She was behind the counter when he walked in and she greeted him with a fairly neutral, "Mr Shelby."
Mr. Shelby. Harmless enough words coming from anyone else. And not so individual to him, applicable to any of the male members of his family. Yet, coming from her mouth…
He didn't speak in response but, after he'd held her gaze for a moment, he turned to latch the door behind him and switched the open sign to read 'closed' to the outside world, before turning back to meet her eyes again.
She kept her face fairly blank, only raising her eyebrows. She seemed entirely unperturbed by an action that would have had most men quaking had a peaky blinder turned up whilst they worked alone and done what he had just done.
"Miss Jackson," he said, inclining his head and breaking his silence.
"We're not due a delivery from you," she remarked, though he knew fine well she could clearly see that there was no box of cigarette cartons in his hands.
"Oh, I'm not here with a delivery for the shop," he replied, pulling out his own cigarette case and lighting one up. He had run through this conversation several times in his head already and the truth was he still didn't quite know how it would go. He could make a fairly educated guess at how most men would respond to his words, his actions. But Rosie Jackson – well, she was something else. She had surprised him, more than once.
It could have been dangerous, but it had been mostly pleasant surprises. Like the time he had mentioned to Ada that he had spoken to Rosie Jackson at the shop and Ada had seemed surprised, had told him there had been talk of the Peaky Blinders at school that day and Rosie Jackson hadn't said a word. Men up and down Birmingham were known to insinuate they knew more about blinder business than they did, had been known to try and gather clout by seeming like they were part of it. But not Rosie Jackson.
She didn't say anything in response to his statement, merely stood and watched him inhale and exhale clouds of smoke. He supposed this was how frustrated other people must feel dealing with him, when they said things and he didn't comment. It was the typical way conversation was driven forward by most people. But neither Tommy Shelby nor Rosie Jackson were most people.
He advanced towards the counter and lent on it, still smoking away. She didn't adjust her face or her relaxed stance, but she reached to collect an ashtray from under the counter and placed it on top, pushing it towards him. He flicked into it and resumed.
He was near the end of it when he looked at her and said, "Our Finn didn't go to school today," in a light, conversational tone.
She didn't say or do anything. There were no signs of guilt coming from her, no shiftiness, she didn't drop her eyes from his. And she didn't over compensate by acting surprised either. She let it pass like it was an observation on the weather – something as out of her control as the rain that lashed the ground outside. She was bloody good, he'd give her it.
"You know Charlie Strong's yard?" he asked her.
She nodded, wordlessly.
"Charlie's my uncle," he told her. She didn't say anything, but he suspected she knew that already anyway - everyone did.
"Yeah," he continued, nodding his head slightly, "Charlie came by the shop earlier today, told us he'd seen Finn with a group of kids that included a girl with red hair wandering by his yard when they were supposed to be in school."
He looked at her then, waiting for a response. But he didn't get one. She wasn't denying it was her, but she wasn't owning it either. God, she was as good as he was, though he'd like to damn her for it.
He stubbed the end of his cigarette out in the ashtray then, busying himself with it, not looking at her as he said, "And I met your boss in the Garrison tonight, having a drink with Harrison from the sweet shop. Said you were in buying sweets when a bunch of kids came in and turned the place over."
"What are you saying Tommy?" she eventually broke her silence to ask. He noticed the switch to the use of his Christian name. He fought a smile. Maybe she was trying to remind him of their familiarity, hoping that if he had intentions of turning her in she could subvert them.
He looked back up at her, "I'm saying our Finn got his arse tanned for skipping school and I think you're probably the one who instigated it. I know those other kids listen to you."
"I didn't make Finn come along," she told him, her tone not quite what he could have called defiant, but with something steely in it.
He snorted, "Do you think I got Arthur to light up Finn's backside for him because I think you held him at gunpoint and dragged him away from the school? I know Finn made his own choice."
