Chapter Content Warning: canon-typical content, reference to physical punishment, mentions of prostitution,

King of the Clan

1919

Clara slumped into her hand as she sat at the table slowly chewing her eggs and toast, one hand on her fork, the other holding a school book open. After having one of those evenings where she wasn't quite sure if she slept more than she simply sat reclined on her mattress staring at the dark ceiling, she had gotten out of bed with the moonlight still shining through her bedroom window.

She had plans of heading off to school early, as soon as Finn was up and ready, as soon as she got some endorsement for her intentions in the form of Tommy seeing her ready for school and not speaking up against it.

Tommy paused on the final step, studying his sister for a moment. Clara wore a clean white blouse and sweater with a blue skirt. Her boots were laced tight and clean of Birmingham's mud. She had pulled her hair back, secured it with a ribbon, tied in a neat bow though some stubborn tresses already fell loose over her eyes. She was focused on her book, chewing her food without realizing she was even doing it, bringing the forkfuls to her mouth as if it were merely drawn there by some sort of gravitation and not through any conscious choice.

Tommy cleared his throat before taking the final step.

Clara's back straightened and she dropped both the fork and the book, the metal clanging on the plate as she swiftly moved to pick up the book after it thudded to the floor. She forced a quick smile towards Finn who had been just behind Tommy on the stairs.

"I made us breakfast. I already took my share."

Finn settled himself at the table, pulling the platter in front of him.

"I can make more if…" she mumbled, fingers tightly grasping the book as she held it to her chest.

Tommy watched her still, fascinated by the length of time she had successfully avoided meeting his eyes. They both let her suggestion drift away as they watched Finn tuck in, eating straight from the serving dish while the plate intended for him sat off to the side, clean and untouched.

Tommy shook his head once at the boy as Clara busied herself with the contents of her school bag. He settled into the seat at the head of the table, his focus returning to his sister.

"C'mere, Clara. Let me get a look at that head."

Clara finished stuffing the books back in her bag before shuffling closer to her brother, her face still turned towards Finn. She grimaced as Tommy impatiently pulled her to stand in front of him, his knees trapping her between him the table. He nearly rolled his eyes at the production she was making of not looking at him though he wasn't surprised by it.

Up close, Tommy could see the dark circles below her eyes, the dull pallid skin of her face. Tommy pushed the loose hair away from her forehead and Clara flinched away as he touched his thumb to the sensitive flesh above her brow.

Tommy raised an eyebrow as her eyes moved suddenly to his.

"You clean this?"

"Jeremiah did," she offered, dropping eye contact as she wrapped her arms tightly around her body, leaning back into the table.

Tommy hummed, leaning back in the chair. "That was yesterday. Let's keep that hair out of your battle scar, eh?"

She nodded once, her chin nearly knocking into her chest as she kept her eyes trained to the floor. "Can you do special ones?"

Tommy didn't answer, turning her around to face the table before releasing the ribbon and pulling his fingers through her hair. Clara didn't complain as Tommy's fingers snagged on the knots she hadn't been able to brush out herself but her shoulders slumped as Tommy pulled her hair into three distinct sections at the nape of her neck.

Tommy couldn't braid in the proper sense, not in the fancy way Clara liked and had become accustomed to. She preferred Ada or Polly, or even John, who was a bit better than Tommy since Martha had forced him to learn on account of his own girls, but Tommy could do a basic plait and so long as he pulled it tight, that would be good enough to keep the hair clear of her cut.

"But all the girls at school get two special braids."

"Good thing you're not going to school then," Tommy said, yanking slightly on Clara's head as he began twisting her hair into place.

Tommy heard her groan, felt the shift in her body as she stomped her boot. He pulled tighter on the braid once again, her groan shifting to a whine as her head lurched back to compensate. He tied her ribbon into a clumsy bow, turning her back to face him. "Take those books back upstairs."

"But I—"

"Take the books upstairs. I've told you I won't have you fighting me."

"I'm not fighting you."

"You are and if you insist on it, you can stay up in your room for the day."

Clara stared back at her brother, shifting her gaze to the floor when she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. "But—"

"It's not fair she gets to stay home and I have to go back to school," Finn said, mouth still full of eggs. "Can't I stay home, too, Tommy?"

"No, Finn. You'll have to stick it out without your sister. It's not a reward for her to be staying home."

Finn shrugged. "It would be for me."

