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bluerighthand · 6 years

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Growing Up A Shelby - Chapter 3: 1901

Previous Chapters: one two three /?

Chapter Summary: Ada starts school, Tommy thinks about girls…and boys, and a furry friend is introduced to the family (much to Polly’s distress).

This chapter is basically a load of domestic things strung together. Fluff, family shenanigans, minimal angst (but there is a whole storm of angst heading your way).

Notes: Due to recent events I’m taking a break from tumblr/the internet, but here’s me resurfacing to post a new chapter and add more stuff to my queue. I’m really sorry for the wait, but I hope you enjoy <3

Words: 5,654

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15542805/chapters/38607311

Warnings: homophobia, brief mentions of death, gun violence and child abuse

“Oh, will you sit still” Polly groaned, smacking the back of John’s head. He stopped wriggling, for a grand total of five seconds, before resuming his task of trying to kick Arthur under the kitchen table. “John. I will shave your head right off I swear to God” said Polly, attempting to guide the razor across the back of his head.

“I am sitting still!” he protested, bringing his feet behind the chair legs to prove his innocence. Arthur’s legs could still reach however, and he waited until Polly was deep in concentration before sending a hard kick to John’s shin. At his cry, Polly slammed the razor down onto the table.

“Out” she said, pointing Arthur towards the door. She didn’t want to actually cut anyone, despite them both driving her absolutely mad. “Acting like a bloody child”.

“That’s a bad word” John informed her. Not as bad as the ones she wanted to use. Arthur took his time, dragging his feet along the floor and ‘accidentally’ knocking John’s arm on the way out.

She needed wine. And whiskey. In the same glass.

Ten minutes later, John’s hair was done. He scurried off immediately, leaving Polly’s warning about kicking his brother hanging in the kitchen. Cleaning the razor, she called for Tommy, but there was no answer. The imminent return to school (signified by the fresh haircut) must have him up to his neck in summer homework, she thought optimistically. Who was she kidding…

Cutting Tommy’s hair in the past had been a long and arduous task. It was easier now he was older, but he still hadn’t fully recovered his dignity from the baldness incident of 1896, and was therefore extremely cautious when it came to having his head shaved.

She entered the boys’ room to see Tommy leaning out of the window, arms resting on the sill. Thin wisps of smoke curled above his head, and Polly shivered, the autumn air from outside chilling the room.

“Thomas” she said warningly. He jumped, quickly flinging his cigarette down onto the street below, and spinning round. She glared at him in frustration. “Where do you keep getting those from?”. He shrugged, but at least had the decency to look sheepish under her gaze.

“It’s bloody freezing” said Polly, tugging the window down and flicking the latch. “Let’s get your hair sorted and you can go and play”. Tommy followed her out of the room.

“I’m too old for playing” he lied, eyes falling on his wooden horses on the landing even as he spoke. Polly shook her head, remembering a time when nothing could prise Tommy away from his toys. She’d seen the way he stared at older gangs on the streets, his natural curiosity pulling him into something that was very hard to get out of. She pushed the thought away. Tommy was only eleven for God’s sake, he had years before his father’s devilment emerged.

Haircut done and school bag packed for the following day, Tommy returned to his spot on the window sill. Arthur was on the street below, and having tired of annoying John, was throwing a deflated ball up for Tommy to catch. Arthur didn’t play with him as much as he used to, so Tommy was happy to join in, missing the hours they used to spend dreaming up worlds together. Tommy was the first to see Ada and Uncle Charlie heading down the lane, and he waved, grinning as Ada held her new school bag aloft. She spent the rest of the evening buckling and unbuckling the thing in excitement, and hardly slept a wink that night. Tommy didn’t have the heart to tell her school wasn’t nearly as fantastical as she was imagining.

The morning arrived, bright and chilly, and the family gathered in the kitchen for breakfast.

“Our Ada, all grown up” said Arthur, holding Ada’s hand as she twirled, crumpled pinafore fanning out. Not quite a ball gown, but it could have been for the way everyone cheered.

“And you’re going to be in my class Ada!” John cried.

“God help their poor teacher” said Polly under her breath. Tommy laughed, pulling on his jacket. After Polly had extracted three cuddly toys and a plate from Ada’s bag, they left the house, Arthur and Polly waving them off at the door. Arthur had finished school in the summer, and now worked in Charlie’s yard, chopping wood, hammering nails, fixing things. He was good at all that stuff. He wasn’t paid much, but earning three pennies a week was a lot more than others his age were doing for their families.

Polly was ecstatic either way, as Arthur’s income enabled her to quit her cleaning job in the evenings, and enrol in an accountancy class at a night school across town. The first class wasn't for a month or two, but she was already beside herself with excitement. Finally, finally, her life was starting. She was slightly apprehensive about leaving the kids on a regular basis; who knows what trouble they’d get up to, but she’d given Arthur a nice long talk about responsibility, some of which had hopefully stuck.

Jane was there of course, but she’d spent the vast majority of the past few months’ asleep upstairs, which unfortunately Polly didn’t see changing anytime soon. At least there was an adult in the home, in case Arthur decided his friends were more important than babysitting.

Ada kept up a constant stream of chatter on the way to school, about exactly what she should learn and exactly how it should be taught to her. Tommy tried to cut in with some brotherly advice; listen, do your homework, don’t punch anyone with these surnames or I’ll be the one to get it in the neck etc., which was naturally ignored. It would be okay though. Ada could look out for herself, and already had a mean right hook on her if anyone got nasty, much to Polly’s delight and their mother’s horror.