They regarded each other some more then. He couldn't help himself, he admired her. She knew when she was caught but she didn't make anything worse for herself by blabbering on. She didn't start shouting at him like Ada, eager to protest her innocence. She didn't start blubbering like Finn. She was smarter than either of them.
"So, what do you want?" she asked, her voice slightly cooler now than maybe entirely neutral.
"I know your mother's away and left you," he told her.
Her face was impassable, he didn't know if she'd already guessed that he knew that. She was difficult to read.
"So, I know you don't have anyone to tan your backside for you when you skip school," he continued, realising she wasn't going to give him an answer.
She snorted then, "And I suppose you think I'm going to let you do it?"
The vision of it flashed across his mind then, her pinned over his knee, wriggling around. He wondered if his face was going red and was thankful for the dim light in the shop and the dank greyness that filtered in from the window not doing much more to illuminate the place.
"I suppose if I wanted to put you over my knee Miss Jackson, there wouldn't be much of you letting or not letting me," he told her, his voice smooth where his mind wasn't.
"I suppose you're used to thinking you can do what you want with people Mr Shelby," she retorted, as quick as lightening.
"I suppose I am," he agreed.
She didn't respond, but her eyes stayed trained on him and he noticed they were somewhat bigger, wider than usual. And she had crossed her arms. Interesting position, really. People crossed their arms to make themselves seem cross. Or women did, most of the time. Pol was a fan of it. But it often belay an underlying lack of confidence, either that they weren't 100% sure of themselves and the basis they had for their argument or because they felt they were going to be attacked in some way and they wanted some kind of shield in place. Polly didn't cross her arms generally when she was telling Finn off, because he didn't answer back. But around Ada, Polly was an arm crosser. Around him, she was an arm crosser.
"Suppose I think you're too smart to be wasting your time wandering the streets when you should be in school," he said.
"Suppose I don't see that it's any of your business."
"Suppose I intend to make it my business."
"Suppose I don't care what you think is your business either."
"I didn't say I was thinking about it being my business, I said I was going to make it my business."
"You said intend. Intend indicates an intension of doing something, not a commitment to actually doing it."
He ducked his head so that she didn't see the smile that touched his mouth then. It gave him the benefit too of being able to look back up at her from underneath his cap, a look he knew men would shrink at.
She didn't shrink, though her arms remained crossed. In fact, when his eyes met hers, her eyebrow did that sarcastic raise again.
He clicked his tongue to draw control back over his mouth then said, "See what I said about being smart."
"If you're not here to 'tan my backside', as you put it, for corrupting your brother into my heathen ways Mr Shelby then why are you here?" she asked bluntly.
He snorted in response.
"Evans won't like that you've shut the shop," she remarked.
Mr Shelby. Evans. There was a mark of respect there for him that Evans wasn't being afforded.
"Like I said," he replied, "I met Evans in the Garrison before I came here."
"So, you told him about your plans to shut the shop and give me a telling off then?"
"Do you think I tell people things?" he asked her, raising an eyebrow.
There was a flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth and he returned it before he could help himself.
Then he caught himself and cleared his throat, adding, "Besides, this isn't me telling you off. If I was telling you off, you'd know all about it."
"Oh, I bet I would Mr Shelby," she replied. He didn't know what to make of that.
"Evans told me," he decided to plough ahead, ignoring her comment, "That he leaves you here at nights sometimes and lets you shut up the shop."
"Yeah, so?"
"So, where's your sister when this is going on and you're here till all hours?"
"I'm here till eight Mr Shelby, home by half past usually."
"And your sister's what, five?" he asked, knowing fine well…
"She's six, she just turned six in August."
He remembered her telling him.
"Big difference," he said, rolling his eyes. She didn't respond so he prompted, "Well, get on and answer the question."
"What question?"
"Where is your six-year-old sister when you're here till eight o'clock and not home till half past?"
"She's at home. One of the neighbours looks in on her when she gets home from work."
"I'd have a right to tell the parish to take your sister away – and they'd probably take you too since you're under sixteen," he told her, knowing it was cruel - but a necessary cruelty for his own ends.
