Chapter Text
Chapter One
Birches
Lizzie had never spent Christmas alone, but as the nights grew darker and the damp seeped in through the floorboards, it looked increasingly likely. For the first time in almost fifteen years, she felt the cold in her bones, the stiffness in her joints making her feel older than she was.
Tommy’d bought her a little cottage in some small market town in the countryside; the bills were mostly covered, and a few hours’ work in the newsagents took care of what Tommy’s money didn’t. Her days were quiet now, more so when Charlie wasn’t home. It was natural, she told herself, now that he was away at school, that he’d want to spend more time with his father.
He’d liked Arrow House, liked the vast gardens, but the country was not the same. It was no place for a Shelby boy; he’d liked the fields and the village children in the summer, but these days it rained more often than not, and most of the children were at home come autumn, helping their parents with harvesting and farming. To be fair to him, Charlie had attempted to help her—he’d carried groceries home and haggled with the butcher over a leg of lamb that would’ve kept them fed all week—but the life of a country boy didn’t suit him.
It was for the best that he’d gone away to school. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t lonely.
Lizzie opened the curtains to a crisp, frosty morning. Flakes of ice had frozen to the window, a thin layer of condensation on the inside and, instinctively, she shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Sleep had been hard to come by since Ruby died, and a change of scenery hadn’t done anything for it; she was loathe to take pills as the doctor had suggested, so she went through the motions of lying awake at four o’clock each morning, tossing and turning in her bed until it was at least somewhat appropriate to get up and open the curtains.
When she did open the curtains, that was.
Some days she took comfort in the dark winter afternoons, curled up beneath a mountain of blankets and pillows, not wanting to face the outside world—not wanting the outside world to see her—, instead hiding herself away. There was never anyone to disturb her, and her one or two shifts each week made sure she left the house often enough not to cause suspicion—or worry, even.
Tommy was probably keeping an eye on her. Maybe. He cared in odd ways, and the fact that she had a roof over her head, and bills that were consistently paid, showed that he did, at least, care. Even if he had fucked any other woman he could get his hands on—including Diana fucking Mitford—, even if he had been questionably behaved while they were married, even if—
Oh, fucking hell.
Lizzie sighed, turning away from the window, the blanket trailing behind her like a knitted cape. She ventured downstairs, somewhat reluctantly, and settled on the couch, sinking onto the cushions with a thump. There, she thought, satisfied. She’d gotten out of bed, and nobody could say anything on that matter. She pulled the blanket up to her chin, almost tempted to hide beneath it—but that was childish, she told herself, and that was enough to talk herself out of doing so. Instead, she brought her thumb and forefinger along the edge of the crudely knitted garment, her finger slipping through a hole where she’d missed a stitch.
She couldn’t remember who’d suggested that she take up knitting as a hobby, but she’d cursed them the entire time she’d made the blanket as her hands shook and she’d struggled to aim the needles correctly. Afterwards, the wool and needles had been shoved in a basket in the corner of the living room; it made her look like someone who knew how to knit, but she had no visitors, so nobody had to know that it was just another thing collecting dust.
Lizzie lifted her head at the sound of the grandfather clock chiming. Eight o’clock, she thought with a sigh. That left, what, twelve hours before it was socially acceptable to go back to bed. Reluctantly she pushed the blanket over to the other side of the couch and stood up, approaching the fireplace on shaky legs. She leant across to the mantelpiece, shifted the wireless ever so slightly, and turned the knob, wincing at the sound of static in her ear.
‘Fucking bastard,’ she hissed through gritted teeth, inhaling sharply at the noise. She hated the damn thing; she didn’t even know why she had it in the house. Background noise, really, when the silence got too loud.
Agitated, she turned the other knob, cringing as the static noise fluctuated, breathing sharply at each change in volume and frequency. She relaxed when it finally connected to some signal and a presenter began to drone on about local news.
Lizzie resumed her position on the couch, her attention turning to the window. When she’d first moved in, there were snowdrops and bluebells in bloom, with daffodils sitting in a row of sunny yellow beneath the windowsill. She’d thought of them as being just like Ruby, bright and full of life.