By the time they arrived, the yard was bustling with kids, and Tommy quickly lost sight of his siblings as John pulled Ada off towards the schoolhouse. Spying Freddie and Danny amongst their classmates, he elbowed his way through the crowd to reach them.

“Alright Tommy” greeted Freddie, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “You’ll never guess what Danny’s got”. Tommy looked to Danny, who grinned widely as he pulled him close to whisper in his ear.

“No way” Tommy said when he pulled back, in an equally hushed tone.

“Found it in me dad’s coat last night. He’s gonna sort that Whitton out I reckon” said Danny.

“Or that mad horse of yours” said Freddie, laughing at his friends’ matching frowns.

“Jus’ cause you don’t even have a horse” said Danny.

“When can we see it?” asked Tommy eagerly. Guns were not uncommon in Small Heath, far from it in fact, but he’d never actually held one, never fired one. Blades were far easier to steal, so staring at the outline of his father’s gun through his jacket was the closest he’d got thus far. Arthur Snr had never let his gun out of his sight, even when he was drunk, and Polly used to joke that it was the only thing he could be relied upon for. He’d taken Arthur out shooting once, to Tommy’s jealousy, but his rather graphic descriptions of what he’d do to anyone who stole his gun was enough to put Tommy off.

Danny’s dad was as forgetful as anything, much like his son, making this gun a far easier target.

Before they could make plans however, the bell rang, and the boys reluctantly made their way towards the extension. This building, made for the older kids, was far more makeshift and patchwork than the main schoolhouse, and Tommy wasn’t looking forward to their winter classes. Other than that, things were looking up if Arthur’s time in the top class was anything to go by.

He’d hardly turned up for one thing, and whenever he caused trouble a sweet smile was enough for Mrs Changretta to look the other way. Unfortunately, school restructuring meant that Tommy missed out on Mrs Changretta altogether, and instead ended up with a rather frail looking elderly man called Mr Pearson.

He seemed to live in a constant state of exhaustion, and also looked partially sighted, meaning Tommy was looking forward to bunking off without Pearson even noticing his absence. After ten minutes of silent work only disturbed by the whizz of paper balls Billy was lobbing at the back of Tommy’s head, Pearson went so still in his chair that they all began to speculate whether he was still breathing or not.

Turns out, he was, and Tommy let his daydreams carry him off for the rest of the morning rather than listen to any more drivel about algebra. Lunchtime rolled around, and he, Danny and Freddie entertained themselves by acting out what would likely happen to poor Whitton at the hands of Mr Owens’ gun.

It was strange to see Ada running around the yard. She’d never liked being left behind while her brothers went off to school. And now here she was with them, wearing an oversized pinafore that used to be Polly’s, a wide gap toothed smile on her face and her freshly cut bob dancing around her shoulders. She bounded up to Tommy a few minutes later, holding hands with another girl, and Tommy just managed to catch that her name was Jessie before the two ran off again.

After school, Danny’s mother was waiting by the gates, Danny turning back to shrug apologetically at his friends as he was pulled away. Tommy and Freddie glanced at each other uneasily. They decided to go the pasture that afternoon, instead of playing in the streets…not that they were scared or anything. And if they walked John and Ada home first, nobody had to know.

An hour later, Tommy and Freddie were stretched out on their backs in the field, horses galloping around the paddock nearby as clouds meandered across the sky. It was almost too cold for this now, and Tommy wanted to be outdoors as much as possible before he was forced into Arthur’s old winter coat every time he left the house, which was too thin to keep him from the chill, and merely stopped the free feel of the breeze against his skin.

“Do you like anyone?” asked Freddie. The question came out of the blue, they’d been discussing Danny’s father a second ago, and Tommy turned his head to look at Freddie, his profile clear against the sky.

“I’m not that cold am I?”.

“Not like that” Freddie laughed. “I mean a girl. Do you like any girls?”. Tommy had known what he’d meant. All he heard from Arthur these days was ‘girl talk’, when he wasn’t ignoring him in favour of Irene, or Erin, or…who was it now?

“Do you?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah” said Freddie sadly, “but she doesn’t like me back”.

“How do you know?” said Tommy, propping himself up on an elbow. He didn’t like the sound of this. It was the first he’d heard about it, and he and Freddie told each other everything, didn’t they? Freddie turned his head away before he spoke.

“Because she likes you Tommy” he said, the intonation giving away his annoyance. Tommy frowned, before sitting up fully.

“Is it Greta?” he asked. She was the only girl who ever played with him, other than Ada of course. She was funny, smart, and pretty too. Freddie nodded, not moving from his spot on the grass. “Freddie” groaned Tommy, poking his friend in the shoulder. “She probably only likes me cause I’m the only boy that talks to her”. Freddie shrugged.

“Are you going to kiss her?” he asked.

“What? No!” cried Tommy, realising too late that his reaction was far more opinionated than Freddie was expecting. “I mean” he tried again, “she’d like you much more if you only tried speaking to her instead of putting worms in her desk”.

“Hey” protested Freddie, “how was I to know Billy had moved seats while I was ill?”. They laughed for a while at the memory, before Freddie spoke again.

“I’d like to kiss her”. Tommy felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. Maybe he was getting ill. But as his eyes flicked down to Freddie’s lips as he smiled, Tommy wondered if there was another reason his insides were full of butterflies.

He’d pondered this matter rather a lot lately.

The first thing he’d heard about homosexuals had been from his father. They’d been walking home from the boxing ring a few years ago, Arthur Snr having had one too many whiskeys, and come across two young men in an alleyway shortcut to Watery Lane. One was leaning against the wall, whilst the other rested his hand on the bricks behind his head, leaning in close. They were just laughing and talking, and Tommy wouldn’t have given it a moment’s thought if his father hadn’t stopped dead in the street, turning down the alley.

