Building on the last chapter this one also carries a trigger warning for child abuse, please skip if this will affect you.
Chapter 54
She was still on the floor of the kitchen when he went back through the shop door, and she looked up at him with wide eyes, her demons dancing out of them and across her face, not bothering even to try and camouflage themselves as they usually did so well.
He locked the door, knowing she wouldn't appreciate an audience to her pain, and sat down next to her, putting an arm around her, pulling her into him. She slumped willingly, her head laying on his shoulder, not resisting.
"You're alright, eh? You're alright," he told her, rubbing his hand up and down her upper arm.
"Tommy…"
She murmured his name and broke off, but her head pushed into him, as if it wanted to be closer and he took it as encouragement.
"C'mere," he said, keeping his right arm around her, hooking his left under her knees and pulling her legs around and across him, shifting her onto his lap and cradling her.
She went like a rag doll, limp and yielding, only seeming to find the effort to curl her arms around his neck.
"You're alright," he repeated, running his hands through her hair, down her back, rubbing and stroking and hoping it was soothing, kissing her head, "I'm here, I've got you, you're alright."
"Tommy – why would she think I'd hit her with a pot?" Rosie asked, her voice croaky, her face pressed into him, "I've never thrown anything at her. I've never – I mean – I smacked her once Tommy, with my bloody hand. Why would she think I'd go from that to hitting her with a pot?"
He kissed her head and stroked her hair before saying, carefully, "Because she's seen it happen. Because you didn't tell her until today that it wouldn't happen to her. Kids just – they just think what they see is what's normal. They don't realise."
They don't realise when they're watching someone being abused.
She tightened her hold around him, not taking her face from his chest.
"C'mon, let's go sit through on the sofa," he said, moving around to his knees, keeping his arms around her as he did so, threading them under her to pick her up with him as he stood.
They were going to need to get as comfy as possible for what he reckoned could be a long chat. Or a long silence. And he suspected John would arrive back in via the back door at some point. He kicked the kitchen door shut behind him as he went through to the front and settled the two of them down, her still on his lap – hoping Finn would stay out and not appear back in anytime soon.
"Right, my darling girl," he murmured, pressing his face into her unruly head, "What's happened to you, eh? Why didn't you tell me?"
She shook her head – she wasn't ready to speak.
"Alright," he said, speaking as softly, gently, as he could, interspersing his words with kisses and caresses, "You're alright. Take your time. I've got you. I'm here when you're ready, my love. I'm waiting for you, as long as you need. I've got you and you're alright."
They sat in silence for a while, her pressed into him, him kissing the top of her head, squeezing her waist, rubbing her back – trying to soothe her, repeating to her over and over that he had her, that she was alright.
At last she took her arms from around his neck and pulled her face from his chest. His heart stopped, wondering if she was just going to get up and walk away as if nothing had happened – he wouldn't put it past her – but she only shifted round, pulling her hands into her own lap but staying on his, her knees coming up to her own chest and her head still resting on his, just laid on to it sideways instead of being pressed in. A little more distance – but still close. She wasn't rejecting him.
"You ready to talk to me?" he asked, keeping his tone gentle.
She glanced up at him, then away – focussing on a spot on the wall.
"I don't…" she began, then broke off, shook her head and pressed her forehead to her knees.
"You don't have to talk till you're ready, I'm here and I've got nowhere else to be," he murmured, "I'll sit here for as long as it takes."
She didn't say anything to that – and she didn't move her head from her knees.
"Why didn't you tell me, eh?" he asked her softly, hoping that maybe direct questions would elicit answers – that maybe it would be easier for her to give specific answers than to spew out her history, a history she'd hidden from him for whatever reason.
She took a few deep breaths and ground her forehead into her knees before speaking to them, as though they had asked, "I didn't want to see it on your face."
"See what on my face?" he asked.
He expected her to say pity, that she didn't want to see his pity – that she didn't want to see anyone's. He knew she wouldn't want that. She'd been determined not to be seen as a charity case from the minute he'd asked her to come and live with them, he knew she didn't want sympathies.
His stomach lurched when she answered differently, "The look on your face as you try and figure out what has to be wrong with me for my own mother to have hated me."
"Jesus Christ!" he muttered, more to himself than to her, and tightened his hold on her, "Nothing is wrong with you. Is that what you believe – or that you thought I'd believe - that your mother battered you because of something that was wrong with you?"
She lifted her head slightly, resting her chin on her knees, still not looking at him as spoke, "I would never do to Lily what she did to me. No matter what she did – no matter how she misbehaved or disobeyed or spoke to me or whatever. I just – I'd never treat her like that Tommy, never."
She hadn't answered the question.
"I know," he said, his eyes still on her as she continued to keep hers on the wall, "But that's fuck all to do with Lily, you know that, right? Your actions, your reactions – Rosie how you keep them under control, how you measure what they should be in response to her – that's nothing to do with Lily or what she actually does, it's to do with your brain having a grip on what's an acceptable way to parent a child. Rosie – if your mother drew blood from you, no matter what the supposed reason was – that's – that's not okay."
That's not okay. How fucking stupid did he sound? That's not okay. He didn't know how else to phrase it, but what he was coming up with wasn't good enough.
"Rosie – drawing blood from a child, that's a mark of someone not fit to have a child. That's nothing to do with the kid."
"Wasn't really a kid though, was I?"
