Chapter Text
Orla had been certain that the worst her relationships with her family had ever been had been when her brothers had come home after the end of the War. Damaged in ways she would never be able to understand, they all dealt with it in different ways. Arthur by being drunk and angry, Tommy distant and cold like ice, John... just by being drunk.
She and her Aunt Polly had busted ass to keep the family bookmaking business going and keep Finn and Ada alive while they had been off fighting in France. And they had done very bloody well on both counts, if someone had thought to ask Orla. But then the Treaty of Versailles had come about and come home they had, on one of the last ships to leave France it felt like. The boys they had sent off to fight 4 years prior... they had died on French soil, and what came back in their place... Let’s just say relationships fractured pretty quickly.
The fracturing that caused an estrangement that would last several years was caused, as much of the family fights had been, by their father. Shelby Sr had come back around where he wasn’t wanted by any of them save Arthur. That man had a preternatural, evil gift for causing strife amongst his children. Arthur wanted nothing but to be loved by him, craved his approval and approbation. Maeve was sure she had felt the same once, but then... she got older and wiser to the world and agreed with Tommy that the only good thing their father had done was leave them with Polly. And that their dad was a giant bastard.
Based on one comment delivered in that way of his, Shelby Sr caused a row of unholy levels of noise – the kind their house on Watery Lane had become famous for during his infrequent visits – and culminated in things being said that really shouldn’t have and Orla decking her father, then storming up to her room.
She’d been gone the next morning. Her bed neatly made, her closet empty, her box that contained her savings and few treasures – gone. It was a month before anyone heard from her. A month for the rage and hurt and disappointment and pride to subside enough for Orla to reach out to her family. Even then, she only kept in contact with Polly and Ada. That was message enough to the rest of them how she felt. Their reunion was, of course, a dramatic as the estrangement had been, but that is a story for another time.
Orla never let them know where she lived, but let her aunt who had been a mother to her after the death of her own that she was safe and okay and living in London. She always posted her letters from different parts of London, using a series of different post boxes and post offices to conceal her actual address. Was it paranoid? Yes. But that was part of being a Shelby. Orla was quick to secure a job (under a partially false name) and the days quickly slipped by and turned into years.
Orla had taken a secretarial course and while taking that class, had heard the girls (who liked to pretend she didn’t exist because of her ‘queer Brummie accent’) whispering about this one job that not a one of them should take. Orla had seen that as a personal challenge. She was made of sterner and better stuff than these simpering cotton-headed fools, and she secured an appointment for an interview. The man interviewing her, her potential boss, was upfront and plainspoken with her. The first question he had asked was if the smell bothered her.
Orla had said no, she had a sweet tooth and these molasses twists a sweet shop in her hometown sold had been her favorite candy as a child. The man barked a raspy laugh at that, the noise sudden enough for his large mastiff to raise his head from where he had been reposing quietly.
His next questions were about her secretarial skills – her short hand, her typing, her filing, that sort of thing. And then he fired a question, seemingly out of the blue, at her about how she felt about the rozzers. Orla couldn’t help a snigger when she told him it had been family policy to never talk to the police, and it was a policy she still held to.
Orla came to find that her boss, Alfie Solomons, was... a singular man. Odd. But he was intelligent as hell, used the way he spoke to keep people off balance or on their toes. He read more than any man she had ever known. He respected and went to synagogue for the major Jewish holidays, but he was covered in tattoos. He could regularly be heard bawling out the employees at the bakery – he scared one lad into pissing himself when the kid could not get it into his head to refer to the illegal rum distilled there as ‘bread.’ But he was kind to the employees who ran the actual bakery side of things, and he was nothing but polite to Orla herself. At first. As the years went on, protocol did break down and they became more familiar in their address with each other.
There was one time, after Alfie had been dragged back to the office by Ollie and Ishmael after a night of work had gone sideways... To make a long story short, Orla didn’t know if Ollie was mortified, horrified, or proud of the way she spoke to and handled Alfie, who was bleeding from a stab wound in his side. Of course, that whole scene had been left out of the next letter sent back to Birmingham.
That night in particular did mark a turning point in their relationship, which both of them only recognized later on. It was a mortifying day for Orla when she realized that she had somewhere along the last 2 or 3 years fallen in love with Alfie. Oh, she tried to talk herself out of it – she dreaded having to write any letter like the one that had come from Polly after Ada had fallen pregnant by Freddie Thorne. There was the fact, above all, that Alfie was her boss. That was a tale as old as time, was it not? He was older than her, but not by a large number of her years. And he was Jewish, too. That part didn’t matter the largely religion-less Orla, but she had a feeling her side and his might not be too fond of a union of that sort.