The men were already long gone by the time his father had staggered to their spot, but he spent the rest of the trip home muttering about them, and it was the most Tommy had ever heard him speak of the Bible. He’d been too young to understand it then, but now?

He sighed.

He probably didn’t need to worry much about what his father thought anyway. They’d only seen him once since their disastrous trip to London, when he’d turned up one weekend at the boxing ring. He’d bullied Arthur into fighting him, and then left whilst his son was still bleeding on the ground. He hadn’t even gone to see their mother, nor Polly.

Tommy had been close to confronting him, but Arthur wouldn’t let him, holding firmly onto his wrist as blood dripped down his chin. Tommy thought about him sometimes, wondered where he was, but was nevertheless glad to have him out of the way.

The walk home was quiet, both Tommy and Freddie lost in thought. A dark raincloud had settled over Small Heath, and didn’t let up for weeks, sending everyone into an irritable mood. Danny’s father had died in hospital, from multiple gunshot wounds. Of course Tommy knew guns could kill; that was the point of them, but…weren’t they only supposed to kill bad people? The hero never died in his storybooks. Maybe Mr Owens had been a villain after all.

The approach of Christmas and the school holidays cheered everyone up a bit, as did Danny’s return to school at the end of November.

Tommy also had a new hobby; dancing. Smoking around the back of the town hall at night had become something of a habit. It was quiet, as quiet as you could get in Small Heath, as the majority of the pubs and gambling dens were on the opposite side of the town. Tommy liked to lean against the brick wall and smoke, gazing up at the night sky. In the summer, they opened the windows, and Tommy could hear violins and cellos and countless other instruments from within, tapping his foot along with the rhythm.

Freddie often accompanied him, but Tommy wasn’t sure how he felt about Freddie these days. It was nice to spend the evening alone sometimes, away from his siblings and friends. Tommy had wandered across to the hall, hoping to hear the music, but the chill of autumn had been supplanted by a bitterly cold winter, and the windows remained firmly shut. He shivered, regretting this decision somewhat as he saw a mother and son cross the street ahead of him, both decked out in thick fluffy coats and scarves. Night had fallen, and he could feel his fingertips going numb as he deliberated what to do.

The large clock on the building opposite chimed nine, and Tommy made his decision, slipping in behind an elderly couple entering the hall. He ducked behind a column, watching people in their fineries enter the main auditorium. There was a door on the right, marked with that tempting ‘Do not enter, staff only’ sign and when there was a lull in arrivals Tommy crossed the empty hallway and pulled open the door to reveal a staircase.

Pleasantly surprised it wasn’t just a cupboard, or something equally boring, he climbed the stairs to the top. Judging by the amount of dust on the handle, nobody had been up here for a long time. Tommy blew the cloud of fluff away, pushing open the door to reveal the loft. Boxes littered the floor, the sad remains of bent flutes and snapped violin strings poking out. There was a dusty old gramophone, and a few cracked records strewn about the place, but other than that it was all beams and lead pipes and spider’s webs.

The building was old, and the boards creaked dangerously under Tommy’s feet as he made his way across the attic. The screws in the floorboards looked loose and rusty, and Tommy could see gaps where they’d fallen away up ahead, providing chinks of light where the missing tiles in the ceiling offered only black.

Not stopping to consider the fact that this could be a very bad idea, Tommy continued walking, swinging around a beam and crouching down at its base. Through a small gap, he could see the orchestra far below, a few metres ahead. The rows of seats to the side of the dancefloor were mostly full, and Tommy was surprised to see what he assumed were people of standing in the audience. Small Heath wasn’t exactly known as a cultural centre.

He moved further into the room, and decided a stronger looking horizontal beam would be a good place to sit and listen to the music. He clung to a dusty pipe for support, swinging his legs across and pushing himself up onto the beam.

It wasn’t the most comfortable; in order to balance himself he had to twist around awkwardly to grab the post behind him, but when the music started up again and he caught glimpses of the dancers swirling below him, it was worth it.

The sound here was much better than from outside, and the protection of the mostly formed roof prevented the bite of that chilling cold that numbed his fingers and wound its way down to his bones. He swung his feet in time to the music, the thrill of being somewhere he definitely shouldn’t and nobody knowing it putting a giddy smile on his face.

“What are you doing?” came a voice. Tommy started, craning his neck to see a girl standing in the doorway. She was dressed well, too well to be a Small Heath kid, buttoned into a crisp white blouse and a navy petticoat. The long blond hair trailing down to her waist made her look like the princess in Ada’s storybook.

“The door was open” she said. Shit. “It’s staff only, so I thought I should take a look”.

“You’re staff?” said Tommy, disbelievingly. She had to be at least three years younger than he was.

“My mum’s performing” she said proudly. “I can go where I want”.

“What does she play?” asked Tommy, peeking back through the gap in the floor, relieving the strain on his neck.

“Don’t you think we should talk about this after I’ve rescued you?” she said, exasperated. Tommy squawked indignantly.

“I don’t need rescuing!” he insisted, trying to look relaxed in his precarious position. The girl looked at him expectantly. Right, of course. Time to get back without falling through the floor. Tommy scanned the area, noting the spots he’d used to get here, and the surrounding beams. It suddenly looked a lot more complicated than it had ten minutes ago. Steeling himself, and slightly annoyed that this girl had interrupted a perfectly enjoyable evening, he slid off the beam and began to make his way back across the floor. The girl was shifting nervously, and brought a hand up to bite at her nails when a board gave a particularly loud creak.

“Not there!” she cried suddenly, and Tommy flung an arm out to stop himself instinctively, glaring at her.