"With the pot?"
She nodded.
"How old were you?"
"February last year. Fourteen. Few weeks short of turning fifteen."
"Why?"
She still didn't look at him and her voice was blank as she began to speak, becoming shakier as she went on, her sentences clipped as she tried to control how much she was giving away, "She'd had a bad client. He'd bruised her, she wasn't going to be able to see her fancy client who paid her well, some businessman. Andrews. Owns golf courses or something. He didn't like her marked. Could tell she was getting into a rage but Lily – Lily didn't know. I mean, she's a baby, how was she supposed to?"
She broke off, shaking her head, running her hand through her hair and getting back in control of her breathing before she continued, "Lily was in the kitchen - she wasn't doing anything, she was just playing and making noise and Molly wasn't in the mood for noise. Was always best to just stay in our room and be quiet when she was in a temper, just hope she'd forget we existed for a bit. But we'd been downstairs because she'd been with the man and it was raining so I couldn't take Lily out because her coat was upstairs. We had to keep everything in the room, so none of the clients would know, y'know?"
He didn't know. He'd never considered it. Lizzie didn't hide any of her stuff when he went to her lodging, but it didn't bother him. He didn't like any of what he was hearing from Rosie's point of view, but he'd heard on the street that Molly Jackson was good. Maybe it was those touches – forcing your kids to live in one room so their presence didn't touch the rest of the house, forcing them to stay out of sight in the kitchen when you had a client in – that made you good. Let men pretend you were truly theirs, like you didn't have your own life. He wondered if he'd ever marked Lizzie, wondered if it had ever stopped her working. He never noticed marks on her, but then, he barely saw her anyway, even when he was in her.
"Some of them knew, would come in and talk to us – as if we were included in the price. Not like that, I don't mean…," she broke off, closing her eyes tightly before opening them and continuing, more slowly, "Just some of them, it was like they wanted to pretend we were theirs, come in with no fucking warning to talk shit – some of them brought us sweets and stuff. Maybe they were just trying to be nice, but I hated it. Be getting changed for bed or whatever and next thing the door's thrown open so someone whose just fucked your mother can talk to you as if that makes it all more civil. I preferred when we just kept out of the way."
There was so much falling in to place now – things he'd half suspected but had never confirmed.
"Anyway, I saw Molly get that look in her eye and she starts advancing on Lily and I knew she was going to do something awful. She'd hit her before. Once when she was crying, when she was maybe about three – she won't remember, thank god – Molly slapped her right across the mouth, shouting at her to be quiet – as if that was going to make her stop. She mainly went for me though. The fact Lily's pretty helped."
She broke off and swallowed. There was something so intrinsically wrong with the implications of that last part of her statement.
He had contrasted what he'd seen as Ada's vanity and shallowness – her love of clothes and shoes and hairstyles and picture shows – against Rosie's lack of and, like a first-rate arsehole, he'd interpreted that as Rosie being above those things. He had pasted some kind of superiority onto her because she wasn't concerned with her appearance, a superiority she had never claimed. She made jokes about her lack of ability to join in with Ada and her friends when they discussed that stuff, and he'd never for a minute considered that she felt ill equipped to join in for any other reason than her mind being on things he thought were more valuable – Lily, business, books. Things he had decided made her smarter than Ada. He'd never asked her why she wasn't interested, he'd just presumed he knew why.
Turning it over, she only ever made degrading comments about her own appearance. She'd called herself fat the day Polly had read her tea leaves, when he'd stormed in and given her a mouthful about communists. She'd rolled her eyes and complained when her hair started getting long. He was such an idiot. He'd interpreted her comments as signs that she was more refined than other girls her age, that she wasn't vain. He hadn't taken them as being signs that she had no belief in her own attractiveness.
Hell, he'd gone further than that though, hadn't he? The night she'd seen Finn in the bath and had gotten herself into a flap. He'd decided her wearing of men's clothes and her short hair were her armour, that she was deliberately trying to conceal her attractiveness because of what her mother did, because of what she'd been exposed to. Not that any of it mattered, no badly cut clothing or lack of make up or cropped hair could hide the fact that she was -
"You're beautiful," he told her, genuinely meaning it and, more than that, needing her to hear it, to know it, hating every word she was saying – and the fact she said it so blankly, so acceptingly, her voice only shaking when she talked about Lily. Hating that he hadn't realised it before.
She snorted at it and shook her head.
"You are," he insisted, his voice rasping, running his hand down her cheek as she still refused to look at him.
Her beautiful round cheek, pink from her emotion, flushed with life. If he ever got her back, if they ever fixed this properly, he was going to spend time worshipping every inch of her beautiful body with his lips, press kisses to every part of her – show her how in awe of her he was. Because he was.
"Lily's pretty with that blonde hair and blue eye combination," he told her, his breath catching, "But you're like something people would paint and put up in an art gallery."
"To depict Lucifer," she replied, rolling her eyes.
It was almost a welcome change from the blankness.
"No, that's me they use for that," he said, making his voice lighter, realising that maybe a conversation about her childhood trauma wasn't the moment to start trying to work on whatever lack of belief she had in her own beauty, "Tell you what – I'll be Hades and you can be Persephone."
