Bloodsport ; tommy shelby

𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏 - a ghost of the past

London, 1924

"Fuck!" Iris yelped, jumping backwards as the pot of baked beans she'd just prepared tumbled onto the kitchen floor.

"Katerina?" her mother's voice called from upstairs. She heard the pattering of smaller feet heading down the hall.

"Willow, don't come in here!" She called, frantically rummaging for a cloth to clean the floor with.

"Oh, for crying out loud," her mother sighed as she entered the kitchen, sweeping the five year old off the floor. "This is why I don't let you cook."

"I told you Mama, I have to learn!" Iris insisted, sighing. "Oh God, I'm a terrible mother. I can't even feed my child!"

"Contrary to popular belief, Katerina, being able to cook is the least of your worries," Yelena said. "There are plenty more ways you can fuck up a child."

"Language, Mama, please!" Iris snapped, as she wiped the floor.

"Oh come on, darling. It isn't as if you're going to have to worry about her repeating anything," Yelena said as she plopped the child down on the counter. "The little thing never says a word."

"She can hear you, you know," Iris said, pursing her lips. "She just chooses not to speak."

"I don't know how long you're going to allow this to continue before you take her to see a doctor," her mother sighed.

"She isn't sick," Iris said, plopping the remainder of her failed breakfast in the sink. "She doesn't trust the world enough to share her thoughts with it, that's all."

Yelena rolled her eyes. "Just like her mother."

"Just like her father, actually." Iris muttered with a small sigh.

Her mother tried to take her hand but Iris yanked it away.

"Don't. It's fine," Iris said, turning to rinse her hands in the sink. She didn't mention him much, nowadays, especially not in front of Willow. After she had found out she was pregnant, she'd written another letter to Thomas in the hopes that he might meet her in London, but hadn't ever got a response. Nor did she get a response to the first letter she'd left for him, but she wasn't surprised. It felt odd, knowing that the one person in the world she'd had the courage to tell her secret to hadn't even thought it worthy of a response.

"Come on, get ready, I'll take Willow to school.." Yelena said. "You can't be late for your interview."

Iris nodded, kissing her daughter on the cheek as she lifted her down from the kitchen counter.

♞

The sound of Iris' kitten heels tapping against the cold marble floor echoed through the hallway. She was already nervous, because all of the other candidates she'd seen go in and out of the offices of Winston Churchill were spritely young posh girls, straight out of formal education with letters of recommendation from friends of their fathers in high places.

Iris was a working class single mother who had been on the run, living under three different names since she was nineteen.

"Miss... Ripley?" A young boy in glasses, clad in tweed said as he came out into the hallway.

Iris stood up quickly, taking her bag as she followed him into the offices. It was fair to say she'd given up hope of getting the job after the last few stages of interviews, in which she had been met with haughty looks hidden badly behind polite smiles.

"Miss Iris Ripley, is it?" Mr Churchill spoke in a rich, baritone voice.

"Yes sir," Iris spoke, almost compelled to curtsey as she met his formidable gaze.