Chapter 3

John and Arthur had shut up shop and moved into the kitchen by the time Tommy, Ada and Polly had finished the episode upstairs. Finn was crying a fresh set of tears and Tommy had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Sure a strapping hurt, he knew that well enough from memory, but the boy's seemingly endless stream of tears was irking him.

'Away and cry all you like, you'll piss less,' their father had once shouted at Arthur when he'd upset him. Tommy's fist had curled and he'd punched their father in the stomach. He had hated their father for as long as he could remember, but Arthur seemed to accept him back every time, seemed desperate to please him. And their father knew it. Used it against him. Taunted him for it. Their father had simply punched Tommy back, and he hadn't held back any of his strength against the seven year old, who had gone careening into the wall but got back up and come back at Arthur Snr. At least he can take a fucking beating without snivelling eh? How does it feel, to be out-manned by your younger brother? Their father had leered at Arthur.

He didn't want to be cruel, not like their father. But he wanted the crying to stop.

"Finn," he said quietly and the boy's head snapped to his, his lip trembling, "Save some of those tears for after you've been out the back, eh?"

If the boy had thought he was about to get words of comfort he was sorely disappointed. The lip trembled harder.

"It's not all that bad Finn," John said, a grin on his face as he stood leaning against the range, "You wait for the first time a policeman whacks you with his baton, you'll be wishing you were getting your arse lit up instead."

"You're no help," Polly snapped, reaching over and smacking him on the side of the head.

John let out a good natured laugh, "I've got four at home to father, I don't ask for another two – so maybe these two could consider their already tired out big brother next time they want to get up to something."

"As if we're not all tired," Arthur grumbled.

"I. Haven't. Been. Up. To. Anything," Ada growled from behind clenched teeth.

"Ada," Polly warned, but the girl cut her off, crying out passionately.

"It's not fair! It's not fuc-," she paused, glanced at Tommy's raised eyebrow and changed her mind, settling to mutter, "It's not fair, none of you are even telling me what's going on."

She finished by stamping her foot and crossing her arms.

"Jesus God, was I that insufferable when I was fourteen?" Arthur asked Polly.

"No," she replied, her eyes on her niece, "None of you were. But then none of you was a right little madam who thought she was too grown up for the back of a hairbrush."

"I am too old for that," Ada wailed, forgetting her stony glare and looking suddenly wild again, "If we were living the gypsy way I'd be getting married soon!"

"Lord help the one who'd get stuck with you," John said with a laugh, making the sign of the cross and rolling his eyes to the heavens.

"Is that what you want Ada?" Tommy asked his sister his icy voice cutting off everyone else.

"Is- what?" she asked, finally on the backfoot.

"Do you want to live the gypsy way – married at fifteen and the responsibility of keeping the wagon clean and making dinner for your husband on an open fire from whatever he caught that day?"

He was half tempted to go live that way himself sometimes. But he wanted more standing than that. And whilst he wanted the standing he knew fine well that Ada liked the ease of their life, though she wasn't smart enough to realise it. She liked languishing in the tub in front of the fire and wearing pretty dresses and not being covered in mud. And she liked buying their dinner from the shops rather than skinning it. She hadn't even liked it when their father, in one of his few fits of tenderness, had taken them all off in the wagon just after Finn was born for a weekend. She had cried to go home until their father had smacked her across the face to make her stop, then he had taken them home and stormed off for a week-long drinking session.

"No, Tommy," she answered, and he heard a small note of remorse in her voice for having said it, "I just want to be treated like a grown up."

"Then stop stamping your bloody foot for a start," he told her, "And if you want more opportunities than that – if you want to work in an office or something - you'd better stay in school."

"I'll work in our office," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Not if I won't bloody have you, you won't," he snapped, "What use have I for a girl who can't get it together to go to class? You won't know how to spell, if I send you to secretarial college and you don't go you won't know how to type and if you're too used to doing what you like you might not turn up to work half the time."

"Tommy," she replied, her voice hardening again, "I don't know what you're getting at."

"Ada," he sighed, "Finn's already admitted it. You were both seen."

"Both seen what?" she shrieked, looking at him, then at Finn, then to Polly.

"Tommy," Finn said, his voice quiet and wobbly.

Tommy turned his eyes to his brother.

"She wasn't – Ada wasn't with us," Finn said, then bit his lip, looking at their aunt, clearly minding that she had told him not to speak until she spoke to him. Polly gave a nod, letting him know it was okay, and he watched his brother relax slightly.

His mind raced and he glanced at Ada, who was looking furious.

"Who was the girl then - you were with a girl?" Arthur asked.

"Rosie Jackson," Finn answered, his voice still feathery and low.

Tommy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. No wonder he hadn't seen her leaving the school. Sure he'd torn his eyes away from looking, but he'd have seen that hair if it had been around, even if he was deliberately not looking for it.

