Thank you as always for the reviews, follows and messages!
Ahead of this chapter just wanted to clarify that the expression 'green dress/green gown' is a historical term that implies a woman's dress is grass stained from rolling around in it during 'sexual activity'. Not very commonly used anymore so wanted to take the time so explain!
Also re my question about whether daily updates were too much - no one said they felt it was too much so I'll continue with uploading as often as the chapters are ready to go. As you can probably tell this is going to be a fairly long story (I live just outside of Birmingham but I'm of Irish descent and we have a tradition of 'why use one word when fifty will do in its place?' when it comes to story telling) given we are just about to head into the events of season one and we're not too far off being 100,000 words in (now where is that ease of motivation to write the book I want to write about my own characters?!) so I imagine I'll be back to travelling to and from work before the story is finished and have less time to spend writing, so it will probably slow down at some point, but for now it'll probably still be updated more or less daily.
Chapter 24
The bike order couldn't be carried off until mid-January and the shop was half empty most days. The men who were desperate to bet just after Christmas were generally doing it with what little money their families had to survive January and half the time Tommy would send them away, refusing to accept their business. He didn't reckon he was actually doing much good – he was sure they'd find other places to go – but it wouldn't be on his fucking conscience.
Rosie watched him do it a few times, but she didn't say anything to rebuke him – even though it was bread from her mouth and Lily's he was taking. But he never asked her what she thought, and she never volunteered – just as he never volunteered his explanation.
Still, they could survive a while with no income from the shop - the protection money came in as usual and they had done well in the run up to Christmas in intercepting a lot of deliveries – their warehouses were stocked for when buyers were ready, and no matter how hard times were there were always buyers for cigarettes and bottles of whisky at knocked off prices. And it would all pick up again at the end of January, it was just a grey month for everyone.
The two Jacksons at number 6 Watery Lane meant that January was much less grey for Tommy than it usually was – and the empty shop meant Polly was away earlier and earlier each day, sometimes not even sticking around for dinner, which Rosie had started to take over most nights. He had had no intention of letting her do that when he'd proposed the arrangement to her in the first place, so it half bothered him – but, selfishly, the pros outweighed the cons. For a start, he was able to give her a food allowance that she couldn't argue him out of and, for another thing, the sight of her in the kitchen gave him a warm feeling in his stomach. She was like a shot of expensive whisky that didn't burn on the way down and that provided a glow that lasted, without the headache. He was especially aware of that glow when she stared intently at the instructions in the book he'd got her for Christmas and she'd wrinkle her already slightly wonky nose up in concentration – that nose wrinkle made his stomach rotate like it was on a roasting spit in a fire, never mind warm. And of course, her being in the kitchen meant that he could faff about around her – either pretending to help her and Lily, whilst being aware he was probably more hindrance than help, but she didn't seem to mind, or if he was working he could throw the doors open between the shop and the kitchen and they could talk as they each worked their own domain.
Sober Arthur didn't seem to remember what he'd admitted on Christmas day and was taking the quiet period as a time to heckle Tommy's effectiveness, and the result was that Tommy often found himself irritable. It was Rosie who calmed him, the majority of the time, but there were certain topics that no one could calm him from and the communist issue was one. They were getting louder, more confident – people's desperation post-Christmas was being exploited – and Tommy bristled every time he thought of the commies taking people's donations for their bloody cause when he was telling them to keep their money and go home. Maybe he was going soft.
Or maybe he just had a moral fucking code that the communists didn't. Fucking glorious revolution – what was that to the individuals of Small Heath if they couldn't feed their kids for the week?
His mother had done a good job at hiding their poverty from them when they were little, she was able to convince them somehow that running around barefoot was much more exciting than running around in shoes and no matter what their father did with the majority of the money she'd make sure they didn't go to bed hungry – unless she was decreeing they were to go to bed hungry as a result of some bit of behaviour she didn't like. It was only now he really could appreciate how little they'd had growing up – and how hard her job had been.