“You’re not helping” he said. She fell silent for a moment, watching him right himself and manoeuvre around a couple more beams.

“I’m Grace, by the way”. Tommy didn’t answer, more focused on removing his foot from a floorboard that looked as if it had mere moments before it snapped. “What’s your name?”. Tommy jumped, swinging from an overhead pipe for a second, which protested loudly at his weight, and landed in front of Grace. He did a mock bow, and she laughed.

“Tommy”. A smile.

“Your clothes are filthy” she said, gesturing to his dusty attire.

“Yours aren’t, rich girl”. Brushing himself down, he leant against the doorframe. She held out her hand.

“Do you want to dance?”. Tommy was slightly taken aback by this.

“I don’t know how” he said after a moment.

“I’ll teach you. It’s easy, come on!”.

“Which one’s your mum?” asked Tommy, once Grace had pulled him through the hall, on the right floor this time, and up to the stage.

“The singer, right at the front” said Grace, beaming. “We’re staying in hotels and travelling around England so she can perform. Isn’t she brilliant? They say I could be a singer myself someday”.

“I’d like to see that” said Tommy.

“Come on, let’s dance” she said, pulling him into the crowd. Tommy was stiff and self-conscious at first, treading on Grace’s feet and glancing around the room for any familiar faces. Grace laughed when they stumbled, but not in a cruel way, and Tommy soon found himself smiling and pulled into the rhythm of the music. By the time the orchestra took a break, Grace had taught Tommy some basic steps, and they twirled amongst the other dancers for an hour or so until they collapsed, exhausted, into chairs next to the stage. Grace’s mum came down from the platform to greet them, eyes widening as she glanced at her watch.

“Say goodbye, Grace” her mother instructed, glancing at Tommy distractedly, and waving over a friend to take Grace back to the room.

“There’s another concert next Friday” she said, “this is our last stop before we go back to Ireland. Would you like to come?”. They made plans, and Tommy waved goodbye and slipped out of the door before Grace’s mother could ask any questions.

His walk home turned into a run in an attempt to warm his blood, but his fingers were still shaking by the time he slid his key into the door. Polly had finally been persuaded to get him one cut after she’d found him half way up the house, clinging to several knotted sheets at three am, Arthur half hanging out of the window in an attempt to pull him up. Avoiding the creaky stair, he crept past Polly’s door and into his room.

John was fast asleep under the covers, but Arthur wasn’t home. It wasn’t uncommon these days for him to be gone, but Tommy usually lay awake until he heard his brother’s footsteps on the landing, or the rustle of the sheets as he slid into bed. He didn’t come back at all that night. Tommy caught a few winks of sleep, but woke whilst the sky was still dark, watching the street from his window until the orange sunrise dragged itself wearily over Small Heath, the dark clouds finally dissipating.

Arthur turned up around lunchtime, mostly sober, and Polly, having had quite enough of the lot of them pressed a few pennies into their hands for the fair. Charlie came round in the afternoon to visit his sister, and enjoy a hot cup tea away from the yard.

Polly took advantage of his visit, enacting her plans to rearrange the sleeping arrangements in the house without the hindrance of her nephews and niece. The boys were getting far too old to be cramped up in one room together. In the past year, Arthur had started growing at a slightly alarming rate, much to Tommy’s distress. He could wear his father’s old clothing now, which was useful, but his long limbs were also causing some problems. He'd been shaken awake by an indignant Tommy on more than one occasion, having accidentally smacked him as he rolled over in bed.

But Tommy’s nighttime wanderings and susceptibility to nightmares made it clear he still needed his older brother. However much he’d deny it. John, although small, was extremely messy, and seemed to relocate every single toy in the house to their bedroom floor on a regular basis, which infuriated his brothers to no end. Despite John and Ada bickering at least five times a day, they were inseparable, and so close in age it only made sense for them to share a room.

Polly felt no remorse in chucking out her brother’s old boxes of files, endless sheets of paper and grand business plans, which took up an entire room on the landing. Who the hell needed two offices? Especially if they were never even home to use them?

Curly was called in from the stables to help, and soon John’s bed was squeezed through the doorway and moved into the now clean and empty room down the hall. Ada’s new bed, courtesy of Charlie, followed, and Polly inwardly cheered about having her own space back after four years of sharing with the youngest Shelby. Jane managed to make it downstairs to see the new arrangement, and say a sentimental goodbye to the Shelby cot.

“I remember putting little Arthur in here” she said, running her hand across the wood. Polly smiled at the memory. She was only seven at the time, and was beyond excited to have a baby to look after.

“I reached through and he gripped onto my finger” said Polly fondly. Little teeth marks, John’s handiwork, covered the posts, and Polly had an exasperated smile on her face as she observed the marks where Tommy had actually removed two of the posts and wiggled out. She’d found the empty cot and loose posts on the floor the next morning, and was in complete panic until she found him curled up on the floor under Jane’s bed. God knows how he’d done it.

“I’ll keep it out the back” said Charlie, “then you can have it again if you need it”. He quietened, a deep crease in his forehead.

“We won’t need it” said Polly, firmly.

Jane nodded sadly, before giving Polly a teasing smile.

“Maybe for children of your own, ey Pol?”.

“Give over” she laughed. She’d had quite enough of putting children before her career for the time being. But…maybe one day they’d use the cot again.

The boys’ room looked huge without John’s bed, and they spread out Arthur and Tommy’s, Charlie surprising Polly later that afternoon by delivering a small desk he’d been working on. It slid neatly between the beds, making the room look cosy and far more practical than before.

