Harry stood still utterly stunned, at the scene that had so dramatically unfolded before him. The rather dramatic turn of events, involving none other than, John Shelby, and Harry's most frequent customer, whom he knew as Lizzie. What next could happen? Harry dared to think of the only normal events of the morning, which included Dorothy leaving work hours later than she should have. The woman truly had nothing to go home to after all, so it seemed the Garrison was her source of sanity as well as a tool to survive.
Shifting back into his office picking up the important documents that John Shelby had dropped off prior. Placing it on the desk with varieties of letters, some addressed to a certain
Miss. Dorothy.H.Edward written in a beautiful form cursive writing. Harry had remembered allowing Dot to use the Garrison as her main address in the early months of employment, but he never knew the young woman would actually go under another name when letters were sent to her.
I wonder if she's being bothered by someone so that's why her name is different? Or she's hiding from something? Did the Dorothy he knew have multiple sides to her, involving a messy past? Harry thought staring down at the letter intently, thinking back to the hopeless wreck that was Miss Dorothy Townley, whom he met so shortly after the war. Dot was once no better than the Police Commissioner's wife.
He looked over a old photograph of his young handsome son, and the lovely but mysterious immigrant Dorothy Townley. On the Western Front in one of those rare moments, that was able to be recorded by a photograph forever sealing that moment in time. Two lovers that could have flourished into something beautiful, though both their smiles were robbed from their innocent faces. War does that to you, Harry thought with a mournful expression lightly pushing the framed photograph of his son and the sweet woman he got to know. Leaving the glass of the photo frame resting against the surface of the old wooden desk.
The ringing of the Garrison's doorbell made the tired middle-aged man snap from his depressing thoughts. Straightening and neatening his appearance, Harry moved out of his office. A familiar voice connected with Harry's ears, causing him to recognize the more baritone voice which rippled lightly with gitty laughter.
"Harry, some whisky on Dot's tab! Ran into 'er on the way 'ere. Got 'er out ov' some trouble." The tall redhead known as Arthur Shelby Jr waved a bloodied hand around, almost in a victorious display. While messing the floor up the nicely cleaned floor with droplets of his blood and other's. Pounding on the bar-counter surface excitedly for a free drink of Irish Whisky.
Reaching for one of the recently cleaned spirit glasses, Harry filled in generously with Arthur's favourite type of Irish Whisky.
"Some trouble you say?" Harry asked in a tone of masked interest.
"Just a scrap 'tween a drunk. Seems some'ne took a shin'in' to the girl, and fought on 'er behalf." The vague Shelby stated, taking a swift movement in his wrist completely downing the potent Irish whisky that burnt as Arthur swallowed.
"Poor gurl, seems to get that unwanted attentions from others a lot, right?" He stated at the cock of a bushy brow.
Drying off another spirit glass with a clean piece of cloth,
"I wouldn't know, she doesn't tell me of those things. Most of my female staff don't speak of such matters… Miss Townley and Mrs Laurent are both ex-combat nurses from what I gather. So they could just be quiet out of habit from the war." Harry stated placing the dry glass down with the others, looking to the door. Watching the people of Birmingham walk past his pride and establishment, one of the last things he had left. That was until the finalisation of the sale to the Peaky Blinders was complete.
Harry's gaze seemed dazed thinking of his wife, how the war had killed his marriage. Carrying the loss rate personally to Harry to two. His heart only seemed to ache now. Meaning it was time for him to try and move on. Harry couldn't help but felt a guilt eat at his stomach in that moment. The emotionally and physically tired man stared up at the plark he had made for all those who didn't return from war, engraved names of fallen members of the Garrison Pub livingly community.
One by one he read the names, seemingly lost in a clouded mind. Amongst the array of names Harry read them quietly to himself.
R.L.Edward stared back at the now childless father, and his heart aches in such a bitter form of sorrow.
"Ral was a good lad, I hope you know that 'Arry." Arthur stated in a cough, clearing his throat.
"It a cryin' shame that boy didn't come back. No doubt would have snagged a lady and married by now." The redhead commented looking at the plark, running his teeth up roughly against his top lip. Feeling the vague tickle from his moustache. A habit of Arthur's drunk persona, it helped the man cope with the rattles and shakes his mind experiences due to what happened at war.
"I know, Mister Shelby." The man on the opposite side of the bar responded to Arthur Shelby, causing the eldest Shelby to cock a brow.
"Ralph was actually engaged before he died, I think if they knew anything of his fate. They would have married while being at war as a comfort." Harry stated casting his gaze downward at the surface of the bar.
"Knowin' that son of 'ours, s'pose she is real sweet'art." Arthur commented, tadding his glass on the counter for Harry to fill it back up.
"I think it'd be cruel if they married in the war, then his bride became a widow." Arthur thought about what kind of person Ralph's woman would have been like, where she was from, and partly… Where was she now. The eldest Shelby remembered Ralph's choice in women, it was something different. Unlike most men who didn't like trouble, Ralph liked look at those girls that were trouble from afar. Almost like a focking hopeless virgin, Arthur recalled with a chuckle wondering who could have ticked Ralph's almost impossible list of traits his ideal woman had to have.
