Chapter Content Warning: canon-typical content

The Way of Things

1919

Polly sat at the table with the evening paper once John and Clara left, thankful they'd all made it through the night without too much by the way of commotion. It had been a relatively calm evening, enjoyable even, but she continued to grow wary, the need for some sort of communication more substantial than a tête-à-tête between two pairs of unblinking eyes or a few sharp remarks mounting by the day. She wasn't sure what would finally bring it about, what could possibly push her into finally antagonizing the nephew she'd been acting like a brick wall towards, to reacquaint herself with the managing of the business of the family, something which she had bitterly set aside, allowing Tommy to handle nearly all of it on his own, letting him feel the genuine weight of the whole bloody world on his shoulders since he seemed so determined to have it.

Polly had a feeling that in the end, it would be Tommy coming to her. Obstinate as he was, his siblings' woes were a great bit to hold in addition to the wars with Billy Kimber and the Lee boys and the copper from Belfast. And willful as he was to resolve things himself, control everything, bowing to Polly was a strategy of sorts, a Hail Mary he always had in his wheelhouse. Tommy knew he could come to her for support while keeping his pride intact. He had been doing it since the days of his strategies as a Watery Lane boy, since Polly was barely a teenager and there was a certain comfortable cadence to the exchange. Polly would not wound him too much for being who he was, for not knowing how to suitably manage the family.

She didn't fault Tommy for it, not really. Despite a difference of only six years between them, Polly still saw her nephew as the sweet boy who smiled and laughed more, the one who wanted to work with horses, the one who doted endlessly on his family. She saw the boy who told the most brilliant stories using all the right voices and stayed out dancing with the Small Heath girls. She saw the boy who had tucked the twins in most nights and checked in on their sleeping forms on the nights when he hadn't.

And Polly also didn't fault Tommy because he wasn't the only one who had changed when the boys were in France. The rest of them had changed as well, growing more and more troublesome, their behaviors and resistance to his authority more inherent and more taxing.

Arthur had become a challenge, more prone to his moods, more reliant on his vices. John no longer had Martha to manage the children, to manage him, to balance him. Ada was pregnant and married Freddie Thorne, and gone from them. And Finn and Clara were no longer babies frightened off any unscrupulous behavior by a quick rebuke.

It all seemed to astonish Tommy, that their sensitive Arthur should come home from war with these novel dispositions, that John could be undone by the loss of his Martha, that Ada should fall willingly into the arms of the one non-Shelby she had ever loved, that Finn would follow his brothers' examples rather than their words, and that his Clara could grow to question nearly everything, willingly stand against him. But little surprised Polly these days.

It wasn't like Tommy to be so unsuspecting, so unprepared, but following his foolish decree, Polly settled on staying out of it, settled on being more stubborn than her nephew so long as their home life remained functional. And though some days it seemed barely so, the Shelbys were functioning.

Clara and Tommy, for one, had been more or less agreeable aside from what Polly considered a bit of fine-tuning. The shouting had withdrawn to a minimum and Clara's compliance was earned through nothing more than a steady gaze or a strong word or two in most cases, but things were far from normal, their interactions vacillating between the new bit of obstinate tension and small hints of the comraderie that the family was used to seeing between them.

The two had been spending more time together at Charlie's yard which helped things along, but Polly figured any of the quiet at home came far more from Clara keeping to herself than any shift in understanding or new appreciation for her brother's way of handling things. Polly hadn't dived into it though, had been strictly hands-off with her niece for weeks. She'd taken to directing the kids to go ask their brother when questions came up about family things, refusing anything beyond them asking after the supper menu or where this or that one was at the moment.

Clara quickly grew tired of being directed to her brother and stopped asking after things altogether. Finn still asked every question that came to his mind though, and then eagerly sought after Tommy to pose whatever question he'd been denied an answer for. Polly hoped it maddened him as much as it did her, the endless questions, though she suspected at a point, Tommy simply ignored them. He wasn't one for answering questions he wasn't interested in answering.