Much like her daughter, they were dead now.
Lizzie tucked her feet underneath her, sinking back into the cushions. This time, she pulled the blanket up over her head; it left her knees exposed, but she was long past caring. The even, steady noise of the wireless sounded an age away, fading into background noise and muffled by the blanket. Just a few minutes, she told herself. Just a few minutes to hide away, and then she’d carry on.
She closed her eyes, comforted by the darkness. The weight of the blanket was a pleasant pressure—it didn’t feel childish to give in to her urges, not like this. She felt relaxed, so much so that when she began to get too warm and ventured out of what had essentially been a nest, she realised she’d fallen asleep.
Bing Crosby crooned from the wireless, and Lizzie pulled herself into a sitting position with a long-suffering, exhausted sigh. She’d missed breakfast completely, and now it was nearing lunchtime, which brought her body clock entirely out of rhythm.
When Charlie had started school, she’d fallen into a routine—always eating at the same time, dressing and bathing at similar times each day—that kept her in motion; that prevented her from falling into the same slump that had overtaken her in the first month following Ruby’s death.
Almost lunchtime, she told herself, more to remind herself what came next in the day as opposed to actually telling herself the time. It didn’t matter what time it was. What mattered was what she was supposed to do next, which was eat, otherwise, everything would fall apart and she’d end up in bed, forgetting she was supposed to go to work and buy food and all those other things that normal people did without thinking.
Lizzie put far more effort into standing up and walking into the kitchen than was necessary, but she thought that she ought to, otherwise she might not do it at all. She stood by the counter, weighing up her options, considering whether she had the mental or physical energy to make something and holy fuck, the cupboard was right there.
She opened it, and mentally listed everything she could see directly in front of her: a loaf of unsliced white bread; an unsealed paper bag filled almost to the brim with vegetables that she didn’t mind being stored together; and a sealed paper bag containing sliced chicken from the butcher’s that she really should eat before it went off and her mind insisted that it had contaminated the rest of the cupboard and she couldn’t eat anything else in there either.
She ignored the vegetables. They’d be used for stew, or perhaps pie. She wasn’t sure. Lizzie Stark was not a housewife, and Lizzie Shelby had had a maid and a housekeeper to do this for her.
She gritted her teeth, a wave of fury washing over her. Why was she so fucking helpless? She had fended for herself once, and here she was, acting like a newborn foal taking its first steps.
No, this wouldn’t do.
She knew how to do this—so long as she stuck to the routine, and did everything as she was supposed to, she could fend for herself just fine. And right now, she needed to eat.
She reminded herself that she needed to eat the chicken, so she pulled out the paper bag and deposited it onto the counter. And then she thought that perhaps she should use up the last of the butter, at least so she could have the satisfaction of peeling open the paper on a brand new stick of the stuff, so she tugged the butter dish over. And then, well, she always liked cutting the very first slice of a fresh loaf of bread, and before she knew it, she was eating the same thing she ate for lunch almost every day.
It made her feel safe, tucked away in the corner cushions of the couch, doing things the way she’d been doing them since September. More importantly, it grounded her and kept her going, even if going was making just one tiny step forward.
Everything felt slightly easier after that.
It was a dry day, so Lizzie pulled on her coat, tucked the handle of her handbag in the crook of her arm, and braved the frost outside to walk into town. She was pleased to note that the outward appearance of her cottage closely resembled that of the neighbours’; the swiftness with which winter was approaching had devastated plants and trees, despite it only just being the turn of the season and not quite November yet. The apple harvest would be impacted this year, which meant fewer pies and crumbles available at the bakery.
It was a shame. She did so love apple pie.
The sky was grey but light; sometimes winter brought Lizzie down—as if she didn’t feel down enough right now—, but not today. The meteorologists on the wireless said it could snow, which was just fine so long as she could get down into the town centre and into the library like usual. She liked the snow. It was pretty, at least, which couldn’t always be said for the rain, which turned most of this town into mud if it was heavy enough.