One time, one other January, she'd sent him to the shop for margarine, eggs and bread – he hadn't come back with any of them. He'd spent the sixpence she'd given him alright, but on the things he, as a child, had deemed more worthwhile. His mother hadn't agreed with his judgement and she'd beat him – it was the only real time he'd claim his mother had ever beat him. His mother had been sharp enough with them, and quick with her hands when she needed to be right enough. But, whilst every child in Birmingham probably thought themselves the most strictly and stringently disciplined - and the Shelby's were no exception - it was looking back on it now that he could clearly see that – whilst he was sure there'd been times she'd been only too happy to throw them over her knee for whatever grief they'd caused her – she'd never really lost her temper or lost control with them, other than that time. She'd had a frying pan in her hand and she'd brought it down on whatever inch of him she could each, blackening his body as he'd thrown his arms over his head to shield himself from her. The truth was, he hadn't thought overmuch on it at the time – he knew it was different to what any of them usually caught from her, but it wasn't much worse than half of what went on in other houses as standard and he'd had worse from his father.
It was only looking back now he could realise that what he'd thought was rage in her eyes had been desperation and fear – that was all the money they'd had for the week and their father had fucked off somewhere and his mother would have had nothing else to feed them with. It was what Rosie had said though – what were the options for women? And this was when he was young, before the war – there had been even less options for them then. It was almost surprising that his mother had never turned to whoring. He suspected his Uncle Charlie had stepped in on more occasions than any of them would have realised – as he definitely had done that week.
It was only looking back now that he could realise that those weeks she'd taken them off in the wagon – the weeks she'd painted to them as an adventure where they could leave school – were probably fuelled by a desire not to be around when someone came looking for money or the fact it was simpler – and cheaper – to make them find wood to build fires with and eat what they could hunt rather than having to find money to run the house for the week.
Yeah, his mother had had a hard fucking time of it – and he hadn't realised, none of them had realised – because she was so good at hiding it from them.
That was the thing – him and Freddie. They'd grown up side by side, Freddie's mother Irene had been on her own too – Freddie's father had had the decency to die though, he hadn't abandoned his wife and son by choice, not like their father had chosen to do. They'd come from the same poverty, the same education, the same life and the same war. They'd both waited for the cavalry.
But Freddie had come back with a renewed faith in the communist cause. There, Freddie saw a way out.
All Tommy saw there now was men like Freddie - men who needed to feel like they were worth something because the war had stripped them from themselves – and they were so lacking in their own worth that finding a new cause to martyr themselves to was their only chance of keeping themselves tethered to this life.
But this cause was up against the cavalry – and Tommy had realised, you couldn't work against the cavalry. Individuals, yes. But not the lot of them, not as a unit. You just had to work around them. The communist cause was fucking doomed as far as he was concerned. And if Freddie wanted to tie himself to it so he could feel rooted in something then so be it – he'd lose his friend. But he wouldn't lose his family to it, he wanted them nowhere near it, because he knew what the odds were. Safehouses were only required for people who couldn't walk the streets normally, and they were only safe as long as people didn't find them out. And they'd always get found out.
And that was how he felt normally about communists – but added to the idea that he was turning away money that could feed his family, only for some of it to end up in the collections of communists so they could send the war pensions of widows and the bread money of children to Russia – to fucking Russia - at the cost of his family, as he saw it – that meant his patience for communism was currently the lowest it had ever been.
"What are you up to my little love?" he asked Lily as he came through the front door one evening, shutting it quietly behind him.
There was raucous laughter coming through from the kitchen.
"Do mine Polly, go on," Rosie's voice floated through.
"Drawing," Lily replied, smiling up at him.
He came to crouch by where she was lying spread out on the floor, crayons and papers all around her, "What you drawing?"
"Trying to do a horse, but Arthur is better at them," she said, showing him her crude picture.
"Arthur's had more time to practise, this is good Lily, better than Arthur was when he was your age – you just keep practising," he said, smiling down at her, stroking her head as she went back to scribbling.
"Right, now swirl the teacup," Polly's voice said.
Tea leaves being read indeed. Tommy rolled his eyes. Polly had something he couldn't put his finger on – and he didn't deny that she'd predicted the sex of every baby born in the family correctly, or that she did seem to know when any of the kids was up to something they shouldn't be even when they weren't at home – but tea leaf readings were the sort of nonsense he was used to his father pretending to be able to do to trick people out of their cash.
"Now think about the man you love," Polly instructed and Tommy's ears pricked up in spite of himself, "Think about your white wedding gown."
