"For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing, and they have no more reward, for the memory of them is forgotten." —Ecclesiastes 9:5
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Tommy lay for several minutes on his bed after Trixie left, trying and failing to understand what the fuck had just happened. All these months with Beatrice and he still wasn't any closer to understanding her. It was not a problem worth worrying about—he'd solved it by exiling her in advance; but the part of him that cared about conquering the world more than conquering Birmingham worried that sweeping her under the rug would do more harm in the long run than good.
If he understood her better, he might know how to deal with the fact that he did not understand her at all, but it was a nonstarter. Tommy sat up and adjusted his trousers, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His hair was askew from her hands, his tie crooked. He looked younger than he could remember being, more like the boy that snuck back into the house after a tryst with Greta than the man who could clear a sidewalk by walking down it. "Fuck."
It struck him as odd that Trixie thought of him as someone who would've broken her heart before the war. Her faith was apparent in her apprehension towards certain crimes and her commitment to chastity—well, supposed commitment to chastity. Still, despite the naivety he typically expected from people of faith, he couldn't imagine Beatrice as acting a fool.
Tommy tried to remember who he'd been before the trenches. All those years of digging and fucking digging. People in the city might be afraid of him, but he overheard what they said about him. Tommy Shelby left for France and someone else came back. Some days, he thought that was fair enough; most days, he took issue with it: as far as he was concerned, nobody came back, just the fucking body. Tommy tried to recall who he'd been before, but could only come up with memories of his mother, the afternoon before she died.
"Take this," she'd said. In the months since giving birth to Finn, she'd grown gray. In her palm, she offered Tommy her wedding ring, polished and warm to the touch. "Of all my sons, you're the romantic, you know. You've got a kinder heart."
"Mum," he'd objected, inspecting the ring. "Stop."
She'd only smoothed his hair back, and he'd let her, though he'd been embarrassed at the time. She told him vaguely of his father's proposal, and the stolen ring, and how he'd slapped a cigarette out of her hand after they'd married, worried it would scuff the gold. She'd been smoking, then, but the ring was in Tommy's hand. "You'll give it another life, alright, my boy? Give it to that girl you love."