A vague memory of those qualities popping into the drunk man's mind, making him chuckle sadly at the funny memory of a dead friend.
She had to be; witty, fun, troublesome, have that innocence that most women in Birmingham didn't have any longer, adaptable and loyal. Arthur listed of the qualities and traits that his old friend wished for in a woman, and felt a sad smile then a single tear roll down his cheek. Resting his head forward on the counter surface, his messily slicked back hair fell forward into his arm.
"Some woman," he grumbled lightly, the now depressed man stated sighing softly.
Arthur's head didn't even turn to the door when it opened, and the bell chimed softly. But, it certainly caught the attention of Harry who was neatening up things behind the bar.
"Morning…" Harry spoke rather gruffly, beginning to grow tired and weary of any more visits from the Shelbys in the morning.
Luckily, in that moment it was the boy delivering the post, quickly and swiftly the short boy no-more than ten or eleven placed the letters on the bar counter. Returning out the door in no time, only to invite the other guest Harry was rather expecting to see that morning.
"Morning, Mister Thomas Shelby." Harry spoke again, moving over to the letters on the counter. Flickering through the ones for him, and the others that seemed to come for Dot. Mentally organizing everything in a system of his, Dot's, mine and his, repeating forever and ever in his head. Gazing over the barmaid's letters, placing them down on the counter.
"She's got heaps of letters coming in at the moment… A birthday possibly?" Harry spoke out aloud trying to figure out what exactly made the sudden influx of letters come pouring in.
"Unless it's other friends of hers.. If she has friends." He commented almost looking like a concerned father about his beloved child, flicking the addresses on the letters. Brows knitting together in confusion, completely unaware of the fact he was speaking out aloud. Exhaustion truly setting in on him.
Thomas Shelby had managed to pull himself together between leaving behind the red-lipped devil of a woman and entering the pub. The encounter might have rattled him, but he could do a damn good job of pretending it had never happened. He waited for the round-faced mail carrier to scurry aside before stepping through the door. Voices drifted towards him. The midday sun had not reached its apex, and yet he was unsurprised to see Harry behind the bar. The man was married to his work. However, he had not expected to stumble across his elder brother. He'd sent John with the papers to allow the kid to walk off his queasiness; he could easily have carried them himself. There sat the folder of documents, but the younger Shelby was nowhere to be seen.
"Hallo, Harry." Thomas shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it onto the back of a chair. He noted the untouched breakfast tray on the bar, recalled Dot's comment. The barman was shuffling through a stack of correspondence.
"Seems you've had an eventful morning." He made his way to where Arthur sat, clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Wot the hell happened to bed, eh? Thought you were desperate for sleep." He gave Arthur an assessing glance. Before him sat a glass of amber liquid. The knuckles of his right hand were glazed in still-tacky blood.
Tommy cuffed his brother across the head. He slid the whiskey glass out of reach and leaned against the bar, arms crossed.
"It's not yet noon, Arthur." A note of exasperation crept through. He himself might not be the poster child for sobriety, but at least he had his head on straight. The same could not always be said of his eldest brother.
"I'm not even going to ask what happened to your 'and. What I am going to do is to tell you to get your arse back to the betting room. There's a race tonight, in case you've forgotten, and there's plenty of work what needs doing. The factory's on break in half an hour, and it'll be all hands on deck. And, for God's sake, leave the whiskey. If you see John, tell 'im I want a word."
Arthur glanced up at his younger brother Thomas, staring into those gypsy blue eyes.
"I ran out of whisky, so headed here. Came 'cross Dot in a scarp and helped 'er out. Then, Dot said I could grab a drink on 'er tab, 'n act'al lady wanted to pay for a drink for me." He beamed lightly at the last comment, smiling almost happily like a child. Before averting his gaze from Thomas.
"Hav'n't seen John, but 'ill let him know." The eldest Shelby brother grumbled lifting himself out his bar stool, looking to Harry before glancing at the letters.
"When is 'er birthday anyway? Didn't even know that your wife's name was Dorothy.. I 'ought it was Edith." Arthur commented in a drunken slur, looking at the bartender whom cocked a groomed brow.
"My ex-wife is Edith, Dorothy was to be my daughter-in-law. You've met her Arthur, it's Miss Townley." Harry stated in a rather tired tone of voice, watching the drunk stumble off his chair.
"Just on letters she prefers them to come her under Ralph's name, then her own. That girl is a bit of mystery…" He stated flipping over one of the letters that looked rather formal, as the envelope embossed. A kangaroo and emu standing by a emblem, the front of the address stamped for some months ago it was sent.
Arthur seemed rather taken aback that Ralph's girl had been under his nose for quite some time. Wandering off towards the door, the man tucked his bloodied hands into his pocket.
"Heading off now." He stated before wandering out the door of the Garrison. Leaving Harry to sigh looking down at the letters in his hand, worrying if Dot was in any sort of trouble.