Still, all her talks to herself failed. Not that she ever told anyone. That was the surest way to social suicide, and maybe actual death, considering how many people seemed to want Alfie out of the picture on a regular basis. Towards the end of a chapter, if you will, Orla wondered if Alfie ever thought of her or might feel similarly to what she did, but they never spoke of it.
Suffice it to say that when word reached them in Camden Town of Alfie’s death, Orla did not take it all that well. The stinging, lingering pain of things that went unsaid weighed heavily on her. Seeing the pity in Ollie’s eyes when he had broken the news to her... Christ, sweet, unassuming Ollie knew and if she hadn’t felt so wretched at Alfie’s loss, Orla probably would have been more mortified she burst into tears in front of him. But she didn’t give one flying horse shit. Finding out in the weeks following as Alfie’s estate went into escrow that she had been left a not insubstantial sum of money in Alfie’s will, and that the house, while being in Cyril’s name (so “that mischievous bastard would have somewhere to stay the rest of his life”), was essentially hers... They didn’t do much to assuage the fact that Alfie wasn’t there and would never be coming back.
Polly, Ada, and Karl had come with her to support her at a small memorial Ollie organized to remember Alfie. She had adored her little sister and aunt for that and wouldn’t ever be able to fully express how much she appreciated it. But Orla thought that Polly, with her witch’s eyes that saw what so many did not, knew.
Then it all went to hell. And the second estrangement that occurred from her family was... looking to be far longer in duration then the first, which had lasted fully 3 years. It all started out innocently enough.
Sometime after the Shelby siblings had patched things up between them, and after Orla had run herself fucking ragged searching London for Cyril – who'd been missing since Alfie’s death, which happened almost a year from the day this all went down – Tommy, via Polly, had invited her to come spend some time with the family at Tommy’s place in Warwickshire. Fresh air, time out of the city, with family who loved her... These were just the things she needed to help her soul repair itself, according to Polly. Too worn down to argue or deny her aunt, Orla had packed a bag, locked the house up and left a spare with Ollie (who had been running Alfie’s business with Ishmael very well, it needed to be noted), and got in her car and made the drive to Arrow House.
And for a little while things had been good. A maid had taken her bag to her room for her while Charlie and Karl, who had been playing out front under the watchful eye of a nurse and Ada, came running over with cries of “Auntie Orla!”
She’d let the boys drag her off to the stables to show her Tommy’s latest acquisition and she’d even ridden around a paddock (put together for this purpose) with Charlie, then Karl sitting in the saddle in front of her. Just like she remembered her Uncle Charlie doing with her and John when they were very young. Then, once the boys had been handed into the care of their competent nurses, both Ada and Orla take a ride out onto the massive wooded lands surrounding Arrow House.
Stopping after a hard gallop across some flat, fairly open land, the two women stop to let the horses drink at a stream and sit on a fallen tree a short distance away.
“That ride did you good, put some color back in your cheeks.”
“Oh, piss off, Aunt Pol,” Orla says, dodging a laughing swat aimed at her by her younger sister.
“Pain in my ass,” Ada laughs. “But I’m being serious. You’re looking better now; the last time I saw you I suddenly understood why Polly tried so fucking hard to make me see her after Freddie had been taken away.”
“I miss him, Ada. Him and that damn, slobbery dog.”
“You still haven’t found Cyril?” Ada asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Nope. I must have called every fucking shelter in London. The phone bill... Christ, you would not believe the phone bill I racked up doing that. I’m at the point of sending enquiring notes to surrounding towns. I miss that damn dog.”
“I know you do; you always had a soft touch with animals when we were kids. And about the other thing – cuz I'm being nosy – did you ever... you know... tell Solomons?”
Orla snorted, hard. “Of course not. Do I wish I had? Well, wishing won’t bring the dead back. Otherwise, mum would be alive.”
“Yeah,” Ada softly agreed, looking down at her hands. “I do understand the missing, you know. Freddie was a self-righteous pain in the ass, but I loved him. So, I understand what you mean. Also, tell anyone I said this and we will have it out.”
“Right back at you, little sister.”
Orla suddenly went over the back of the fallen tree with a squawk, popping up spitting curses at the younger sister currently running like hell. That was Ada for you, one minute of serious emotions, ten minutes of tomfoolery to make up for it. But Orla Shelby gave as good as she got. Chasing after her sister, with the horses calmly watching in between bites of grass and drinks of water, Orla caught up to Ada and tackled her, the pair rolling down a small hill and nearly into the stream.
