Archive of Our Own

Something wakes Lizzie up.

It’s not fast, it’s nothing urgent. But something filters through her dreams, filters through the warm cocoon of blankets she’s wrapped herself in, and gradually coaxes her awake. She blinks her eyes open, registers that her nose is cold, and glances around the wagon, looking for some clue as to the time. There’s no clock, of course. Her watch is…somewhere. The light filtering around the curtains is grey, but it’s only March, so there’s really no telling whether it’s dawn or later.

From outside the wagon, she can hear people talking. Tommy’s low rasp, and Charlie’s lighter voice, too quiet for her to make out what they’re saying but loud enough to have woken her, maybe. Beyond that, there’s birdsong. Nothing else. No cars, no railway, no doors opening and shutting. Just them, out in the wild somewhere west of Birmingham.

It had been Tommy’s idea that they come out here. He’d suggested it over the phone, a few weeks after they’d met at the yard on the anniversary of Ruby’s death, and though Lizzie had hesitated, he’d won her over. Just like always, really. But she has to admit, now, that it had been a good idea. To take Charles out of school for a week or two, pack themselves up in a couple of wagons, and go to spend some time as a family. Tommy’s always happiest on the move, after all, and Charlie has blossomed with his father’s full attention. There’s been some tetchy interactions, some moments when it’s clear Charles is still harbouring distrust, but mostly he’s just become happier and happier. Looser, too, like some tension is draining away from him.

Six days, they’ve been out together now. Six nights of Lizzie sleeping in her wagon, and Tommy in his, with Charles bunking in with either one of them as he chooses. Tommy hasn’t suggested they share, and neither has she.

It’s been strange, these last few weeks since that day in Charlie Strong’s yard, when he’d told her he can’t stop loving her and she’d admitted she still loves him. They’d spent the rest of that day together, her and Tommy and Charlie. They’d talked about Ruby, and Charles’s classes, and Tommy had told them some funny stories about the problems constituents brought to him. At the end of the day, Tommy had kissed Lizzie goodnight and gone on his way, back to Watery Lane. She hadn’t asked him to stay. It hadn’t felt right.

Since then, he’s been to see them more days than not. He’s taken to coming in the evenings, after Charles is back from school, and he stays for supper, and every night he kisses Lizzie goodnight and leaves. He hasn’t once suggested that he could stay the night, though she’s thought about asking, and she’s sure he wants to. She sees the way he watches her. But he doesn’t push her. He holds her hand over the fucking dining table but he doesn’t push for more than those goodnight kisses, always just a bit beyond chaste but never more than that.

It’s been both frustrating and a relief. She wants him, but she’s not sure she’s ready.

So now, out here in the countryside, where there’s not another human being as far as the eye can see, Lizzie sleeps by herself or with Charles. And during the day, she and Tommy walk arm in arm, or hold hands, and often he slings an arm around her shoulders when they sit beside the fire. She welcomes it all. She leans against him and enjoys the warmth of him against her side. But she doesn’t push for more, and neither does he.

She yawns and tries to burrow deeper into her blankets. She’s wearing thick flannel pyjamas, and two pairs of socks, but her nose is still cold and she knows she isn’t going to be able to get back to sleep. Still, there’s no reason to get up. It’ll be colder outside, even though the fire will be going. She closes her eyes again and listens to the quiet rumble of voices outside. They’re talking Rokker, the two of them, as they usually do now, when she’s not part of the conversation. She can’t tell, of course, but she thinks Charlie’s getting more fluent, judging by the speed at which he talks. And even if he isn’t, at least he and Tommy are talking.

She hears ‘mum’ in Rokker – she’s picked up a few odd words, here and there, though nothing to boast about – and then footsteps up the wagon steps, and a knock at the door. Charlie, she guesses from the creak of the steps. Lizzie opens her eyes and makes herself sit up, even though the blankets fall away and make her flesh prickle with goose bumps.

“Mum, I’ve got a cup of tea,” Charles says. “May I come in?”

“Of course, love.” In he comes, bringing a waft of crisp air with him, but he has the promised tea, tin cup held carefully to keep from spilling it. Lizzie leans back against the wall of the caravan and tucks her feet out of the way, to let him sit at the foot of the bed. “Thank you,” she says, taking the tea and sipping it. “Have you been awake long?”

“A while,” says Charlie. “I woke up early, and then Dad woke up, so we made the fire and I got water, and Dad went and got a newspaper and some more milk, and I made the tea.” It’s quite the recitation, and Lizzie has to hide her smile behind the cup. “Is it alright?” he asks, and she nods.

“It’s good,” she assures him.

“There’s bacon and eggs, for anyone who’s out of bed,” calls Tommy from outside. Charles grins, which seems to suggest he’s in a good mood today, and Lizzie dutifully rolls her eyes at Tommy’s subtle dig.

“Alright, I’m coming,” she calls back. “Go on, Charlie, take my tea out.” She doesn’t bother getting dressed, just shoves her feet into her shoes and wraps a blanket around her like a shawl. It’s colder outside, of course, but once she’s settled on a log by the fire, tea safely retrieved, she’s mostly warm enough. And Tommy’s smile, when he sees her, is warming too. It’s not big, but it’s there, a softness around his mouth and a crinkling of his eyes. Understated but genuine.

“Morning,” he says. “I won’t ask if you slept well. It’s gone nine o’clock.”

“You could have woken me,” Lizzie says, but he shrugs one shoulder and keeps cooking breakfast. If he feels the cold, it doesn’t show. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, and he’s not fastened the top button of his shirt, though he’s got his waistcoat on. It’s about as casual as Thomas Shelby ever gets, and she’s fairly certain he doesn’t know quite what it does to her, seeing him like this. Forearms bared, a hint of throat revealed. It’s a seductive look, when normally he’s so buttoned up.

He flips the bacon and reaches for his own cup of tea. “Looks like rain, later,” he remarks. Lizzie glances up at the sky, assessing the grey clouds. A cold day, even if it doesn’t rain. Not that any of the days so far have been particularly warm. Spring is still just barely teasing, occasional sunny afternoons chased swiftly away by early dusk and cold winds. It’s not really her idea of fun, camping out at this time of year, but the company has made the weather worth it. It feels so new, spending whole days with Tommy. It’s not like they haven’t done this before, but it feels…new.

She feels, at last, like she has his full attention. Well, shared with Charlie, but that’s as it should be.

“Figure we’ll stop here another day or two, sit it out,” Tommy adds. “That alright?”

“Sure,” she agrees. The bacon smells delicious; she’s had more of an appetite, these last few days. The cold and the fresh air have made her hungry in a way she hasn’t been in a long time. She puts her cup down, reaches forward and snags a piece right out of the pan. Tommy looks at her sidelong, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly, but he doesn’t comment. It’s too hot to hold, too hot to eat, but she refuses to admit as much, pretending she hasn’t burned her tongue with the first bite.

Charles is grinning at her from the other side of the fire. “You look just like Ruby,” he says. “Doesn’t she, Dad?”

“Just like,” Tommy agrees.

The mention of her, the absent little girl, doesn’t hurt the way it would have done a couple of months ago. Lizzie’s working hard to remember the happier times, and Charles, bless him, seems to be trying to help, offering ‘do you remember’ and ‘wasn’t it funny when’, whenever Ruby’s mentioned. Happy memories to share with her, and with his dad. She hadn’t realised, until they’d talked about it just before the anniversary, how much Charlie has been missing his sister, and how little he’s talked about her. She thinks he’d seen her pain and squashed his own down, so as not to hurt her. It’s good for him, to talk about Ruby more. It’s good for all three of them.

“Better let Mum have the first plate, eh, son?” Tommy says, dishing up eggs and bacon onto a plate. “She’s hungrier than you, seems like.” He passes it to Lizzie, and their fingers brush. It might be accidental, but she knows it isn’t by the way he lingers before pulling back. “I picked up your magazine, in the shop,” he tells her. “And the newspaper. I figured you wouldn’t want to spend the whole day watching Charles beat me at chess.”

He’s lying, of course. Charles doesn’t beat him, not really. Chess is Tommy’s game, through and through, and Charlie has a lot to learn before he can properly beat his father. No, Tommy lets him win. Not every time, but often enough. She’s sure Charles knows it, but she’s equally sure he doesn’t care. He will, one day. One day he’ll want to beat his dad fair and square. But right now, it’s enough that they’re spending time together.

“Seems to me, a rainy day would provide a good chance for someone to do some of that schoolwork he promised me he’d do,” she says, to nobody in particular, before getting started on her breakfast. Charles sighs audibly. It had been a compromise, when Tommy had suggested taking Charlie out of school for a couple of weeks. The school hadn’t been happy, and neither had Lizzie, really – she still feels the lack of her own education too keenly to want Charles to miss any of his own – but Tommy had suggested they bring along some of Charlie’s books, so he could do a little studying every day. Every day hasn’t happened, of course, but he’s been learning other things, so she hasn’t made too much of a fuss.

“It might not rain,” he says, taking the plate Tommy holds out to him. Lizzie huffs her amusement. Tommy’s son, the optimist. What a wonder. “But we can play chess too, right, Dad?”

“Of course,” Tommy agrees. “But you listen to your mother, eh? Get some work done first.”

Charlie sighs again. “Aren’t we supposed to be on holiday?” he asks. It’s not quite a complaint, and certainly not a protest, but it’s perilously close. His expression isn’t sulky, but there’s a hint of stubbornness there, like he’s perhaps preparing to dig his heels in a little. Tommy’s son, indeed.

“Mum is,” says Tommy, “but you and me, we’ve got a job to do, don’t we?” She glances between them, bemused, but Charles is nodding, expression smoothing out. She wants to ask, but neither of them volunteer any further information, so she lifts her eyebrows briefly and chalks it up as another good sign of their renewed relationship.

When they’ve all finished eating, Tommy sends Charles to get some more firewood while he lights the little cast iron stove in Lizzie’s wagon, and Lizzie does the washing up in a bowl of water that’s been heated over the fire. It’s cold work despite the warm water, but it’s worth getting it done and over with. Afterwards, she puts the kettle back on for another hot drink, and settles back on her log. She should really get dressed, but there’s no rush. There’s nobody to see.

Tommy comes back to join her, crouching beside the fire and adding another log to it. Then he lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and offers it to her.

“Thanks,” she says. Then, because Charles isn’t back yet, she asks: “Why did he wake up so early? Did he tell you?”