She uncrossed her arms then and slammed them on the counter, leaning across it, her face feral, "Thomas Shelby, you even think about it and I'll-"
"You'll what?" he cut across her, leaning on the counter himself, pushing his face up to hers.
She glared at him for a few seconds then pushed herself back, her eyes still fiery – though perhaps there was a hint of water in them – and her tiny lips rolled away almost to nothing.
He drew himself back to standing on the other side of the counter and said, "Do I look like a man who gets the parish involved in things?"
"What do you want Thomas?" she asked him, her voice cold and harsh, her sounds clear cut.
He sighed, he hadn't meant to rile her quite like that. He had meant to be cruel - just maybe not quite as cruel as that seemed to have been, it just – it just came out of him sometimes. He was used to beating people into submission, but he hadn't meant it to go like this. Not with her. He just wanted her to agree, and if she wouldn't do it alone, to do it for her sister's sake.
He took out a new cigarette, rolling it across his lip and keeping his eyes down as he did so, though he could feel hers boring into him. He took a few puffs.
God if she was like other girls her age this would have gone so differently. But then, if she'd been like other girls her age this wouldn't be happening at all.
"Look," he eventually said, after taking a few drags of the cigarette, "I've got a spare room. I want you and your sister to fill it."
He risked looking up to see her reaction. Her lips had unfurled, and her mouth had gone from its tiny little line and to hanging slightly open.
She held his gaze for a minute, blinking those huge dark eyes.
"Why?" she eventually asked. It wasn't quite as blunt as her last question, but the single syllable word didn't give much away about what she was thinking. He hoped the slightly softened voice did though.
"My dad walked out on us," he told her, "And my mother died just after Finn was born – you know that?"
She nodded.
"I know what it is to be a kid with too many responsibilities and no real life," he told her. It gave him a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach to say it aloud. Like standing still and offering his bare chest to a man with a machine gun.
"I can handle it," she said, her voice soft, but sure.
He nodded, "I know you can."
He sucked on the cigarette then and her eyes stayed on him.
"You sister though," he continued, "She deserves a childhood, eh? My brother John has four kids, she'd have them to play around with. My aunt dotes on babies, so she'd have her round her finger. Ada probably wouldn't mind a life size doll to dress up."
He decided to miss out telling her about Arthur being partial to dropping Ada and Finn and their cousins out the window for John to catch.
Rosie moved a hand to brush through her tousled copper hair, making it stick out in all directions even more than it already did. She hadn't said yes but she hadn't said no either.
"What about our house?" she eventually said.
Tommy's heart gave a splutter. She was considering it. She was genuinely considering it. Yes, she was presenting hurdles, but she was considering it. And he knew when someone was considering something it was half won anyway.
"Your mother pays the rent, let her keep paying it," he told her, "If she comes back you can go back with her."
Rosie shook her head, "I'm not moving Lily about to move her back. If she comes back and we're gone, we stay gone."
He nodded. Their mother wasn't a good mother, he knew that. She didn't have to say it.
"You'll find people don't mess with the Peaky Blinders," he told her, meaning it to be a reassurance that, if her mother ever did reappear, there would be no need to worry.
She snorted, "Unless they're six-year-old kids that your hearts all bleed for apparently."
"Aye well, they're the only exceptions," he allowed her.
They may as well have this conversation as if it was entirely about Lillian. If that was how she wanted to play it.
"What do you actually get out of it?" she asked him suddenly.
He didn't answer, just dragged on the cigarette he was dangerously near the end of. He might have to light a new one off the end of the old one to keep his hands and mouth busy, to make sure he didn't rush into saying the wrong thing.
"There are loads of unloved and unwanted kids, why her?"
There it was. The real question, under the asked question. Why her. And not why her, Lillian. Why her, Rosie.
"The truth is my family will dote on the child," he said, his eyes on the floor, then he removed the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a smooth stream of smoke before looking up to meet her eye and saying, boldly, bluntly, "But personally I'm more interested in the sister."