The goddess of the underworld, and also the goddess of spring and rebirth and grain. It suited her. The woman who could make soup and thought taking away cake was a sufficient punishment for misbehaving kids, as well as being the girl who wore trousers and had punched a boy to the ground at Ada's birthday. The girl who was apparently the target of her own mother's rages who was still the best mother he'd ever seen in action. The vision so striking that she should have been in an art gallery, who seemed to prefer being in the background, unnoticed.
"Don't flatter yourself that you abducted me, I ate your seeds willingly," she replied, still not looking at him, her voice losing its joking tone.
"Do you feel trapped?"
She paused then shook her head, "No."
He expected her to remind him that she was going to leave when Lily didn't need him anymore, but she didn't say anything else.
"Finish telling me, eh?" he asked gently, stroking her hair.
She blinked slowly then picked up, "She was coming at Lily. So I pushed myself in front of her and – well, to be honest, I don't even remember what I said. Something to get her to focus on me, something to piss her off. Just didn't want her going near Lily when she had that look in her eye. She stared at me for a minute and then grabbed the pot from where I'd left it to dry on the side and swung it at me. I was so shocked I didn't react quickly enough – turned my face enough to avoid the worst of it, but it still cracked me right across the cheek and it must have hit my nose because it started bleeding. I remember the sound, but I don't even remember the pain. Lily started crying because it upset her – of course it upset her – and Molly still had the pot in her hands and she started trying to get around me and I just saw red, Tommy. I just remember thinking if she wants to get near that baby with that pot she'll need to step over my dead body to do it. I don't really remember anything past that – I just went for her Thomas. My mind – it just – it sounds mad but it was like something took over me, I don't remember thinking about what to do or making any decisions, I was just suddenly doing stuff."
He shook his head, "That doesn't sound mad. You were being threatened. Instinct takes over in those situations. I'd know – France."
He knew exactly what she was talking about. Kill or be killed.
"The whole thing just blurs," she told him, "I got the pot off of her and I got the poker out of the kitchen fire and I just remember standing in front of Lily with them both in my hands and screaming at Molly that if she didn't get the fuck out I was going to maim her so she'd never work again. Christ. I'm an awful person, I know that, but I couldn't stand there and let her hurt that kid."
"You're not an awful person – she's – she's a…" he broke off, searching for a suitable word, not finding one even in the most vulgar reaches of his vocabulary, "You probably saved Lily's life, you know that? If she went for her with that pot – she'd have probably caved her head in. And she'd have hanged for it, quite rightly. And god knows what would have happened to you. You're an angel, you hear me?"
He kissed her head fiercely, his arms pulling her tight to him.
She shook her head and finally looked at him, meeting his eye, "Tommy," she began, then shook her head and looked up to the ceiling, trying and failing to stop her tears, "I'm a terrible person. I – Christ – I was – Tommy there was a part of me that was glad when she went for Lily. Not a big part of me, Jesus, but – part of me, Tommy, I…"
She broke off, burying her head in her knees for a few minutes, her body shaking before she picked up, "She had Lily because she hated me, she told me that. I was a disappointment to her. I wasn't the child she wanted and she regretted keeping me. Realised when I got the red hair that my father hadn't been who she thought he was. She hadn't been able to work once she'd started showing. Only for me to not be right. She wanted Lily. Planned her. Started seeing this man – blonde hair, blue eyes – exclusively for a month. Cut her income right back but she wanted the right baby the second time. I didn't know what it was I'd done so wrong, but I knew I was bad. I had red hair and didn't look right and that was bad. Just intrinsically bad, and there was nothing I could do about it. Figured I deserved it all. There was something in me though, Tommy… I didn't trust her. Thought she might have made another mistake, so I went to the library and read everything I could about babies and how to look after them. And just as well I did because Lily came along and – and whatever it was Molly wanted to achieve by having her, it didn't work out for her. Sometimes she'd look at her and say she was perfect, that all her own sins had been washed away because of Lily. And other times she'd say it was just a way for god to laugh at her, to show her what she could never be. Then she'd look at me and say she'd have been better just keeping me because at least I was little bitch and couldn't hold anything over her. Sometimes she liked Lily and sometimes she didn't, so I just looked after her when Molly didn't. I thought maybe even if I was so bad, that I could be useful, could look after Lily, try and keep her safe. So I did. And I – I realised that Lily wasn't bad or good, she was just a baby. And the bigger she got the more disinterested Molly got – and I began to think – if she can be indifferent to Lily, maybe it's not that I'm bad, maybe it's just something wrong with her."
"Of course it was something wrong with her!" he growled, his hand pulling her face to his, needing, with more urgency than he'd ever needed anything, her to know – to understand, "My love – you are perfect, do you hear me? I'm sorry you've gone through all that you have with that woman, but it was always to do with her, not you, you understand that now don't you?"
"The thing is though," she replied, beautiful in an ethereal way with her fiery halo of hair and her molten amber eyes leaking, "When you've believed your whole life that something's wrong with you, it's not easy just to accept suddenly that it's not."
She pulled her face back and dropped her eyes, her breathing shallow and stilted as she went on, "And Tommy – when – when she went for Lily with that pot. I had this horrible moment of joy where I went it's not me. The fact she was going to go for Lily the same as she did me – it was horrible, but there was this bit of me Tommy, I'm going to hell for it I'm sure, that was relieved. How evil do you need to be to get that at the expense of a child?"
