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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: MOTHER WITHOUT A SON
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"WELCOME TO THE OPENING of the Grace Shelby Institute for the non-insured children of the poor."
Polly was the picture of composure standing behind the podium. Gazing down the bridge of her nose at the crowd of familiar faces made up of family, friends and the folk of Birmingham. Rich and poor, young and old. United by their 'compassion' for children who had nothing, who were born into this world fighting from their first breaths. Children that deserved a chance, and who better to give them the opportunity than the people who had walked in their shoes, been knocked down time and time again, only to come back stronger.
"I would very much like you to join me in thanking the man that made the founding of this establishment actually possible. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Thomas Shelby."
Helen felt an unshakeable sense of pride as she sat beside Tommy, who had one hand on her knee and the other balancing Charlie on his lap. With scattered applause echoing around the newly furnished room -- joined with Arthur's loud requests for a speech -- Tommy stood and faced the crowd, holding his son like a prize he had won in the face of his success. When Polly moved aside to let him join her behind the podium, he entrusted Charlie in Helen's arms, kissed her on the cheek, then finally accepted Arthur's persistence for a speech.
"Say it, Tom," his brother said fiercely. "Say it to 'em!"
"Arthur," Linda chided with a gentle squeeze of his elbow. Helen was only a row in front of them and so she didn't miss the way Linda's lips shaped the words inside voices like Arthur was a fucking child younger than James, who was also bouncing off the walls with excitement.
Rolling her eyes, Helen didn't have the chance to say anything before the applause died down and Tommy cleared his throat. "Um, I didn't come here today to make a speech, but I will say this. These children are now safe."
He gestured for their heads to turn towards the back of the room where the nuns of the institute had ushered in dozens of clean-faced boys and girls; babies, really, who had not long moved into the adjacent dormitories. They wore new shirts, dresses, pants and shoes. Their hair was combed, dirt scrubbed from youthful skin. They seemed hopeful, shiny-eyed. Like children were meant to be.
"In our care, they will be safe. Because we are from the same cold streets as they are, and in our care, they won't be shipped away to the colonies, or separated from kin, or made to work for men in the various ways. They will grow up here, at home, loved. In Birmingham. Because this is our city."
"By order of the Peaky Blinders," barked Arthur, and nobody missed the few eye rolls received in return before another round of scattered applause ensued.
Deciding he'd said enough, Tommy marched out from behind the podium and rejoined Helen while Polly directed everyone to sing Immortal Invisible. With a rare soft smile that had Helen's stomach dipping, Tommy placed an arm around her waist, drew James in close on his other side, and the four of them sang together. When Helen closed her eyes, her mind naturally wandered to what Patrick would have thought of this. His cousin's name on the door, her picture watching over the hallway. She liked to think he would be proud, too.