He let it hang ambiguously between them. Let her digest it. It was close to playing his cards, cards he didn't even entirely understand himself. And somehow, he wanted to give this tiny girl the whole fucking deck.
"Why?" she eventually asked.
"You're smart, like I've said," he told her, "I'm collecting smart people."
"Oh?"
"I'm overrun with brawn. Could use some more brain."
"So that's the deal, I agree to this and I become yours?"
Now it was her turn to hang ambiguous phrases between them.
"Summat like that," he allowed her, watching to see how she would react. Which of course she didn't. She was as blank as ever.
"My end of the deal," he told her, "Is that I'll provide food, lodgings, a family, whatever you need, for you and Lillian. Your end is that you go to school and continue to get smart – and that you do as your told."
"Or what," she said, rolling her eyes, "You'll tan my arse?"
"Yup."
Her mouth fell open slightly and her hands went to her hips as she protested, "I'm fifteen years of age, I'm far too old for you to – to be doing that Thomas!"
He grinned then, a full and uncensored smile. She was adorable in her outrage.
"Thomas?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"Tommy," she modified, though her hands stayed on her hips.
"You ask Ada about my methods of dealing with disobedient little girls," he told her, waggling the end of his cigarette at her in lieu of a finger before stubbing it out in the ashtray on the counter.
He wished the counter wasn't between them, so he could go chuck her under the chin and tease her some more. It was the most unguarded he had ever seen her, her genuine reaction taking over whatever it normally was that preserved her demeanour.
"I'm not a little girl," can the snappy reply, then, with a hint of a smile, "Though I'm presuming these punishments of yours can't be that tough given the fuss Ada makes if she gets whacked in class."
"What's Ada getting whacked in class for?" he asked.
"None of your business."
He was still smiling, but he raised the eyebrow again.
She leant on the counter then, smiling herself, "I don't go around squealing on people Mr Shelby so if that's what you're looking for you'll need to go elsewhere."
"Mr Shelby again am I?" he said, "Well Miss Jackson, that's good. Cause I don't need people with big mouths in my life." He nodded at her.
She made a "Hmm," sound but didn't say anything.
"I suppose you don't squeal when you get whacked in school?" he said.
"No I bloody well don't, not even when this shit went down," she said, suddenly vociferous, and held out her hands across the counter to him.
"I'll warn you right now, you let anyone in the house hear you use that language before you're eighteen and you'll find yourself getting whacked alright," he told her, before glancing down at the small upturned hands she proffered him.
The smile left him as he took them in his own hands, his own hands that were like meat cleavers in comparison to hers, but he made sure to be gentle. She didn't flinch though, not even as he ran his thumb over the raised red welts, crossed over on both palms.
Fucking sadists.
"Right, well this won't be happening again," he said, his voice suddenly rough, "Who did this?"
She just looked at him.
"Rosie, you tell me who did this," he ordered, looking into her eyes.
"The head, Mr Dalton."
Dalton. The man hadn't come to his attention before, but he'd get the information he needed, send a few boys over.
"I'll deal with it," he told her.
"You don't even know why he did it."
"I don't care why he did it, there's no fucking excuse and he's not doing it again."
He had the urge to pick up her palms and press his lips to them, but even holding them, even breaking the barrier of the counter felt oddly intimate; so he controlled himself and resisted it. He didn't let her hands go though.
"When did this happen?" he asked, nodding at the red wheals where the cane had been applied, and applied viciously. He didn't bloody approve of using the thing on girls in the first place, but if they were going to insist on it they were supposed to do it in straight lines that didn't cross over. And the fucking maximum was supposed to be six. She had four on each hand, crossed like the intersection of sets of train tracks.
"Day before yesterday."
He felt his blood boil. Two days later and the marks looked fresh. He dreaded to think that they had looked like two days ago. And what she had endured. Without squealing. He could picture her now, defiantly taking it without making a sound. He'd have done the same. But that didn't make it right that she should have had to.