She buried her face back into her knees and cried, and he held her, rocked her, told her, "Rosie – that wasn't evil. Christ, that wasn't joy at what was potentially going to happen, that was just confirmation that for your entire fucking life she'd abused you and it wasn't your fault. And, Jesus, I'm glad you had that moment because you carry enough as it is, taking everyone's burdens on you. So if you think it was evil of you to have it in the moment what does that make me, eh? Rosie, you are a good person – do you hear me? The best bloody person I know. You didn't deserve any of that, you know that, right? You and Lily deserved far better than what you were dealt. And Lily is lucky she had you or god only knows what would have happened. Oh my darling girl, my beautiful, darling girl - I – I don't know what to say to you, or how to make it up to you, what you've been through. I knew your mother wasn't a good mother but I just thought she was neglectful – I didn't realise…"
He broke off from his own spiel. I didn't realise she'd abused you. I didn't realise you and Lily had been so at risk. So in danger. So unsafe. That was what he'd been going to say. And it brought her own words flooding back to him.
I feel quite safe with you, even when you spanked me, she'd told him when he'd taken her into his office and offered her the job. Tommy, you keep us safe, she'd said to him when he'd got her alone after the raids. That was the same night she'd finally admitted she needed him.
He hadn't fully appreciated what she was saying when she said those things. It was one thing to say you felt safe with someone. And that was what he'd taken it for. It was another thing to say you felt safe, finally, when you'd spent most of your life feeling unsafe.
It had been a far bigger deal, those had been far bigger statements, than he'd realised.
And then he'd made her feel that he was abandoning her for Grace. And it was worse than he'd realised because he thought the abandonment trauma had come from her mother leaving them, he didn't realise she had been abandoned at birth – unloved her whole life by the one person who was meant to love you.
Christ knew he'd hated their father, but he'd never questioned that their father was a useless piece of shit who had let them down, he'd never considered it to be his own fault. Because their mother had been there, had loved them. Because their mother had never let them down. Because their mother, for all he knew now she hadn't had it easy, had fulfilled the role mothers were meant to fill.
Rosie had been brought into the world to be tossed aside by her mother – and had taken it to be her own fault - and had had no family to fill that role for her. No Polly, no brothers. But by god, when Molly had done it again, Rosie had risen to the role herself - at nine years of age – learned how to look after a child from a library book. Thrown herself in between that child and – and that woman who had brought them into the world for her own selfish, fucked up purposes. Molly Jackson had better hope he never got his hands on her. He'd kill her. And he'd take pleasure in every moment of it.
Something else clicked into place for him then too.
"Ada's pregnant and alone."
"And whose fault is that?" she shouted.
"Do you see Freddie anywhere?" he shouted back, throwing his hands wide, "He's left her – he's gone."
She nodded, then walked by him. He let her this time, watching as she reached the stairs, where she turned to him.
"You want me to believe you just paid my rent to be nice? To help me?"
"I did," he growled at her.
She stared at him, then, "And you call me a fucking hypocrite? Maybe Thomas, you should think about why I don't believe you'd do that for me – no agenda involved – when you're leaving your sister to be alone."
"I've not left her alone," he spluttered.
"Then where is she Thomas?"
"She's – she's at Polly's – and she took herself there, she left this house!" he shouted, waving his right hand as he said it.
"And have you been to speak to her?" Rosie demanded, her voice rising as she continued on until she was shouting, "Have you been to ask her how she's feeling or what she wants to do? No! You've gone and demanded to know whose it is. Nothing about her! And then you want to stand here and fucking outline what she's to fucking do and decree what's fucking best for her!"
He had focussed on her women's lib. He had thought her issues with the Ada situation were all based in him trying to make Ada's choices for her. And he was sure that was part of it. But he had missed what had been staring him in the face. She thought he was abandoning Ada. She thought he was leaving her alone and even when he'd pointed out that Ada had chosen to leave, to go to Polly's, Rosie's response had been to point out that he hadn't tried to do anything about it – that he'd let her go, hadn't even been to speak to her.
She thought it was happening again. That she'd found somewhere she felt safe and that it had been a sham. That he was abandoning her for Grace. That he was abandoning Ada too, because she'd disappointed him, just like she had disappointed her mother – by existing, by being born to the wrong father, by being a real child instead of the fantasy one Molly Jackson had undoubtedly concocted in her own fucked up head and then held up as an impossible standard for Rosie to live up to.
"Rosie – I'm trying, with Ada," suddenly needing her to know, "I went to see her and I'll admit it was a bit of a fucking disaster, but I wrote Freddie and-"
"I know," she said quietly, turning her face from being pressed into her knees to being pressed against them, her eyes taking him in, "Polly told me yesterday."
So, she knew. He wondered what it meant that Polly had told her.
"I know it's not enough," he said, his voice slightly thick, "But I promise, I'm trying."
"I didn't know what to say," she said, still looking to him, "I just – I was so angry with you Thomas."
"I know," he nodded, "I know I handled it badly. I can't – I won't claim to be perfect. But my main priority Rosie, no matter how badly I've displayed it, is Ada, in that situation."
She nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"And I promise, taking Grace to the races – it's business. I want you. Only you. You are," he broke off, tracing the outline of her face with his thumb, his hand weaving itself into her hair, thinking about how to express what he was trying to before clearing his throat and finishing, "The most extraordinary woman I've ever met."
She blinked slowly, then turned and rested her chin on her knees.
"I don't want to be made a fool of, Thomas," she told him, not looking at him again.