“Bad dreams, he said. Wouldn’t say what, though.” Lizzie grimaces and shakes her head. Charles has seemed to be sleeping better, the last couple of months. She doesn’t want a resurgence of the insomnia he seems to have inherited from his father. “Don’t fuss him over it, eh?” Tommy suggests. “He’ll talk if he wants to.”

“You never do,” she says unthinkingly. He just looks at her, and she can’t meet his eyes for more than a moment. It’s so easy, still, to fall into the habit of anger and bitterness Three months of him talking to her, honestly and openly, can’t erase years of silence. But he’s trying, and she knows he’s trying. It’s just old habits. They’re hard to shake. She can’t change them overnight, even though he seems to have managed it. “Sorry,” she manages. “I didn’t mean…”

“Yes, you did.” He’s still looking at her, she can tell. She offers him the cigarette back, a peace offering, and he takes it, but then clasps her hand in his. “You’re still cold,” he assesses. “Let me help.” He gets up, nudges her off her log and onto the ground in front of it, and then he sits on the log in her place and brackets her with his legs. “C’mere, c’mon,” he murmurs, pulling her gently back against him. He wraps his arms around her, and she leans her head back against his shoulder. It’s warmer like this, and not just physically. She closes her eyes and lets him hold her and enjoys being so close to him.

It’s not new, this. Not exactly. It’s just been a long time since he’s been as casually, physically affectionate as he has been these past few weeks. And especially over the last few days, out here where it’s just the three of them. For nearly five years he’s been cold, distant, holed up behind a wall he’d built between them. The wall’s gone now, and here he is again, a living breathing man who seems intent on proving himself to her.

This isn’t new, but it’s never really been hers. Not like this, not so continually. They’ve so often been too hard for that, she and Tommy. She likes it, the way he seems to want to keep her close. The softness in him. He’d told her, once, that he still wanted soft things. Good things. It seems he’s finally allowing himself to ask for them. Because that’s what this all feels like, to her. It feels like Tommy asking for good, soft things from her.

“Tommy,” she murmurs. He hums in response. “Tommy, I…” She trails off. She feels it, she wants to say it, but she can’t quite bring herself to speak the words. There’s still that small part of her waiting for the sting in the tail.

“Me too,” he says, very quietly, his mouth right up against her ear. She consciously relaxes, some bit of tension easing out of her shoulders and spine. He kisses her, in the soft place where her ear meets her neck, and then her cheek. Then, when she turns her head towards him, he kisses her mouth. It starts innocent enough, but Lizzie flicks her tongue across the seam of his lips, and when he parts them for her, she dips in to taste him, tongue against tongue, gentle strokes. Tommy doesn’t make a sound. He isn’t objecting, but nor is he seeking to deepen the kiss. He’s a passive recipient of whatever she chooses to give him. It’s nice, but it’s not him. It’s not them. Softness and goodness have their place, but the desire between them has never been soft.

He’s waiting for her, she knows. He’s giving her all the time she needs – all he thinks she needs. ‘What do you want, Lizzie?’ he’d asked her, that day beside the canal. He’s still waiting for her to tell him. She thinks that maybe he’s as unsure as she is. He’s just better at hiding it, that’s all.

Charlie comes back into the clearing, breaking the moment. “I got more wood,” he announces. And indeed, he has an armful – all old wood, like he’s been taught, stuff that won’t smoke much. “Mum, you’re still not dressed,” he adds, sounding faintly shocked. Lizzie laughs, and steals back Tommy’s cigarette before forcing herself to get up.

“Alright, Charlie,” she says. “I’ll get dressed.” At least the wagon will be a bit warmer, now the stove is lit. She glances up at the sky and smiles to herself. Charlie’s not going to be in luck today, she thinks. Those clouds are definitely getting darker.

She isn’t bothering to dress well, out here where there’s nobody to impress except Tommy. It’s too cold to care whether she looks like a lady or a farmer’s wife. She loves the clothes she can afford to wear now, but she doesn’t love them enough to wear them camping in March. She wore something decent to come out here, and she’ll wear something decent when they return to civilisation, but it’s too cold for silks and skirts. Instead she’s brought sturdy trousers, thick jumpers, and vests. If Tommy has opinions about that, he’s kept them to himself. It hasn’t stopped him looking, anyway.

He’s still wearing his suits, of course, but that’s Tommy all over. He’s a breed apart. If he feels the cold, he’s never let on about it.

Charlie, bless him, wants to look as smart as his dad, but after three days, he’d succumbed to the lure of a thick knitted jumper and a warm woolly hat. He’s been angling for long trousers, too, but Lizzie won’t let him have those until he’s at least twelve. Charles has tried to initiate no fewer than three conversations about it, over the last month or so, but hasn’t yet appealed to his father. She doesn’t know what Tommy thinks about it, but he’ll back her up. If she trusts anything about him, now, it’s that he respects her to know what’s best for Charlie.

It’s a funny thing, trust. It can’t be forced. She wants to trust Tommy, she genuinely does. She believes him that he loves her. She believes that he’s trying to make amends for his mistakes, for the pain he’s caused her. She wants to trust him. She just…

She just can’t stop waiting for the other shoe to drop, because it always has before. There’s always been something, before. A trip out to Epsom on his arm; an assault he’d been too late to stop. Late night drinks and sex in the office; another woman paraded past her in the daylight. Ruby, and a wedding ring; a husband who never told her things. A husband who fucked another woman and didn’t care if she found out at her own dinner table.

Old habits die hard. They die fucking hard, because she’s got fifteen years of always being hurt, and that kind of habit gets bedded in deep.

But he’s here. He’s with them. He hasn’t done anything, these past six days, except be with them. There’s been no going off to phone boxes for business calls, no stopping at village post offices to send telegrams. He’s picked up a newspaper today, but he’s not been bent over it, reading every fucking word of it keep abreast of the world. He’s with them, fully and wholly. And he, like her, seems to recognise that though they’ve made great strides forward, there’s still damage to be healed. There are old wounds that need to be carefully looked after. Papering over the cracks would be easy, and they’ve done it before. But the cracks would still be there underneath.

Lizzie can, and will, keep choosing to believe him. To trust him. With every day that he’s here, every genuine smile, every time he wraps an arm around her or actually listens to his son, she will choose to believe that it will last. That it’s real. One day, she hopes, it won’t have to be a choice. One day she won’t be expecting sour to follow sweet.

It’s a risk, hoping like this. But she’s choosing to take it.

The rain starts just as she’s finished brushing her hair. It starts lightly, but very quickly becomes a heavy downpour, loud on the roof of the wagon. She hears Charlie’s high-pitched yelp, and then footsteps on the steps, and in a moment there are two wet Shelbies crowding into her caravan. Not soaking, thank God, but wet enough that she offers them a look of mild disapproval.

“I hope you brought your books, Charlie,” is all she says, and she tucks herself into a corner of her bed and accepts the magazine Tommy holds out for her.

Charles has brought his books, and Tommy has his newspaper and the chess set. It’s a little cramped, all three of them tucked up in one wagon, but it’s not unpleasant. Tommy perches at the other end of the bed, and Charles takes the little stool, his book propped up on his knees. The stove casts a warm heat across them all. The rain pours down outside, but in here it’s dry and very nearly cosy. Lizzie idly reads her magazine, Tommy reads the paper, glasses perched on his nose, and Charles works his way through some mathematics exercises with only the occasional murmur to interrupt the peace.

After a while, Tommy sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t say anything when Lizzie glances across at him. When he realises she’s looking, he offers her the newspaper and taps a finger against the headline of an article, something about Germany. She scans it, then reads it more fully. No wonder he looks so tired, she thinks, reading this. The German Luftwaffe, reformed despite the treaty after the war. He probably knew about it before the papers did, but it’s not a good sign.

“You can’t do anything about it today, Tommy,” she says quietly. Charlie lifts his head from his studies. She sees him watching them, too alert to their moods. She doesn’t want him to worry. This is still a long way from being what Tommy’s afraid of, and they’re meant to be spending time together, not fretting over things they can’t control.

“Yeah, I know,” Tommy sighs. He takes off his glasses and pinches his nose again, rubbing just a little at the corners of his eyes.

She has to ask, still keeping her voice low: “Do you need to call anyone? Do anything, about this?”

He looks at her again, with that unnerving blankness that means he’s thinking and assessing and judging courses of action. She wants him to say no. She wants him to choose them. But he is who he is, and he’s spent so long working against the fascists, she’ll understand if his impulse is to do something, call someone, put something in motion or continue juggling the balls already in the air.

Charlie seems to be holding his breath. He’s listening very intently, anyway. The answer’s as important to him as it is to Lizzie.

“No,” Tommy says at last. “No. Nothing to be done. Not by me, anyway.” He takes the newspaper back and very deliberately folds it so the offending article isn’t visible.

Lizzie exhales slowly, relieved and trying not to show it, because this wasn’t a test. It wasn’t. The cause he’d worked for, the work against the fascists, is too important to him. She would have understood, just like she’d understand if something else happens to disrupt these two weeks on the road. If Johnny Dogs found them and said Arthur was sick, or the business went bust, or anything – not even Tommy Shelby can plan for all emergencies, and that’s just life. It happens. But she’s glad he’s said no. She’s glad.

“Right,” she says, louder now, including Charles. “I think that’s enough studying for now, eh, Charlie? How about you and your dad play chess while I keep reading.” Tommy needs the distraction more than Charles needs to study mathematics. He’s good with numbers, always has been, and he won’t lose much ground by stopping now. “You’ve time for a game before lunch.”

Tommy ducks out of the wagon while Charlie’s setting up the board, coming back with more wood for the stove and some supplies for their lunch, since it’s clear the rain won’t be letting up any time soon. He brings the kettle in, too, and Lizzie makes them all hot cocoa, because it’s that sort of weather. Charlie’s on the floor, now, the chessboard on the stool and Tommy still perching on the bed. It would make more sense for them to swap, really. But she doesn’t suggest it, because when she’s made the cocoa and is back on the bed, she slides her feet down and tucks her toes under Tommy’s thigh. He gives her a quick look at that, and he blinks at her, and then his hand comes to rest on her ankle, so she knows he doesn’t mind.

She picks her magazine up but doesn’t really read it. It’s too interesting, watching Tommy and Charles playing chess. It’s less a match than a teaching experience, Tommy patiently talking his son through the implications of all his moves. He doesn’t try to dictate, just to explain, and Charlie listens with a furrowed brow and serious concentration. Lizzie’s never had the patience for it, and she doubts Ruby would have sat still long enough to learn, but Charles does well enough. Whether he likes the game itself, or likes it because Tommy does, she doesn’t know and doesn’t care to guess. It doesn’t really matter. Especially when they play like this, Tommy carefully teaching his son how to think five moves ahead, how to guess what his opponent might be thinking. Strategy, cunning and patience.