"I thought maybe it was yesterday, maybe that was why you'd skipped today."
"It was why I skipped today."
"But you went yesterday?"
"Yeah. And my hands were that bloody sore I could barely write. Had to give up my fucking lunch to get everything done because I wasn't giving him the fucking satisfaction of being sent to see him for falling behind. Could just see him asking why I had been so slow and me having to turn around and admit why," she said, her voice bitter, then – as though she needed to clarify, "Wouldn't have, obviously. Wouldn't have said anything. And then I'd have needed to keep it together while he gave me a fresh sent on top of these."
And she would have kept it together, he was sure of that.
"He'll not be at the school much longer, so you don't need to worry about that. And the new one will have it made very clear he doesn't go near Shelby girls with a fucking cane."
"I told him I smashed a window," she said quietly.
"You told him?" Tommy repeated, emphasising slightly the told, letting her know he'd picked up on her phrasing.
"Yeah."
"Not that it matters, because if you smashed every window in the school it wouldn't make those marks okay, but did you smash it?" he asked, regretting that there was a hint of his anger breaking through in his voice. Anger that wasn't aimed at her.
"No."
"So, what's the story?" he asked her softly, realising there was something she wanted to tell him.
"This kid Peter – he smashed the window. Cricket ball gone awry. Accident. But he gets beaten at home as it is, and if he goes home with marks on him from school he gets it worse for embarrassing the family," she told him, holding his gaze.
He realised what she was asking.
"You know what I do, right?"
She nodded.
"Not the selling of the merchandise that I drop here, I mean the other stuff. The protection."
She nodded again.
"I do bad things. But you already know that."
She didn't nod this time, just stared at him.
"So, don't think," he told her, his voice low, throaty, intense, his eyes never leaving hers, his hands still curled under hers, "That I don't know the god damned difference between taking someone I look after over my knee to teach them a lesson and carrying out an act of violence against a person."
She looked at him a long while, then finally nodded again.
He let out a breath.
"There are rules," he told her, "But they're there for your own good. To keep you safe. You don't get punished unless you break them. Simple. And I won't lie to you – every Shelby on this earth has probably had their ears boxed the odd time, but the majority of the time you'll get nothing more than the flat of my hand on your arse and it'll hurt, I promise you that, but there's lots of… I dunno… fat and tissue and padding for it. You're uncomfortable sitting for a few days and if you learn the lesson that's the end of it. You don't learn, you repeat, then you get it worse – but still on your arse where you'll recover just fine in the end. And I've only taken the back of a brush once to Ada in her entire fourteen years of being a great bloody pest."
She laughed then, mockingly serious, "Tommy Shelby are you saying I've got a fat arse?"
He laughed, "You behave yourself and I'll have no need to get acquainted with your arse to be able to comment."
She rolled her eyes, "I haven't agreed to this yet."
"Yeah you have," he replied.
"Oh yeah?"
"Well you're holding my fucking hand, ain't ya?"
They both glanced down at their hands on the counter then, his cupped under hers, his thumbs resting on her abused palms – her fingers curled around them.
She released the thumbs and pulled her hands away, standing back from the counter and crossing her arms again. He stood where he was, still pressed against the wooden barrier.
"Fine," she said, "But I'm only agreeing to this because I don't like Lily being alone so much. And I don't want anyone getting the bloody parish involved. She's my fucking sister and she's staying with me."
He nodded. He was fine with sticking to that story.
"Alright then, well – get your coat," he told her, turning to lean against the counter and sticking his hands in his pockets.
"I'm not finished here till eight," she said.
He turned back around and widened his eyes at her, "You're finished – get your coat."
She still had her arms crossed and she widened her own eyes right back at him, "I'm supposed to work till eight, you can't just change that to suit yourself."
"I think you'll find I can."
"I think you'll find you can't."