He ran his hand down her hair to her waist, squeezing it, "It never has been and never will be my intention to make a fool of you, I give you my word on that."
"It's one thing to be a child, with no options and no choice," she told him, still staring ahead at the wall, "But I can't – I won't be complicit in my own destruction here, you understand?"
"Rosie, I need you," he replied, his voice gravel to his own ears as he tried to stop the thickness from coming through in it, "If you destruct, I'll destruct for lack of you. Do you understand?"
She didn't reply, just continued to stare at the wall – and they sat like that for a while, not moving until Finn and Isaiah appeared in the doorway looking for a drink and a biscuit and Rosie snapped into her usual mode, taking them through to the kitchen and cutting slices of cake for them, pouring cordial into glasses.
Tommy stood in the doorway and watched her mothering his younger brother and his friend, turning over whether the reason she was so damned good at it was because she knew exactly what it was kids needed from having never been given it.
They weren't alright. He wasn't forgiven. Her trust hadn't been re-earned. He didn't imagine that she felt particularly safe. But he knew they were on a better path than they had been. He supposed it was a bit like when Arthur got his Flanders' Blues. Sometimes nothing but time would knit wounds back together.
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"Dinner time," he said, pushing Lily's bedroom door open and raising an eyebrow at the sight of her sitting up in bed, walking her bear across it, obviously playing some kind of game with herself.
"What?" she asked, her face falling as she looked at his expression.
"I don't think you were put to bed so you could play with your bears, Lily."
"But I did as I was told and stayed in bed!"
He smiled and shook his head, defeated as always by the six-year-old. It reminded him of something he'd have done when he was her age – disobeyed within the limits of obeying. The thing was, he'd know fine well that he was pushing his mother's limits, Lily genuinely did think she'd done as she was told – and he couldn't really be bothered arguing with whether or not she'd disobeyed the essence of what she'd been told.
"You were supposed to lie here being bored and thinking about how awful it would be if you had to stay in bed for months on end because you fell off the roof and broke a bone," he said, making an attempt at it.
"I thought about that when Rosie said that."
"Hmm," he replied, crossing over and tucking his hands under her arms, pulling her to stand on the bed, "You're lucky it's your soft hearted sister who's in charge of you Miss Jackson. Now, dinnertime is going to require socks on your feet. And maybe a jumper, eh?"
"Cardigan."
"Cardigan, not a jumper – alright then, you choose," he said, lifting her up to press a kiss to her forehead before placing her down on the floor, where she padded over to the chest and pulled out some socks that were hers and a cardigan that definitely wasn't."
"That Rosie's?"
"Uhuh but she lets me wear it when I'm cold," Lily nodded, pulling the sleeves up her arms, the excess chunky knitted fabric bundling up like an accordion and slipping straight back down over her hands when she moved to pull the socks on.
It was comical – the cardigan would have been oversized on the older sister, it was practically a coat on the younger.
"Cosy?" he asked, hiding his laughter as she nodded.
"Alright then, c'mon – I'd better carry you or you'll fall down the stairs on that hem," he said, picking her up and resting her on his hip.
The excess length of the sleeves swung round and batted him in the face as she put her arms around his neck. It smelled like Rosie – tobacco and smoke, which he liked to imagine was his own contribution to her scent, mixed with musky warmth, like the heat of the golden amber of her eyes had been turned into a scent. There was nothing floral about it – and he didn't reckon the lack of interest in the floral waters his sister had bottles of in her own room was anything to do with his newfound understanding of her lack of confidence in her looks. She just wasn't a floral person. And the smell wasn't manufactured or sprayed on, it was just her own smell, and maybe some of his, melded into the fabric.
"I told this little miscreant to put on a jumper on for coming downstairs and she picked this one," he announced when he entered the kitchen.
Rosie glanced over from the cooker and he savoured the amused smile that flashed across her face – it was the first proper one he'd seen in almost two weeks – since he'd found out about Ada's pregnancy.
God, it had been less than two weeks – it would be two weeks on Tuesday. And less than two weeks with Rosie not at his side, it had been unbearable. He knew he loved her, of course he knew that. And he'd meant it – when he said he needed her, that he'd destruct without her. But he hadn't realised just how quickly that destruction would come upon him if she did ever fully leave him.
"Rosie," Lily said, attempting to move her hand to her mouth and sucking on a wad of knitwear instead.
"What is it sweetheart?" Rosie asked, coming over to them.
"Sorry I climbed," Lily offered through the mouthful of fabric, slightly sheepishly
"Good, I'm glad you're sorry," Rosie said gently, reaching out to run her thumb over her sister's cheek, "And you won't do it again?"
Lily shook her head and took her arms off of his neck and held them out to her sister. He passed her over and went to sit by Finn, ruffling his brother's hair on the way by. He felt like he could breathe again properly.
"Love you," Lily was saying to Rosie in the background – that same affirmation she had needed from him earlier after he'd put her to bed in the first place.
"I love you too Lily, more than anything in the whole world. That's why I want to keep you safe."
"Won't climb again Rosie," Lily repeated her promise.
"Good girl, why don't you sit up at the table while I get the dinner onto the plates, eh?" Rosie said, sliding Lily onto the floor.