"What can I do for you, Thomas?" Polly eyed Tommy as he stood at the end of the table thumbing through the papers Clara had left there.

"She happen to tell you why she's not doing this work at school?"

Polly snorted at his description, still not impressed with him calling the Garrison's snug a school, nor with him calling the new barmaid a teacher.

"No." She folded her paper and set it aside, folding her arms over her chest. "And I haven't asked her about it either seeing as that's your territory now. Wouldn't want to go unnecessarily upsetting the balance."

Tommy dropped the papers and slipped into a seat at the table, deciding Polly's comment didn't warrant a rebuttal.

"Where is she?"

"Down to Arthur's with John."

Tommy nodded, rolling his neck and reaching up to rub out the tension settled there. "And Finn?"

"Down to Jamie Green's. That boy told me he asked you first."

"Right." Tommy reached for the whiskey bottle John left behind and poured a finger into a spare teacup.

He had seen his youngest brother earlier in the day. Tommy had been busy at the time, preoccupied as he passed through the lane on his way to a meeting. Though Finn had mentioned he'd been invited somewhere, he certainly hadn't asked for any sort of permission. He'd have to get after the boy about it at some point, but now wasn't that time. He hadn't left his office to talk about Finn.

"She's—"

"I wouldn't fuss over your sister being just the same amount of stubborn and clever as you are. As long as she does the work, what does it matter when or where she does it?"

Tommy glanced at Polly, raising his eyebrows. Sure, Polly had relinquished her responsibility in managing the family, but Tommy was unsurprised the woman still knew every bit of business passing in and out of the home's four walls.

"It's not just about the work being done," he answered.

"So, what's it about, then, Thomas? Why does it matter if your sister doesn't like the woman? Been a fair amount of teachers you lot didn't like over the years."

"Because Grace is trying to help prepare her for an entrance exam and she's not allowing the help."

"What entrance exam?" Polly asked.

Tommy pulled the brochure from his pocket as he smirked, not a particularly small part of him glad there were still some bits of information his aunt could be shocked by.

"I've found her a proper school." He passed the brochure across the table. "A respectable school. It's on the other side of Birmingham, but I'll sort that. She'll learn—"

"Embroidery and how to balance a fucking book on her head?"

Tommy cleared his throat. "They have advanced course work, Pol, and if she happens to improve her posture, I can't imagine that would do her any harm."

Polly looked at the paper in silence and then moved her gaze up to Tommy, a sad smile on her face. "I'm sure it's a fine school, Thomas, but how—?"

"I've got the finances handled, Polly. And Grace will help her qualify for a scholarship if she stops this nonsense."

After the business with Monaghan Boy, the Shelby family had achieved something he'd never experienced in all his life. They had money enough to set aside for the future, had money enough to pay for school for both of the twins if they wanted it. Tommy hadn't had much of a choice in the matter of ending his education, but he'd stop that by providing for the twins, for his nieces and nephews.

"Have you told her?" Polly asked. "Shown her this?" She held up the pamphlet.

"Not yet."

"You think that might change how she's acting?"

Tommy shrugged, taking a long sip.

"You want her to learn the way of things without an incentive?" Polly scoffed, shaking her head. "You know, that's real rich coming from a boy who never learned the way of things himself."

"Oh, I've learned the way of things, Pol."

"Oh, yes. You learned the proper way, so you can go right ahead and ignore it. Do exactly as you please with little regard for—"

"I've drummed up new money," he answered. "It pays the bills, doesn't it?"

Polly laughed. "Right, so you want those kids to learn the way of things, so they can be like you? I don't think the world could handle any more Tommy Shelby's. I certainly know I can't."

Tommy shifted in his chair, leaning forward. "Listen, Pol. The kids will have a different life than we did, alright? That's why Clara's going to this school. That's why Finn's at a fucking sleepover instead of spending his night out in the streets."