Watching Tommy play chess is the closest most people can get to seeing what it’s like inside his head. Watching him teach his son reveals even more. Lizzie’s always been fascinated by how his mind works, when he’s not been using it against her. When she’s not embroiled in his fucking strategies.

They manage to play two games by the time anybody’s stomach starts rumbling for lunch. By then Tommy has to check on the horses, and they need more firewood, if they’re going to keep the stove going. Lizzie leaves Charles to tidy up by himself, ducking out into the cold and the wet to take care of her body’s needs. She does have a pot, as Tommy points out when she meets him on the wagon steps, shivering and damp. But then Charles would have got wet too, because she can’t go with him in the wagon.

“That’s ridiculous,” says Tommy, who has very few compunctions about such things.

“Then I’m ridiculous,” she agrees. Tommy just looks at her, in that way that she knows means he’s thinking a number of things and won’t voice any of them. For some reason, it makes a great wave of love surge within her, and if he didn’t have an armful of kindling and logs, she’d kiss him now. She thinks he sees it, because his eyes flicker down, to her mouth. But his arms are full, and it’s still raining, and Charles is waiting inside for them to make sandwiches for lunch.

“It’s not going to stop raining all day, is it?” Charlie asks, with a heartfelt sigh, when they’re all back in the wagon and Lizzie is towel-drying her hair.

“Probably not, love,” she has to agree. “Cut some bread for us, yeah? Tommy, are you eating?”

“Could eat,” he says, sounding unenthused. “D’you want some ham, Charlie? Or is cheese alright?”

“Cheese is fine,” Charles says. Lizzie hears something in his voice, an odd note, and she turns to look at him, scrutinising his expression. He’s watching Tommy rattle a poker in the stove, raking through the ash. Little sparks fly off the logs, not hot enough to burn anything, just spitting into the air like miniature fireworks. Charles is watching like he’s looking at it but seeing something else. It’s enough to make her pause, weighing up whether she’s imagining it or not. It might be nothing. It might just be the rain, still thundering down on the roof, making her hear things that aren’t there. But there’s the faintest of frowns, forming on Charlie’s face. It’s the kind of look he sometimes gets when he’s building up to asking something.

There’s no point pressing him, so Lizzie turns away again, to hang up the damp towel. Tommy straightens up and reaches past her to the plates, on a shelf just beyond her, and somehow his other hand ends up on her waist. He doesn’t say anything, not even when she glances over her shoulder at him. But he doesn’t need to speak; she knows that look in his eyes. He wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her like she’d wanted to kiss him, outside the wagon in the rain.

She covers his hand with her own, squeezes gently. The corner of Tommy’s mouth lifts slightly. It’s a whole conversation, happening with a meeting of eyes and the lightest of touches.

If Charlie wasn’t here, she realises suddenly, she would let Tommy kiss her the way he so clearly wants to. She would pull her jumper over her head, and unbutton his waistcoat, and let him tumble her down onto the bed. God, how she wants to let him. It’s the oldest conversation between them, one of two bodies who know each other intimately. It would be so easy. And yet she’s glad Charles is here, she’s glad for that excuse, because she’s not sure. She’s just not sure she’s ready. She wants to be held by him, to be wrapped up in his arms and cradled close, but she just feels…

She just feels like it wouldn’t be fair to him, while she’s still doubting them both. While she’s still actively making the choice to trust in him.

Tommy lifts her hand, kisses her palm. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, like he knows what she’s thinking. He probably does. “We’ve got time.”

“Time for what?” Charles asks. Lizzie feels herself blushing, and she turns to get the plates that Tommy seems to have forgotten about. Tommy clears his throat and goes to sit back down.

“Nothing, son, nothing,” he says. “You got your lunch? Good boy. How about you tell me what you’re studying in your literature class, eh?” He’s giving Lizzie a chance to recover her composure, which she appreciates. She presses her cold hands to her face and counts to ten before reclaiming her spot on the bed.

“It’s Shakespeare,” says Charlie gloomily. “I don’t like Shakespeare.”

“Oh dear,” Lizzie murmurs.

“You don’t like Shakespeare,” Tommy repeats. Lizzie sits down next to him and pats his knee in commiseration. He looks at her incredulously. “He doesn’t like Shakespeare,” he says, like Lizzie hadn’t heard the first time. She lifts her eyebrows and shrugs. “What play’re you studying?” he demands, turning back to Charles.

“…‘Julius Caesar’,” says Charlie slowly – rightly suspicious.

“Right. Eat your sandwich.”

And Tommy launches into a story, just like that. He doesn’t need to check the play before he starts, it’s all stored up there in his head. He just talks, putting Shakespeare into plain English, explaining the characters and the history, laying out the parallels that can be drawn from it – lessons about the nature of power, apparently. Lizzie doesn’t know. She’s never really got the hang of enjoying Shakespeare, not like him. But he’s got the knack of story-telling, does Tommy. It’s what makes him such a good politician, this ability to put things together into a compelling narrative. Charlie’s hanging off his every word, and even Lizzie is drawn into it. They eat their sandwiches and listen to Tommy, and Lizzie makes coffee and they listen to Tommy, and eventually they all end up lying squashed up together on the bunk, Lizzie on her side, up against the wall, Charlie in the middle, and Tommy on the edge, still talking, an arm wrapped around them both as much to keep himself on the bed as to hold them close.

At last he finishes. Silence ensues, broken only by the rain. Though that seems to be easing up; it’s still raining, but it’s a lot lighter. Hopefully they’ll be able to get outside again in a bit. She thinks Tommy will want to be moving around, rain or no rain, and if he goes for a walk or a ride, Charles is bound to want to go too. She’d rather they did it in the dry.

“That was brilliant,” Charlie says eventually. “Why don’t they teach it like that?”

“Because they’re fu–,” Tommy breaks off when Lizzie lifts her head and lifts an eyebrow at him warningly. He changes track smoothly. “Because they’re facing twenty bored kids in a room and don’t have two hours to spend telling stories,” he says. Lizzie lets herself smile at him, and he rolls his eyes at her.

“Hmm,” says Charles, like he’s not sure he believes his father. Then he wriggles around in the bed, turning to face Lizzie. His elbow hits Tommy’s stomach, and his knee collides with Lizzie’s. She doesn’t bother reprimand him. “It’s your turn, Mum,” he tells her. “Dad told a story, now you have to.”

“I’m no good at stories, love,” she claims. “Ask your father for another.”

“Please?”

“Oh…” She sighs, and looks over Charles’s head at Tommy, who blinks at her and offers no excuse for her to seize on. “Alright,” she says reluctantly. She stares up at the wooden ceiling, listening to the rain as she tries to come up with something. She’s not like Tommy. Words aren’t her strength. And they’re both looking at her, Charles and Tommy, waiting to hear what she has to say. She gropes for a story, any story. She’s read enough of them, but nothing comes to mind. “Alright,” she repeats, finding an idea. “Once there was a girl who lived in Birmingham.”

“Is this a true story?” Charles asks.

“Yes. Now shush, love.” She smoothes his hair down and starts again. “Once there was a girl who lived in Birmingham. She was very poor. She didn’t ever have enough to eat, so she was very skinny, and she’d left school because she had to work, and sometimes she felt like she didn’t have a friend in the whole world.”

Tommy stirs. “Doesn’t sound like a happy story,” he observes.

”It is, though.” They look at each other for a long moment, and then she continues. “So when the girl was growing into a woman, there was a war going on in a far-off country. All the men were gone, and though they sometimes came back for some rest, they all looked so different that the girl felt she didn’t know any of them.”

“How come they looked so different?” Charlie asks.

“Well, they all wore uniforms,” Lizzie says, thinking about the men with their blank faces and their haunted eyes. There’d been men who cried after fucking her, and men who couldn’t lie down to do it. Men who didn’t talk except to ask her how much, and men who talked too much, told her things she wishes she’d never had to hear. “And they all had to have military haircuts,” she adds, “and no beards, things like that. Anyway, one day, this girl was walking down the street, going to buy herself some bread and milk for her supper, and there were soldiers there, home for some rest. And they scared the girl, because they were being really loud, and they started following her, and she was worried they’d steal her money, and then she wouldn’t have any supper.”

She’d been worried they wouldn’t take no for an answer, more like. They’d had that kind of look. They’d been local men, of course, men she’d known most of her life, and for some of them, she was fair game. She was a whore, after all. She’d done what she’d had to do, back then, and fucked whoever had money to pay, but these men had been drinking heavily, in broad daylight, and she’d already earned enough for her supper that day.

She can’t tell Charlie any of that, of course.

“I bet she was hungry,” says Charles, and Lizzie nods.

“She was,” she agrees. “She was always hungry. So she started walking faster, but she was so poor she didn’t have good shoes, and before she got to the end of the street, the heel snapped off and she twisted her ankle and fell down on the ground.” Charles makes a soft, unhappy sound, and Lizzie hurries on. “She thought they were going to catch her, then. They got really close, and some of them started picking up sticks and stones off the street to throw at her.”

Tommy makes a noise, an ‘ahh’ of recognition. She’d wondered if he’d remember. It was a long time ago, and he’d only come home on leave a couple of times.

“What happened?” Charlie asks.

“A handsome prince came around the corner and rescued her,” says Lizzie, and laughs at Charles’s confusion. “Well, she thought he was a handsome prince,” she amends, closing her eyes to remember more clearly. “Really it was another soldier. He was a sergeant, so he was more important than the men who’d been chasing the girl, and he got in between them and the girl, and he told them they ought to be ashamed of themselves.” Actually, he’d punched one of them in the gut, and smashed another one’s nose. Then they’d recognised him, and fled. After that he’d helped her up and brushed her off, and told her to be more careful. He’d walked her home, and gone inside with her, and fucked her with a cold, faraway look in his eyes. He’d made sure she’d got off, though, which not every man did. Afterwards he’d put her money on her dresser and left without a backwards glance.

And the next day, there’d been a pair of new shoes on her doorstep. No note, but she’d known who they came from. She’d started falling in love with him, that day, though she hadn’t realised it at the time.

“Then what happened, Mum?”

“Then he made sure she got safely home,” she says, opening her eyes to look over Charles’s head at Tommy. “And though he didn’t always succeed, he tried to keep her safe for the rest of her life.”

Tommy reaches out to her, cups her face in his hand, rests his thumb against her lower lip. “He did try,” he agrees softly. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

“I never did.”