It was a far cry from a few winters past, where the cold had been so bad, and the price of wood so high, they’d chopped up the beds to burn in the fireplace. They spared the cot; John was only a baby, and Jane’s bed, but the boys and Polly were on mattresses until the following summer. She’d tried to make it fun, like a camping game, but the novelty wore off after a few nights. Even when they had beds again, Tommy would wake up in a cold sweat more often than not, thinking he could feel bugs crawling over his skin.

Later that evening, Polly glanced over her library books one last time. It had been hard to remind her brain how to do calculations after such a long time, but she felt more confident now she’d got some practice in. She couldn’t believe it was finally happening. Practically jumping with excitement, Polly entered the kitchen to grab her bag, stopping in her tracks at the scene within.

The entire floor was covered in hay. Her first thought was that Tommy had brought one of the horses into the house again, but this time the culprits were Ada and John. They were sprawled in the middle of the floor, heads together, giggling at something Polly couldn’t see. Their heads snapped up when she coughed pointedly, gesturing at the mess.

Curled up in Ada’s lap, was a small shivering rabbit. It was white in places, but its paws and sides were a dirty grey, the fur matted and unkempt.

“Ada” Polly said calmly. “Why is there a rabbit in our kitchen?”.

“Because she’s cold”.

“It’s a boy” said John.

“Is not” retorted Ada, cuddling the animal close. To its credit, it didn’t seem to mind. Any other being that could tolerate the Shelby children should be given a medal in her view. That being said, it was still a dirty rabbit, and it was still in her kitchen.

“I don’t care if it’s cold, put it back where you found it. And look at the mess you’ve made” said Polly, moving some hay out of her path with her shoe.

“Aunt Pol, you just destroyed the turret” whined John.

“Turret?”

“We made her a castle to live in” said Ada. “Out of hay”.

“For God’s sake! Get it out, now”.

“No!” Ada cried, “we found her all alone outside, she doesn’t want to go back out there”. Polly pinched the bridge of her nose. She didn’t have time for this. And she would not have her good mood ruined a by a bloody rabbit.

“Ada Jane Shelby, you listen to me. If that rabbit is still in this house when I get home tonight, you’ll not sit down for a week”. Ada glared right back, and would have likely folded her arms if they weren’t full of fluff. John leaned over, holding something orange out to the creature. It sniffed the air, nose twitching, before tucking in.

“That’s not the carrot I bought from the market today is it?” Polly asked in a low voice. John shook his head, the lie written all over his face.

Slamming the door, Polly marched down the lane. Let Arthur deal with the bloody thing, just think about the class, she told herself. Despite her anger about the mess and the wasted food, she was still excited. It was quite a trek to the school, but Polly supposed accountants in training didn’t want drunkards bursting in on them halfway through a lesson. She arrived right on time, and swiftly closed the door on the frigid air she’d left behind.

By the time the lecturer arrived, there were around twenty students, most of whom had clearly travelled from out of town. She was the only girl, which she had been expecting, but it still sent a shiver of unease down her spine as the men turned to stare at her. No worries, she calmed herself, it would only take one woman to put this lot to shame. Deliberately busying herself with her books, she avoided their gazes and glanced over the course overview once again, trying to concentrate. Bloody rabbit. Arthur had better get rid of it.

“Something troubling you?”.

Polly started slightly, and looked to her left. A man had slid into the seat next to her, leaning on the desk as he smiled. His eyes were a deep blue-green colour, and his dark hair was styled upwards, a few strands falling around his face.

“Just- just a rabbit” she said. He laughed, and Polly faced the front quickly as the tutor called for their attention. If this stupidly attractive boy made her mince her words, she’d have nothing to do with him. She’d learnt that lesson four years ago.

The class was just as she’d hoped. She couldn’t quite process that she was actually here, and the life she’d dreamed up for herself when she was just thirteen was finally starting. Polly was pretty sure she spent the entire two hours with a deranged smile on her face, but she didn’t care. She caught the man’s eye from time to time when he smiled at her, and became more confident, even leaning over at one point and correcting a mistake he’d made. She wasn’t sure how he’d react and could imagine the earful she’d get from her brother if she did such a thing to him, but the man just nodded and listened, eager to learn. She liked that.

The class ended far too soon, but Polly packed up quickly, thoughts of what the kids could be getting up to in her absence taking precedence. She paused near the door, glancing back at the man she’d sat beside. He was engaged in conversation with some friends, and Polly smiled before ducking out of the room.

She was already anticipating the following week, planning to get some practice at the harder problems before the next class. She made it halfway down the dark street, before she heard loud footsteps behind her, instinctively reaching for the pocketknife hidden within her coat. Spinning around, the man from the class had caught up with her. At her expression, he waved his hands in apology.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you” he said, “I just-”

“I should be going” said Polly reluctantly, thinking of the children.

“Stay” he said, reaching for her hand, “have a drink with me. If not tonight, perhaps some other time?”. She bit her lip, enjoying the feeling of his fingers intertwining with hers. Should she go for this?

“I don’t even know your name” she said.

“Edward” he replied, kissing her hand. “Edward Gray”.