“Did I also mention that I’ve been walking all over London looking for Cyril?” Orla asked as she stuffed some grass in Ada’s hair in a moment of pure childishness.
“You cow!” Ada shrieked, getting her own back with a dirt clod.
The sibling wrestling match over with no clear winner, both women agree it would be a good idea to head back to the house, get changed and have a drink.
The two remount their horses (Ada with small difficulty, which Orla ever so lovingly chides her for) and make it back to the house without any further ribbing or racing. Handing the horses off to be wiped down and seen to by Tommy’s grooms and they’re walking around the corner as Tommy’s car pulls to a stop outside the front door.
And Orla stops hard in her tracks, feeling like she’s been punched in the lungs and can’t breathe properly in the next moment. Tommy had hopped out, then picked up a delighted Charlie, kissed his son on the cheek and opened the back door of the car in one smooth motion. And then a very familiar bull mastiff hopped out, giving himself a good shake.
“Orla? Orla, helloooo?” Ada waved her hand in front of her sister’s suddenly unresponsive face.
“W-What, sorry, Ada. I –” Steeling herself, Orla takes a few steps forward and cupped her hands around her mouth.
“Cyril!”
The two reactions were hard to miss. Cyril’s body went rigid for a moment, only until he had located the source of the call. When he spotted Orla, still standing with Ada, he let out an almighty series of barks (that had little Charlie covering his ears) and immediately shot like a bullet toward Orla. Within seconds, Orla has been bowled over and has an overly excited Cyril practically jumping all over her and covering her in spit and excited licks.
“Oh, it is you!” Orla found herself crying as she got her arms around Cyril’s neck and hugged (and perhaps shed a tear or two, not that she’ll admit to it nor will Ada say she saw it) him hard.
But Orla, overjoyed as she was to have found Cyril again, was also quickly becoming enraged. The kind of rage that left you shaking, you understand. Tommy had also frozen when his sister had called Cyril to her, cursed under his breath, too.
Tommy Shelby had never, at any point in his life, liked arguing with his sisters. For one, they refused to be intimidated by anyone and they also knew how to push buttons, specifically his, like no one else on this earth. He ever so quickly handed Charlie off to his nurse with some excuse and disappeared into the house. So, he missed the next bit.
The next bit of Arthur, who had been in the car with Tommy, asking Ada if she knew “what the fuck was going on” as Orla was still too busy lavishing kisses and attention on Cyril. Orla was also steeling herself for one hell of a fight. Ada responded that she had “not a single fucking clue,” and yelled at her sister to get her attention.
Orla stood, finally, and dusted herself off. Pointing to her car, all Orla said was “Go wait by the motor, Cyril,” and staying still just long enough to make sure he’d comply before she was marching like hell was on her heels toward the house.
“Orla, what the fuck was that?” Arthur questioned of his younger sister. “How the hell do you know that dog?”
“Did you ever ask yourself where or why Tommy got Cyril?” Orla instead asked him as they crossed the threshold into the house. “TOMMY!” Orla yelled into the cavernous quiet.
“No. He... just kinda showed up here one day with him and said Cyril was a member of the household.” Arthur answered with a shrug.
Stopping a poor maid trying to cross the hall, Orla tried to be polite (it wasn’t the maid’s fault she was so angry) in asking for her bag to be taken from whatever room it was in and delivered to her vehicle with all haste. Once that task had been dispatched, Orla turned to face Arthur and Ada.
“That is a bull mastiff named Cyril. And up until last year I was the only Shelby he had met because he used to belong to Alfie Solomons. Disappeared when Alfie died. I never could find him, now I know why. TOMMY!”
Orla takes the stairs two at a time, coming across Polly on the landing. Polly, who had been drawn by Orla’s yelling, was likewise confused like her niece and nephew. Though Ada was definitely, definitely starting to put pieces together.
“Orla, what’s wrong? Why are you so pissed?”
“Where’s Tommy? Have you seen him?”
At the mention of Tommy’s name, Polly sighed and a look of long-suffering crossed her face. “What’s he done now?”
“No time to explain. Have you seen him?”
“Passed me heading to his study, but --” Orla takes off before Polly can finish.
Completely ignoring the small train of family members she’s gathered behind her who are following her out of morbid curiosity at this point, Orla thunders down the hall, the carpeting and beautifully paneled walls doing nothing to dispel her temper or distract her.