“That was…when, nineteen-sixteen?” She nods. “You were skinny,” he says, and he actually grins when she reaches over and pokes him in retaliation. “Slender,” he amends. “All legs. Like a colt.” Charles starts giggling at that, and Tommy’s chuckling, a deep rumble in his chest. She wants to kiss him again. It’s so good to see him like this, open and happy, even if it’s laughter at her expense. It’s so fucking good. But Charlie’s between them, so she can’t kiss him. Not right now.

“Right,” she says instead, “out, the pair of you. It’s stopped raining. Go and give me a moment’s peace.”

They tumble out of bed and do as she orders. Her two boys, one young and one middle-aged, both smiling, both obedient to her wishes. At least for the moment. Tommy puts his cap and suit jacket on, and Charlie does the same, and then the caravan door is open and a blast of cold air hits them. But the sun is coming out. It’s cold, but bright. A last few hours of sunshine before night falls. Everything looks different in the sun.

Lizzie sits on the wagon steps, warm stove at her back, and watches as Tommy and Charlie work together to put their camp in order after the rain. Tommy checks on the horses, drying them off and feeding them. Charles rakes out the ashes from their morning’s fire, and carefully lays a little pyramid of kindling in its place. It’s past three, she sees when she glances at her watch. Time to be getting started on some supper, really. But she doesn’t move. She props her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, and watches them.

She watches them, and she hears Ruby. She hears Ruby laughing, somewhere out of sight. Hot, unexpected tears prick at her eyes. Her darling Ruby. She can hear her. Here in the back of beyond, with Tommy and Charlie pottering around the camp, talking Rokker to each other. One of the horses whinnies, and there’s a blackbird singing loudly somewhere, beautifully. And Ruby’s laughing.

“Alright, love?”

Lizzie dashes the tears from her eyes. “Yeah, fine,” she says automatically, shifting over as Tommy comes to sit beside her on the wagon steps. He reaches out and thumbs away a tear from her cheek, a clear contradiction to her words. She’s not fine. But she is, as well. She’s alright. “She’d have loved this,” she says, gesturing around. “Camping out in March.”

“Yeah, she would,” he agrees. His hand finds hers. She doesn’t know if he initiates it, or she does, but it doesn’t matter. They tangle their fingers together and hold tight to each other. After a few moments, Lizzie leans against him and drops her head onto his shoulder. Tommy rests his head against hers. “We’d have had a hard time keeping her inside today,” he says. “She never did like sitting still.” Her father’s daughter, Lizzie thinks, but she doesn’t bother saying it.

“She was happy,” she murmurs instead. “Our happy little girl.” She squeezes his hand a little. “I’m alright,” she says. “I just…I can hear her laughing, out here. It just makes me sad, a bit.”

She feels him move, feels him press a kiss to her head. “Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t offer comfort; she doesn’t need him to. He’s just acknowledging the way it feels, the happy and the sad mixed together. Acknowledging that he feels it, too. The wound that is, slowly but surely, beginning to scab over. She wishes they’d had this sooner, this sense of being together in their grief. For so much of it, she’s felt so very alone. But what’s past is past, and at least she has it now.

Somewhere out there, Ruby’s laughing. In Heaven, if such a thing exists, she’s laughing. Lizzie closes her eyes and holds Tommy’s hand and listens to her.

“Dad, can I light the fire?”

Her eyes open again, wide. “Not by yourself!” she says, just as Tommy says ‘alright’. She lifts her head off his shoulder and looks at him askance. He lifts an eyebrow, shrugs a shoulder.

“Not by yourself,” he confirms to Charlie. “Hold on a minute.” He lifts their joined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand like they’re in a film. “He’ll be fine,” he assures her. “Trust me, eh?” His other hand comes up to cup her cheek, and then he kisses her mouth. Brief, chaste, but affectionate. “We’ll get the fire going and then sort out supper.”

She watches him go back to Charlie, the pair of them crouching beside the freshly-laid kindling in the fireplace. Trust, she thinks. It’s a funny thing. She’d thought, earlier, that it couldn’t be forced. And it can’t be, not really, but she wishes it could.

Because she wants to trust him. She wants to trust him the way she used to – not without uncertainty, not blindly, but deeply nonetheless. The kind of trust where she knows he’s seen her at her worst, but he’s still here anyway, because she’s his, and he’s hers, and they belong to each other. She wants to stop choosing to trust him, every day. She wants to choose once, and fall into it. It’s so fucking easy, falling back into the same old habits of assuming there’ll be bad coming. But it’s so hard, too. Because those habits aren’t helping her, now. Waiting for the inevitable heartache, assuming that he’ll close himself off to her again, keeping him at arm’s length just in case…it’s not helping her. It’s not helping them. He’s trying – more than trying, he’s succeeding, he’s showing her every day that he is willing to let her in, to share his heart with her and, more than that, to share his mind. Waiting for that to stop, assuming that it will stop, is just hurting them both. Every time she says something thoughtless, every time she has to mentally correct herself, to stop herself from assuming the worst, it’s hurting him and it’s hurting them.

She wants to stop choosing. She wants the choice to be made already. She wants Tommy’s arms around her and his warm body beside hers at night. He’d said they’d figure it out together, but he’s being so fucking careful, still. Waiting for her to be ready for more. It’s her choice. It’s got to be, they both know it. And she doesn’t want to be unfair to him, to pretend she’s without doubt, but she thinks maybe that in itself is unfair. She knows he’s as unsure as she is. She knows how careful he’s being.

Maybe they can’t figure it out without pushing themselves. Without Lizzie pushing herself. Maybe she doesn’t have to be certain, she just needs to be willing to be uncertain with him.

“Fuck it,” she mutters to herself, too quietly for Tommy or Charlie to hear. She pushes herself off the wagon steps and goes inside. There, in dim privacy, she fishes under her jumper and shirt for the chain she’s wearing around her neck. The irony hadn’t escaped her, when she’d started doing this, after the anniversary of Ruby’s death. Her wedding ring on a chain around her neck. But though she hadn’t felt ready to wear it again, she’d wanted it closer than her jewellery box. So onto a chain it had gone, and she’s worn it around her neck ever since then, hidden beneath her clothes.

She takes the ring off the chain and looks it for a long, heady moment. It’s a gamble, there’s no doubt about that. But loving Tommy, choosing Tommy, has always been a gamble for her. There’s always been risk. And she’s always, inevitably, chosen to take it.

She puts the ring back onto her ring finger. Her wedding ring, back where it’s always lived. Proof of her choice.

Outside, Charles is alone by the fire. Tommy, he tells her, has gone to check the snares he’d set yesterday. She takes a seat on a log – it’s damp, but that doesn’t matter – and tells Charlie she has something to ask him.

“Is this alright?” she asks, holding up her left hand for him to see. He looks torn, like he wants to smile but he wants to frown, too. She gestures for him to come and join her on the log, and when he does, she puts her arm around him. “What is it, love?”

“I dunno,” he mumbles. Lizzie waits him out, and in a little while he says: “I want you to be happy, Mum.”

“But?” she prompts.

“I don’t want you to get hurt again,” he says, emphatically. “And Dad’s trying, he is, I just…”

“It’s hard to let go of how much he hurt you?” she suggests, and Charles nods, looking relieved, like he’s glad she’s been able to put his feelings into words. “It’s hard for me, too,” she tells him. “But sometimes, when you love someone, you have to do that. You have to try to forget the bad stuff, because the good stuff’s worth it.”

Charlie nods again. “I know,” he says. “It’s just – it’s nice. Him trying to be good to you. I don’t want him to stop just because you’re wearing that again.” He’s got a serious expression on his face, brows drawn together, and Lizzie feels a great surge of love for him, this grown-up boy who cares so very deeply. She kisses his forehead, and he puts up with it grudgingly.

“I don’t think he’s going to stop,” she says. “And if he does, you have my permission to tell him off. Deal?”

“Deal,” Charlie agrees, rubbing the kiss off his forehead with the back of his hand. Lizzie laughs and lets him go, because he’s full of love but he is, after all, nearly twelve. Charles goes back to crouching beside the fire, poking at it a bit with a long stick and then adding a couple of thicker branches to it. “Does that mean we’re going to all live together again?” he wants to know. “Because I don’t think Dad would like living in our house, very much. There isn’t a study for him. But Arrow House was blown up.”

“I…don’t know,” Lizzie says, because she hasn’t thought that far ahead, and Charlie has a point about the house they’re living in now. It’s not small, by any means, but it’s certainly more snug than Arrow House, and the stables are small, and so is the garden. For all Tommy’s Small Heath roots, he does better when he’s got wide open spaces to escape into, from time to time. Arrow House had provided that, at least. But she supposes they will all live together again – that’s part and parcel of marriage. Maybe not straight away, because they are still figuring things out, but soon. “Maybe we’ll choose somewhere together,” she suggests, because she really doesn’t know. “We’ll talk to him about it, yeah?”

“Talk to me about what?” Tommy asks, emerging from the trees with a dead rabbit dangling from his hand. “Dinner,” he adds, somewhat redundantly.

“About us all living together again,” Charles says. Tommy glances between them, from Charles to Lizzie and back again, and he lifts his eyebrows, a silent demand for more explanation. “Because there isn’t a study in our house, and you blew up Arrow House.”

Tommy doesn’t answer straight away. He comes back into their little camp, and digs around in a bag for his knife, to begin skinning the rabbit. He doesn’t start yet, though. Instead he lights a cigarette and takes off his cap to scratch his head.

“S’a good fire, that,” he says at last. “Well done, Charles.”

Charlie brightens visibly at the praise, shoulders squaring a little. “Maybe I can do it myself, next time?” he suggests.

“Maybe, yeah,” Tommy agrees. “So what’s this about living together?” He looks at Lizzie, but she avoids answering by putting her hands in her pockets and stretching her feet out towards the fire. Anyway, Charles has that look again, the one where he’s building up to saying something. Just like at lunchtime, when he’d stared into the fire. And he was the one who’d brought up the idea of living together again. Lizzie would have thought of it sooner or later, but she’s been so focused on her feelings, her doubts, that the practicalities have escaped her somewhat.

“Dad,” Charles says, “can I ask you something?”

“May I,” Lizzie corrects, out of habit.

“May I ask you something,” Charlie repeats obediently. Tommy’s mouth is serious, but his eyes betray his amusement as he agrees. “Why did you blow up Arrow House?” Charles asks, with breathtaking directness. They both stare at him, and then Tommy clears his throat and Lizzie finds it very important to light a cigarette, right now. She doesn’t have any in her trouser pocket, though. They’re still in her coat pockets, which she hadn’t put on before coming out. She gets up and goes to find them as Tommy answers.