Rosie. Fucking. Jackson.

Of course it was Rosie Fucking Jackson. He gritted his teeth, he'd skin Charlie the next time he saw him – uncle or not. Looks a lot like Ada from the back. His bloody arse Rosie Jackson looked anything like Ada, from any angle. Ada had brown hair, for a start. There might have been a bit of red in Ada's hair, but Rosie Jackson's hair was bright copper red, unmistakable for anything else. Ada had finely drawn features and a long, slim face. Rosie Jackson had a little round face, and huge brown eyes that dominated it. Those eyes watched you when you moved around her, big enough that she seemed to take in everything, quite the opposite of the way Ada took in nothing. Ada was taller, skinnier. Rosie Jackson was shorter, curvier.

Rosie Jackson was around the same age as Ada – but she was older than Ada in so many ways. She had a smart mouth, same as Ada, he'd heard her stand up for herself to men older than him in the tobacco shop, but she only seemed to use it when it was needed, unlike Ada. She was quiet the rest of the time – sometimes almost unnervingly so. And she worked in the shop. After school – clearly only when she bothered going – and on Saturdays she'd be behind the counter. She earned her own money, and he presumed that was what looked after herself and her sister. Or half sister, he presumed. Either way, she was Ada's age and responsible for herself and the sister. She was in his fucking position two years before he was, he'd been seventeen when their mother had gone. And she had it worse, she had no Polly to help her.

Rosie Jackson's mother was a whore. In the literal sense. Or she had been. Last he'd heard – and he'd made it his business to hear after he'd met the little shop girl who kept her own counsel and didn't seem eager to give him her life story like so many others – Rosie Jackson's mother had a client who saw her exclusively now and who kept a room for her in his big country house. She hadn't been seen in Small Heath in months. He'd half thought about sending a bunch of the boys in to drag her home and order her to look after her kids by order of the Peaky Fucking Blinders – but he didn't have much way of explaining to anyone why he hated watching the girl try and be both a child and an adult. Or so he told himself anyway, as though he'd need to explain his whims to anyone.

But, that aside, he'd started dropping off the cartons of cigarettes they sold to the shop to sell on himself and deliberately on days when she was working. And the truth was, Rosie Jackson had actually started to seem a bit more at ease the longer her mother stayed away.

Had seemed happier. She had actually answered a couple of his questions with more than one word. She had told him about Lillian, her little sister, and he had managed to act surprised - as though he hadn't already found out all about who she was, where she lived and who she lived with.

But whether she was happier or not, he had found out from her landlord that the rent money came through erratically from her mother and he realised with no mother around Rosie was the sole provider for the six year old Lillian. So he'd told the landlord to come to him anytime the money didn't appear, under the strict instruction that no one knew about it.

Rosie Fucking Jackson.

He supposed she had no reason to stay in school, no one would be around to smack her backside for her if she didn't go, and as soon as she was sixteen she'd probably be demanding to go full time in the shop, he already knew she'd asked for more hours.

He had thought it odd that Ada would cut school with Finn. But if Charlie had said that Finn's group contained a red head, who looked about Ada's age he'd have known immediately who it had been. Rosie Jackson hung about with the boys, wore trousers when she wasn't in school and, as taciturn as she was, the boys she ran with seemed to listen to her. Tommy had made it his business to know that too. So what was likely, was that Finn and his friends had tagged along on an outing planned by Rosie Fucking Jackson herself.

Basically though, Tommy thought it was no wonder the kid skipped school, she probably needed a fucking break.

Rosie Fucking Jackson. A walking picture for everything kids shouldn't have to go through.

"Right, let me get this straight," Ada's voice demanded, interrupting his flow of thoughts about the red headed shop girl, "You saw Rosie Jackson and thought it was me, but clearly it wasn't me so can I get an apology?"

"You can get a trip over my knee and a week of eating your dinner standing up for your attitude," he told her gruffly, his mind still on the redhead.

"Tommy, it's not fair!" she whined.

"Ada, I meant what I said – I've had enough of your lying – and I know there's been other lies even if you weren't lying today," he cut across her as she opened her mouth, "I'm sick of you swanning in here whenever you like past when you've been told to get in for, I'm sick of the smart mouth."

"Aye, but you want me to stay in school and get a smart mouth," she said.

There was an intake of breath around the room.

"You don't fucking learn, do you Ada?" John muttered.

Ada didn't answer him, her eyes were trained on Tommy, her mouth hung slightly open as if she couldn't quite believe what she'd said either. He took a step towards her and she backed up, her eyes looking around the room for an escape, though she knew as well as he did that there was none. She always realised too late. Why did she always have to realise too late? What was it going to take for her to realise she was near the edge of the cliff and not to jump off?

He swiftly grabbed one of her arms and dragged her to the kitchen table, pushing her over it.