"Well, it's not, eh Clara?" Tommy said, wiping the tears from her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

Clara pushed his hand away, her lips pressed into a firm line.

"No stupid tests or reading or—"

"Shut up, Finn."

"Take the books up," Tommy interjected.

"Then tell him to—"

"I won't tell you again. Take the books up"

Clara huffed as she tugged on the strap of her school bag, allowing it to slam against the wood floor as she pushed Tommy's knee out of the way so she could get by.

"Then come back down and I'll clean that up before I go."

"I'll do it myself," she answered from the stairs.

Clara liked the feeling of her boots slapping against the hardwood as she stomped up the stairs, but she quickly softened her steps at the sound of wood scraping on the floor.

"Clara."

She stopped her solemn march up the stairs only two steps from the freedom of the second floor. "What?"

"Look at me."

Clara's shoulders slowly rose and fell as she took a steadying breath. If she hadn't made a production of the stomping, she would have already been safely tucked away in her bedroom, avoiding this interaction altogether. She heard Tommy's weight fall on the first step, the wood creaking under his weight and she turned to face him. Clara put forth an effort to make her face neutral, to convey nothing aside from the fact that she was expecting him to say his piece.

"Don't be leaving the house today," he said. "I've got business in town and I don't want to be questioning your whereabouts."

Clara nodded once. She waited for Tommy to back down the steps before withdrawing to her bedroom.

Behind the safety of the closed bedroom door, Clara allowed herself to lower to the floor, arms wrapping around her knees as she drew them into her chest. She felt the sting of tears, a painful lump working itself up her throat. She was alone on the second floor of the house and feeling a special kind of loneliness she knew couldn't be quelled by spending the day reading one of her books.

It had been days since a book brought her any proper sense of comfort. Though she scanned the pages of her novels with a deliberate eye, willing her mind to focus, to transport her someplace that wasn't Watery Lane, her thoughts were being stubborn, unmoved by the words on the page. Her most recent hardcovered adventure had slipped from her bag as she lowered herself to the floor, the tome silently mocking her as she cried. Clara tossed the book, unaffected by the thud it made as it hit the wall behind her bed, landing with its pages open and crumbled atop her blankets.

She stayed on the floor for another moment as she quieted, the anger and sadness settling within her. Clara stood up, rearranging the book and smoothing the pages before leaving it on the bed and moving towards the window overlooking the courtyard behind the house.

She considered for only a brief moment whether escaping to the back roof over the kitchen counted as leaving. It was not a spot where she had ever explicitly been told not to wander. Unlike the betting shop or Ada's bedroom, the topic of the roof had never been discussed. Regardless, climbing through the window and settling there always made her feel a bit mischievous.

Whenever Clara had climbed through that small window, reaching down with her toes to find her footing on the aging shingles, her stomach always flipped. She had never once been caught, but she realized she had ventured out there less since the boys returned home and whether consciously or not, Clara had taken to timing her roof explorations for when she knew the boys would be out.

It was a spot Clara liked because it was easy to be physically alone, especially in the mornings when mothers weren't out hanging their laundry and most people still languished in their beds. It made it easier to think, easier to wallow. And wallowing was exactly the thing Clara felt like doing.

Clara had been alone on the roof for no more than twenty minutes when she heard John speaking to her through the window. She hadn't heard him approach, but he hadn't startled her, his voice distinctive to her ears.

"Starting fights and escaping through windows now, are we? Tommy'll have to move you upfront to Ada's room."

John hoped for at least half a smile from his sister, but he was met with little more than a neutral glance when she turned to look at him, his head hung out through the open window. Clara quickly resettled her gaze back down the row of houses and John started his climb onto the roof.

It was more difficult than he remembered, the window seeming smaller and higher than the last time he had climbed through. He had the briefest fleeting thought that he was getting to be old. He walked to Clara's side, nudging her with the toe of his shoe.

"Hey," he said, waiting until she looked up to him. "You wanna come to visit Arthur with me? Get that sorry fool outta bed?"

"Is he sick?"

"In a way, I suppose," John mused, shrugging as he stood beside Clara, his gaze shifting out to the houses. They were nearly at the edge of the roof. He could've jumped without much thought and without incurring a single injury, but he remembered a time when the distance from the roof to the courtyard below felt like a major feat. He figured the distance still felt high to his sister. "He could use some cheering up is all. You're good with cheering."