“Well,” he says slowly, “I had a couple of reasons. You know I do a lot with housing, Charles, don’t you?” With her back to them, Lizzie can’t see if Charles nods or not, but he doesn’t say anything, so she assumes he does. She pulls open the wagon door and gropes inside for her coat. “Well, it began to feel a bit hypocritical, having that great big house just for me, when there are still people crammed into slums all over the country.” He pauses. “D’you know what hypocritical means?” he checks.

“Saying one thing, but doing another,” Charles suggests. “Like when Auntie Ada tells us we can’t have sweets until after supper, but she’s got a box of chocolate truffles and she has one whenever she wants.”

Lizzie tries very hard not to laugh as she lights her cigarette and goes back to the fire. Tommy’s doing better than her, his expression still solemn. He’s taking his son seriously. That’s something, she supposes, but if he’s not laughing inside at Charles’s definition, she’s no judge of him at all.

“Exactly,” Tommy confirms. “So that’s one reason. And the other is that your mum wanted to.”

She chokes on an inhale, and has to cough a few times before she can respond. “I wanted what?” she demands. He lifts an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to remember, but she can’t recall ever saying something like that.

“We were at the Midlands hotel,” he says. “You said you hated it now. The house. Because Ruby wasn’t there anymore. You wished you could burn it down.”

“Bloody hell, Tommy,” she says helplessly. She remembers that night, of course, but she’d forgotten about saying that. It hadn’t meant anything, she hadn’t meant it. It had just been an idle, throwaway comment, a way of trying to explain how awful everything felt. She hadn’t connected it with Tommy blowing up the home they’d shared for eight years, the home he’d bought to live in with Grace.

She hasn’t sat down, which is good, because it means she can turn and pace away from him, to give herself a moment to pull herself together. He’d blown up Arrow House because she’d said she wanted it. She’d thought – God, she doesn’t know what she’d fucking thought, when she’d heard about it. She’d probably thought it was good, and overly-dramatic, as per fucking usual. And she’d been relieved, too, that she’d never have to go back there, never again have to be there without Ruby. But mostly she’d just been so angry and so full of grief and in so much pain that she hadn’t thought about why Tommy had done it. It hadn’t been important.

Fucking hell, she thinks. Talk about dramatic fucking gestures.

“You’ve been wanting to ask me that for a while, son, haven’t you?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah,” Charles admits. “But I wasn’t sure you’d tell me the truth.” So candid, such boldness. He just comes out and says it. Lizzie smokes her cigarette and stares out into the woods and wonders if all their conversations, through that long November and December, had been so blunt. She suspects so. Charlie’s like that. He just comes out with stuff, like he’s got no fear of people’s reactions. Well, that’s not quite true. He’s clearly been working up the nerve to ask about Arrow House for a while. But mostly, he just…says things, like it’s obvious.

“That’s –,” Tommy breaks off, clears his throat again. “That’s fair,” he says. “Tell you what. If I can’t ever tell you the truth, I’ll tell you that. I won’t lie. How’s that?”

“Yeah, alright,” agrees Charlie. There’s a noise, betraying movement. Lizzie turns back to them just in time to see them shaking hands, very solemnly, like they’re sealing a pact. The sight makes her smile, and she goes back to them, touching Tommy’s shoulder briefly as she passes by him. “But still,” Charles persists, “if we’re going to live together again, where are we going to live? Because there’s no study at the house, Dad.”

“Where’s this coming from?” Tommy asks, instead of answering directly. “You know we said, me and Mum, that we’re taking it slow.”

“Yeah, but Mum’s put her ring back on, so we’ll be living together again soon, won’t we?”

Tommy’s often still, but sometimes that motionless becomes even more marked. It happens now, his whole body freezing in place, barely even betraying any sign that he’s still breathing. Only his eyes move, meeting Lizzie’s for one long, electrifying moment. Lizzie switches her cigarette from her right hand to her left, bringing the change into his view. The wedding ring back on her finger. It’s both odd and familiar, the weight of it there. It’s been months since she wore it. She’s spent months feeling her hand is bare without it, all the while telling herself to get used to it. And now here she is, ring back on her finger, and Tommy looking at her like this. Transfixed, almost. He looks at her hand, and at her mouth, and her eyes, and she knows exactly what he wants to do. She knows.

“Charlie,” he says, “go and fetch some more water from the stream, will you?” He’s calm, his tone even. Only his eyes give him away.

“But we’ve got water,” Charlie protests. Then he looks at them both, and makes a disgruntled, slightly disgusted face. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll whistle really loudly when I’m coming back.” He picks up the water bucket and heads off into the trees, and Lizzie drops her cigarette to the ground, stamps it out, and waits.

She doesn’t have to wait for long. As soon as they’re alone, Tommy practically lunges at her. He barely misses the fire, he’s so hasty in getting to her, and Lizzie’s laughing at him when he cups her face in his hands and kisses her.

And God, what a kiss. There’s no softness to it, none at all. He delves into her mouth like he’s looking for fucking gold, his tongue everywhere, meeting hers and stealing her breath away, his nose bumping against hers, his cold hands holding her still. She can’t help moaning, and she grasps the lapels of his jacket and shudders as he kisses her, on and on, like he’s been starving and she’s offering him a banquet. He nips at her lower lip, soothes it with his tongue, and she gasps for breath before his mouth seals against hers again. Her head is swimming, her heart swelling with euphoria, like she’s taken something, like she’s high, but it’s just Tommy. It’s just him.

His hands move from her face. One goes to her hand, her left hand, and he clasps it, fingers caressing hers. It’s like he needs to feel the ring, to reassure himself that he’s not seeing things. His other hand goes straight to her arse, and she laughs into his mouth as he squeezes lightly.

“These fucking trousers you’ve been wearing,” he mutters between kisses. He lays a trail of them along her jaw, and she tilts her head to give him better access to her neck. “These fucking trousers, Lizzie, d’you have any idea how hard it’s been to keep me hands off you?” He squeezes her arse again, pulling her even closer to him. She can feel him, half-hard against her.

“Getting a good idea now,” she manages. “Tommy – Charlie’ll be back in a minute, we can’t –,” He cuts her off by kissing her again, but her words haven’t fallen on deaf ears, because he’s not so fierce, now. He’s reining himself in. Softer, but no less heartfelt. Slow, purposeful brushes of his tongue against hers, and his hand sliding up from her arse to her waist. Lizzie lifts her free hand to his head, stroking the soft hairs at the back of his neck. He’s still holding her other hand, her left hand, their fingers tangled together. Her heart slowly resumes a normal rhythm as she gets more air.

“Lizzie,” he murmurs against her mouth, “are you sure? Because I can’t let you go again, I can’t.” There’s desperation in him, and she knows now that she was right, he’s just as uncertain as her, just as scared of things going bad again. They could stay in this holding pattern forever, the way they’ve been over the past month or so – circling around each other, their history making each of them too cautious to push onwards, even though it’s what they both want. He’s hurt her too much, and she’s hurt him, and something’s got to change. Something’s got to push them into taking the next steps. That something might as well be her.

“I think so,” she says. “Anyway, Charles is going to tell you off if you stop being good to me.” He blinks at her, and then he starts smiling, a slow smile that starts at his eyes and spreads to the rest of his face. “So you’ve had warning,” she adds, smiling back at him, because she’s happy, she’s so fucking happy and she wants him to know it.

“Yeah, fair enough,” he agrees. “Fair enough.”

“I can’t believe you blew up Arrow House for me,” she marvels, smoothing down the front of his jacket where she’s rumpled it, because he cares about that, even when there’s nobody but her and Charles to see it.

“D’you want to know what I I’ve realised, lately?” he says, in an apparently non-sequitur. Lizzie nods. “I’ve realised there’s not much I wouldn’t do, to make you happy.” She feels herself blushing, heat in her cheeks, and Tommy presses his forehead to hers, takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I won’t let you go again,” he tells her. It would have felt threatening, before. But now she knows what he means. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise, to himself as much as her. He won’t let her go again. But he won’t let himself lose her, either.

“I’ll hold you to that, Tommy,” she says softly.

He brings her hand to his mouth, kisses her knuckles. “Good,” he says. “Good.” From the direction of the stream comes a whistle, Charlie’s sign that he’s on his way back and they need to restrain themselves again. But before he reaches them, Tommy has time to say: “Lizzie – Charlie can sleep by himself, tonight, eh?”

“Yeah,” she says, and she steps away from him, tugging on the hem of her jumper and wiping her mouth. Tommy fidgets for a moment with his jacket, and then Charlie’s back in their clearing, with a full bucket of water.

“Oh good,” he says, “you’ve stopped. Dad, may I help skin the rabbit?”

And with that, the mood is well and truly broken. Tommy goes to show Charles how to prepare their dinner. Lizzie has a rummage in their supplies, to find some potatoes to go with the meat. She emerges with a slice of fruitcake for Charles, which he gobbles up enthusiastically, and not only potatoes for their supper, but also a couple of carrots and parsnips, to add to a stew. The cooking she’ll leave up to Tommy – she can manage to feed herself, because otherwise she’d never have survived adolescence and early adulthood, but not on an open fire. Besides, she knows he quite enjoys it, when it’s part and parcel of being on the road.

Dusk is drawing in by the time the stew is bubbling in a pot over the fire. It’s not late, but March evenings still arrive early. Lizzie lights a couple of lanterns and finds herself cornered against one of the wagons, just outside the firelight. Tommy presses her up against the wheel and kisses her, like they’re young idiots in love. Like he can’t help himself. He hasn’t said he’s missed this, missed her, but he doesn’t have to. She’s sure he hasn’t been celibate, but she knows better than most how little sex means with a whore. The way he leans into her, the way his hands span her waist possessively – oh yes, she knows he’s missed her.

“Dad, can we play chess again?”

Tommy mutters a curse and pulls back from her. “How early can we send him to bed?” he asks. “Fucking hell, can’t get a minute with you.”

“There’s no rush, Tommy,” she reminds him. He’s waited long enough to have her back in bed, he can wait a few more hours. But it does her good, seeing how eager he is. How much he wants her. After Ruby’s death – all the times after Ruby’s death – it had been so mechanical. Something they did because it was habit, almost. He’d wanted her, that much had still been true. He’d got hard, touching her. But not like this, not like now; now he’s getting aroused just from kissing her. The passion between them – the passion that had been half her decision to stay with him, in those awful months after the stock exchange crash – had all but vanished with their daughter. Ticking the boxes, that’s all they’d done. Ticking the fucking boxes so they each got off as quickly as possible.