Clara's heart pounded in her chest, her sweaty palm slipping over the handle as she worked to open the door to number six. She saw Tommy first and his mouth was parted, mid-sentence as he turned to her from his seat in the next room, his eyes finding hers in the dim glow of the front room's fire.

"There… there's something wrong with Arthur," Clara said, the words bringing with them a sob she coughed over as she tried to hold it in, suffering through the hot sting in her throat and eyes as the room stirred around her.

"Was he hurt? Shot?" Polly's voice came through over the sound of wood scraping on wood and both Polly and Tommy appeared in front of her, readying themselves while they awaited further elaboration.

Tommy prompted his sister, his voice sharp as he said her name, his hand already gripping the door handle Clara didn't remember releasing. Polly exhaled, stepping in front of Tommy and lowering herself to meet Clara's eye.

"Tell me, love," she said, a hand on her mottled cheek. "Tell me about Arthur."

"There was blood and he was sick an…and he wasn't breathing right and—" Clara forced the words out, stumbling over them as the lump in her throat swelled.

"That's a good girl," Polly said, rubbing her thumb against Clara's cheek.

"C'mon, Pol," Tommy said, holding the door open as he glanced at his sister. "Stay here."

Tommy pulled the door shut and the dense silence of the house settled around Clara, restricting her, suffocating her like too many blankets on a warm night, only serving to make her thoughts louder, the churning in her stomach more violent, and the nervous energy in her limbs more insistent.

She couldn't stay alone in the house, couldn't wait for someone to come back, couldn't sit there and do nothing while knowing nothing, so she wiped her clammy hand down the front of her skirt before yanking open the front door and stepping back out into the lane.

It had been less than a minute since Polly and Tommy had gone through, but Clara could already see Tommy walking back in her direction on the lane. He set a determined pace, his hat pulled low over his eyes, his shoulders tense in a way they hadn't been when she saw him sitting at the table minutes before. Clara followed after him, shouting his name when Tommy didn't slow, his eyes straight ahead, not conscious of anything but the path ahead of him.

Clara grabbed her brother's arm and Tommy finally turned, his jaw tightening at the interruption, his eyes closing for just a moment before he focused on her.

Tommy had half a mind to send her back to the house, half a mind to do nothing more than utter a sharp "go home," but then he took a proper look at her wet eyes and reddened face. He reached down to wipe the tears from one cheek.

"Tommy, is he—" she started.

"He'll be alright," Tommy offered, turning away from her for a moment, his feet eager to keep moving. "I need you to go on home."

"But—" Clara grabbed for his arm when he pulled it away.

"Alright," Tommy said, repositioning his cap and glancing down at her. "I have to fetch Jeremiah. You're coming with me?"

Clara nodded and Tommy took her hand, her fingers like ice as they curled around his. She hadn't worn a jacket, hadn't seemed to need one all day, but the air had taken on a sudden chill now that the sun had gone completely below the rooftops.

Tommy's hands were still warm, but as they walked three blocks over to see Jeremiah, he felt a bit of a cold slush moving through his veins because even though Arthur would survive this, there was a part of him that knew his brother wasn't truly alright.

"You'll stay here, alright?" Tommy said, his body leaned against the open frame of Jeremiah's front door while the man prepared to come back with him to Arthur's. Tommy had settled his hands in his pocket, fiddling with the cigarette case he planned to retrieve the second they were back out on the streets.

Clara looked up at him, shivering now in her thin sweater, biting down on her quivering lip. "But what about—"

"Someone will come for you when it's settled."

Clara nodded, wiping at the obstinate tears snaking down her cheeks, sniffling as she tried to compose herself.

"Listen." Tommy pulled her up in his arms and she laid her head against him. "Are you listening?"

Clara nodded into his shoulder.

"Take a deep breath for me, eh?"

Clara filled her lungs, matching her brother's breathing, her exhale following his.

"Good girl," he said, rubbing a hand on her back. "Arthur's alright. A bloody idiot, for sure, but he'll live to see another day, live to drive you and me mad another day, alright?"