John watched as Clara gathered her knees a little closer, settling her chin on her folded arms.

"Can't," she mumbled.

"Why's that?"

"Tommy told me not to be leaving the house."

John let out a chuckle. "So, what? You're shutting yourself in your room to prevent another walloping? That's no way to live your life. If I had to lock myself in my house to avoid trouble, I'd never see sunlight."

"I didn't get a walloping."

John made an impressed nod. "Well, Tommy's always been a little soft on you. And I suppose with the stitches and the fightin', you've been through enough. You certainly can't say you didn't earn one though, eh?"

Clara felt a blush creep into her cheeks and turned further away from John again, allowing her hair to fall across her face.

It had only taken her until she settled into bed the night before to realize that she had messed up. She had let her anger with Wally Bartow and all of the rest of it get the best of her. She had been expecting some sort of repercussion ever since arriving home, Clara suffocating under the tension of a threat that Tommy hadn't even issued.

"I never thought it'd be you being the first Shelby pulled out of school for scrapping."

The picture in John's head made sense only because he had seen Clara mid-fight with Finn so many times, the two tearing at each other, a mess of scratching fingernails and flailing limbs. He had never been above encouraging the twins to fight it out or to pounce on any of his other siblings. Still, that had been in the context of family. The brawls were nothing more than play fighting. If Clara got the best of someone, it wasn't on account of strength, but more likely the result of her opponent being overcome with a distracting bit of laughter at her unexpected ferocity.

The idea of his baby sister, his short, scrawny sister, picking a fight with a kid twice her size in the schoolyard scared him. Finn's coming into being a Blinder scared him too, but there was no stopping that for the boy. The girls though, they had options for a different life. They didn't need to brawl or steal. They could live a quiet, easy existence if they wanted.

Clara let out a horrible sounding wail and John lowered himself to her side, settling his arm over her quaking shoulders. She straightaway released her legs and turned into John's chest, tucking her head in the space under his chin.

John took a second to rearrange himself and accommodate her. John wasn't the one Clara came to when she was upset. He could count on a single hand the times in his life when he had been the person to comfort her, the person whose chin she tucked her head under.

John had far more often been the person she ran to for protection from a fake attack from a sibling. He had been the person she demanded a silly joke from, the person she asked to accompany her on a walk to Uncle Charlie's if the others denied her. He had been the person allowing her to escape to his house for the evening, where she could play the role of having someone to be in charge of, four little someones to be in charge of. Those were the roles John played for Clara.

The sounds mumbled through her lips were a mix of whines with fragmented sentences. John grasped what he could, forcing himself to listen more closely to the words than the cries and staggered breathing.

"What if I never get back to school? How am I supposed to support myself? What if—?"

"Where are you getting ideas you'll have to be supporting yourself?"

"Some ladies have to. If they don't finish school and they don't have a husband and they have to do bad things just so they can eat supper and have a bed to sleep in and—"

"And you won't be one of them!" John felt Clara flinch at his tone and he wiped a hand over his face before starting again. "Christ, Clara. You've got four brothers that'll have to be good and dead before you'd ever have to do any kind of work. And anyway, you're going back to school, you hear me?"

John cupped her chin, lifting her face so her watery eyes met his. He searched for some sort of recognition of his words, a confirmation of acceptance, and he only continued when he found it. "If Tommy doesn't have it sorted by Christmas, I'll sort it for you myself, eh?"

"Christmas?" Clara wailed once again. "But Christmas is ages away."

"Christ. I don't know a single person who'd be this upset at missing a bit of school. You should consider yourself lucky for getting the time off."

Clara had dissolved into tears again, seemingly fusing herself into the fabric of his waistcoat. John pulled her away, placing hands on both cheeks, tears spilling from her eyes as she sputtered and hiccupped.

"Keep carrying on like that and someone will report us to the parish authorities. Sounds like you're being offed up here on the rough."

John's words, intended as a joke, had a quick effect in dampening her wails. John gave her a sad smile, clearing the tears away by sweeping his thumbs under her eyes.

"You know he must already have a plan for your schooling. A tutor for now, but I'm sure he's got a new school worked out. He's always got some sort of strategy worked out before the rest of us know a thing about it, doesn't he?"