He flipped the hinged countertop up then, fed up of it being in the way and closed the distance between them. She had backed up against the shelf and she was so bloody short she practically had to tilt her head the whole way back to be able to meet his eyes when she looked up at him, but she did it with such an air of fire about her that it gave the impression that she extended past her stature.
"Do I need to get acquainted with your arse here and now?" he growled at her.
He saw her swallow, but she didn't back down, "Tommy Shelby I have a job and I get paid to be here till eight and I need the money."
"Need the money for what? I'm providing for you now."
"I like having my independence."
"You want pocket money? You can earn it by doing some typing for me a few hours a week after school or at the weekend. Now – Get. Your. Coat."
"Tommy I will not be beholden to you," she growled, "I'll make my own bloody money whether you like it or not."
"You stubborn little…" he growled right back at her, and accompanied his growl with an action - grabbing her upper arm forcefully, yanking her forward and twisting his left arm around the back of her waist, bending her over and pinning her to his side whilst he brought his right hand down sharply and repeatedly on her rear end.
"Thomas Shelby you let me up - right now!" she snapped at him, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. He noticed the switch back from Tommy to Thomas.
"You going to get your coat and do as you're told?" he asked, not acquiescing her demands.
"No!" she snarled, and he rolled his eyes and curled his arm further around her, hoisting her small feet off the ground so she dangled over his forearm before resuming the task.
She was wearing trousers that didn't entirely seem to have been cut for a woman, her shirt had ridden up under his left arm and he could see that they gaped at her waist but were tight, too tight for decency really, across her hips and her rear end. He could see it ripple and bounce with every swat he landed on her. From this angle he was quite close to thinking that actually she did have quite a fat arse.
"Thomas Shelby you listen here a minute!" she shouted at him.
Thomas Shelby. Thomas Shelby. It was a name he was only used to hearing whenever he got pulled into the police station or, once upon a time, back in his own run ins with the school headmaster – Crawley, the name had been then. But here she was snapping it at him, even from under his arm, with her rear end unprotectable.
"Rosalie Jackson, I'll listen for exactly a minute so make it a good use of your minute," he said, pausing the onslaught.
"How do you know my stupid full name?" she asked, clearly surprised to hear it.
"I know everything," he grunted in response.
"Well in that case you should know that you're not being fair right now," she replied.
He looked amusedly over his shoulder at the red bird's nest of hair that was all he could see of her.
"How's that then?" he enquired, turning back and rubbing his right hand firmly across her rear end, a reminder to her that he could start again any time he liked if she wasn't careful. She wriggled in response.
"You said your rules are about keeping people safe."
"Yeah."
"Well that's not what this is, this is you not getting what you want and acting like a bloody baboon."
"Acting like a what?" he asked, trying to keep from laughing.
"You heard!"
He landed a crack across her backside and set her feet back on the ground, bring her to stand, backing her against the shelf again so she couldn't move, though she didn't entirely seem inclined to try to.
She looked up at him, her hair sticking up, face flushed pink and her eyes annoyed and her mouth frowning.
He raised an eyebrow, smirking, "A baboon?"
She met his eyes for a second or two, fighting the smirk he could see coming to her own mouth before she looked sideways, trying not to give in.
He took her chin in his hands and moved it back to face him, waiting till she met his eyes again, "Is that how you speak to your elders then?"
"Oh, so are you my elder now?"
"I am your fucking elder," he said with a smile, chucking her under the chin as he'd wanted to do before, "And so are most of us – so I'd have a think about how you address your elders before you go calling Arthur a baboon; he's not as easy going as me, he might take offence."
She snorted, then said "I've met your brother Tommy, I'm not convinced Arthur would know what a baboon was."
He smacked her lightly on the side of her thigh and wagged his finger at her "Hey, we don't speak badly about family, eh?"
She watched the finger wag with an amused raised eyebrow, then looked back to his eyes, "Still 'we' then? I'm not getting the deal revoked because I won't give up my job."
"I don't make deals if I intend to revoke on them," he said simply, "But you are giving up this job."
