The Balls in Our Courts [F.SxO.CxT.S]

Chapter Three

In the morning, Amelia studied her face in the small hand mirror. Even through the long crack in the glass, she could see the redness. Her mother told her it was bad luck, that she should either make an art piece with the glass or bury it in water. Old Irish superstitions got old to Amelia. She was not a Gypsy like the Shelbys and she was not Irish like her mother. Amelia felt no obligation to any background. To her, she was just that...Amelia. Amelia, the stupid girl who could do nothing right, apparently.

John had not wanted to slap her as hard as he did. In fact, he did think he had. At least not as hard as Tommy wanted to when she backtalked and lied to him. However, the outline on his index finger and wedding band said otherwise. Certainly, it was destined to bruise and stick for a while. In an attempt to cover it, she shuffled through the bathroom press for a little face powder, but none of the shades matched her own slightly tanner complexion. She'd have to face everyone with that bright shiner right on her cheek.

Downstairs, Arthur peered over the daily paper. "The ball hit ya'?" he asked, but Amelia took her seat. Not hungry, she just sipped at her tea and ignored all eye contact. The wiry middle aged man who drank enough for three life times, sat up straight, and threw the paper off to the side. The ceramic plate screamed when he cut his breakfast sausage a bit too hard. As he shoved the piece of blood sausage in his mouth, he continued, "lost ya' tongue this mornin'?"

Amelia humored him, looking over, with a fake smile. "No. Just tired. I'm going to get my racket and wait outside. Coach says if I'm late, I'll have to run laps."