“THOMAS MICHAEL FUCKING SHELBY!! WE ARE GOING TO BE HAVING SOME FUCKING WORDS!!!” Orla roared as she rounded the corner and went barging into Tommy’s study, slamming the door not quite in the faces of Ada, Polly, and Arthur. She also locked the door for good measure. Arthur wouldn’t dare break down the door unless he thought one of them was about to murder the other, and it would take time to get the keys.
“Orla, to what do I owe this high-volume nonsense?”
“You’re shitting me. Do not stand there and act like you don’t fucking know!”
Tommy, ever a deliberate man, doesn’t answer Orla for a moment. Instead, he takes a sip of whisky from his tumbler and tilts his head back as he swallows, savoring the taste of the drink slipping smoothly down his throat.
Orla is in no mood to humor this, so she repeats herself with the addendum of “Tell me why the fuck you have Alfie’s dog, have clearly known where Cyril was, and NEVER TOLD ME.”
“Ah, that.”
“Do not ‘ah, that,’ me!! Thomas, you have exactly 3 seconds to tell me why you have Alfie’s dog and what the hell you know about Alfie’s death because now I’m sure you know more than you’ve said.”
“Or you’ll what?” Tommy challenges Orla. He wasn’t expecting her to grab the first thing at hand, a lovely crystal wine decanter, and throw it as hard as she could at his head. The sound of shattering crystal (Tommy had ducked) had sent Arthur haring off in search of Frances, the housekeeper, because she had all the keys. Ada and Polly press themselves closer to the door to try and hear more.
Like Tommy had missed most of Orla’s reunion with Cyril, Ada and Polly, miss most of the exchange but for bits and pieces between Tommy and Orla. But there was no missing the pained shriek of “YOU SHOT HIM IN THE FACE?!” and hurried steps getting louder every moment soon after. They jump away from the door and leave Orla enough space to run down the hall, which she does with nary a word to them.
“So, care to explain, Tommy?” Polly had asked in a drily tone of voice, putting her hands on the back of one of the chairs Tommy had facing his desk.
“Orla still has to do some fucking growing up -”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” Polly scoffs. “That girl grew up before her time like a lot of kids her age did when the war began. What did you do this time?”
“I did nothing but what was asked, and –”
“Who did you shoot in the face?” Ada interrupted. “And don’t lie to me about who it was, because I will know,”
“All Orla knew was that Alfie had been shot – (“In the face” Ada interrupted again, earning her a dirty glare from Tommy) and that he had been buried as per his people’s traditions. I just told her that I shot him for betraying me and she chose to run out of here like a child.”
Ada and Polly trade a look that Tommy in no way likes.
“You know, for an incredibly intelligent man, Tommy, you are a fucking idiot sometimes,” Polly says. Ada agrees and asks him if he still can’t see it.
“No, I really fucking can’t and I’m not in the mood to put up with bullshit riddles from you, Ada.”
Arthur, out of breath, comes into the room just then. “Does anyone know why Orla just packed the dog into her car and fucking left when she’s not been here six hours?”
“Because our brother is a colossal fucking moron,” Ada says succinctly. “And cannot and will not acknowledge that other people are not like him and actually have feelings.”
“She was in love with him, Tommy,” Polly tells Tommy, something that only serves to darken the thundercloud settling on his brow. “Orla was in love with Alfie Solomons and still is, if I’m any judge.”
“Which you are, Pol, because she admitted as much to me when we were riding,” Ada affirmed. Turning to face both her brothers (because Arthur, thinking Tommy might like some support in the face of Ada and Polly working together, had crossed the room to him) Ada then delivers something of a bomb. “She’s not going to speak to you any time soon. Years longer than the last time, if ever. You killed the man she loves and didn’t have the decency to tell her why, or that his dog was still alive. Orla’s been going mad combing London for Cyril for the last year because that’s all she’s got left of Alfie. They never said anything to each other, you know, about... you know, feelings. And now she is proper – rightfully – pissed at you. And you watch, when you decide in a few weeks, a few months, you’ve had enough of the ‘histrionics the Shelby women like to have,’ and you decide that Orla needs to get over this, she won’t see you. She won’t. And now she isn’t going to see any of us, because she’ll assume that we came on your behalf.”
And at the time Ada had been delivering her prophecy, proclamation and judgment, Orla had been a few miles away from the house. Her car pulled onto the side of the road, and she was sat in the back, sobbing into Cyril’s neck. Crying for him, for herself, for the family she’d lost again, for Alfie, for what could have been.