"He doesn't drive me mad," Clara mumbled.

"Well, he does me and he'll be doing it for a long time to come, so no more tears over your brother being an idiot, eh? He'll be alright."

Clara nodded, lifting her head to meet his eye. "Why do you need Jeremiah, then?"

"Because he's going to sew up Arthur's head. Our brother'll probably have a nice scar to match yours when all's said and done."

Clara took another deep breath, settling her head against Tommy's shoulder once again until Jeremiah reappeared in the kitchen.

"Now I need you to stay here with Isiah," Tommy set her on her feet, guiding her back towards the boy. "He'll look after you, yeah, Isiah?"

Isiah nodded, stepping closer to Clara. "Yeah, Tommy. I've got her."

Clara watched Isiah stoke the fire as she sat buried under the pile of blankets he'd brought down from the second-floor bedrooms. She was still cold despite the fire and the blankets and the fact that she'd been at Isiah's for nearly half an hour. And despite Tommy telling her Arthur would be alright, she still felt sick to her stomach, still felt the stinging lump in her throat every time she swallowed, but at least the tears had stopped, a blessing seeing as her eyes were raw from all the rubbing.

"You alright?" Isiah asked as he sat down beside her.

Clara nodded as she watched the fire catch the new log, the orange and yellow flames skirting across the wood.

"Yeah," Isiah answered, "must be why you're shaking so much, because you're alright."

"I'm cold."

"Well, you've already got all my blankets and dad's. And this fire's got me sweating." Isiah glanced at her. "You want tea?"

Clara shook her head, her gaze still lost in the flames, but Isiah stood up anyhow, leaving her alone with the fire and the blankets and her thoughts as he went through to the kitchen and put on the kettle.

As she sat alone, Clara's mind remained fixed the vision of Arthur's limp body as a corpse, not that she had much of a reference for it, never having seen one in real life. She'd read of them, had a certain image in her mind, and for a moment when she had first pushed the door open, and even now, a part of her thought it possible for Arthur to be dead. She hadn't seen him heave a breath, not a single one, in the seconds she spent watching before John guided her out of the room. Had he inhaled then? When she'd been sent down to put the kettle on for tea?

Isiah set the cups down on the end table as he sat back down and Clara finally looked at him.

"He looked dead, Siah. You ever saw a—" Clara stopped herself, realizing what she had been about to ask, realizing she already knew the answer. "Sorry, I—"

Isiah shook his head. "Don't worry about it."

Clara looked up to him, offering a disheartened smile. Of course, Isiah had seen a corpse, being that he was the one to find his grandmother the morning after she'd passed. She'd gone peacefully in her sleep, but the moment still haunted him—his nan's cold skin, the still room, her vacant eyes.

"Look," Isiah said, turning towards her, "Tommy said Arthur'll be alright. You trust Tommy, yeah?"

Clara took a deep breath, glancing at the fire before nodding.

"Then there's nothing to worry about. Dad says men just get like that sometimes because of the war… use the booze to forget the pain. And it makes a right mess of things is all."

It was something Clara had never thought much about before, the idea of all the booze or why a person might drink so much of it. It was just the way of things even if Clara didn't understand it.

The one time she and Finn sipped their brother's whiskey straight, she spit hers right back out, so she had a feeling they didn't only drink it because they liked the taste. All Clara knew was that the boys drank plenty, and Polly and Ada sometimes, too. Most of Small Heath did. And she saw what it did to people, making them mean or loud or unable to walk, some of the men still asleep on Garrison Lane when Polly dragged them to the early services on Sunday mornings.

Clara most often saw the booze make her brothers act a bit silly, at least John and Arthur turned silly. It made them wake the house up late at night on their return from the Garrison, made them spin her around in dizzy circles with no music, or play fight with her and Finn, laughing and shouting and falling over themselves until Tommy or Polly would send them back to their own homes so the kids could get back to sleep. The booze never made Tommy act silly like John and Arthur, but it did make him fall asleep only a page or two into whatever story they were reading when he put her back to bed.

