sweet french. peaky blinders

71

Lucille

The English countryside, in the eyes of Lucille, was almost as beautiful as that of France. There were no fields of lavender with the proud and eager stalks, but grass or wheat for as far as one could see, once they were half an hour from Small Heath. It seemed as if the absence of smog and smoke brought with it the sun, and Lucille smiled up at the cloudless sky with a new sense of admiration for the place she'd come to call home.

The car rumbled as they crossed the miles it would take to get to the small village which Lucille could not name. It was written on the crumpled paper that lay on the dashboard, a proper address scribbled below a name and another.

The village itself was quaint and well kept, with a white painted well in the middle of a green, a bustling bakery at the end of the main street and tiny, cobbled pathways that lead to even tinier houses. The house the two were visiting was at the very end of a single street, surrounded by a slightly overgrown field and even closer, their own, fruitful and colourful garden. Across from their gate grew a large, wispy willow tree, sheltering a spot of wildflowers that grew along the edging of the green.

As Tommy shut off the engine at the very end of the street, Lucille watched as two boys ran across the field, the youngest holding a football with the eldest leading him toward the tree and the gate, hopping over and sprinting toward the house. A woman met them with a kind smile. A smile that Lucille felt herself replicating as they grew closer.

"Mrs Johnson?" Lucille asked before they'd even reached the little picket fence by the cottage.

The woman turned, her pale lips forming a stern frown. The boys had disappeared inside already.

"Yes. Who are you?"

"I am from Birmingham Council. Bordesley Parish," Tommy said in his deep, business voice.

"No one wrote to me."

"There's nothing wrong. We're here to talk about Henry, Mrs Johnson," Lucille said, her eyes skipping behind her to the open door of the small house. "May we come in?"

"I'd rather you didn't. He doesn't like to talk about this," the woman said.

"I see. So what does Henry know about his real identity, Mrs Johnson?" Tommy asked, crossing his hands in front of himself.

"I only deal with Mr Ross from the agency and he only ever writes so why are you here?"

"The boy is approaching his eighteenth birthday," Tommy said, and Lucille knew his serious tone was making the woman worry.

"This isn't right," Mrs Johnson shook her head quickly. "You're not from the council. Something isn't right."

"What does he know, Mrs Johnson?"

The woman dropped her shoulders, her chin coming to lift high. "He knows his mother couldn't cope. She drank too much, she used opium, she used to beat him."

Lucille frowned softly. "That isn't the truth is it?"

"Look, I think you should come back when my husband is here."

"Does he know his real name?" Tommy asked and his eyes lifted to look to the door behind the woman. His voice rose. "His real name is Johnson. Henry Johnson."

The boy began to walk toward his adoptive mother, and Mrs Johnson's eyes widened, her face flushing deeply. Lucille watched the scene unfold, noticing the boy's dark brown hair and wide nose. His hair was neatly combed, his off-white coloured shirt tucked into brown pants. She noticed his eyes most of all, though: the colour of the bark, mixed sweetly with earth and flecked with honey- just like Polly's. The detail made her smile and step forward, holding a hand out in a calming motion.

"We mean no harm, I assure you-" Lucille said.

The woman turned to them again with a snap. "Now I would like you to go away."

"Truth is he was taken from his mother without her permission," Tommy said loudly, keeping his eyes on the boy.

"Henry, go back inside, please," Mrs Johnson pleaded.

"Who are you?" The boy asked, keeping his shoulders squared as he placed himself beside his mum. It was an act that made Lucille think of the boy's uncles.

"Your real name is Michael Gray," Tommy said.

"No," Mrs Johnson cried.

"You're real mother wants to see you. Her address is on the back of this card."

Tommy went to hand him a card but the woman batted him away, using a hand to hit out against his arm, the other pushing Michael further back toward the house. In such a pretty setting, the scene looked like utter chaos as Mrs Johnson began to shout, her hands flying out widely, making her son's eyes widen too, his eyebrows shooting to crease his forehead.

"Go away!"

"She just wants to talk," Lucille said, distraught at the sight of the panicked woman.

"Go away!"

"She just wants to talk," Tommy repeated.

Mrs Johnson began to pull Michael back toward the house, not caring that she was trampling on her rows of pansies and columns of carrots. Lucille placed a hand on Tommy's arm, pulling him back towards the car. But as they walked away, they both noticed the bend of Michael's knees and the white card that was slipped into his pants pockets as he disappeared back into the cottage.

Lucille was drained she entered their new home, wishing for her daughter's loud laugh to be ringing through the rooms to greet her. But Adds was with her aunt and cousin. It was only fair that Karl would know at least one member of his family. Tommy left her with a kiss on the forehead as he headed toward the kitchen, and Lucille shrugged her coat off, sighing at the weight of her shoulders, finding the pile of letters shoved back by the front door.

She shuffled through them, recognising the meaning of most until the last. Stamps littered the front of it, showing that the letter had been forwarded addressed numerous times. Her heart dropped as she recognised the writing on the envelope. The same loopy writing had signed marriage papers and birthday wishes and written I love you to another woman.

She opened it slowly. Just to check, she thought. As if it could be anyone but him.

Mon amour-

Tommy hung by the doorway, a cup of tea in his large hands. Lucille shoved the letter and envelope into her pocket, swallowing the anxious feeling that was building in her through and her stomach. He didn't need to be worried, not by this.

"Who was that from?" Tommy asked as he handed her the cup.

"Thank you," she said, placing a kiss on his cheek. "It was to the wrong address. I'll take it to the post office tomorrow."

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