Tommy watched his brother disappear around the corner, bell letting out a musical tinkle as the door fell shut. He knew that Arthur could withstand a lot, but he had always been a man of extremes, and the war had broken something inside of him. Once upon a time, his older brother had been his protector, someone to look up to. That had shifted long before puberty. Despite the difference in age, Tommy had always been the thinker, the independent one. A younger Arthur went looking for a father figure in all the wrong places. The current version didn't seem to know what he was looking for.
"Wot trouble could a country girl be in to get a letter like that… She done something wrong?" Harry mumbled lightly himself before sighing, his dark brows knitted together tightly. Fixated on the letter, before placing it against the other pile of her letters. Shaking his head before combing his hand through his messy strands of hair, slicking it back. Before composing himself taking a deep breath looking at those piercing blue eyes before him.
"So, Mister Shelby did you want to speak business?" Harry asked addressing Tommy rather respectively in a formal state.
Tommy looked round at the sound of his name. Nodded curtly.
"Shall we?" He gestured to a nearby table, settled into one of the straightbacked chairs. He fixed his gaze on Harry. The barkeep was reliable, and, despite his brusque exterior, a good man. He did not wish for bad blood between them.
"So," he said.
"You know why I'm here." Managing business from the Shelby family apartment had never been ideal, and it had long since reached the level of the ridiculous. Polly's griping about the dirt tracked from the street to the betting room was reason enough for a move. The Garrison was not intended to be an office, but it was already a routine meeting place for business dealings, and the Blinders needed a legitimate business address as a buffer between their earnings and the accountants.
He rested his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers.
"I want you to stay on as manager. You can keep the apartment, and I'll give you a fair price." Whether Harry had any desire to sell the pub had never been on the table.
"Do I get to keep my desired staff, or is that not an option as well? I have other lives that are riding on this too. I hope you understand that Mister Shelby." Harry spoke gruffly, coughing to clear his throat slightly. The middle-aged man knew that options were not his pick, but he knew that he could at least try to keep his staff in the Garrison because all of them worked extremely hard.
There was no need for Tommy to consider. It was easy to be gracious when it was in your own best interest.
"As manager, how you run your pub is your business. The staff can stay. They know the place, and they know what goes on here. Nothing need change, 'cept on paper."
"I'm glad to know that I'm able to keep my staff, it would have been bothersome to find others." Harry regarded with a sigh, it would have been bothersome indeed and time consuming.
"The staff are more than capable to learn their place, most already know it within the Garrison. I wouldn't consider any of them to start any issues for you, Mister Shelby." He was right about that, his staff knew their places and all fitted in well at the Garrison. Although, whatever they did outside of the hours of their work was none of Harry's concern.
"Good." It was clear that Harry cared about his staff, and the business. Tommy found it difficult to understand how a man could pour years of his life into unvarying routine without desire for something more, but then the world needed its barkeeps and serving girls. The Garrison stood at the center of Small Heath morale.
"Right. I'll need the storeroom, and I'll expect you to field under-the-counter sales and business inquires in my direction. Apart from that, it'll still be the same old Garrison." He rose to retrieve the file folder. Withdrew a document, and plopped it in front of Harry. With it he deposited a handsome ballpoint pen from his inside pocket. He tapped a finger on the required field.
"Your signature, Harry. Here, and here."
"You know my son was on the ownership of the Garrison as of eighteen," Harry stated dryly looking down at Tommy.
"His will left Dot's name on the paperwork so you should have her sign over the other part of the document." The older man stated in a calm voice, picking up the ballpoint pen, uncapping the lip. Holding the pen in his right hand uncomfortably, scribbling his signature down. Turning the paperwork around and pushed it forward resting Tommy's pen back on the paper.
"I thought ownership reverted to you upon his death." It was an unusual move, to leave a business in the hands of a fiancée, but then Ralph had been an unusual kid. Tommy's gaze had softened a notch upon mention of Harry's son. Plenty of boys had died in the war. He'd grown desensitized to death itself, but grieving families were another matter.
"Fine. Get Dot to sign when she next comes in, and I'll stop by for the papers sometime this week." He hadn't expected Harry to protest, but he had expected negotiation of some sort. Perhaps the man was smart enough to know that it was futile. Perhaps he didn't care about the money. Had it been anyone else, Tommy might not have bothered with payment at all, but he needed Harry on his side.
"She'll be in tonight." Harry confirmed in a light tone.
"Or she lives in a small flat near by. The rundown flat at the very top floor." He stated lightly.
"Down in the slums. If you want to get her to sign everything off for you, and processed as soon as possible, I think she'd be happy to do it. Or she not..." Harry frowned thinking over his response to Tommy, scratching his head.
"Dorothy is a difficult one, you might have to talk to her if you want her to sign the paperwork. She's a little unpredictable." Harry commented in a worried tone of voice.
"But if you decide to visit her, can you drop the letters off, Mister Shelby?" He asked not completely sure what decision Thomas Shelby was going to make.