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The wait. The never ending, nerve wrecking wait. Tommy never told you when business was happening, but his usual excuse of “something urgent in London” had grown old and unconvincing a long time ago. Especially since he, Arthur and John all had “urgent matters” at the same place, the same time, every time. Honestly, you should have knocked him over the head a few times already for believing you so dim witted. But the relief of seeing him come home alive and well at the end of the night overpowered any other feeling.
That night, as you paced the foyer, feeling you’d wear out the carpet with your steps, you reminisced all the times you had been in situations like that before. How many times you had been left behind waiting. Waiting for life to happen, waiting for everything to end, waiting for him to come home. Ever since the Great War ended, you had never stopped waiting. Waiting for the day he’d stop climbing and settle where he stood. The day he finally realised he could never reach the limit, for the limit never stopped rising.
Hoping that Thomas Shelby could clench his ambition was like hoping the world would stop spinning. But some things were simply not meant to happen, so you sat back and waited, doing the same route over and over again over the Turkish rug, tracing a line with your slippers, pulling your robe closer to your body as temperatures dropped and the embers died out in the fireplaces.
The hours ticked away dreadfully, every chime of the grandfather clock reverberating inside your heart like a mocking laughter. Could minutes last shorter than usual? The hands seemed to move three times faster, further and further into dawn every time you looked up. The servants would be up by 6, the scullery maids and hall boys lightning the fires and heating the stove for breakfast. At 8 the children would run to your bedroom, chased by their nanny as they demanded cuddles and breakfast. How would you explain Tommy’s absence? Lying had never been your forte, especially with fear and worry pulling the strings at your heart.
A quarter past five, when all hope had been lost and you resorted to getting into bed, hopefully sneaking in a couple hours of sleep to be able to face the day, you heard wheels pull into the driveway. Your heart missed a beat and you stopped dead in your tracks, perking up your ears for any other noises. You could never be 100% sure that it was your husband behind the steering wheel, not until you saw him cross the threshold. After all, those guns in the hidden cupboard by the entrance were not just for show.
You heard footsteps and the crackling of gravel. It sounded as if whoever it was, it had a limp; one foot sounding steady and firm and the other wobbly and tender. A raspy cough cracked the silence of the early dawn. Something metallic scattered on the entrance, rolling down the steps and surely getting lost in the bushes. Your hands gripped the staircase’s railing, ready to dash out of view and take the children if necessary.
Eerily slow, like in horror stories, the door opened, creaking on its hinges. Gelid air swept in, ruffling the hem of your clothes and scattering loose petals from the flower vase in the entrance. You waited with a bated breath, feeling like the damsel in distress from one of your Victorian novels. A dark figure dragged itself inside, clinging onto the door frame for support. When it, /he/, looked up, your heart sank.
Tommy had never looked worse in his life. Not even during the war, when he had been sent home to recuperate after a tunnel collapse in the front. The underside of his jaw had swelled up, the usually sharp edge obscured by a developing bruise. Dried blood smeared his face, as if he had been splashed from a very close distance...and you didn’t wish to know to whom that blood belonged.
When he came closer, you noticed he dragged his left leg a bit, and he clutched onto his right side tightly. It looked as if stubbornness was the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. You still appreciated his vague attempts to walk in silently, as if the dragging of his feet and his pained grunts weren’t capable of waking up the dead. You could tell he had not noticed your presence, because when he came face to face with you, he cussed out a few times and dropped his head, like a small schoolboy who had been caught in mischief. If you weren’t so worried you’d have found the scene adorable.
Both of you sized up each other for a moment, trying to decide what to say, or if it was worth it saying anything at all. You could see in his eyes that side of him only you had ever witnessed; the softer, most vulnerable, hidden part of him. The only side of him that seemed human at all, where he allowed himself to feel pain, to suffer; to grieve. A side that had been kept perpetually under lock and key, and buried far away so no one would ever bring it out without his permission.
You gently cupped his cheek, feeling the bumps of hidden wounds underneath the smooth skin. In the space where your gazes met, you two silently reached an agreement. You wouldn’t ask and he wouldn’t tell. Sliding your arm around his back, you allowed him to lean on your side as you helped him up the stairs and towards the bedroom, acting as his walking cane.
As soon as you closed the double doors behind you, his strength faltered, and Tommy nearly collapsed over you. Even under the dim glow coming from the hearth you could see the ashness of his skin, cold sweat beads rolling down his temples and dampening his clothes. His jaw trembled with the strength in which his teeth were clenched; he seemed to be using every last bit of willpower in him to just breathe.
Carefully as possible you left him on the bed and rushed to prepare a warm bath, closing the bathroom shutters and lighting up the small fireplace. Despite your perfectly collected demeanour, your fingers trembled as you fumbled over things. Old fears just couldn’t stay buried very long, not when he kept bringing them up with each one of his actions.
Only after everything seemed perfect, you went back to Tommy. He had slumped on the side of the bed, his body bent forward with his head cradled between his knees. You knew if left unbothered, he could fall sleep just like that and pretend everything was fine the next day. Carry on stubbornly, pretending he didn’t have bruises for a lifetime and a few broken bones. Taking care of the world and every single individual being in it, while neglecting himself. But somebody had to take care of him, and that somebody was you.
Slowly straightening him up, you discarded his coat and vest aside, tossing them in a pile in your sewing basket. You would have to check for any tears or holes, sew them up and give the clothes to charity. Tommy refused to reuse a single piece of clothing that had been patched up. His clothes had to be pristine perfect, otherwise they belonged in the trash. You had lost count of how many buttons, ripped seams and loose hems you had fixed and then passed the clothes to him as brand new.