"Looks like you barely touched your plate," Polly remarked as she walked from the forbidden betting room. She was quick to butter and jam a piece of bread and plop it on Amelia's lonely plate. "Skipping meals now? You'll regret it later!" She settled into the chair beside her, casting a concerned glance over. Amelia had attempted to hide the swelling bruise. Without an inch of boundary, Polly brushed her hair behind her ear. "What in heaven's name happened? That wasn't there last night. Finn?" she turned to the young boy, who was busy with his morning routine. "Were you two roughhousing?"
Finn, toothbrush in his mouth, mumbled, "Nah, Pol. Tha' wurn't me, Pol. It twas Johnny...whacked 'er one." Toothpaste flecked his lips as he spoke. "Surprised it left a bruise."
Polly, less than impressed, stood up, demanding, "And why, pray tell, did Johnny decide to 'give her a knock'?"
"It's nothing," Amelia interjected, her voice suddenly tense. Tommy appeared at the foot of the stairs, cigarette in mouth, tying his tie with practiced ease. "Finn and I were just in Mr. Shelby's office," she explained, glancing at the clock. "I have to rush to practice."
Tommy, observing the bruise on her face without much reaction, simply stated, "I'll take her today." He swung on his jacket and motioned toward Amelia. "Your racket's still upstairs. Why didn't you bring it down when you knew you had practice?" His gaze bore down on her as she approached the staircase. "Be smarter than that, Amelia."
Amelia spared him a brief glance and without responding, she jogged up the stairs. It was easy as pie to ignore him in the house, but in the car? That proved to be a challenging endeavor. Especially with a thirty-minute drive ahead. She positioned herself as close to the window as possible and closed her eyes. Surely, he couldn't engage her in conversation while she pretended to sleep, could he? Well, this was Tommy Shelby after all. He played along with her charade for the initial ten minutes, humming to himself, allowing her the illusion of solitude.
"Amelia," he said, a faint toothy grin appearing. "Polly mentioned you skipped breakfast."
Stay asleep, she urged herself, and in an attempt to make it real, she twisted her body a little and groaned.
He glanced over, catching her as she cracked open one eye. "C'mon on now, you're a young lady. Almost an adult!" He tapped her leg lightly. "There are girls your age getting married and starting families. And then there are those working and attending school. Do you think they have time for such games?"
She grumbled, sitting up and squirming in her seat. "Mr. Shelby, please don't hit me again."
"Will you enter my office again?" he countered, raising an eyebrow.
"No."
"Good girl," he said, "then you won't need to be slapped again. Unless, of course, you-"
"Don't hit me again! My father would have wrangled your brother," she retorted, which seemed to amuse him. Mr. Clarke was a short, old, frail man. Tommy Shelby had never imagined, even in his youth, that the old fool could fend off a fly. "It hurt, and now I have a bruise! It makes me ugly-uglier!"
He reached over, pushing her hair behind her ear. He hummed, gently lifting her chin. "Mmm, yes. It will bruise."
"Will it be gone by my match in Manchester?"
"Will you enter my office again, Miss Clarke?"
She sighed, and said, "Mr. Shelby, I made it clear last night. Why must you insert your authority everywhere you walk? The world isn't your fucking chess game! And whoever told you it was, was lying. After Manchester, I'm going home."
Tommy Shelby listened to her, nodding, knowing that if he hadn't been driving he would have busted that other cheek. Instead, he chose hard, but honest words. "To what?"
"Hm?"
"To what, Amelia? Your parents are traveling," he stated.
"I have family-"
"If your family wanted you there, you would be there. Quite frankly, love, everyone is tired of your behavior. Your precious father included. If anyone wanted you there, you wouldn't be living with me. Your grandparents ignored the letters, your aunt and uncles flat out said no. Hm? So where, Amelia, are you going to go?" Her bottom lip quivered as she looked out the window. Deep down she felt it was true, but did not want to give him the satisfaction. Looking at his pocket watch as he pulled into the stadium, he parked. Though, he did not allow her out. "Don't cry," he said, monotone. He cupped her cheek and rubbed it. "You're not going back to America, Amelia. You're staying here, in England, with me. Your father wrote me during the summer of last year, in a letter, that is in fact in the metal glove compartment right above your thighs." He pointed with an unlit cigarette. "Why upset your last chance, hmm? Love, your father cares about you, but there is only so much he can take. Go on, read it, if you wish. It's right in there."
"Six months-"
"No, Amelia," he said, continuing to rub her cheek. "For a long time. Your father lied to you. You're here until you can make your own decisions, and right now, you can't." Tommy gave her his handkerchief to clean her face. "He loved you, but he knew he couldn't handle you like a father should. And your mother?"
"Hates me," she cried. "That woman hates me."
Tommy Shelby knew Siobhan did not hate her daughter. In fact, both Mr. and Mrs. Clarke loved their daughter very much. So much so they tolerated her boyish, silly behavior with little repercussion. There was no letter, there wasn't even a conversation in private. One once said overly ambitious men are good with bad measures. A good man he was, but it was in his best interests to beat the girl down as much as he could. "Mmm," he said, "she's a middle aged, sexless, loveless, miserable woman whose golden child died for a useless cause. Now, it's time for you to play. You didn't eat. Have some chocolate." Tommy dug into his sports jacket and pulled out a piece meant for his niece. Like he would a little girl, he unwrapped the chocolate and placed it in her mouth. "Eat this and have some water...here." He took his cigarette, but she hesitated.
"I don't smoke-"
"It'll suppress an appetite," he said, putting it between her lips, "Breathe in, love...there you go, easy. Keep it for a second, breathe out."
Amelia began to choke, her face turning red in the process. "That was awful," she managed to say between coughs.
"You'll smoke one at lunch," he said, placing the container in his jacket.
By the time the two got to the gate, it was 8:15 am. Coach looked at Amelia, but did not press her. She looked tired, stressed, and he could see the blotchiness in her eyes. He opened the gate and told her there was a bucket of balls on the court. "Go practice your serve." When she nodded and left, he looked at Tommy.
"If you're about to lecture me on punctuality," he remarked, gesturing with his cigarette, "Don't. I'm well aware of the time. I keep track of it. In fact, I fo'kin dictate it. Your fo'kin clock means nothing to me. You'll get paid whether she arrives or not. So, if you could do me a favor, and get that cock wedged in your arse out."
Coach arched an eyebrow and nodded. "Wasn't planning on mentioning the time, Mr. Shelby. But she does owe me a lap. Anyway," he continued, motioning for Tommy to follow him down the metal steps. "There's a match-"
"Manchester, I know."
"No, Friday."
Tommy Shelby, not typically one to stall, tilted his head in confusion. "In three days?" He looked out at the court. "In three days? She just arrived."