"Tommy!"
"Do you want a proper spanking? Because I'll take you through the back, put you over my knee and smack your bare arse until both it and my hand are the colour of your bloody hair if that's what it takes."
"You wouldn't Tommy."
"Try me."
She looked up at him, but he saw a small chew on her lower lip. Fucking adorable.
"Well explain to me how me giving up this job is about keeping me safe?" she ventured.
"You won't be here alone at night with a cash register full of money to tempt god knows what kind of people, you won't be locking up in the dark and walking home alone-"
"I keep my wits about me Tommy, I'm not a fucking idiot," she cut across him.
"This is Birmingham," he told her firmly, "If you're not here after school till all hours you can use the time to concentrate on your studies, which means you'll do better in school-"
"I do well in school without studying," she cut across him again.
He raised an eyebrow at her until she shut her mouth, "Well think how much better you could do with some studying. And you can see your sister more."
He watched her turn it over in her mind, then she clicked her tongue and said, "Fine."
"Thank you," he said, standing back, "Now, get your coat."
"I'm not done Tommy."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Fine - I'll give up the nights during the week, but I'm keeping the Saturday. I don't work alone, and I don't lock up on a Saturday."
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"It's important that I have money of my own Tommy, and it means I can contribute something. I won't have anyone saying I'm a charity case."
"I don't want your fucking contribution, and if anyone says anything about this arrangement you come to me and I'll set them straight."
"Well I want to give it."
He sighed. Stubborn little wench.
"Right. How about you keep the Saturday but the money is yours for whatever it is you think you need money for, and you can contribute in some other way – I don't know," he said, waving his hand about searching for ideas, "I'll speak to Polly, you can make the dinner or something one night a week."
"What do you like to eat?"
"I don't eat."
She rolled her eyes, "No you just smoke and drink. Your lungs'll be black."
"It's Birmingham Rosie, all our lungs'll be black."
"Hmm," she replied, then, with a glint in her eye, "Now can I just point out if you'd discussed this with me like this in the first place there would have been no need for the aforementioned baboon like behaviour?"
"Aforementioned," he snorted at her use of the long word.
"So, in future I want a discussion first before you turn on your auto switch of 'I'm Tommy Shelby and I'm not getting my own way'."
"I'll give you a discussion on not being a cheeky little shit."
"Do we have a deal Mr Shelby? You discuss things, I keep some of my hours, we compromise. It's good to compromise sometimes Tommy."
"We have a deal Miss Jackson, but I don't bloody like it."
He spat and held his hand out to her before he could even think what he was doing, or whether she would know what it meant. But to his surprise she looked at his hand, flicked with spittle and copied the action, spitting into her own hand and shaking his, melding the two, saying as she did so, "Well I'm of the opinion it might do you some good to have to get used to things you don't like some of the time Thomas Shelby."
"Is this how it's going to be then eh?" he said, smiling, "I'll be trying to keep discipline in the ranks and you'll be following behind me going 'What do you call this – did we have a discussion?'"
"I'm pro-democracy and anti-fascist," she replied.
"So are the Shelbys," he replied, "We like a family meeting, and a vote. But I'll warn you now, you better learn to curb your tongue. If it gets proposed that you need your arse skelped and you've called anyone a fucking baboon in the last while – the votes will not go in your favour."
"That's really riled you hasn't it, being called a baboon?"
"I'm not accustomed to being spoken to like that."
"Like I said, might do you some good."
"Go get your fucking coat," he said, nodding his head through in the direction of the back office.
This time, she did.
After she had locked up and they were walking through the rain in the direction of her house, she asked, "Tommy, I'm curious…"
"Hmm?" he asked her through the side of his mouth that the customary cigarette wasn't held in.
"You mentioned every Shelby on earth having had their ears boxed at some point?"
He grinned and took the cigarette from his mouth, "Well it might interest you to know Miss Jackson that I wasn't always the fucking delight that I am now."