Bancroft - Peaky Blinders Reverse Harem x Reader

Chapter 43

I run my hand along the cool marble bannister of the staircase.

The house is empty, full of dust and cobwebs. The maid must have left when father died. It doesn't feel like home anymore — it's like walking through an old primary school where nothing has changed and yet everything has.

"We'll have to hire some help," mother mutters, walking from room to room and opening all the curtains with a snap across the rails. "I'm certainly no cook or maid."

"The house isn't that big," I say. "Easily maintainable."

She throws me a withering look and lights a cigarette. Somehow, they smell different when it's not Tommy smoking them. I have to stifle a cough.

"Don't be so dramatic," She exhales.

"You know, I'm beginning to regret coming," I say. I fold my arms across my chest. "And I didn't realise you had rights to this house. Father divorced you, after all."

She blinks. "Are you going to force your own mother to find separate lodgings, when you have six spare bedrooms right here?"

"I'm considering it," I say. "I'm not staying here long. I'd been thinking of selling this place."

"What? You can't." When I don't respond, she continues. "Darling, you're... well, you're a woman. What were you planning to do, live with those men in Small Heath forever?" She shudders. "Don't make the same mistakes I did. A woman should hold her own assets. If you simply absorb your life into a man's, he can take everything from you at the drop of a hat. And then where would you have to live? Hmm?"

"I could get a flat somewhere," I say.

She looks at me as though I've begun to grow an extra head. "No," she says. "Stay here. Save yourself the pain. And then one day, when you have children, you'll already have enough room for them all."

"I'm not having children," I tell her.

She smiles at me condescendingly. "I used to say the same thing when I was your age. Now. Maid. I'll call the directory first thing tomorrow, in fact I might ask Margaret, her sister was stationed at a House up north somewhere..."

I take a deep breath. It does nothing to calm my nerves, and so I walk through the house, heading for father's old bar. It's whiskey I choose. One small sip and my eyes close, and I'm filled with warmth once more.

"I'm sorry." Her voice causes me to flinch, turning around. She stands in the doorway and smiles apologetically. "I've been waiting for this day for so many years, and now I fear I'm making a mess of it all."

"Don't be silly," I say. I set my glass down and there's an awkward silence. "How long have you been back in England?" I ask.

"Only a few days. The ship across is just torture."

"I can imagine."

She takes a tentative step forward. "I know you must have questions. I'll try my best to answer them."

"No," I tell her. I sit on the velvet stool, and when I speak, I hear traces of Tommy, sending small stabs of pain through my chest. "You'll tell me everything. And then, when you're done, I'll decide if you've said enough."

"My," she murmurs. "I can tell your father didn't send you to finishing school."

I only raise my eyebrows, finishing my whiskey, refusing to relent.

"Very well." She wipes her hands on her skirt. "I was a good wife to your father. People thought I was so lucky when we first met — a boxer, on track to become heavyweight champion in just a few years. He had no intentions to take on a wife, but his parents were very traditional Catholics. I was deemed a suitable match, and so we married. I'd only met him a handful of times. I thought we would have a joyous life together. And instead, I was left to sit here, in this house. Alone for months on end. Every now and then he would be home, and I would try to be a good wife to him. But most of the time," she sniffs, "he was away."

"He had to train," I tell her. "I remember it well."

She shakes her head. "No. He had to travel but an hour to train, but six hours of the day. Instead, he was running about with that Arthur Shelby, getting involved in con artistry and crookedness. Laying with other women. Living as though he were still a single man, which of course, he hoped he was." She lights another cigarette. "And then the money stopped coming in. Money we needed. We," she emphasised, gesturing between us with her pointer finger. "Babies cannot clothe themselves, you know. I told him and told him, but he refused to listen. I believed he was planning to run. And so I cleared out the accounts. I had to protect myself, and I had to ensure I could provide for you, in such an event. He didn't tell me he knew. Not for ages. Not until he'd had one accountant or another draw up forged documents, until he had an airtight story for wanting a divorce. He painted me to be some shallow, devious thing, but in truth, that's who he was."

I listen silently, but in my mind, I struggle to think of father as devious. He was just a prick.

"He told me I had two choices. To stay in England and go to prison for the alleged crimes. Or to leave, and never return. And he told me if I tried to bring you with me, he'd have me arrested before I even made it to the Port."

I'd said I would hold my tongue. But it takes a great deal of effort to hold back the question: why, if he didn't want children?

"I tried for years to come home." Her eyes fill with tears. "And when I heard he'd died, I thought I finally had my chance. Until that Thomas Shelby slammed the phone down every-time I called. But not to worry. You're out of there now. That will should never have been honoured in the first place. The whole thing is totally void, and illegal." She leans in towards me. "I can assure you, your father ran no street-gang. There is nothing for you to worry about. More likely, he'd promised you to Arthur Shelby Senior in some dodgy dealing, and sent you on a mental goose chase rather than confess the truth."

But I've seen it. I've seen proof with my own eyes. McGuffin's men, sent to capture or kill me.

And Tommy has told me everything.

Has he? Asks a small voice in my head. He didn't tell me about my mother trying to get in contact. Is there more he's hidden from me? Did he make the whole thing up?

Mother's watching me, waiting. "Okay," I finally sigh. "I suppose that makes sense."

"We can't choose our family, dear," she tells me. "But we are family. And this is where we belong. Together."

She pats my hand. I nod, eager to end the conversation, and slip away to the other end of the house where she cannot hear me.

"Now, we must get some food in for tea. The tea in New York is just atrocious, I've been craving a decent pot for years. I don't mind nipping out, dear. I'll just need the cheque book. Mine's no good, I'm afraid. All American banks. I'm just waiting for the transfer." She smiles sweetly.

My stomach coils. But I say, "Alright. I'll go fetch it."

I take the stairs up to my room and rifle through the chest of drawers in the corner. My hands close around the black leather chequebook. I don't want to do this. But I know I must. And I know I'll be okay, either way.

"Here," I say, handing it to her.

"Thank you, dear."

I wait until her car pulls out of the driveway before racing to the phone, sending a prayer that it's still connected. I lift the receiver, and sigh in relief when I hear the dialling tone.

I'm not confident I have the right number — Tommy only gave it to me the once — but I enter it anyway, praying it rings Ada Shelby.

She said she'd seen the will. She'll know the truth, and will be able to tell me who is lying.