When you reached to undo the buttons of his shirt, he swiftly grabbed your hands, holding them still as his eyes met yours. You swore you saw a glimpse of shame in his gaze. Perhaps ashamed of his wife seeing he had been on the losing end this time. Or just wishing not to worry any more than you already were. You pulled the conjoined hands up to your lips, gently brushing a kiss on his busted and bloody knuckles.
“Let me. Please”
Somehow, that seemed to be enough for him to drop his battle. The tenderness in your voice and the worry in your eyes was all he needed to surrender himself to you. Tommy sat still like a good boy while you got rid of his clothes. Forget charity, most of them were so torn and stained, they were only good for the trash now. You did your best to not stare at the mass of black, red and purple his chest had become, and ignore the multiple gashes on his biceps and forearms. His left ankle had swelled up and taken a nasty colour too. Running your hands along his sides, you felt him wince under your feathery touch when you reached the sore spots in his flank and his ribcage. The worry about more serious injuries grew by the second.
“Should I call a -”
“No”
That tone again. That dry, curt tone left no space for negotiation. One should wonder how could you marry such a stubborn man, let alone have children with him.
Deciding to just drop the subject for now, you hoisted him up again, albeit with much more difficulty. Somehow he seemed to have tripled his weight, as if his bones had been swapped with lead rods. Tommy just didn’t have energy left in himself to keep his body upright, so you had to drag him to the bathroom and inside the bathtub. With the help of a folded towel, you propped his head on the side and picked up the washing cloth. You couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed you to see him like this. You weren’t sure if there had been a time at all. So intimate and raw in a strange way. It wasn’t exactly the domestic bliss you pictured for your life when you tied the knot, but it definitely had something peaceful after all the fears.
You did your best to clean him without hurting him, but the small winces and hisses of pain were unavoidable in his current condition. Once the blood and grime had been wiped away, you could assess him more properly. A black eye, a bruised jaw, and a cut in his chin which would surely leave yet another scar. He seemed to have all his teeth at least. Multiple knife wounds, but no bullets. A cracked rib, or maybe two. More bruises than you cared to count. A sprained ankle. His side was tender, perhaps something internal. Yes, a doctor visit was in order. But he didn’t need to know that yet. Or he’d try to call Curly and drink horse medicine again.
You knew from a simple view, that it hadn’t been a fair fight. Whoever it was, whatever they had done, if it had been an honourable combat, they wouldn’t have gotten to him like that. But the fact that he had made it back home, mostly in one piece, meant that the Peaky Blinders had pulled an ace from under the sleeve. You smiled at the thought, your hands instinctively coming up to caress his cheekbone.
“You look like shit, you know?”
He let out a dry, pained laugh, his eyes fluttering open
“You should see the other guys”
“Good” You brushed your thumb alongside his jaw tenderly
Silence lingered in the air for a few moments
“What about-?”
“John and Arthur are fine”
You let out a sigh of relief and smiled. But your lips trembled, and the smile soon became a grimace as tears slid silently down your cheeks. A frown creased your husband’s face, and he tried to sit up to get a better look at you.
“Hey, hey” He didn’t need to ask what was wrong. It was far too obvious “Some things didn’t go as planned, but everything turned out well.” His dripping hand attempted to dry off your tears, but it had quite the opposite effect, and his words also failed to reassure you.
“But what will happen next? Someday things won’t go as planned, and you won’t be able to gain the upper hand. Then what? I get called to the mortuary to identify a body? Or do I wait for them to dump you on the doorstep? What if I receive an envelope with your ring finger inside?”
“A finger? Honestly love, you are ready far too many novels these days”
The mixture between a laugh and a sob that escaped your lips was by no means pleasant, yet it relieved some of your built up tension
“Don’t make me laugh when I’m upset” You wiped your tears with the back of your hand “I’m serious”
“And so am I” He sounded so confident in his own words, it was really hard not to believe him “That’s not going to happen” Somewhere in him he found the strength to sit straight, taking your hands in his and cradling them into his chest “Soon it will all be over. We have to endure a little bit more. And then we can rest”
“Rest? You said there’s no rest for you in this life” Once more your lips trembled, and tears pooled in the corners of your eyes “And why does it have to be you? You said the Shelbys were generals and battles were for soldiers. Yet it is always you. Why does it have to always be you?”
“Because I can’t trust anyone with this. If you want things done correctly, sometimes you have to do them yourself”
Gingerly he lowered himself back in the waters, seeking the relief of not having to support his own body weight
“I don’t trust anyone but myself. And you. I trust you with my life, and I hope you can trust me back, just this time”
Just this time. It wasn’t much of a promise, but enough to keep you going. A mantra to withstand the late nights, the long absences and the aftermaths. Just this time. Just this time and it all will be over. Just this time and then Tommy would rest, and so would you and your heart, and no more living your life in perpetual shock. A little bit more and it would just be you, him, the kids and the dogs you convinced him somehow to have.
You both stayed there, with your hands on his grasp, until the water went cold and sun rays peeked in through the curtains. Careful with his injuries, you helped Tommy out of the water, wrapping his body in a warm bathrobe which you had hung in front of the fire. Together you made it to the bed, where you helped him under the sheets; tucked him in and propped a pillow under his sprained ankle. You sat next to him, and Tommy leaned into your lap while you dried off his hair with a soft towel. Before long, he was snoring into your body, his arm wrapped around your hips and using your thighs as a pillow. Smiling to yourself, you leaned back into, careful not to disturb his much needed slumber; the all nighter finally catching up to you. You fell asleep with one hand tangled in his hair, the other laid on top of his. None of you awoke when Frances came in to bring you breakfast, quickly retreating and ushering away the children when she saw your resting figures, both with peaceful smiles on your faces.