"Tommy, no, I'm sorry, I won't-" she began to protest, but he held her pinned in place with one hand in her back and began to apply his right hand to the seat of her school dress.

He knew it couldn't really hurt that much yet, but she squealed and kicked and twisted under him whilst he kept on.

"Tommy, Tommy it's not fair, I went to school!" she shrieked.

"This isn't because I think you skipped school Ada, it's for your cheek," he answered her evenly, ceasing the smacks whilst he did so, "But I will concede to you the possibility that it's not fair. This is a family democracy. We'll take a family vote. All those in favour that Ada Shelby is well overdue a good spanking?"

"If you weren't about to deliver it Tommy, I'd redden her myself," Polly replied grimly.

Ada shook her head violently against the table, he knew that she knew her fate was already sealed but maybe listening to everyone's points of view would make her understand just how much she was pushing them all.

"Ada, if I had my way I'd take you out the back and give you the strap – it's Tommy that says that's not for girls," Arthur told her, "I don't live here anymore, but if I lived with you round the clock like he does, you'd have got this long before now."

He felt Ada stiffen under his grip at Arthur's words. She hadn't known that it was him who had stood between her and Arthur's instinct to drag her out the back a few times now.

"John?" he prompted his brother.

John sighed and came forward a few steps to be nearer the table, "Ada girl, we can't treat you like a grown up till you act like one – and acting like one means not needing your backside blistered to keep you in line. Which you do, or you wouldn't answer back so much."

"You answer back," Ada replied miserably, folding her arms in front of her and burying her face in them, not looking at anyone.

Ada and John were close - in both personality and relationship and Tommy knew his opinion was probably the hardest for her to hear - as well as being hard for him to give.

John reached out a hand and patted the back of her head, "There's a difference between having a joke and answering back Ada, and you know that difference fine well. I'm sorry, but I'm in agreement with everyone else, though I will tell you from experience you should be grateful to Tommy for standing between you and that old razor stop – you've got to deal with the sting in your backside whilst the stink of the outhouse fills your nostrils. Plus there's the rest of the lane hearing and knowing what's happening, though you only care about your dignity till you're about two licks in."

Tommy wasn't used to having his hand shown, but there was part of him that was grateful to his brothers for taking the chance to bolster him up a bit to her. They knew he feared she thought of him like he thought of their father, though none of them ever talked about it. Men didn't talk. That was for women.

"Right then, that's a unanimous agreement amongst those of legal age to vote so I'll continue," Tommy said, and returned to the task of ensuring he had a very sorry little sister on his hands.

When Ada's skirt was up around her waist and her knickers at her ankles – he had only pulled them down to mid thigh but she had kicked and stomped so much that they had fallen completely – he finally ceased, but kept his left hand in the small of her back, making sure she wouldn't move.

"Anything to say Ada?" he questioned.

"I'm sorry Tommy, I'll be good, I won't answer back no more," she sobbed out. Whatever dignity she'd been trying to hold on to had been tossed aside at some point, her cheek now rested where her forehead had and she was looking up at him, her eyes red and watery, her nose dripping.

It hurt his heart a bit, but he was resolved in what he needed to do next.

"I've heard that before Ada," he told her, making his voice as gentle as he could, "And it always seems to slip back in so you need a lesson that makes it last."

Her eyes widened at him, clearly remembering his threat of the belt from upstairs, but he ignored her and looked over to Polly, whose eyes were on him. Arthur had turned away and was finding studying the crockery on the sideboard intriguing, John was looking at the floor. He knew how they felt, no matter how well deserved a punishment was, being there when it was being dished out was awkward if you weren't on the giving or receiving end, if you didn't have a job to do. He didn't look at Finn.

"Polly, would you go fetch me that clothes brush from the front room?"

"Tommy, no," Ada wailed out as Polly nodded and headed through the door.

His sister was kicking one of her legs and beginning to wriggle under his hand again in the few seconds it took Polly to appear back and wordlessly hand him the brush.

"Ada," he warned.

"Tommy I said I'll be good, I promise."

"Yeah Ada love, I believe you, but I need to make sure you remember that promise in your bones next time you're tempted to break it."

"I will, Tommy, please I don't need the brush," she asked, her voice pitiful.

He sighed and tapped the black wood gently against her upturned and already thoroughly reddened bottom. It was solid, and larger against her than he remembered it being the time their mother had vigorously applied it to his own rear end.

"Fourteen of these Ada, the one time you'll be glad you're not fifteen yet, eh?" he said, rubbing her back slightly, waiting till she stopped twisting.

She didn't reply, but she gave a moan which he took to mean she understood.

"I want you to count them out," he said, then, when he got no response, he prompted gently, "Ada – do you understand?"

"Yes," she groaned, her face turned into her arms again.

