March // John Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Chapter 11

I recognise the cramping in my hips, the rolling nausea through my abdomen the next morning. I jolt up out of bed, running to the bathroom. I make it to the bath just in time, as the gap between my hips contracts like it's clamped in a vice, like an engineer is pointing an oxyacetylene welding torch below my navel.

I kneel before the toilet and throw up what remains of last night's balti in my stomach. I'm shaking as I twist the bath taps, and remove my cotton pyjamas. I've learnt by now to seek out darker fabrics after ruining so many white sets.

I rinse my pyjamas until the water no longer runs red, and then I fill the bath with warm water.It's a small relief as I sink below the surface.

Everything inside of me is screaming.

I stay there, with my eyes closed and a thin sheet of sweat across my forehead, until the water grows too cold to ease the pain. And then I stagger through the kitchen, internally crying as I wait for the water to boil. I pour a chamomile tea, fill my hot water bottle, and retreat back to bed.

I drift in and out of sleep, in and out of pain for the whole day, getting out of bed only to change the sanitary cloth. Each time I open my eyes, I glance at the bottle of opium Mama's left at my bedside. I feel pangs of guilt, angry with myself for my affliction. Because of it, my mother has to work all alone.

I wake again that evening, and mother's placing a bowl of soup at my bedside.

"How are you feeling?" She asks in a gentle whisper, squeezing my hand.

"Terrible." I roll over, and feel a reassuring warmth once more. "You changed my water bottle."

"A fresh one for the night." She kisses my forehead. "Rest."

I drift back to sleep once more.

***

The second day is always better than the first, and always worse in many ways. I can do more than just sleep. But I'm still in too much pain to be out of bed for long.

I end up pulling out my drawing book and pencils. I flip through the pages to my most recent work — a depiction of the factory worker mad enough to steal from the Peaky Blinders. I have no idea what he actually looks like. But John's story filled me with creative inspiration, and so I've drawn a man in a checkered coat with a wrinkled forehead and bags beneath his eyes, on his knees and clutching his hands together as he begs forgiveness. I add a few shadows and bits of shading before I flip the page.

I find myself drawing Watery Lane. I try to outline the terraced houses, the overcast sky, the brick path. It takes me most of the day, and by the time I reach the inevitable stage every month where my boredom outweighs my pain, the drawing is complete.

I push myself out of bed and take the mug and bowl down to the kitchen to wash up. Mama's boiling fresh water, still covered in flour and wearing her apron. Her forehead's creased and for a moment, she looks very, very old.

But then she turns, and the youth returns to her face as she smiles at me. "You're out of bed."

"I should be back at work tomorrow," I tell her.

"You worry me," she sighs, kissing my forehead before pouring tea. "Maybe you should go back to that doctor."

"He'll have nothing new to tell me," I say. "Get on with it. Take opium if you must. Women have been dealing with this since the beginning of time. His only helpful recommendation was to remove my internal organs, and I'd rather not be cut in half and rearranged while breathing through an ether mask that could explode at any moment."

Mother purses her lips. "You have a point."

"I'll be alright, mama." I wash my hands. "It's only two days out of the month. The worst part for me is knowing you have to do everything downstairs."

"I worry I've placed too much responsibility on you." She hands me my mug of tea. "You should be finding a husband or heading off to London like the other girls your age. Not forced to work the bakery with me."

"Well, once Papa's home, I'll have all the choices in the world." Mother doesn't respond. My stomach clenches with worry, and so I continue to babble. "I heard on the radio, they're releasing three hundred prisoners from the Red Cross camps. Three hundred." I sip my tea. "He'll be among them. I know it."

She smiles sadly. "Maybe."

"Please don't be morose. I'm feeling lots better. I'll even bake the bread tomorrow."

She rolls her eyes. "Offering to bake bread? Now I know you're unwell."

"It'll be okay, mama." I wrap her in a hug. "Our life could be far worse."