sweet french. peaky blinders

66

Lucille

The smoke and smog of Small Heath were relentless, even on the most depressing of days. The skies grew as dark as the funeral clothes the Shelby family wore, as they slowly exited the graveyard, pressing down toward the fancy cars that were parked and waiting. Lucille held Ada's arm, Karl waddling on the other side. Her daughter Adds clung to her hand too, bright eyes pooling with fresh tears. The young girl had grown up to be far too sentimental for her own good.

"Thank you for being there for me, Lucille," Ada said with a sigh, as she placed a kiss on her cheek. "It means a lot. Karl loves having Adds to play with. It gets lonely sometimes."

"It's no problem at all. I just wish I could see you all the time. Like the old days."

Ada smiled sadly. "You'll come to visit soon?"

"Definitely."

Lucille hugged her one last time and watched as she moved along, only to be caught by Tommy and Polly. It had been months since she last saw them. It was regretful that it was under such somber circumstances, but neither Ada nor Lucille wanted to abandon what meant most to them. For Ada, it was her values. For Lucille, her family.

"Good God, Dawson, you've been with us in Small Heath for two bloody years," Lucille said, pulling him back by the collar before he could wander too far in the wrong direction- Ada's direction.

In those two years, he'd not changed at all. He was just as naive when it came to women, and just as nervous when it came to guns. The problems with Sabini and the London gangs hadn't cleared, but he was fine as it was in Birmingham.

Dawson smiled cheekily, pressing down the folds of his smart jacket. "And who knows how long I'll be with you? Make my move now before it's too late."

Lucille's eyes narrowed. "It's her husband's funeral."

"I wasn't going to intrude," he said, seeming to actually be offended as he held his hands up.

Lucille sighed. She'd realized that Jack Dawson was scarily close to being madly in love with Ada Shelby shortly after he'd decided to stay in Birmingham. It was just another thing to add to the list of worries that were slowly building in her head.

"I know. But sometimes I can't tell with you," she said.

Dawson shrugged. "The whole London business makes me nervous."

"Some days you're running riot and other days you're soft as clart," Lucille said, clutching for the thin purse that rested in the crook of her elbow. "And some days I haven't a clue what to do with you."

"'Soft as clart'? That has Polly written all over it." Dawson chuckled. "Still sounds funny with your accent."

Lucille scowled playfully, handing over a handkerchief to Adds as she began to bubble again.

"I daren't tell you what they say about your accent down in the Garrison then."

Dawson started. "What? Who?"

Lucille shushed him quickly, watching Arthur as he stormed over from the cars. His hands were painted a permanent purplish red, bruised and battered from hours of hitting punching bags, both human and inanimate. His lips rolled over each other, biting and gnawing. Lucille's stomach sunk, head snapping to search for Tommy. Yet another thing was wrong.

"Arthur. What is it?"

Dawson and Lucille met Arthur's side, walking in a line.

"You'll want to hear this. Where's Tommy?"