Nothing Will Change

Chapter 5

Selling suits was more enjoyable than Rose imagined. Watching the men eye her confused as she asked them questions of how they preferred it, only for them to gruff and ask if she can decide for them. She could tell they were not used to having fine tailored outfits, but Rose would not hold it against them. Mr Brown would often be the one to explain it to them, and even then they did not understand why trousers had to be creased down the leg or have an inner lining of dark grey. Though even with the extra work and explanations, Rose refused to let Mr Brown up the prices, as every man of the town deserved a suit to make them look like a boss, even if most ran under Thomas Shelby.

She had hardly seen since he fixed her locks, and she guessed she thought incorrectly that fixing someone's lock would mean you would see more of that person. But yet he was still as mysterious, still stealing looks as he entered the Garrison and she was already there, or when she walked to work and they crossed paths. He was not avoiding her, that much was true by his obvious search for her eyes every time they passed. But he did do well in distancing himself from her. And maybe she was relieved, as after telling Mr Brown about the fixed lock he did not sound as appreciative as she was. In fact quite the opposite.

"He could have an extra key you know," he would huff as she sat with her tea, "be using it as a way to get you in his palm."

"Or he could just be being considerate," Rose offered in her mug, Mr Brown scoffing.

"That man is hardly considerate."

And he would list all the horrible things he has done, and Rose did feel a tightening of her throat, as she was yet to be told the full details of the Shelby family and their gang The Peaky Blinders, and Mr Brown was spilling it like oil over a pan. Ada only told in slices, and her disgust was enough to get Rose to stop asking further. Grace merely scoffed, often only muttering what she heard over conversation, though she said it was the same amount of information Rose had. Stories not spoken of in bars, because everyone already knew them. Riddles and poems that were unimportant so no one questioned the meaning. Everyone knew of the Shelby family, so they did not see to bother telling anyone new.

Rose would contemplate it over breakfast and then her lunches she shared with Mr Brown. He would watch her idly, not offering his say as he knew she would return with a comment opposing it. Mr Brown never had any children with Amelia, but if he did, he hoped they would have been like Rose. As she shared Amelia's spirit and her talent, and the older man felt the pull to latch on like she was his own daughter. But she already had a family of her own.

She did not look like Amelia, but that did not matter, as she had the youth and wisdom of a daughter. Comfortable with him reading the newspaper beside her, speaking to him like they had know each other for a lifetime. He thought it had to be a talent, her way of warming up each frown that entered the shop, until they were left with smiles. Rose was building a reputation for herself, and he was glad it was not associated with Thomas Shelby. A poppy in a field of ash, a face that could brighten the smog of Small Heath.

In the afternoon that's when Ada came. Rose had just finished her sandwiches that Mr Brown had made for them, brushing off the crumbs that sat on her desk, humming a tune to herself. Her sketchbook was filling with designs faster than time she had to make them, and as more people were catching note of her dress making, more wanted to see them. Tailoring dresses came first, then adding extra flare to the sleeves of shirts, then asking for new garments all together.

A shuffle outside her door made Rose believe it was another old lady asking for her skirt to be remade, but it wasn't. Ada Shelby rushed through the door, concealing her flushed cheeks with a grin. Her coat was barely off her shoulders as she sat down in the chair across from Rose, a look of waiting in her eyes.