She’s not blaming him for it, because it hadn’t all been his fault. She hadn’t felt much either, apart from pain. But that’s what it’s been like, since Ruby died, and this – this desperate need, the way he really can’t seem to keep his hands off her – makes her trust that it’ll be different, now. It’ll be back to how it used to be. Or it might be better. Even back then, even before Ruby’s death, he’d rarely been so open, so obviously eager to touch her. She’s reminded, yet again, of what he’d said, that Armistice Day so many weeks ago. ‘I’m alive,’ he’d said. This, then, is Tommy being alive. This is him unafraid to show how much he wants her. How much, perhaps, he needs her. He’s finally come up from under the earth, and he wants her.

Fucking hell, she thinks, this must be what it feels like, to be loved by Tommy Shelby. This is what it’s like. Eager hands and eager mouth and a determination to make her happy. He loves her. Finally, finally he loves her. He’s said it. He’s said it more than once, and she believes him, and it’s everything. It’s fucking everything.

“Dad?”

“No, son, not chess again,” Tommy calls back. “Something we can play with your mum, yeah?”

“I don’t mind,” she says, letting him take her hand and pull her back towards the fire. “He enjoys it. Play with him. I’ve got my magazine to finish.”

“One game, then,” he concedes. Charles already has the chess set out, pre-empting his father’s decision, and Lizzie laughs at him and goes to fetch her magazine.

It’s hard to settle down. The magazine is engaging enough – it’s a publication that she’d never looked at twice before joining the Women’s Institute, but somebody there recommended it to her, and though some of the articles aren’t of any particular interest to her, others are. No, it’s not the magazine that’s the problem. It’s the butterflies in her stomach, the warmth that rises in her cheeks every time she glances up and sees Tommy watching her. And he seems to be always watching her. He’s talking to Charlie, suggesting moves or strategies, steering him into playing a better game, but he seems to be looking at Lizzie more than he’s looking at the board. Lizzie tries to concentrate on the words in front of her, she really does, but it’s not solid light, the firelight, so it’s hard, and she can feel Tommy looking at her. She can feel it. So she glances up, and he’s watching her, and he meets her eyes for a moment before looking back at the board. And she tries to get on with her article, but it happens again, and again, and again. And every time it’s a little harder to go back to reading. Every time she feels arousal building like an electric current beneath her skin.

It’s not a surprise when Charlie wins the game – not to Lizzie, anyway. But Tommy seems nonplussed, blinking down at the board, like he’s mentally retracing the moves to work out what went wrong. Like it isn’t blindingly obvious that he was just too distracted to play well. Charles puffs up with great pride, and Tommy doesn’t disillusion him, though he gives Lizzie a dark look when she laughs at him.

“No more chess,” he decrees. “Charles, get the cards.”

They play three hands of Black Maria, several raucous rounds of Snap, and end up with Rummy. Charles, not normally the most competitive of souls, is terrible when it comes to card games. He’s gleeful in his wins, and there are an awful lot of them, because with every year that passes he turns a little more into a card shark.

Tommy sounds proud when he comments on this, and Lizzie reaches over and gives his arm a gentle shove.

“It’s not a good thing, Tommy,” she says. “Don’t you dare teach him poker.”

“Oh, I already know poker,” say Charlie, unexpectedly. “Duke taught me.” Lizzie chokes on the whiskey she’s sipping from a flask, and now it’s Tommy’s turn to reach out, patting her on the back.

“They don’t bet,” he consoles her. “Well, just with matchsticks.” He can’t hide the pleasure it gives him, seeing his two boys together. Or, well, he could hide it, if he wanted to. But he doesn’t bother, just as he hasn’t bothered hiding much, these past six days camping. Or the weeks before then, coming most evenings to dine with them. She’s sure there’s things that do stay hidden – particularly from Charlie, who doesn’t need to see his father’s darker moments, nor to know about Tommy’s complicated schemes for the politics and the business alike. And of course it’s breaking a habit, for him, to share so much. To take off the mask he’s worn for so long.

But he’s trying. He’s trying so hard to be open. Not just about the business, or the political stuff, not just about things that will impact directly on Lizzie. He’s just…being open. Letting himself be proud of his son, and showing it. Allowing lust to distract him from the chess game. He’s doing his best to show he’s changed. At least here, in their little family. Beyond that, Lizzie thinks what’ll likely happen is what she’s seen him do before, to a greater or lesser extent, and with varying degrees of success. Cool, collected, calculating, for the rest of the world. Then with them, he’ll drop the masks. He won’t censure himself. He’ll allow himself to feel things, and he’ll share those feelings with them. With her and Charlie.

At least, that’s what she hopes will happen. But she trusts him, she does. She did the right thing putting her ring back on. And Tommy’s sworn he won’t lose her again, a double-edged promise that she’s sure he means.

“I’m outnumbered,” she says, loud and over-dramatic. “I’m completely outnumbered.” Charles grins at her, so happy it almost hurts to see it. He’s so happy. It’s such a relief to see him like this, when for so long he’s been cautious and timid and tamped down. And Tommy’s smiling too, delightfully warm and loose, not holding anything back.

The only thing that mars this moment, this near-perfect moment, is that Ruby isn’t here to be happy with them. And even that pain doesn’t hurt as much, somehow. She misses Ruby with all her heart, she misses her every minute of every day, but somehow Ruby’s with them now, even though she isn’t here. She’s with them in spirit. Somewhere, she’s smiling with them. Lizzie can see her so clearly. The firelight ripples and licks over them all, and in the shadows, Lizzie can see Ruby’s face.

It’s bittersweet. But the sweet is winning, little by little.

Tommy’s looking at her like he knows what she’s thinking, she realises. Like he knows she’s seeing Ruby. Maybe he sees Ruby too, or maybe it’s just sympathy that brings him to her side, hand clasping her shoulder. She covers his hand with her own and nods at him. She’s fine. Or getting there, anyway.

“Alright, Lizzie,” he murmurs. “Alright.” He squeezes her shoulder gently. “Charles, put the cards away – supper’s ready.”

While they’re eating, Charles brings up the subject of them living together again. “I just think the house is too small,” he says, peering across the fire at them. He’s seated on one side of it, and Lizzie and Tom are the other, side by side on the same log. Their legs are touching, thigh against thigh. Occasionally their shoulders brush. Nothing else. The promise of more is there, though.

“Because there’s no study,” Tommy says. His voice is terribly even, in a way that means he’s laughing inside, and Lizzie almost rolls her eyes, except that it’s clear Charlie has no idea he’s being laughed at.

“Exactly,” the boy agrees. “You have to have somewhere to work.” He frowns down at his bowl of stew. “Although maybe you could try to do less work at home. Sometimes.”

“Is this your way of saying you don’t like the house?” inquires Tommy, one eyebrow lifted quizzically.

“No, I do,” Charles says, “but there needs to be enough space for all of us. You got us our house when it was just for me and Mum, so you didn’t think about space for you.”

He’d got the house for her and Charles when he’d believed he was dying, Lizzie thinks, but she doesn’t say it aloud. Charles knows nothing about Tommy’s health scare, and that’s the way she wants to keep it. When she’d said as much to Tommy, he’d agreed. As far as Charles is concerned, Tommy went away to have some much-needed time alone after a hectic and troubling year. That’s the story everyone’s getting, everyone outside the family. Arthur and Ada know the truth, and Charlie Strong and Curly. Frances, too, because she’s as good as family, in Tommy’s eyes. But that’s it. Nobody else.

“That’s true,” Tommy is saying, “but you and your mum are settled there now. You don’t want to move again, do you, Charlie?”

She tries to imagine Tommy in her bedroom. It shouldn’t be hard, but somehow it is. It’s a space that has never been anything but hers, and trying to slot him into it, with his suits and his eyes and his ability to inhabit the whole of any room he’s in – any house he’s in – is harder than it ought to be. It’s hers, her refuge, one she’s sorely needed, these past months. Arrow House had been so very his, but the new house is so very much hers. She’d fitted into Arrow House, and no doubt he could fit into the new house, but she’s not sure he should. In fact, she’s certain he shouldn’t.

“We should find somewhere together,” she hears herself saying. “The three of us. Somewhere new.”

Tommy looks sidelong at her. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She leans against him, just a little, nudging his shoulder with hers. “I think so.” It feels right. ‘We’ll figure it out together,’ he’d said, that day at the scrap yard. Together. Well, he’d chosen Arrow House, for himself and Grace. He’d chosen the house she and Charles have been living in. If they’re really going to do this together, they should pick their new home together. Not a fresh start, exactly – there’s too much painful history for that – but something new. Something they all choose together.

Tommy nods, and doesn’t ask why. “Alright,” he agrees. “We’ll start looking when we get back. What d’you reckon, Charles? Somewhere with a study for me, and stables for us two. So what does Mum need?”

“Mum just needs us,” Charles says. There’s no room for doubt in his voice or his expression as he smiles at her. He’s such a mix of childish certainty and adult perception. He always sees so much more than anyone quite credits him with, and Lizzie’s as guilty of falling into that trap as anyone else. Still, he’s more or less right. There are other things she needs too – Tommy’s trust and respect, the knowledge that she can create a life for herself independent of him – but at heart, Charlie’s right. She needs him, and she needs Tommy. Anything else is just window dressing. A study for Tommy, stables for them both, and all three of them under one roof again. That’s all she needs.

“Just us, eh?” Tommy isn’t smiling, when she glances at him, not quite. But it’s there in his eyes, a softness that shows his pleasure. “Well, I think we can manage that.” He sets aside his empty bowl, and takes Lizzie’s from her as well, lighting a cigarette and taking a pull from it before passing it to her. His hand comes to rest on her knee, now his hands are empty, and his thumb strokes back and forth, a gentle pressure through the fabric of her trousers. Soon, she thinks. Soon.

But not soon enough. A glance at her watch shows the time – barely eight o’clock. And Charles isn’t remotely tired, that much is clear. He’s finished his stew too, and he’s making himself useful by gathering the bowls together and putting the lid on the pot. After a while Tommy gets up, to check on the horses. Charles follows after him, like an iron filing chasing a magnet, irrepressibly drawn to his father, and they talk quietly together while Tommy makes sure the horses have all they need. They’re speaking Rokker, so Lizzie doesn’t bother trying to listen. Instead she smokes her cigarette and watches the fire. Somewhere in the woods, an owl hoots. It’s peaceful. It’s taken a while to achieve, but she feels peaceful, here with what remains of her family.