Clara nodded as much as she could with John's hands cradling her cheeks. In the time Clara spent alone on the roof before John came up, she came to the same conclusion, that Tommy had crafted some sort of plan that he hadn't yet deemed ready to share with her. It wasn't just the not knowing that bothered her though. The notion of Tommy no longer judging her as honorable enough to know his plans hurt more than she knew it could.

"And until he lets us know his plan, that means you're free to come with me to visit Arthur."

"No, I'm not. Tommy said—"

"You gonna do everything our brother says for the rest of your life?"

John stood up, straightening his clothes as he looked down at his sister, her head once again turned away from him towards the houses of Watery Lane.

"I don't know," she mumbled.

"Well, how about this? How about you come back inside and write Arthur a letter and I'll deliver it to him? I'll send him over for a visit later today, yeah?"

John reached a hand down to her, smirking when she finally slipped her fingers in his palm. He pulled her to her feet and led her to the window, watching as she deftly climbed through. He followed after, pulling the glass pane closed.

"You know, next time, if you don't want to be found out you should pull that window closed after you climb out. Keeps people from looking."

"I've never been found out before."

"You spend much time out there? You've got three brothers with windows facing that roof."

"None of you must've been paying very much attention then."

Both of them shrugged before John reached out to muss her hair. "I've got four wild ones of my own to look after. If anything, you should be looking out for me, making sure they don't overthrow me."

Clara glanced back at her brother, smiling. "They're just kids."

"So are you, just a kid, that is. Wicked though, the whole lot of you. I know you taught my Sarah that trick with the spot under the chin," John answered, reaching over to tickle his sister in the weak spot they both shared, laughing as she swatted his hand away.

"The girl uses that to keep us all in line, a bit wild and bossy like her Aunt Clara, that one."

Clara shoved at John, the two falling into laughter as he caught her arms.

"Any wildness those kids have, they learned it from their father and their bloody uncles. Martha and Aunt Polly always said so."

John's kids were each a year or less apart, the immediate result of his early marriage to Martha Taylor. When they were first married and Sarah was born, Clara had been only four, and less than a year later came George, though he went by his middle name of Joseph now. Next was Katie, and then, after John had left for the war, little Robbie was born.

"Whoever they got it from, they're exhausting."

John sat on his sister's bed, moving a stuffed rabbit and her latest book to the side as he settled against the headboard. John allowed his shoes to dangle off the end of the bed. He watched as Clara settled at the small writing desk beside the window, pulling a piece of paper and pencil from the drawer and beginning her letter to Arthur.

"Doesn't have to be anything like those novels you sent when we were away," John said. "Just something quick to encourage the old man."

Clara largely ignored John's suggestion. She wasn't one to constrain her writing whether it was a story or a note. Though she occupied herself with the letter, Clara found her brain bringing her back to a place of frustration, bringing her back to that moment when she stood at the top of the steps listening to Tommy tell her not to leave the house. It was frustration at not being able to go with John down the street to Arthur's, frustration at not being able to go back to school, and it seeped into every part of her, filling her muscles with a restless strain she wished to shake out.

Clara knew she was inching back towards something she didn't want from Tommy, another sort of explosive confrontation. Knowing it didn't keep her from feeling the agitated verve in every part of her body, straight down to her fingertips though.

She turned towards John, his eyes skimming the pages of the book she had deposited on the bed earlier. One of his hands rested casually behind his head.

"What?" he asked, finally noticing his sister was watching him.

"How do I keep out of trouble?"

John exhaled quickly through his nose, letting out a quick snort. "You're asking the wrong person. Hell, I don't know if there's a single one of us Shelbys knows how to keep outta trouble."

She scuffed the bottom of her boot a few times, frowning at the floor as she turned back to her writing. She didn't want to spend the foreseeable future at odds with Tommy, going toe to toe for weeks or months at a time until he decided he wanted her not just out of the local school, but out of his life altogether.

"You know, you're lucky, you and Finn. You've got it easy. Pol's nerves are shot after dealing with the rest of us, so she's gone soft. And Tommy, too. Well, he's soft on you at least. Gives the rest of us an ear full for something he'd only give you half." John set the book down against his chest. "And you didn't have our crazy fucking mother. The woman had a blind rage so scary that—"

"Tommy's got a blind rage, too."

"Nah, it's not blind. Tommy's rage is—"

John stopped himself, sitting up and looking at Clara as he turned towards her. Her back faced him and if she hadn't stopped her writing, with her face turned out toward the window, he wouldn't have known how intently she was listening.