He turned his attention back to the brush in his hand, tapping it lightly a few times against her backside before raising his arm and bringing it down with a swift crack in the spot where her right thigh and buttock merged. He wanted her to feel it every time she sat for a while.

She screeched and drummed her fists into the table for a minute, and he let her. She hadn't known what to expect, and he knew he'd done a good job on making her sore and sorry already.

"Ada, if you don't count them then they don't count," he said after a minute or so, when her initial reaction had simmered down.

"One," she mumbled, her face pressed down to the wood of the table now, her arms balled into fists.

Immediately as it was out her mouth he brought the brush down again in the same spot on her left side.

She had a better idea of what to expect this time and she grunted and wriggled in response, but managed an audible "Two."

And so it went on, until she counted "Seven," and that was when he noticed the change he had been looking for, one perhaps he had failed her by not pushing her to in the first place.

She had stopped wriggling, stopped fighting. Finally. She lay on the table, crying, spent and exhausted.

He smacked the brush down again, still hard, making sure it wasn't a one off.

"Eight," came the small voice.

He rubbed her back and brought the brush down again, though more softly.

"Nine."

She turned her face to him now, looking up at him from where she lay on the table.

He held her eye as he smacked her again with the back of the brush.

"Ten."

She was done. He barely flicked his wrist to bring it down again.

"Eleven," it was almost a whisper.

It wouldn't make any difference how much force he did or didn't put into it now. The last three were pats, and he held his eye contact with her throughout and let the brush slide from his hand to the floor as soon as he had brought it down for the last time, not even waiting for her to count.

He let her cry for a while, then slid the arm that had been on her back under her tummy and used it to bring her up. She stumbled a little, whether from her underwear at her ankles or from the lack of power left in her legs he didn't know; he drew her to him, folding her into his arms, kissing the top of her head and rubbing her back, discreetly smoothing her dress back down.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw John go to open his mouth, but Pol held up a hand to stop him and Tommy was glad. Still, he didn't know how long even she could hold back his brothers.

"Ada, love," he murmured gently against her, the way he'd talk to a spooked horse.

She brought her face out of his chest and looked up at him, and he moved his hands to her face, wiping her tears with his thumbs.

"You know why you got that, eh?" he asked her.

She nodded against his hands.

"I don't want to do that again, Ada, eh? Never bloody again, y'hear?"

"I'm sorry Tommy," she whispered. If she'd had any tears left he was sure a fresh wave would have started then.

He pulled her in again tight against him, his own stomach churning with the enormity of what had just taken place in the tiny kitchen. He certainly hadn't planned to dish that out, and not with them all gathered. He'd killed men and felt nothing, but spank his teenage sister and he was a bloody mess inside, even if he knew she'd needed it.

"I know you're sorry," he told her, "And you've been punished – so it's okay now. Fresh slate. That's how it works, you know that, right?"

He felt her nod against his chest, then sigh – like a great weight had lifted off of her. She had needed the spanking, but she needed the words too. And he knew he frequently failed on the words, as well as having failed to give her the punishment she'd been crying out for for so long.

"Okay Ada, I want you to go wash your face and come back in here when you're ready to talk to me, you understand?" he said, quietly to her.

She nodded again.

"Good – and you might want to step out so you don't trip," he whispered in her ear, kissing the side of her face lightly to try and show he was trying to spare her further humiliation rather than enforcing it. He held on to her whilst she moved from foot to foot, kicking the underwear off her ankles, then she dipped down to grab it and turned to walk away – giving him a small, watery eyed smile before she went through the green doors and up the stairs to her room. He knew she'd probably use her own basin to wash her face, then lie on her bed and cry for a bit, but he needed to give her the space to do that. Ada was proud, that was half the bloody problem, she needed to be humbled, but not broken. She needed time now to lick her wounds and recoup a little.

His eyes stayed on the doors his once kid sister had gone through as Polly crossed to pick up the brush from the floor. She put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't respond, didn't acknowledge it, he just stood against the edge of the table and gripped it.

Polly let go and went through to the living room, replacing the brush on the small table she'd taken it from in the first place. A small, rueful smile crossed the corners of Polly Gray's lips. Her niece had needed what she'd gotten and Polly was sure the girl would hate the sight of that brush on the table for a while, if not for the rest of her life. But it had cost her nephew dearly to deliver it. That mask he wore, that emotionless, lifeless mask that was often on his face, had slipped for a while. She could see the hurt in him. She could see it even through the mask, she was one of the few who could, but this afternoon it had been so clear on his face. She had seen him let go of the breath he'd been holding at the same time as he finally dropped the brush. The boy from before France was still there, somewhere. The boy who loved fiercely and freely.

What she didn't know was whether it was punishing his sister, or the mention of Rosie Jackson, that had brought that boy to the surface for a precious half hour.