"It's not exactly a match, more of a...how do you say? When you go to the horse track and you observe...? Never mind it. It's more of an observation. She's good for her age and at this observation other coaches will be there, teams, leagues, groups. Sponsors!"
Tommy laughed to himself, sitting down. "And why does a little girl need a sponsor?"
"She could make money," he explained. "Only way girls make money in sports is through sponsors, Mr. Shelby. Unfortunately, it's a shady area, but there is another reason for her to go." He pulled out a folded newspaper from his pocket and pointed. Tommy took the crinkled paper.
"A French councilman's son is coming to Birmingham?"
"To London, it's in London," he corrected. "But he will be at the match in Manchester because Mr. Leo De Luca will be there...you don't know anything about tennis, do you?"
"I'm not fond of the Italians," Tommy stated.
"He's rich," he said, as if that was enough. "With all the money in the world, he chooses to sponsor tennis. But, you get her to London, she could play against a potential opponent in Manchester."
"Cheating?" Tommy mused, not always one for fair game. "That sounds honorable."
"Gray line, really," he grinned. "Sports have a lot of gray lines when money is involved, Mr. Shelby."
Tommy matched his grin and looked over the coach's shoulder, smoke dangling from his lip. She was pounding the tennis balls, clearly relieving the stress from the last twelve hours. Tommy knew and saw enough angry men to see she was fired up. The way she grunted every time she slammed the green ball over the net. It was obvious with the tension in her body and face.
"Temper," he noted, "she has a temper. Well, we'll be there-"
"At noon," he noted. "She should be there by 11:30 am for a sign in. A guardian at her age is required."
Later that evening at dinner, Tommy made her sit close to him to remove Finn from the picture. Every time they were near one another, one of them would instigate a fight. Tommy needed to see her in a different light, away from the boyish tendencies. Never once had he considered profiting off the little girl munching on potatoes, but if that sponsorship would grow his pocket, he was not going to throw it away. "Polly, bring Amelia to Katherin tomorrow," he said, "she doesn't have practice. I want her to get a haircut. Her hair is too long and not shaped-"
"What?" Amelia said, potato muffling her voice a bit. "My hair is fine!"
He plucked the hair tie out, and pulled at it, "I want it up to here and pinned nicely." He put his hands against her shoulder to signal his desired length. "And," he continued, grabbing her face, food all over her cheeks and lips. "Pluck her eyebrows. They have extra hair-"
"And you've become a lady when exactly?" Polly interjected, walking over to the girl and cupping her face gently, smiling. "Hmm, yes. Some in the middle. After dinner, I will get my tweezers."
"Will it hurt?" she frowned.
"Sting, maybe," she explained, "but I'll put ice."
"Stand," Tommy told her. He looked over at her. "You stand like a boy...your shoulders are always slouched. You're cute, Amelia, but cute is not for a young woman." He lifted her overly long skirt and sighed. "She needs her legs shaved and her hands done. Tomorrow," he started, " Pol is going to take you to a friend on the other side of town, understand? Amelia, I am telling you, you will cooperate. It's in your best interest...Pol, I am going to need that on her face covered."
Amelia folded her arms, "I play tennis, why exactly am I doing this?"
Tommy wiped his mouth, and pulled back his chair. "Because, you don't look a woman-"
"I play a sport," she stressed. "A sport! We don't play sports in heels, Mr. Shelby."
He continued to fix her posture and moved back her shoulders, resting his hands near her breasts. He looked over at Polly and then Ada before looking back at her. Grabbing his wallet, he handed Ada some money. "And you-"
"Yes, Tommy," his sister sighed, looking up from feeding Karl. "How may I help you with this madness you're on about?"
He pointed, "she needs new undergarments. In the afternoon, you will take her the lingerie shop-"
"Can I go?" Finn asked cheekily, a grin spread across his face.
Arthur looked over, who had ignored most of the conversation, said, "want to buy some matching bras for the panties you wear?"
"No one is going to see my legs," she said, defiant. "And I have practice tomorrow."
"You're right," he agreed, taking a step back. "What is the rule about skirts? 30 centimeters? Pol, tomorrow, when they are shopping, I need you to hem her skirt. About 40 centimeters-"
"That would be too short-"
"Amelia," he said, "no one is going to disqualify you." The look in his eyes said it all. He was Thomas Shelby. No matter where walked, it was his land. Even though he had not a clue about the world of tennis, it was a game and he knew how to work games. He especially knew how to work men. If Thomas Shelby wanted her skirt two inches too short, for fucks sake that is what she was going to do.
"Mr. Shelby," she whined. "It's a tennis, not a-"
He slapped her other cheek lightly. It was more of a love tap than anything to get her attention. "Listen to me, Amelia. It's what I want it to be. Okay? I'm a businessman, and you're a little girl. I know what I'm doing. You worry about tennis and I will worry about everything else-"
"I don't get-"
"Stop talking now," he warned, finger in her face. "Stop...talking...now. Not a single sound from your lips."
"Ok-"
He tapped her cheek again, "ay! Not a single word. Understood? Now, nod. Good. Now, tomorrow, you're going to wake the fuck up at 8 am. Polly is going to take you to her friend...get your hair hair done, eyebrows, hands, legs, and whatever else women fucking do. Early afternoon, you will go with Ada to find some proper undergarments...yours don't fit. Your breasts need to be up here, not there. You're a big girl and when you run, they run, too. It'll help your posture-"
"You're embarrassing her!" Polly said, and whacked Tommy lightly. "What he means is, at your age, you are still becoming a woman and you probably outgrew-"
Arthur groaned, his fist slamming on the table. "For fucks sake, now you're embarrassing me!" He snapped his fingers for Finn to leave with him, who sat there bright red. He shook his head at his older brother. "C'mon now, Finn. Listen to any more of this, we'll start getting our...whatever women get."
Finn swallowed, and hissed, "Arthur, I can't move." Everyone turned to the boy, who sat there awkwardly. Under the table, his legs were crossed and both his hands were covering himself.
Ada and Polly snickered lightly, but Amelia hadn't a clue what any of them were on about. She peaked at his lap and looked at Ada for explanation. "Ohmgod," she laughed, covering her mouth. "She doesn't know...Finn, just get up and go to your room." Finn stood and shuffled sideways until he got up the stairs.
Polly released the laugh she was holding back, "oh shite, I remember when John and Tommy were that age...When Miss. Thompson would walk down the road-"
"Who was Miss. Thompson?" Ada asked then her eyes widened. "The whore! Tommy Shelby, you had a boy crush on that old whore that worked Alcott?! The one with a little bit of weight and huge, you know?" Her hands waved along her chest. "John, too?"
Polly nodded, "their pants would go...boing!"
"What does that mean?" Amelia asked, and Tommy shushed her, quite tired of the altercation. He kneeled and whispered for her to go upstairs for the night. From her room, she heard Ada and Polly still laughing.
"I always thought Tommy liked the slender type-"
Polly interrupted, "Thomas Shelby has one preference...a woman."