#my writing #growing up a shelby #guas au #peaky blinders fanfiction

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distant-rose-archive-blog · 7 years

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The Delilah Affair

Note: I promised I would post something and I did...late as fuck. I apologize for that. I literally wrote half last night and then half on the plane today as I was flying from London to the United States. This is probably chalk full of erros and for that I apologize, but I’m jetlagged as hell. I was originally going to write a nightmare fic with Wes, but for some reason this muse stuck with me. It’s kinda the original behind Wes’s long ass hair. Anyway, I’m planning on posting A LOT of stuff this week. It’s going to be crazy. In case you were wondering, the title is based upon the story of Sampson and Delilah. Anyway, happy anniversary to my bestie @welllpthisishappening, who is instrumental behind the creation of this series and without her influence, I wouldn’t even posted this nonsense. Summary: She and Killian weren’t in a bad way when it came to their finances, but they try to save their pennies when they can. So naturally when it came to haircuts, they preferred to do the cutting themselves rather than spend an extra twenty dollars on a professional job in a salon or a barber shop. However, during a routine trim, Emma makes a grave error. Rating: T Word Count: 3,300+

Most people tend to believe that the hardest part about being a parent was the near constant juggling of obligations or the lack of real social life, but for Emma Swan, the hardest part was screwing up. It didn’t happen too often but when it did, she couldn’t help but feel like a failure. She realized how illogical it was to assume everything would go perfectly but still whenever it happened, whether it be a missed football game or forgetting to make dinner, Emma would feel like the worst person in all of the realms.

Which is why when she accidentally sheared Wes’s hair off like sheep wool, she nearly had a mental breakdown.

She and Killian weren’t in a bad way when it came to their finances, if anything, they were in pretty solid shape despite the rather large size of their brood. (She wasn’t entirely terrified by the concept of potentially paying for five college educations as most in her position would be.) Nevertheless, they were frugal in their spending; past experience on both ends dictating that they squeeze each and every penny of its full worth. If a piece of clothing was torn, they were more likely to mend it than purchase a new one. Leftovers from dinner were frozen for later consumption rather than tossed away thoughtlessly. Emma saved every single takeout container they accumulated rather than buying more Tupperware. Their children prepared their own lunches at home under her careful supervision rather than spending money on hot lunches. They weren’t deliberately trying to be austere, it was just an ingrained habit to be cost effective.

So naturally when it came to haircuts, they preferred to do the cutting themselves rather than spend an extra twenty dollars on a professional job in a salon or a barber shop. Both of them had been cutting and maintaining their own hair for years (centuries in Killian’s case), so it wasn’t necessarily a hardship.

And yet, Emma made the most rookie of all rookie mistakes: not checking the setting on the razor before she began her work. (However, in her defense, the razor wasn’t normally set on the lowest setting. Neddy’s preschool class recently had an outbreak of head lice and in a preemptive measure they had shaved his head. Obviously, they had forgotten to change the setting.)

Her error became very apparent when Emma brought the razor against the curve of his head and more hair loped off than anticipated, leaving a large and very noticeable bald spot.

“Oh shit.”

She immediately turned off the device and stared at it in horror. She had been planning on giving Wes a small trim since it had become quite unruly, but instead she had buzzed it down almost entirely to his skull; pale skin peeking through the barely there short blond bristles.

“Mom…what’s going on? Is the razor not working?” Wes asked, completely unaware of his mother’s folly.

Emma didn’t reply; not knowing what to say or do. She just stared at her mistake, internally screaming. She tried to will his hair to grow back with every fiber of her being but no matter how hard she tried, the bald spot remained. (A part of her wished she knew a spell to regrow hair but then again her magic had always been a tad unpredictable and there was no telling what other affects it would have on her son if she tried.)

“Mom…what’s wrong?”

“Mom made a little mistake, kid,” she replied, feeling like the worst parent in the universe.

“What did you do?”

She couldn’t see his face, but she could imagine his panicked expression vividly in her mind; blue eyes the size of dinner plates and lip trembling.

“Ummm…”

“Mom…what did you do?”

She couldn’t bring herself to voice what had happened. When she didn’t speak, Wes immediately reach behind with an inquisitive hand, probing his hair. His fingers stilled when he discovered the patch where Emma had shaved his hair off. She cringed, guilty filling her.

“Mom…” His voice cracked.

“I’m so sorry,” Emma said, dropping the razor and squeezing his shoulders.

“I’m bald.”

“Only in that one spot.”

“I can’t go to school with a bald spot!” he squawked.

“I know! I know! I know!” She pulled her hands away from his shoulders and rubbed at her face, trying to scrub away her mortification. She screwed up majorly. She was the worst.

“What are we gonna do?”

“We could call Regina…” Emma replied, biting her lip.

“She won’t help on this,” Wes replied, shaking his head. There was a slight whine to his voice.

“You don’t know that,” she said sympathetically, rubbing his back.

“No, I know she won’t. Bobbi tried asking her for a spell to get rid of acme and Regina said magic wasn’t a toy and shouldn’t be used for trivial things. And Bobbi legit looked like a pizza face! If she didn’t help Bobbi when she was looking like that, and she loves Bobs, then she’s definitely not gonna help me!”

“I’m sure if I asked her –” “No!” he interrupted her. “That would be so, so, so much worse!”

“Okay, okay, okay! No Regina! I heard you loud and clear,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What do you want me to do, kid?”

“I don’t know…”

“I think I’m gonna have to shave off the rest of it.”

“Seriously?” he groaned.

“I don’t see any other way out of this, kiddo.”

Wes didn’t reply immediately. He just stared at the wall in front of them, shoulders stiff. Emma didn’t necessarily blame him. She had just suggested to shave the rest of his head and there was no telling how that would go.

“Do it,” he replied in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” she sighed, picking up the razor once more. “For what it’s worth, it’s hair and it will go grow back…in like two-three weeks. Hopefully.”

“Might as well be an eternity,” he moaned.

A muscle in Emma’s cheek twitched. A part of her wanted to hit him on the shoulder for his dramatics, but she had to remind herself that this was all her fault in the first place. She was the one who had fucked up.

“Hardly an eternity but for what it’s worth, I’m really sorry. Like really sorry.”