The child didn't sit up though, she took a hold of Rosie's trouser leg and walked around the small kitchen with her, over to the sideboard for plates, over to the range to serve up and repeating the journey between the table and the counter as Rosie brought the dinners over, then she insisted on eating her own dinner on Rosie's lap, her sister folding the sleeves back neatly in little rectangles so that they stayed, though they were folded so many times that Lily with her folded back sleeves was wider than her grown up sister who sat behind her, reaching around to try and spear carrots and mashed potatoes onto her own fork.
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Rosie took Lily back up to bed after dinner and didn't reappear herself. It was a stark reminder that, for all the dinner had been the most relaxed in a while, things were not normal. Still, he had to go out – had to be seen. There were a few blinders going to the Garrison tonight. He was fairly sure it was the night Kimber would arrive. A Saturday, a busy night – the largest audience to try and intimidate them in front of, the largest stage to flex on.
He made sure the bullet with his name etched into it that Charlie had passed on to him from the Lees (the day they'd come and implanted the seed to the horse's hoof, and he was still determined he'd make them pay for that, pay for Lily's hurt) was in his pocket when he left.
"Jesus Christ Tommy, what the hell made you let them sing? They sound like they're strangling cats out there," John asked as they sat in the snug, the Saturday singing he had agreed to going on in the main bar.
The sound was bad enough with the door shut, but Grace had left it open behind her when she came in with the beer to refill their mugs, letting it assault their ears unimpeded.
Despite the soundtrack he laughed at John's observation, far more easily than he would have done even the night before. He was so elated to have held Rosie in his arms, to have touched her and kissed her, to know they were on a road to recovery together, that even the singing wasn't going to touch his mood. But, still, he didn't answer John's actual question, taking a drag from his cigarette instead. He'd allowed the singing because it suited his purposes to have Grace was convinced it was her charms that had convinced him to relinquish his ban.
"Alright, twenty's the play – come on," Arthur said, bringing the conversation back to the card game they had going, "And what did make you change your mind though Tommy - hmm?"
His brother's gaze was on Grace as she gathered up the empty glasses and he followed it, checking that she was listening, that she was noting their implications before she headed back out to the main bar area.
"Yeah it is," John said, exchanging a look with Arthur, "It's about time Tommy."
"Time for what?" he asked, feigning misunderstanding.
Arthur sat back, resting his hand across the back of the padded bench he and John were sitting on, perking up as he watched Tommy be confronted with it.
"Time you took yourself a woman," John said as Arthur snorted.
He knew what they were at. Trying to get him to just admit that he had either taken Rosie already, or that he planned to.
"Just play the bloody hand," he said, refusing to engage with it.
"You stay the way you are Tommy," Arthur said with a grin, "Remember what Dad used to say – fast women and slow horses-"
"Will ruin your life," he and John chorused together.
Tommy feigned a smile, which gave way slightly to a real one when he thought of how much Rosie had not ruined his life.
Still, it did bother him that Arthur had a nasty habit of referring to their father as if they'd been fond of him and he had died – rather than as if he was a piece of shit who had bullied their mother, beaten them and then left when he couldn't be bothered with the effort of either pastime.
John could laugh at the things Arthur quoted from their father, but Arthur Snr had disappeared when John was still just a kid, John didn't have many memories of him at all – none rose tinted the way Arthur's were, but none of him at his worst either, like the memories Tommy had etched into his mind. The list of things he never wanted any of the kids to see him do.
It was then that the headlights lights drew up outside, shining in through the Garrison's windows.
"Coppers!" John said, automatically assuming that a car meant the police.
It was a natural assumption - not many people had cars around Small Heath.
"No," Tommy said, shaking his head, looking at the shape of the car through the windows. He watched the driver get out of the front and open the door for the passenger, then close the door behind him and get back in the car, waiting to go when the other party returned.
These weren't coppers. These weren't Kimber's men either. This had to be Kimber himself. Sure, other people were getting out of the second car, but the driver, the doors – Billy Kimber had arrived exactly as Tommy had thought he would.
He put the cards down stood, straightening his shirt and waistcoat and listening to the cat strangling dying a death as Billy Kimber's voice demanded, "Is there any man here named Shelby?"
He cast a glance around the men assembled in the snug, nodding to Scudboat and Lovelock to be prepared to join them.
The momentary pause in their reply meant a gunshot sounded before the question was repeated.
He opened the door, locked eyes with Kimber and took in the men the man he had brought in to flank him, before sauntering out, ensuring everyone who was assembled saw him looking relaxed.
"Harry get these men a drink," he commanded of the barman, before adding to the room, "Everyone else go home."
They didn't need to be told twice, swarming for the door, scurrying around Kimber and his muscle. He noticed a smaller man, wearing spectacles, standing behind Kimber, moving out of the way to allow them to pass. That man was no natural gangster, riddled with the inbuilt politeness that betrayed his class.
Once the public were gone Kimber swaggered forward and took a seat – and the smaller man, the polite one, came forward and sat next to him. John and Arthur glanced to him before sitting opposite them, no one saying anything – each party sizing up the other, figuring out what weapons were needed.
Grace brought a tray of drinks over to their table - Tommy raised an eyebrow and ordered, "You go home," as he took a seat beside Arthur, opposite Kimber.
"But Mr Fenton said-"
"I said go home," he cut across her.
It served a few purposes – firstly, it got her where she couldn't listen in. It also made it look like he cared, which served his purposes both in what he wanted her to believe and in what it showed Kimber. And addressing her drew attention to her. He was sure she'd have attracted Kimber's eyes anyway from what he had heard about the man with the brunette wife, but it didn't do any harm to highlight her.