Last week they’d had a thunderstorm that’d cut out the electricity of most places in the town, including all the cottages on the street. Lizzie had spent the majority of the night awake, moving about the house guided by candlelight whenever she had to get up to visit the outhouse.
And then the candle burnt out, and she finally got to sleep, only for the nightmares to start.
Usually, Lizzie’s walks were accompanied by silence. At first, her thoughts had wandered to Ruby, or Tommy, or her old life—the first one, that was, in Small Heath, when she hadn’t a penny to her name—but more often than not these days, she went through the motions in her head; she’d remind herself of what was coming, both literally and metaphorically.
Today, however, had surprise after surprise in store for her.
It was Lizzie’s own fault, really, for not paying attention to her surroundings, for being so in tune with her routine that she forgot that other people didn’t exactly live their lives like that. That just because she went to certain places at the same time every day didn’t mean everyone else did.
So it was safe to say she wasn’t expecting the small, fluffy little thing that yapped at her feet and ran circles around her, tangling its leash around her legs. She stumbled forward, colliding with something hard.
‘Oh, Christ, I’m so sorry. Bloody hell, Smudge. Stupid dog.’ A pair of hands steadied Lizzie, a breathless laugh hot in her ear. ‘Here, let me just …’
Lizzie lifted her head, almost flustered. The woman—fucking hell, it was a woman—untangled her with ease, regarding Lizzie with concern.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked; for some reason, she was straightening out Lizzie’s coat, her brows furrowed.
And then Lizzie realised she ought to speak; she’d been completely silent the whole time, allowing this stranger to fix her coat as though she were a child. Lizzie cleared her throat, her hands brushing the woman’s as she tugged on the lapel.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ she said quickly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. I was not looking where I was going—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ interrupted the woman with a shake of her head. ‘Bloody dog was dragging me down the street at seventy miles an hour. He’s my mum’s,’ she added, by way of explanation, ‘but she’s getting too old to walk him now. Don’t blame her if this is his idea of a walk.’
‘He’s beautiful,’ said Lizzie, if only to be polite.
‘He’s hideous.’
‘He is, isn’t he?’ she relented, a faint smile gracing her lips.
‘Very ugly. Had to get his teeth taken out last week.’ The woman’s eyes brightened for some reason, and she smiled back. ‘I’m Elsie.’
‘Oh dear. Poor thing,’ cooed Lizzie. She bent down to pet Smudge, who responded to the affection by drooling onto her hand. She grimaced. ‘Delightful. Lizzie, by the way.’
‘You’ve just moved here, right?’ asked Elsie. ‘Do you … live alone?’
Smudge nuzzled Lizzie’s ankle. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘My husband and I recently divorced.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Widowed,’ she replied with a wave of her hand.
‘Oh, no, I’m sorry.’ The corners of Lizzie’s lips were creased in sympathy. ‘How terrible. I couldn’t possibly imagine—’
But Elsie smiled—again—and shook her head.
‘Please, don’t be sorry,’ she responded. ‘It was a long time ago now.’
‘Still,’ Lizzie insisted.
‘No, really. It was … during the war. And we were just friends, really.’ She laughed, softer than cotton and almost nervous. ‘He was conscripted, and we decided we had nothing left to lose. A marriage of convenience, really.’
It made sense. A way to ensure that, should he die, his funds would go somewhere; the knowledge that his friend would be taken care of; and it kept away all the men with wandering hands. It was a logical solution, and being married to one’s friend was certainly more of a pleasant future than being married for monetary or political reasons.
But Lizzie couldn’t help but think that there was perhaps more to it than Elsie was saying.
Not that she had any right to an explanation. They were strangers, after all.
But Elsie reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘Sounds like we have something in common, in a way. Maybe we should talk more. The cafe in the square sells the most delicious lemon drizzle. It’s homemade.’
Lizzie’s throat felt like sandpaper. She was supposed to go to the library like she always did, pick up a book and read away the hours of the afternoon until the light outside began to wane. How could she deviate from that? She’d forget what to do next.
But her mouth moved before her brain did. ‘That sounds nice.’
She was going to regret this.