"What if I'd rather have a green gown and sod the white one?" Rosie replied, laughing.
Ada gasped then giggled and Polly snorted. He frowned and glanced down at Lily, but the child was drawing obliviously – thankfully. Bloody green gowns. He'd give her a green gown for her trouble. And then he realised what he'd just thought and felt his face flush a little.
"Just think about the future you want with this man," Polly said, mirth still in her voice.
"Right, right, I've thought about it – with this nameless and as yet unidentified man," Rosie replied.
"Aye right that he's nameless and unidentified, you've a cheek to say anything to me about how I should just hurry it up and get on with my man," Ada replied.
"Well you're happier, right?" Rosie asked.
"According to my tea leaves I'm on the right track," Ada said, giggling again.
He really needed to get to the bottom of what was going on with Ada - just to check that she was alright, if nothing else. He trusted Rosie's judgement a little more than he trusted Ada's, but he trusted his own most of all when it came to judging other males.
"Pour the tea back into the pot," Polly said, cackling herself like a right old gypsy witch.
Tommy patted the back of Lily's head one last time and came to stand, lighting a cigarette and settling back in one of the chairs, his attention swivelled through to the door to listen to what Polly had to say about Rosie's future with an unnamed and unidentified man – not obviously that he put any store by tea leaf readings. Not at all.
"Interesting," Polly commented.
"What is it Aunt Pol?" Ada asked.
"Your unnamed man is going to be very devoted."
"Sure," Rosie said with a snort.
"He already is in fact, as unnamed and unidentified as he is - he's identified you. At least to himself."
Ada shrieked with laughter, but Rosie didn't say anything - though he could imagine her raising her eyebrows at them both.
Polly clicked her tongue, "Uhuh – and you'll get a green dress alright, but there's a white one too."
Tommy's heart tightened at that.
"I don't want a white dress - I'll just look fatter than normal in white," Rosie replied.
Tommy rolled his eyes. Fat indeed. She was all curves and softness admittedly, not all lines and angles, but the padding was where it should be on a woman, in his humble opinion. Nothing fat about her - her waist was about the span of his hand for Christs' sake, and as for anywhere else - well, he had two hands for a good reason.
"Well you'll wear it – but it seems there's a red right hand in your future before you get either dress."
"A what?" Rosie asked.
"Yep. More than one, actually."
"Let me see," Ada said, probably grabbing at the cup from Polly.
"What does that mean Polly? Red for communists?"
Tommy's brow knitted. What did it bloody mean? And he'd seen Freddie Thorne skulking around again today and he'd had as much of communists as he was willing to bear in any given day.
"I don't even know any communists except for Freddie, how can I have more than one red hand if I only know one communist?" Rosie asked.
He threw down the cigarette and strode through to the kitchen, flashing his eyes at her. The three women jumped when he entered, clearly having been too embroiled in their tea leaves to have heard him come in.
He grabbed her chin and yanked it up, pressing on it hard.
"How do you know Freddie Thorne?" he growled at her.
She blinked up at him, then narrowed and widened her eyes, trying to assess what was going on, but he didn't change his face, just glared down at her.
"Just – just from around," she eventually struggled out.
"Just from around eh?"
"Tommy," Ada started to say, but he silenced her with a look, not loosening his grip on the redhead, whom he turned his eyes back to.
"Let me make this quite clear," he said, speaking slowly, keeping his voice low, "You don't talk to Freddie Thorne. You don't interact with Freddie Thorne. You see him coming – you cross the fucking street, got it?"
He pressed on her chin and she gave a slight nod – as much as she could nod against his hold.
"That goes for every communist in fucking England, do you understand?"
"Yes Tommy," she whispered.
"If I see you anywhere near any communist I will make you rue the fucking day you arrived on this earth, you got it?"
"Yes."
"Good," he said, his eyes searching her face for a moment, then he released her and nodded.
He drew himself up, and she widened her eyes at him – asking him what the fuck that had been about. But he wasn't going to explain it to her – all she needed to do was remember what he'd told her and abide by it. She tried, later, and on days following to draw him into it – but he wouldn't explain it then either. That was a discussion he wasn't going to have and he was thankful when she left it alone.