was so busy that she didn't have time to spare Tommy a second thought.
"Are you a whore?"
Over the din of the busy pub, the words echoed in her ears. She turned her head just in time to catch Tommy's eye before Grace closed the window. Grace stood stock still, her eyes wide.
"Stay away from him, Grace." She found herself whispering to the woman without thinking twice about it.
Lost in her thoughts again, Florence excused herself. It was crowded in the pub, and she felt like she needed some air and a stiff drink. She helped herself to some whiskey from the bottle, before heading to towards the door.
"Where do you think you're going?!" She heard her dad call from behind her, but she didn't bother giving him a reply.
The air felt fresh in her lungs as she turned and pressed her face against the cool brick. Things were getting bad again. At one point, she'd managed to completely give up with the drinking, yet as soon as she arrived back in Small Heath she'd found herself curling up in bed with a bottle every night. Sometimes it felt as though this place unlocked every bad feeling she'd ever felt. It was all here, no escaping from it. Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself back from the wall, turning and heading away from the pub. If she wanted to feel better, then she needed to face her problems head on instead of letting them fester away in her mind. Florence picked up her pace; like a woman on a mission, head held high, apron still tied around her waist, she knew where to go.
The door was open, ajar, like it had always been years before. Open to her. Ready. What was stopping her from entering were the thoughts bounding around her head. For a time, the house on Watery Lane was a place Florence had considered home. After her dad married her stepmother, she didn't feel comfortable spending time in her dad's house anymore. She and her stepmother had never quite seen eye to eye and she always felt like an imposter in their family, especially after Helen fell pregnant with Eddie. But Polly Gray had always kept a quiet eye on Florence. She had been friendly with her mother and noticed the girl suffering after she died. So she would invite her in for dinner occasionally. Eight-year-old Florence had always gotten along well with her nephews and she watched them become fast friends. By the time Florence was twelve, she was spending almost every evening with them. By the time she was fourteen, they considered her a part of the family. Her relationship with them went past just her close bond with Tommy. Being the same age as John, the two of them shared an unofficial but romantic relationship for the duration of their teenage years. They had a lot of love for each other but didn't exactly know how to show it. Polly worried about her as her life began to go off the rails, but the young Shelby men joined her, even encouraged her, in her inconspicuous endeavours.
Florence stared at the door, wondering whether she'd still have her place there. Taking a deep breath and wiping her hands on her apron, she nudged the door open and slipped inside.
Silence fell amongst the household as Florence Fenton stepped into their kitchen. She held her breath as all but Tommy looked at her. She noticed that instead he was staring at the wall behind her. She could see the anger in John's eyes as they drank her in, the shock present on Polly's face, and Ada looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Arthur was a sight to behold, covered in blood at the kitchen table. "Is this a dream?" Florence heard him murmur to himself.
It was Florence who broke the seconds of silence, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth as she began giggling uncontrollably. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…," she gasped for air, "You just all look a picture." With that, the kitchen became a flurry of action. Polly and Ada approached Florence in their reunion, while John began shouting something unintelligible. A disinterested Tommy and a pain-stricken Arthur had to grab him by the shoulders to drag him into the other room before he could cause any damage. Florence was able to make out 'you fucking bitch' before the door slammed, leaving them in silence once again. Ada stood leaning against the table while Polly held her close, giving her the tightest hug she'd received in years.
"Let me look at you, Flo, let me see you." Polly pulled away from her and took a step back, her eyes raking up and down her body. "Just like your mother. Beautiful." The sight of Florence standing before her brought tears to Polly's eyes. Florence was the daughter she'd never gotten to raise. It was as if she'd watched the little girl grow up from street rat to young woman right before her eyes. "I always knew you'd be back, Flo."
Their moment was interrupted by Arthur coming back into the kitchen, giving a chance for Florence to really take in the extent of his injuries. She nodded towards him. "Florence," he jeered at her, "I'd hug you but I don't want to cover you in blood."
"What the hell happened to you? I'd have thought you dead if you weren't making so much noise." Florence smiled at him. She'd never been as close to Arthur as she had been with the others, but she'd always thought of him fondly as something of an older brother. Arthur had always been protective of her on account of the fact that he still saw that eight-year old girl in front of him whenever he looked at her.
Polly smirked, "Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart. Sit down while we clean him up."
Florence stayed standing, glad that she was actually useful for something now. "Actually, I was a nurse in France for a while. Why don't you sit down and I'll take care of it?"