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1919. It was a particularly odd year for everyone. The Treaty of Versailles had just been signed, officiating the peace treaty between Germany and the Allied Powers. It was a terrible defeat for the Germans, but an absolute victory for the Allies. But as those who had watched the whole world burn in front of their eyes, and sat in the comfort of their lavish homes cheered, those who fought for a war they did not have a say in, came back from the trenches, broken, their hands blood–stained, their eyes teary, fated to have a life filled with the never–ending nightmares of bullets ricocheting, ringing in their ears.
Boys, who had merely reached their pubescent years, deployed during the Battle of Somme with high hopes for their country, came back with nothing but the memories of their comrades being shot or bombed. Girls, who volunteered to nurse the soldiers of their beloved nation, came back with the images of men dying in their arms, unable to be saved, playing on loop, never–ending, looming in their minds.
But then again, this was Great Britain. Despite all the losses, all tried their best to focus on the victory that they shared with both France and the Russian Empire. Most have managed to build back all the things that they had fought for in the first place, everything they left behind. Some reclaiming their businesses, and some creating new ones.
On the other hand, however, there were those, like Florence Page, who wasted their days drinking, in hopes of drowning everything that had happened in the last 4 years, hidden behind all the luxuries she could afford. It seemed unexpected, to see a woman so beautiful carry a baggage even some men wouldn't be able to handle. But to her credit, she hid it well, portraying herself as a clueless girl, who knew nothing of the hell that the war encapsulated — maybe that was why so many were drawn to her.
Her facade embodied life before all the catastrophe that the war had caused, the innocence that her pretty and angelic face held, provoked a trance to those who had the pleasure of ever meeting the woman.
Luckily for the people of Small Heath, they got a taste of the walking beauty with their very own eyes, as she waltzed down the dank streets of Watery Lane, her Coco Chanel clutch held tightly beside her abdomen, the clicking of her heels causing bystanders to turn and stare.
It was an odd sight, frankly. With the way her white fur coat gleamed, contrasting the bleak atmosphere of Birmingham, and how her outfit costed more that what the coal miners earn in a week, Florence did not look like a woman that would even take a second glance at the humble town.
People could only conspire and create their own theories as to why a woman that looked as if she could only sneer at the muddy cobbled streets that carpeted Small Heath, would step foot in it. Being the enigma she was, however, Florence ignored the hushed whispers and continued taking long, confident strides towards anywhere her legs would take her.
To be completely honest, Florence wasn't quite sure what exactly brought her Small Heath of all places. All she knew was that she had get the hell out of London; as much as she believed that the city was her geographical soulmate, she knew she had to take a break from all the chaos that was within the heart of that city.
So, here she was. Small Heath, Birmingham.
After she checked into a suite at the Burton Inn — a small motel that proclaimed to be Small Heath's finest — she managed to ask the woman at the clerk desk for any place with booze. Luckily for Florence, right around the corner was the Garrison.
Eager to take the edge off after a long train ride, the girl strutted along the wobbly streets, knowing that a bottle of gin would be enough to sustain Florence for the night. Reaching the wooden steps that led to the Garrison, she dugs into her clutch to grab a pack of cigarettes, only for them to slip right in–between her fingers as she collided with a hard chest.
"Oh, I apologize, I'm afraid I didn't see you coming." She dropped down and grabbed her, now unusable, cigarette, chucking it to the gravel below.
"That's alright, Miss." A gruff voice with a thick Birmingham accent replied. She looked up to meet a man who was towering over her, and adorning a newsboys cap that covered his head. He was handsome, to say the least, and well–built, a well–groomed mustache decorating his philtrum. "Say, what's a pretty girl like you, yea, doin' in a bar like this?"
"Do you use that line on all the other girls?" Florence smirked and walked into the bar. The establishment was filled–to–the–brim with drunkards and their boisterous laughter, their evening drinks taking over them, slowly but surely. She walked towards the bartender, a skip in her step, excited for the copious amount of amber liquid she was about to consume. Scotch, please. Neat."
"Harry, her drinks are on me tonight. And Irish Whiskey, fa' me." She turned around to meet the same man she saw earlier, smirking.
The bartender hastily nodded, "Yes, Mr. Shelby."
"You sure do know the way to a girl's heart, Mr. uh," Florence glanced at the bartender and back at the man, "Mr. Shelby."
He hummed, smirking whilst looking at Florence up and down. "You didn't answer my previous question, love. What brings a girl like you, yea, to the shite–hole that is Small Heath?"
"That's a secret for me to keep, and a man such as yourself, to never, ever, find out."
His smirk seemed to only deepen as he continued, "The name's Arthur fuckin' Shelby. Say, that back door," he points back, his fingers meeting a closed–off section in the pub, "is closed off. Shelby's only. If 'ya give me a suck for two shillings, you can be on your merry fuckin' way."
Florence raised a brow. With her eyes full of tease, she stood up and tip–toed to reach the man's height, and placed her head right beside his ear, her breath fanning his face, causing goosebumps for Arthur. She licked her lips and whispered, "Well, I'm Florence fuckin' Page, and if you think a woman like me will get down on my knees for scum men like you, then you are very much mistaken."