They come back to the fire, her family, and Tommy reaches down to take her almost finished cigarette, bringing it to his mouth just once before dropping it to the ground and stubbing it out.

“Dance with me, Lizzie,” he says, holding out a hand for her.

“There’s no music,” she protests, but she doesn’t stop him from pulling her up onto her feet. He puts one hand on her waist and starts to sway. “Tommy,” she laughs, “there’s no music!”

“Charlie’ll play for us,” he tells her. “Charles? Get your violin out, eh? Play something nice.” But he doesn’t wait for Charles to get his violin out. He waltzes her around the fire, a little off-rhythm so their feet knock together, and Lizzie can’t help laughing, especially when Charles does start playing and it’s not a three-beat waltz, it’s something faster and jauntier. And Tommy’s smiling too, a crooked smile tugging one side of his mouth higher than the other, and when she glances at Charles, she sees he’s smiling while he plays.

“You look so beautiful,” Tommy murmurs, almost like he can’t help himself. He speeds them up, just enough to keep up with the music, and Lizzie shakes her head at him and feels warmth in her cheeks.

“My jumper has holes in it,” she points out, “and my shoes are muddy.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he claims, and turns them so they’re stepping away from the fire a bit. He pulls her close and kisses her. Gentle, soft. A promise. “I’m never going to let you go again,” he says. “Tell me you’re alright with that, Lizzie.”

“As long as you remember I deserve better,” she says, “then yes, I’m alright with that.”

He pulls her closer, swaying slowly again, completely at odds with the music Charlie’s playing. “I’ll remember,” he says. A promise. Unspoken, but no less real for that. He’s cradling her to him, as much as their heights allow. Charles’s violin slows, catching up with the mood. He only knows one waltz, though, so it’ll likely be the same thing over and over as long as Tommy keeps up the same dance. One, two, three. Step, step, step. “I’d have liked to teach Ruby how to dance,” he says after a while. “Feels like something a father ought to teach his daughter.”

“God help her when she started liking boys,” Lizzie imagines. “You’d have shot every last one of them.”

“No,” he says. Then, after a moment: “Not every last one.” She huffs a laugh, shakes her head again. Every last one, he’d have shot, and they both know it.

It hurts, thinking of Ruby’s might-have-beens. But it hurts less, talking about them with Tommy, than it does thinking about them alone. Because she’s not alone in it, not anymore. He’s doing his best to dig her out of it, inch by inch. Ruby will never go to dances or quarrel with her father over boys. None of that will ever happen. But at least Lizzie isn’t the only one who feels those losses.

Charles finishes the waltz and starts it again. When Lizzie glances at him, he’s still smiling, but mostly he’s concentrating on his violin. He’s a good boy, she thinks. She’s glad he’s happier. This trip is doing him so much good. It’s doing them all good, really, though fuck knows what’s going to happen when they return to the real world. But she’s choosing to trust. She’s chosen that. She can’t back down from it now, not when Tommy’s holding her like this, eyes fixed on her. He’s wholly in the moment. It’s so rare, to hold his attention like this. It’s so precious. His brain is never quiet; she’s often thought it must be unbearably loud, in there. But he looks quiet now. Or, if not quiet, then…settled. Focused. And on all on her.

All on her.

She glances at her watch. It takes a moment to read the time clearly, in the firelight, but it’s still only half past eight. Too early to send Charles to bed. He’s not a little boy anymore, he’ll protest a bedtime before nine at the earliest. She catches Tommy’s eye and he raises his eyebrows briefly, but doesn’t say anything when she gives a little shake of her head. Instead his mouth tucks into a rueful smile, and he directs them back towards the fire and the log seat. But they keep dancing, waltzing together, until Charles has finished another repetition. Only then do they part, though Tommy keeps hold of her hand.

“Thank you, son,” he says. “Well done. You been practicing?”

“Every day,” Charles says, lowering his bow. “Mum makes me.” Then, when Lizzie arches an eyebrow at him, he swiftly adds: “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, you listen to your mum, eh? She knows best.” They sit down together, side by side again, but this time Tommy puts his arm around her waist. She leans against him, dropping her head to rest on his shoulder. “Play us something else then, Charles,” he suggests. “Then it’s bedtime.”

“It’s early,” Lizzie murmurs, quiet enough that Charles won’t hear her over the sound of his playing.

“He’ll live.” There’s a certain tone to his voice that suggests he won’t be swayed by any protests from his son. He’s used up his patience. All these long weeks and months he’s waited, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to wait any longer. If she thought it was only for her body, if she thought it was just lust driving him, she might be less accommodating. But he can and does control his lust. He’s too accustomed to using desire, both his own and that of others, as a tool. There have been times when he’s been urgent with it, insistent even, but it’s never ruled him. She doesn’t think it’s ruling him now. She thinks – or maybe she hopes – that what he wants isn’t just the physical. It’s about the rest of it, too. The closeness. Being together in the dark, in the quiet, listening to each other breathe and knowing their own vulnerability.

When Charles finishes his next piece, Lizzie goes into the darkness to relieve herself, and then detours via the nearby stream to wash her hands and face. When she gets back to the wagons, Charlie’s brushing his teeth by the fire, already in his pyjamas. Tommy has clearly wasted no time in hurrying him off to bed. Tommy himself is in her wagon, feeding the stove. It’s got a lot colder in the last couple of hours as the darkness has become absolute, and she’ll be glad of the warmth it’ll give, at least for the early part of the night. Though she doubts she’ll be cold, not with Tommy.

She reminds Charles to keep his socks on in bed, and goes to make sure there are enough blankets in Tommy’s wagon. It’s a little strange, being in here. It’s no different to the wagon she’s been using, but it smells like him, especially the bed. She plumps the pillow and adds another blanket to the bed and feels butterflies in her stomach. The anticipation has been building ever since she put her ring back on, and now it’s fizzing underneath her skin.

She goes back outside. Tommy’s on the steps of the other wagon, smoking. It’s too dark to see his eyes, but his face is angled towards her. She feels like a giddy fool. Like a schoolgirl with her first crush. But she’s not that foolish, not that naïve. Love, this love, isn’t easy. It isn’t roses and champagne. It isn’t a daydream. It’s hard fucking work, loving Tommy Shelby, and even this new version of him won’t make much difference, not in the real world. She’s still going to get angry with him, he’s still going to instinctively keep secrets. No doubt he’ll disappoint her again, and Charlie too. No doubt. But he’s trying, and as long as he keeps trying, she’ll keep faith in him.

She’d thought, earlier, that she wanted the choice over and done with. The choice to trust him, the choice to hope. The reality isn’t going to be that simple, she knows. She’s chosen him over and over again, almost the whole of her adult life. She’s chosen him during their marriage. She’s choosing him again now. Probably she’ll keep choosing, for the rest of her life. But maybe that’s alright. Maybe, if Tommy’s choosing her too, it won’t be difficult to keep making the choice to love him. That’s what was missing before, she thinks. He hadn’t chosen to love her. He hadn’t loved her at all, in the beginning. He’d cared for her, but it hadn’t been love. Now he’s made that choice.

They’ll have to keep making it, together. And that’ll make the bad bits worthwhile.

Though there’s still one bad bit that they’ve not talked about. There’s still the unspoken demon that is Diana Mitford, and all that lead him to fucking her. And that, she realises with a cold shiver, has to be addressed before they go further. It has to be. It’s the final obstacle to being sure, being really sure. They have to talk about it. She’s spent weeks shutting it out of her mind, packing it away in a box, just like Tommy always does with his emotions. She hasn’t wanted to think about it. But the hesitation she’s felt, the awful sensation of waiting for the other shoe to drop – waiting for him to hurt her again – is all bound up in that. Not so much his infidelity as the easy way he uses his body to get what he needs, or what he wants. No matter who it means fucking, or who he hurts in the meantime. She’s tried to forget about it, but now, teetering on the edge of fully committing to him again…

Now she finds she can’t think of anything else. She’s suddenly, horribly aware that this is what she’s been afraid of facing. This is why she’s held herself back, why she’s been so unsure. This is the sort of thing she’d been afraid they’d just patch over without healing the wound first. And here she is, ring back on her finger, ready to join him in bed, like it had never happened. Like there’s nothing to worry about. But it did happen, and she can’t pretend it didn’t. She can’t pretend this isn’t the core of her doubt and her dread.

She looks across at Tommy and she thinks about that awful night when Diana Mitford had smiled at her across the dinner table and told her she and Tommy had fucked. All the good of these last few weeks, these last days in the woods – it won’t last, if they don’t deal with this first.

It won’t last. They won’t last.

And she wants them to, she wants them to last so desperately. So she’ll have to bring it up. Because she wants this to work, her and Tommy. She wants his love and his attention and his care, and if she wants those things, it’s no good keeping pretending that she’s alright. That she’s got over it. The rest of it, the secrets and the distance and the way he’d hidden away from her – she accepts those things, and believes him when he says things will be different, going forward. But not this. She can’t accept this thing. And if Tommy can’t agree with that…well, if he can’t, she’ll have to put the ring back on the chain, and she’ll have to walk away again. It’ll hurt, but she can live with that. She can live with that hurt. She can’t live with the knowledge that he’ll fuck other women if it gets him what he wants.

This is her line in the sand. This is the boundary of her love. This far, and no further. She won’t be broken by him again.

Charles has finished brushing his teeth, and he heads towards her – towards Tommy’s wagon – with a yawn and a smile. “Night, Mum,” he says, squeezing past her. She bends to press a kiss to his forehead as he passes, and he sighs loudly, with a long-suffering air. He’s getting too old for bedtime kisses, but she’ll give them as long as he allows it. “Night, Mum,” he repeats.

“Goodnight, love,” she says, and moves out of the way so he can open the door properly. Tommy’s still standing on the other wagon’s steps, and she hesitates briefly before going back to the fire.

After a few moments, Tommy joins her. He adds another log to the fire and then they sit there, side by side on the log. His hand finds hers, and clasps it tight. He must be as cold as she is; there’s no warmth in the handhold, not physical warmth. Cold hands, cold nose, cold toes. It’ll be warmer in bed, especially with two of them there, but there’s things to say, first. There’s things to talk about before they go to bed.

Maybe Tommy senses that too, because he doesn’t suggest they retire, for all that he’s hurried Charles away. He just sits there holding her hand, staring at the fire like he’s seeing something else in it.