“Yeah, I know,” he grumbled. “I’m gonna look like Leroy, Mom.”

“I don’t think you have the beard to fully pull that look off, kid.”

“But I will look just as ugly.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“But I will,” he insisted.

“You’re gonna look fine,” Emma said firmly. “I’ve seen you bald before when you were a baby. It took literally forever for your hair to come in. You had nearly no hair until you were two and you looked absolutely fine.”

“Yeah, but I was a baby and nobody cares about babies being bald. That’s, like, normal.”

“You know right now, I’m not sure if you’re a baby or not with all that whining you’re doing,” Emma replied, losing her patience. “No, stop whining and hold still while I shave the rest of it. I don’t want to hurt you accidentally.”

Wes let ought another heavy sigh but didn’t offer any further commentary. She took this as a signal that he was going to stop whining and finally let her do her job. She turned the razor back on and went to work, carefully and slowly shaving off the rest of his fair colored-mop. Wes flinched a few times as the razor got a little too close to the sensitive skin of his scalp but Emma, for the most, was patient and gentle with the instrument. She couldn’t help but grimace as she watched the golden strands fall to the floor. Wes was the only one of her children to inherit her fairer complexion and blond hair. While all of her sons all bore a rather strong resemblance to their fathers, Wes was the only one who noticeably had some of Emma’s features; inheriting her cheeks and chin alongside her colouring.

When she was finished, she ran her hand carefully against his scalp; silently mourning the temporary loss of his pale locks. Before her mishap, Wes’s hair was soft and fine, almost silk-like, but now it was barely there and rough against her palm.

“Turn around and let me have a look.”

Wes obeyed but when he faced her, his lips were twisted into a deep scowl and honestly, Emma couldn’t blame him. This wasn’t what she had imagined when she had decided to give him a trim.

“I look horrible, don’t I?” he asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“You look fine,” Emma reassured him, giving him a quick pat on the shoulder.

He didn’t look fine. Maybe the shaved look would have worked for him if he had inherited his father’s darker features but unfortunately he had her fair coloring and without his hair, it also looked like he had no eyebrows. Her second youngest son looked like he belonged on a St. Jude’s charity advertisement. All he needed was the hospital bed, a pale blue smock and an IV running through his arm.

“You’re lying,” he stated flatly.

“Am not.”

“You are. You always have that funny look on your face when you lie. For someone who is oh so good at detecting lies, you’re positively crap at telling them. Word of advice, Mom, don’t play poker.”

“You’re worrying about this too much,” Emma responded, dodging his statement. As borderline disrespectful as it was, she knew it was the truth. The kid had inherited her blunt and near non-existent social grace. Sometimes she found Wes to be disturbingly similar to her in a way her other children weren’t; sharp acid tongue, weaponized sarcasm, quick sticky fingers and a little angry with the world.

“And now you’re avoiding the subject. I must really look ugly.”

“You don’t look ugly, I promise. You look absolutely fine.”

As she spoke, Harrison and Beth walked into her bedroom, both sweaty and covered in dirt. Blood was trickling from Beth’s chin, which looked nastily scrapped. Despite this, she looked fine, chattering away while her thirteen-year old son nodded obligingly. Both stopped in their tracks when they saw Emma and Wes.

“What happened to you?” Wes asked, gesturing to Beth’s chin.

“Fell out of a tree.” Emma’s nine-year old daughter shrugged casually, as if she were discussing the weather rather than a painful looking facial wound. “Har said he was gonna catch me and totally let me drop. He owes me like a million Star Wars band aids.”

“You don’t need million band aids. That’s overkill and I didn’t do it on purpose!” Harrison replied defensively before regarding his younger brother with a frown. “And what happened to you? You look like a cancer patient.”

Wes’s face colored at the comment and Emma get her second oldest son a reproachful look. Harrison, ever the most observant of her children, also flushed when he noticed his mother’s silent reprimand; tugging on his earlobe and shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

“I was gonna say he looked like a skinhead,” Beth said bluntly.

Harrison punched her arm, frowning at her.

“That wasn’t nice. Do you even know what a skinhead is?”

“Of course, I do!” Beth snapped back, hitting him back. “It’s one of those creepy people that Mom and Dad arrested last week with the bald heads and the crap tattoos and the weird leather and that stuff they were trying to spray paint on the school.”

“It really looks that bad then,” Wes grimaced. He brushed hand against his shorn scalp self-consciously.

“It doesn’t,” Emma said firmly, raising her eyebrows at her other children; signaling to them that they were not to contradict her.

“Well, you don’t look like you…” Harrison replied. “So, it’s…interesting.”

Wes’s flush deepened at his words. He didn’t reply, just ran into the bathroom as he continued to run his hands against his freshly razored hair. He slammed the door behind him with enough force that it nearly caused Emma to jump. As the door shut, Emma turned to glare at her other two children.

“Was that necessary? Seriously, both of you!” she hissed.

“Sorry Mom!” Harrison replied, placing his hands up in surrender.

“He looks like a skinhead!” Beth replied defensively, not as willing as her older brother to admit her blunder.

“Even if he does, you don’t say things like that! That’s a horrible thing to say and I raised you better than that, Elizabeth!” Emma admonished.

Beth wilted a bit under her mother’s scolding, eyes darting down to look at her feet. Harrison took a step away from her, as if distancing himself from his sister would lessen his chances of being yelled at as well.

“Sorry,” her daughter mumbled.

“It’s not me you need to say you’re sorry to,” Emma replied, folding her arms across her chest. “And when he gets out of the bathroom, you’re going to tell him you’re sorry and that you love him and you aren’t going to say mean things anymore. Got it?”

