sabrina. peaky blinders

one

one

home, mid 1919

The kettle had already whistled twice that morning before Mary Lewis remembered she'd put it on. She muttered under her breath and rushed to the stove, steam curling like smoke from under the lid. The clock ticked. The floor creaked. The city beyond the window was still waking, bells, shouting children, coal carts rolling over stone. And in their little corner of Small Heath, anticipation hung like fog in the corners of the kitchen.

Mary poured the hot water into the chipped teapot and wiped her hands on her apron. She set six cups down, then added a seventh. Just in case.

"She's not royalty, you know," Betty said from the stairs, clacking down in heels far too nice for a Tuesday morning.

Mary looked up. "You're not wearing that."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll make her think she's missed a wedding."

Betty snorted. "God, that'll give her a heart attack," she said, earning a sharp glare from her sister. "What if she thinks it's John's?"

Mary didn't dignify that with a response.

Betty posed with her hand on her hip. "Don't be jealous. Paris changes a girl, don't you know? I'm just trying to keep up."

"Paris changed her," Mary said. "Not us."

There was a beat of quiet. They both looked at the table, at the extra cup, the mismatched saucers, the window where steam was beginning to fog the glass.

Then came the sound of thudding feet. George and Peter were arguing about the dog again.

"She'll want to see Buster."

"She won't want dog hair on her coat!"

"She used to let him sleep on her bed!"

"That was before she started nursing officers, you idiot."

"Oi!" Betty barked. "No fighting. She'll think you've all gone feral."

Twelve-year-old Jane was already sitting on the windowsill, knees tucked to her chest, holding a crooked sign painted in red. The paint was still drying- WELCOME HOME SABRINA- though the "A" in "SABRINA" had been squashed in last-minute, making it look more like SABRINΛ.

"Do you think she'll look different?" Jane asked.

Mary hesitated. "I think we all do."

Their father, Fred Lewis, came down the stairs slowly, one step at a time. He still walked like the ground might shift under him. His coat was buttoned wrong, and he looked like he hadn't quite slept, though his hair was combed and his boots were polished.

"She's coming, then?" he said without looking at anyone in particular.

Mary nodded. "Train's in just before noon."

He grunted and sat at the table, pouring himself tea without sugar.

In the hush that followed, Betty rifled through a small pile of letters on the shelf and pulled out the most recent one.  Sabrina's writing was neat, precise, and slightly slanted, like someone trying not to feel too much.

Betty cleared her throat. "'Dear all,'" she read aloud. "'I have my ticket at last. The matron here at Saint-Roch tells me I'll miss the place in a week. I told her she's an optimist. I miss home. Please tell George I still have the wooden whistle he carved. Tell Jane she'd love the bookstores here. I'll be on the morning train on the 15th. If the coal strikes don't delay it, I should see you by lunch. With love, Sabrina.'"