Marguerite - A Thomas Shelby story

Chapter 14(thomas shelby first appearance)

Her heels were loud on the dirty cobblestones of the city, as she pulled her coat around her shoulder. The voice on the end of the line had told her to present herself in less expensive clothes to the pub... What right did he have to say that to her? No, she would not do as she was told, she was tired of that. It was time to make her own choices, and besides, returning to the hotel was not an option, for Frank would surely ask questions about where she was going. It was better to leave the questions till she returned from the Garrison. After the phone call with the man, she'd spent the rest of the afternoon in a dusty library, flipping through pages about the history of Birmingham, but struggled to focus. That voice. It had chilled her to the bone. 

But now, as she walked down the dimly-lit streets back into the noise and stench of factory workers towards the pub, she recomposed herself. 

Why should I be nervous? Olivia and Polly are women too, and they seem fine. Why shouldn't I be?

Taking one deep breath, her pace quickened, and with each step she regained her confidence, falling into a steady stride. She could see it now, the Garrison pub. It looked slightly battered up from the outside, but gleamed like a gem amongst the industrial buildings that surrounded it, and in the now darkening sky, the splashes of gold paint shimmered enticingly. 

Shakily, she pushed the heavy door of the pub and took a few steps in, stopping in front of the entrance. The ruckus of the drinkers momentarily ceased as they turned to look at Marguerite, drinking in her lavish and untouched appearance. Then, they all returned to swearing, laughing and shouting, and the young woman felt a wave of relief pass through her. She sauntered over to the bar. She noticed the many ashtrays laid out on the sticky, beer-glass-stained counter. The pub was cosy, and had relatively warm colours. There were mirrors behind the bar, and barrels of alcohol sitting in random corners. There were round tables at the centre, and to the left-hand side of the pub, there were rectangular tables pushed up against the wall, with bench-type seats on either side.

"Scotch or Irish?" said a voice. She turned her attention back to the bar and saw the barman eyeing her with a curious expression. 

"Excuse me? I-" 

"Are you drinking Scotch or Irish whiskey, love?" he repeated.

"Oh, I don't really drink whiskey, but what do you recommend?" answered Marguerite in a quiet voice. 

In response, the barman flashed her a smile, and pulled out a bottle of Irish whiskey and poured her a glass, sliding it across the counter to her. She examined the rich gold coloured liquid sceptically, before taking a careful sip. It smelt strong and tasted strong too. Her face contorted into a sort of grimace. It was an acquired taste, no doubt one that everyone here was used to, even the children who secretly took sips from the fathers' drinks. Marguerite preferred champagne and wine, but only in small quantities and only very rarely. She did not deal well with alcohol at all.  

"You get used to it," croaked the barman, amused at the young woman's response to the whiskey.

"Yes, I do suppose I'll have to if I'm staying here," she chuckled. Suddenly, the man across the counter shot her a dark look.

"Staying here? Does your husband do business in Birmingham?" Marguerite held her tongue. Of course, a rich woman in a place like this must have only meant one thing: the logical assumption of the good people of Birmingham was that she must be the wife of some wealthy tradesman or businessman. That was not the case, of course. Her Father was a clerk, and earned well, that was true. Her Aunt Emmeline was even more wealthy than before because some far away second cousin who had died had transferred her a large sum of money in his will. And Marguerite's family owned a grand fortune from the line of bankers and politicians in the family. But no, she was not married to some wealthy toff.