"I've never approved of women in pubs but when they look like that…" Kimber observed, smirking.
Excellent. That suited him.
"You said you wanted men called Shelby," Tommy said, lighting his cigarette before he oved his eyes to Kimber, "You've got three of them."
Kimber leaned back in his chair, "Alright – I never heard of ya, then I did hear of ya – some little Diddicoy razor gang, I thought to meself so what? But then you fucked me over - so now you have my undivided attention. By the way, which one am I talking to, who's the boss?"
Tommy kept his eyes firmly on Kimber, feeling Arthur tense beside him before his brother said, "Well I'm the oldest."
Kimber let out a laugh, "Clearly."
"Are you laughing at my brother?" John asked.
Tommy watched Kimber glance between then three of them before saying, "Right, he's the oldest, you're the thickest," pointing to Arthur and John in turn before locking eyes with him, "I'm told the boss is called Tommy and I'm guessin' that's you, 'cause you're lookin' me up and down like I'm a fucking tart."
Tommy let it hang for a second before saying, calmly, "I want to know what you want."
As if he thought it was a social call, had no idea why they had arrived.
The smaller man spoke up, "There were suspicious betting patterns at Kempton Park – a horse called Monaghan Boy. He won by a length twice and then finished last, with three thousand pounds bet on him."
Tommy kept his face neutral, not letting his smirk come through. Three thousand pounds bet on him legally. It didn't come close to what they'd got on him at the shop.
"Which one am I talking to?" he asked, looking between the man with spectacles and Kimber, "Which one of you is the boss?"
"I am Mr Kimber's advisor and accountant," the smaller man answered quickly – too quickly, it had clearly come up before and the man wanted to make sure it was known he was not the boss.
"And I'm the fucking boss, okay!" Kimber shouted, getting to his feet – irked by the question, "Right – end of parlay. You fixed a race without my permission you fucking Gypsy scum. Want to live off the war pensions o' these poor old Garrison Lane widows? That's your level! I am Billy Kimber! I run the races! And you fixed one of them so I'm gonna have you shot against a post."
Kimber turned to go, having clearly decided that he had been questioned enough and had given his verdict, but Tommy got to his feet and called his attention back, "Mr Kimber."
One of Kimber's men cocked his gun, but Tommy didn't acknowledge it, keeping his eyes on the so-called boss. He fished the bullet out of his pocket and threw it to him.
"Look at it," he said, after Kimber had caught it, "That is my name in it. It's from the Lee family. You are also at war with the Lees Mr Kimber, am I right?"
Kimber didn't answer, but he took a few steps back towards the table, his interest obviously piqued.
"The Lees are attacking your bookies and taking your money," Tommy pointed out, letting Kimber know he knew exactly what was going on, "Your men can't control them. You need help."
"Perhaps we should listen to what Mr Shelby has to say," the advisor piped up, "Before we make our decisions."
"Right, the Lees are doing a lot of talking at the fayres – they have a lot of kin," Tommy said, taking the presented opportunity, knowing he had to act quickly, not mince his words, "They're saying the race tracks are easy meat because the police are busy with strikes. Now, we have connections, we know how they operate. You have muscle. Together we can beat them – divided? Maybe not."
Kimber's face didn't betray his thoughts – though Tommy considered that it was very possible that Kimber didn't have that many thoughts to start with, the gormless expression seemed his natural state.
Once again, it was the advisor who spoke up, his eyes peeling slowly off Tommy to address his boss, "Mr Kimber, perhaps we should take some time for reflection – possibly make arrangements for a second meeting."
There was a backtracking on shooting him against a post at least – not that he for a minute had been worried that Kimber's two men and his small advisor would have managed to get any of them up against a post.
Kimber's ego was fragile – Tommy had gathered that from the shouting in response to his question about who the boss was – and he decided he'd stoop to stroke it.
"I admire you Mr Kimber," he told the gormless looking man, "You started with nothing and built a legitimate business. It would be an honour to work with you, Mr Kimber."
He had never met the man before now, and he had admired him. Or admired what he had thought he had done. He was fairly sure that the man before him now no longer possessed the qualities Tommy had admired in him, if he ever had done to start with.
"Nobody works with me," Kimber replied, "People work for me."
Fragile ego, damaged by a small word.
Kimber tossed a coin at him, which landed short – presumably deliberately.
"Pick it up Pikey."
Tommy managed not to laugh. Pikey. Gypsy scum. It worked better to convince someone you looked down on them if you didn't use their own insults too. Diddicoy razor gang, Kimber had called them. And who would know the term Diddicoy if they weren't a gypsy themselves?
Still, he'd play along. He was disappointed with Kimber in person, but still – he wanted this alliance. He wanted what Kimber could give him and if he had to stroke his ego, then so be it.
He moved to pick up the coin and John sprang to his feet, enraged that Tommy was bowing to the insult.
"Sit! Sit down!" Tommy growled, his finger pointing at his brother like it was Finn or Ada or one of the kids he was speaking to, before straightening up with the coin in hand.
Kimber glanced up at where the gunshot had landed earlier, "It's for your ceiling."
It was to show that he was rich, that he could toss away money and that he thought the Shelbys would stoop for it.