So, Clara had seen it make a person silly and loud. She'd seen it make a person sleepy, but she'd never seen it make a person look stiff as a corpse, covered in their own sick and blood. She'd never seen a person entirely unresponsive.

"John says he's sick with Flanders Blues," Clara offered, shifting so she faced Isiah.

He nodded, taking his turn to study the fire. He took a deep breath as he looked back at her. "Maybe we should talk about something else."

Clara narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

"I don't know," Isiah said, "because you're too young for this stuff, Clara."

"How am I too young for something if you're not?"

"I'm three years older than you."

"Two years and four months," she corrected, shoving her foot into his leg.

"Fine, two years and four months," Isiah conceded, turning himself on the couch, settling his legs beside hers on top of the blankets.

"To the day," she added.

"You're right," Isiah offered, settling his arms over his chest. "Two years and four months, to the very day."

"So—"

"So, I'm not a kid like you and Finn anymore," Isiah interrupted.

"Says who?"

He groaned, raising his hands in the air as he raised his voice. "Says everyone, Clara!" Isiah bit his lip, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Look, I just don't want to talk about it anymore, alright?"

"You could've just said," Clara mumbled. "You don't have to shout at me."

"Well, you don't listen, just keep going on and on and—"

"Well, then you don't have to sit with me if you don't want to." Clara looked back to the fire, reclining against the arm of the couch and folding her arms over her chest. "I'll be fine down here on my own."

"Well, I'm not going back upstairs. You've got all my blankets."

Isiah watched her, waited for her lips to tug into an unstoppable smile, but she remained cold in her features, kept her eyes on the fire, kept her arms tight across her chest and her body uncomfortably turned away from him.

Isiah's face lips pulled into a gentle smile as he nudged her with his foot. "And you know I didn't mean it like that. I just…I made a promise to Tommy is all."

Clara's eyes flicked to his. "What promise?"

"Just about the way of things, about loyalty, and looking after you, and I'm not looking to be answering to your brothers or my father for breaking any promises about you any time soon."

Clara felt the rush of warm blood in her cheeks, the beating of her heart just a bit stronger, the steady thumping almost uncomfortable after his words. Their being found out had been quite a while ago, but Clara and Isiah hadn't really discussed what had happened to either of them as a result of her lying. She glanced up at him.

"Did he say something mean? I—I told him sneaking off to Ada's was my idea, told him I didn't even give you any choice. And I wrote your dad a letter. Tommy said he'd deliver it."

Isiah shook his head, grinning as he sat up a little straighter. "Nah, Clara, I know you took the blame. Tommy did… deliver the letter, I mean. Saved me a bit with my dad, I think, but, uh, I'd just rather not talk about your brothers like that, if that's alright. I'm not family. It's not my place."

Clara pushed herself up on the couch. "Alright, fine, but you can still tell me what Flanders Blues is. You said it was about the war and forgetting and—"

"And nothing, Clara," he answered.

"Do they all have it? That's why they all drink?"

Isiah took a deep breath, rolling his eyes. "Clara—"

"Does your dad drink, too? I've never seen him, but—"

Isiah shook his head. "Dad doesn't touch the stuff. He's got God and his preaching. Drowns himself well enough in that."

"So, they all just wanna forget, then? But they can't and—"

"I wish you'd forget this conversation," Isiah answered, pulling a book off the end table, holding it up for her to see. "Let's read something, pass some time."

Clara glanced at the cover and then to the cheeky grin on Isiah's face. "Where'd you get that?"

"Your brother." He shrugged, tossing it to Clara's end of the couch and she caught it, thumbing through the pages.

"But this is the book—"

"I know," Isiah answered. "I asked to borrow it."

It was over six months ago since Tommy had made her put it back on his bookshelf, forbidding her from borrowing any more from his collection on the basis of her age. "But he said—"

"Yeah, he said you're too young," Isiah answered. "Seems like having a friend two years and four months older has its benefits, yeah?"