“Got it,” she mumbled, eyes still trained on her feet.

Emma allowed herself to soften a bit, stepping forward and kneeling down so she could inspect her daughter’s face, particularly the bloody scrape on her chin. Now that she was close enough, Emma could see the beginning of a bruise starting to form around her right cheek.

“That must have been a nasty fall. Are you hurt?” she asked gently.

“No.” Beth shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. If there was one thing that Emma knew about her nine-year old, it was that she tried constantly to appear tougher than her brothers. Emma couldn’t decide if this was a product of her environment or something she had inherited from her father.

“Well, if don’t look deep enough to get stitches over. But it definitely needs to be cleaned,” she commented before her eyes flickered in the direction of her son. “There’s hydrogen oxide cleaner in the downstairs cabinet along with some band aids. Help your sister get cleaned and get her an ice pack while I’m tending to your brother who is justifiably traumatized. You are not to tease him. Do you understand me?”

Harrison nodded obediently, placing his hand on his younger sister’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I don’t need an ice pack,” Beth pouted. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“You forget my superpower, kid,” Emma responded, tapping her on the nose. “I know when you’re lying and that definitely looks like it hurts. Just be good for Harrison.”

With that Emma clapped her hand on her daughter’s shoulder for a brief moment than turned to head towards the bathroom, where her son was more likely than not freaking out about his hair loss. She rapped her knuckles gently against the door.

“Westley? Kid? Can I come in?”

She sighed quietly when she received no response. She pushed the door open as gently as she could. Wes was standing in front of the mirror, hands slightly quivering as they ran over his shorn hair. He looked miserable.

“Oh kid,” Emma sighed, moving behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She placed a kiss on the top of his head. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault…”

“I look like Caillou, Mom,” he replied miserably. “No one likes Caillou. He’s annoying and bald and even Neddy hates him and that kid would cuddle the Black Fairy.”

“You do not look like Caillou, Wes. It’s gonna grow back. I promise…” Emma replied helplessly. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault…”

“What am I going to do? People are gonna laugh at him. Bobbi is going to totally take tons of pictures of this so she can torture me with them. Even Gideon is going to laugh.”

“Gideon is not going to laugh and Bobbi is not going to take pictures of you, I promise. I’m not gonna let that happen to you.”

“You can’t stop them” he replied stubbornly.

“But I can.”

“How?”

“How is not important. It’s going to happen. It’s my job as the Savior, kid. If I can’t protect you, then I can’t protect anyone.”

Wes didn’t say anything. He just scowled at his reflection in the mirror, which made it quite to clear to her that he didn’t necessarily believe her. Emma sighed, placing her hand on his head, rubbing circles against the skin. Her thumb grazed the thin delicate shell of his ear and she couldn’t help but notice how pointed the tips of it was.

“You got your dad’s ears along with his eyes, kid,” she thought aloud.

“No, I look like bald elf.”

“You don’t. You look like your dad. Especially without the blonde.”

“Dad’s not bald.”

“I think you’re focusing a little too much on the baldness, kid,” she replied, tugging on his ear.

“Yeah because it makes me look like a freak!” he said bitterly. His posture then deflated, shoulders sagging and lip trembling. His eyes met hers in the mirror and the sad look in them was a direct stab in her heart. Wes, who was seemed so confident and so resilient, looked ready to cry. “I can’t go out in public looking like this, Mom…”

“I’m sorry.” She repeated the two words she had been saying all night. There was nothing else she could say except those words.

“I know,” he huffed, annoyed. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I am.” She rested her head on top of his as she ran her hands from down his arms in what she hoped was a smoothing manner. “I don’t know how but I’m going to figure this out and we’re gonna get through this…”

“How?”

Emma was silent for a moment as she tried to think of a solution. There was absolutely nothing they could do about his hair now, but it was very clear to her that her son would avoid going out in public in such state if he could help it. He needed something to cover it. Perhaps a hat.

She then smiled as an idea hit her. She placed a quick kiss on his head.

“Wait here. I have an idea.”

She immediately left the bathroom and made a beeline to her closet. She reached for the cardboard box, which held all of her winter things. She smiled as she pulled out one of her numerous beanies. It was black and made from one of the most softer materials she owned.

When she returned to the bathroom where Wes was still agonizing, she immediately placed the beanie on his head, folding the brim so it fit snug and covered the tips of his ears.

“There,” she smiled. “Now you can’t tell that you have no hair.”

“Where did you get the beanie?”

“It’s from the Emma Swan collection.”

Wes scrunched his nose in response.

“So it’s a girl beanie?”

“Kid, it’s black. Black doesn’t have a gender I’m pretty sure so who cares? The point is that no one can see the hack job that I did to your hair…Also, for once, you kinda look like me…with the beanie and the red hoodie…it’s about time I got a Mini Me,” she replied, placing another kiss on his head.

“Beth kinda looks like you.”

“Beth is almost disturbingly your father personality wise. You and I both know that,” Emma chuckled. “And then there’s the conspiracy theory that Har is really a clone gone wrong. And don’t get me started on Neddy…”

Wes merely arched his eyebrows at her in response.

“Sorry,” she chuckled. “Either way, how are we feeling about the beanie?”

“I’m not sure my teachers will let me wear it in school, but yeah. It looks okay. I mean, it’s not bad for a girl beanie.”

“Beanies don’t have genders, but I can talk to your teachers about letting you wear it until your head comes back.”

“Okay. The beanie can stay, but Mom?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not touching my hair ever again.”

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fic #cs fanfic #little pirates #little pirates fic #my shit #my fic #the delilah affair #wes jones

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