"Thank you Mr Kimber," Tommy said, figuring that right now he'd let Kimber think what he liked about them.
Kimber walked out and the accountant stood and came around to Tommy to address him, his eyes betrayed his interest, "We will be at Cheltenham."
"As will I," Tommy replied.
The man nodded and placed his hat back on his head before he followed Kimber. The man was the brains, that much was obvious. He would have been the boss, if he'd had more physical presence.
As the visitors exited, Tommy downed his drink and meandered round the table, smirking to himself as he threw up the bolt on the door before coming back to face his brothers.
"So, you picked a fight with the Lees on purpose," Arthur half stated, half accused him, "Tommy we can't mess with Billy fucking Kimber."
That was what Arthur thought. Judging by what he'd seen tonight, Billy Kimber was plenty able to be messed with. It was the accountant he had to get on side.
"Get yourself a decent haircut man," Tommy told his brother, picking up the accountant's untouched whisky, "We're going to the races."
Okay so a few things I wanted to chat about here.
Firstly - I know a few of you have come to this without any grounding in Peaky Blinders - as always please do let me know if there are any bits you're not following at any point plot wise but also may I really humbly suggest watching even the last minute of Season 1 Episode 2, which is where the end interaction of this chapter is lifted from as it has the *most* phenomenal soundtrack that really sets it off.
Secondly - We've reached the end of Season 1 Episode 2, only took 54 chapters, eh?
Thirdly - I hope this is starting to shine light on the confusion of Rosie's reactions and actions of the past few chapters! I've been planning this scene since I started writing, though as I've mentioned a million times, my original plan did not intend for it to take 54 chapters and 270,000+ words to get to Rosie's trauma being brought out.
Fourthly - PSA - Yes I'm on my soapbox again - Strong and stable relationships can help people recover from trauma and that is absolutely at the heart of this story however, please please please know that one person will never come along and magically solve anyone else's every trace of trauma or mental health issues. Recovery is so much more complex than that and it's not linear - unfortunately that doesn't make for the most cohesive storylines therefore it's not something we see explored much realistically in the arts, particularly in the romance genre. I know first hand how important good, healthy and consistent relationships are to recovering the self belief and self confidence that the types of trauma I'm writing about here can beat out of you, but if you are identifying with anything written here and you think it's affecting you - please seek professional help from a qualified medical person. Please do not sit around thinking that you're going to meet some magical perfect life partner who will fix all your issues, it really doesn't work that way and that's something I just massively want to push here because I'm so aware that I am writing a story set in a time when mental health and PTSD weren't diagnosable, PTSD wasn't even a term until the 1980s, and ultimately these characters will, as people in the time did, deal with their issues in what we know now are unhealthy ways. I've spoken before about my irritation with Stephen Knight glamorising Tommy's 'extraordinary' qualities and discussing how he'd lose them if he was happy - I just want to reiterate once again that being unhappy, being traumatised or being mentally unwell is not glamorous or desirable, it's really fucking hard. Yes, there is a real beauty when you are coping with it in finding another person who understands it when you've previously felt alone and like no one has understood what you're going through but that beauty is rooted in connection - and ultimately I suppose a large part of trauma is how disconnected it makes you feel, so it's the connection that contrasts with that but also the hope in believing that that connection is actually possible again after a long period of disconnect. To specify I am absolutely not a qualified medical practitioner of any sort, I'm just someone who is very passionate about encouraging people to identify and treat MH issues as readily as we would the overused metaphor of the broken leg. Basically - if this is triggering you, if you are identifying with any of it - please don't indulge in thinking that your Tommy Shelby or Rosie Jackson is going to come along to fix it and, on the flip side, please don't think it's ever your job to fix someone else's problematic behaviours (mental health based or otherwise) - if you think someone you know is struggling please encourage them to get professional help and don't take the responsibility of anyone else's mental wellness entirely onto yourself.
As always, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed or messaged me, followed or favourited, seeing those emails to let me know people are interacting with this story is honestly just the most heartening thing.
To answer some questions - I wasn't planning to write the last scene from John and/or Katie's POV, not to say I wouldn't if it was something people wanted to see (as always, happy to take requests or ideas so let me know what you do want to see!) but I wasn't planning on it. Having said that, Katie and Lily do have a really lovely friendship forming beneath what Tommy notices as their sort of 'top level' jostling with one another and they will be up to plenty more mischief together both in the future of this story and in some off shots I have planned, so there is much more of Katie to come as a character.
With regards to Molly Jackson - I honestly haven't 100% decided if she'll make an appearance yet. I had a scene in mind originally for her to make an appearance in but I don't know right now if it'll come to anything. There is obviously no story without conflict, but at heart I love those soft fluffy moments the best and once this current situation reaches it's reconciliation I think there's enough drama coming into Rosie's life through her choosing to be with Thomas Shelby that I don't really want to torture the poor girl for the sheer sake of it. My feeling right now is leaning towards not bringing Molly in. However, I'm also aware that Rosie's just been through a hugely emotionally draining time so my sympathy for her is exceptionally high in this moment. So ultimately, I might change my mind once we're out of this section just to give her that moment of confronting her mother once she has built up her confidence and can face her on an even woman to woman keel as opposed to having faced up to her and threatened her because her fear for Lily overran her own fear for herself. Long story short - I don't know, I suppose I'll keep writing and see what feels right when the time comes. Sorry, realise that's unhelpful as an answer!