"Well, never mind about Tommy. I wanna tell you something else."

Clara turned towards John as she began folding the letter into delicate and precise thirds. "Tell me what?"

"Just come over a sit a minute, will you?"

Clara slid off the chair and crossed the room, sinking onto the bed beside him. John once again wrapped an arm over her shoulders. "If I tell ya, you're sworn to secrecy, yeah? You tuck it away and not one of the others hears of it until I tell them."

Clara nodded.

"Alright then." John rubbed his thumb across his chin. "You know Lizzie, right?"

"Lizzie Stark? Everybody knows Lizzie Stark," Clara answered, picking at her fingers. "Why?"

"You like her?"

Clara nodded once. Clara knew Lizzie Stark. She also knew why everyone in Small Heath knew Lizzie Stark, most of the kids knew. The older boys made inappropriate comments when she passed. The men always looked her way. She was one of the ladies that had to do things to get her supper and pay for her room. Clara imagined someone had once pulled Lizzie Stark out of school too.

"She dresses nice," was the answer Clara settled on because it was the truth.

"Yeah, but do you like her?"

Clara didn't know Lizzie well, but the woman had always shown a certain sweetness to the Watery Lane kids, kicking a ball back if it strayed in front of where she was walking, smiling sweetly at them as she passed. She'd even sat with Finn when he twisted an ankle, waiting while Clara ran back home to fetch an adult to handle the situation.

"I think so. She seems nice," Clara decided.

John smiled. "Well, good. I'm gonna ask her to marry me."

"You're gonna ask Lizzie Stark to marry you?"

John clapped a hand over Clara's mouth, grinning at the smile in his sister's eyes.

"You think that'd be alright?"

"Will you be happy?"

"I think so."

"I think being happy is alright."

"I hope the rest of them agree."

"You mean Tommy?"

John settled back against the wall beside Clara's bed and she followed him.

"Seems to be king of the clan these days, doesn't he?"

Clara rested her head on John's shoulder. They both took deep breaths and John closed his eyes for a moment, relishing in the comfort of his sister's quick approval. He wished it could all be this easy, that his being happy could make the rest of it all fall away.

"I should get to Arthur's," John said, lifting his shoulder, nudging Clara to let him up.

"Can you help me clean this first? I told him I'd do it myself, but—"

"It'll cost you a biscuit."

Clara smiled, leaning over him to pull out the drawer of her nightstand. She handed the crumpled bag to him. "It's mostly crumbs left."

John tilted the bag into his palm before doing the same for Clara. "Good thing we like the crumbs, then."

They tipped their palms into their mouths and John bounded off the bed. "Does Pol know you keep those up here?"

Clara shrugged. She found it hard to believe that there was really anything her Aunt Polly didn't know about, but the woman hadn't said anything.

"Well, c'mon then. Let's get this over with."

Clara stopped herself at the edge of the bed, picking at her quilt. "Is he still down there?"

"In the shop, I imagine. C'mon."

John let Clara climb onto his back, supporting her legs as they descended the stairs. He deposited her on the table while he went for the necessary supplies and when he returned, Clara had gone all serious in the face. "Maybe we just tell him we cleaned it. He won't know."

John stepped back, leaning into the wall. "Sneaking on roofs and crafting lies… Who are you and what have you done with our Clara?"

When she didn't respond, John moved forward, grasping the bottle and tipping it to wet the cloth. He bent down in front of her, holding the rag. "It only stings a minute. You get to tell me when."

Clara took a deep breath, her hands gripping the edge of the table as she mumbled out a quiet, "Okay."

John pressed the dampened rag to the stitches on his sister's forehead, cradling the back of her head as she pulled away and a hiss escaped her lips. She settled as he pulled the rag away, the cool air meeting her skin as the sting faded.

"Not so bad, was it?" John asked, putting the cap back on the bottle. "You'll have to get used to it if you're gonna be out in the streets scrapping like that."

John cut his laughter short as Tommy stepped through the room, barely sparing them so much as a glance as he headed towards the exit. John watched the change come over Clara, her near smile switching to a neutral façade as her shoulders slumped.

"Hey now, none of that," John said, reaching his hand out to tickle the spot under her chin.

Clara smiled whether she wanted to or not. She couldn't help it. That secret spot worked like magic.