“You asked me if I was sure,” she says at last. He blinks once, slowly, but doesn’t look at her. “I’m not,” she continues, in a rush. “Not really. I mean, I’m sure, but not…absolutely.” He bows his head a little, like it hurts to hear it. “I want to be, but I just…” She falters. She can’t find the words, or they won’t come out.

“I’ve hurt you,” he acknowledges. “I know.” His grip on her hand tightens. Not painfully, but tighter, as if he’s worried she’s going to pull away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know, Tom.”

He continues as if she hadn’t spoken. “But I probably will, at some point.”

She swallows. “I know that too, Tommy.”

“This – being out here – it’s like a holiday,” he says. “It’s good, it’s – it’s fucking good, but it’s not every day. The rest of the world is still there, waiting for us when we get back. There’s things I do you don’t like. I know that. But the opium, that’s all done. And the fascists. I’m going to get more military contracts. There’s a war coming. Guns and vehicles are going to be very profitable for us.”

“Tommy,” she says softly, and he falls silent. “You’re done with the fascists. That’s the important thing.”

“Yeah.” He exhales, his breath visible in the cold air. “All I can do is promise to try, Lizzie. I can’t lose you again.” That’s the third time he’s said it, and every time she believes it more. She believes he’s learned, or realised, that he needs her as much as she needs him. It’s taken him long enough, but here he is at last. At last he’s in the same place as her. “I’ll do better,” he adds at last. “It won’t be like it was, Lizzie. I swear it. But at some point, probably, I’ll – I’ll –,”

He can’t seem to finish the thought. Lizzie holds his hand tightly and takes a deep breath.

“There’s one thing you could do that would break me,” she tells him. “And if you do that, there’s no going back. Not ever.” He makes an inquisitive sound, and she closes her eyes to avoid seeing his reaction to what she’s going to say. “I can live with the whores,” she says, “but not the other thing.”

“Lizzie…”

“You don’t have to use your body to get deals done,” she insists. “Not anymore. So just – just don’t, alright? Don’t fuck someone I’m going to have to look in the eye across the fucking dinner table, don’t fuck someone just to get something you need, don’t –,”

“Yeah, alright,” he says, peaceful and agreeable and soothing, like he’s trying to calm her down. “Alright, Lizzie.”

”No, Tom.” She opens her eyes again, pulls her hand from his and wraps her arms around herself. She won’t be soothed. She doesn’t want him to be agreeable, she wants him to listen and hear and fucking understand. He’s turned towards her, his eyes glittering strangely in the firelight. For all his tone, he looks serious. He looks like he’s focused on her. Maybe that means he is listening. “I mean it,” she says. “Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again or I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself.”

That’s what has to change. It has to, because she can’t do this if he doesn’t accept that. There must be no more Diana Mitfords, ever. Never again. No exceptions.

No fucking exceptions.

“Lizzie, look at me, eh?” He holds her face in his hands, so she’s got no choice but to meet his eyes. He holds her there for a moment before he speaks. “I swear to you,” he says, “on everything I hold dear, I will never do that again. I swear it, Lizzie. On – on Ruby. I swear by our daughter that I will never do it to you again.” She shudders involuntarily, and he strokes her cheekbones with his thumbs. “I love you, Lizzie,” he tells her. “I’m not about to throw that away, not again. Alright?”

“Alright,” she whispers. She takes another deep breath, and lets it out slowly. Alright. She believes him. She can’t not believe him, not when he’s looking at her like this. Not when he’s sworn himself on their daughter. He wouldn’t do that if it wasn’t true. So she believes him. She believes he won’t whore himself out again for the sake of his deals. Not for the business, not for Churchill, not for anything. Because he’s promised her he won’t. And that’s enough. That’s everything. “Say it again,” she entreats. “Please, Tommy.”

He doesn’t need to ask what she means. “I love you,” he says, and brings his forehead to rest against hers. “I do, Lizzie.”

“I love you,” she murmurs. “God, Tommy…”

He kisses her, soft and sweet and careful. Like she’s going to break if he holds her too tightly, kisses her too deeply. It’s nice, but it’s not what she wants. She wants everything, all of him. All the bits he’s hidden away from her for so long. She wants him to crawl inside her and never retreat. She wants his arms around her, and his legs, and to feel him against every inch of her skin. She wants it all. She wants to feel him for days and know they’re together, the two of them, fully and at last.

She cups the back of his head with a hand, scratches lightly through the stubble. It’s enough to tell him what she wants; he deepens the kiss, tongue parting her lips easily, delving ever-deeper into her mouth. But it’s an awkward angle, side by side like this. They can’t get close, not as close as she wants. Her knees knock against his and she has to stretch a little too far to wrap her arms around his neck. So she moves, lifting herself off the log so she can straddle him, knees either side of his. He’s quick to respond, putting his hands at her waist and bringing her forwards to rock against him. That’s good, that’s better, it’s more like what she wants. She’s inches taller than him now, perched in his lap, and she quite likes the way he has to tilt his head back to kiss her. It’s incredible, the way he looks at her as they kiss – eyes open, drinking her in, focused on her like she’s the centre of the universe. She feels dizzy. She feels drunk.

She feels loved. She feels wanted.

She feels raindrops on her head. One, two, three, then too many to count. Tommy starts smiling, she can feel it against her mouth, and then he chuckles, a rumble in his chest that she feels more than hears. He keeps kissing her though, on and on, through his smile and through the rain that’s swiftly plastering her hair to her head. Raindrops creep down under the neck of her jumper, and down her face, and he tries to kiss them away, but there’s too much for that.

“We need to –,” she gasps.

“Yeah,” he agrees, but he just holds her closer, hands tugging at her shirt where it’s tucked into her trousers, beneath her jumper. She finds his tie, tugs it off and loses it in the darkness. Her fingers are nearly numb. It’s so fucking cold, and the rain is making it worse, but she’s burning anyway. She’s burning up.

Eventually the rain defeats them. Lizzie can’t feel her toes when Tommy helps her to her feet, and his face looks ghostly in the darkness, rainwater dripping off him like he’s made of marble. The fire’s nearly out already, doused by the rain, so they don’t linger. They run for the wagon and tumble inside. The stove is warm and there’s a candle burning. It’s cosy, even when they’re inside, soaking wet and filling the air with the heavy smell of wet wool.

There’s no sense of seduction to their disrobing. Tommy strips quickly and methodically. Lizzie peels off her wet outer layers and then rids herself of the dryer inner layers as rapidly as possible, cold making her skin crawl with goose pimples despite the fire in the little stove. She dives onto the bed, pulling the blankets over her, without pausing to wait for Tommy.

“I am never coming camping in March again,” she tells him, when he joins her after a few moments. He’s cold too, hands cold when he touches her, nose cold when he tucks his face against her neck and inhales, like he’s trying to drink in the scent of her. “Jesus, Tom,” she whines in complaint.

“You’ll soon warm up,” he says, trailing cold fingers up her sides. “Unless you’re saying no?”

“Shut up, Tommy,” she tells him, stifling a gasp as he cups her breast in his hand. And for once in his life, he obeys her. He shuts up. He says nothing more. But his mouth speaks eloquently, nonetheless. His mouth speaks, and his hands, and all without saying a word.

For a long time, nothing exists outside the bed. Even the wagon around them ceases to exist. There doesn’t seem to be a single inch of her that he leaves untouched. It’s like he’s imprinting her body in his mind again, or setting his seal on her, so every part of her is his again. Or maybe that’s just how she feels, touching him – like she’s claiming him anew. There’s no urgency to it. They kiss and touch and caress, but despite Tommy’s earlier desperation, he seems in no hurry now. This isn’t a quick fuck, done to ease a physical need. For once he seems inclined to take his time. To show her she’s wanted, as well as needed.

He makes her come twice before he fucks her, once with his fingers and once with his mouth. She feels so very wanted. She feels like the centre of the universe, of his universe. He’s always, always made sure that she got off too, but not like this. Never like this. This is like…this is like he’s determined to prove something. Himself, maybe. His ability to bring her pleasure, to make her happy. But she can’t examine it too closely, too distracted by the feel and the smell of him, by the way he tastes and the sounds he makes as she touches him.

“Don’t let go,” she whispers at some point.

“Never,” he swears.

When at last he does sink into her, it’s enough to get her off again, and they tumble over the edge together, breathless and giddy. Like they’re a pair of youngsters still, instead of a middle-aged couple married eight years.

Afterwards, he rolls off her but not away. He stays close, legs tangled in hers, his arm resting securely over her waist. Lizzie curls into him, resting her head close to his on the pillow. She’s warm, as he’d promised she would be. She’s warm and safe and happy.

Normally this would be when one of them, or both, would reach for a cigarette. But she looks at him, and he looks at her, and neither of them speak. The rain is pouring down, pounding on the caravan roof, and the stove is burning low, but neither of them move. Neither of them speak. They just are. Together. Vulnerable. Safe.

“Not a bad start,” Tommy says, at length. She hums an inquiry. “Us figuring it out together.” He rubs his nose against hers, just briefly. “You alright?” he checks.

“Yeah.” Talking feels like hard work, after what’s just happened. After the whole day, really. It was only thirteen or fourteen hours ago that she’d woken up alone, in this bunk in the wagon, and had reflected on the past few weeks. A lot’s changed, today. And a lot hasn’t. The fundamentals are still the same, but she’s looking at them differently. Something has shifted. Whether it’s her, or him, or the two of them together, something has shifted. They’ve taken another step forwards. A great stride, maybe. Slowly, and in fits and starts, they’re figuring it out. Together, just as he says. “You?” she returns. “You alright, Tommy?”

“Yeah.” He presses his mouth to hers, just a brush of lips. The briefest of touches. Her mouth tingles anyway.

In a while, she knows, she’ll feel cold again, and she’ll need her pyjamas. But she doesn’t want to move right now. Tommy’s not a cuddler, he’s never been one to seek closeness after sex – not with her, anyway. But now his arm is heavy over her waist, and his breath is warm on her face. She doesn’t want to do anything to disturb this moment. This is special. This is the kind of moment to memorise, so she can tuck it into the back of her mind and bring it out on bad days. Like thinking about Ruby on their last summer camping trip, or remembering how Tommy had looked when he’d held their daughter for the first time. Memories that warm her heart, even when she’s heartsick.

This is one of those moments.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. It makes her smile; normally it’s the other way around. Normally she’s the one asking. So often he knows what she’s thinking without her having to say a word. She thinks it might be quite good for him, to have to guess sometimes. Not in a mean way, not as some sort of payback, but just because it’s not something he’s used to. It might be good for them, for him to be not always sure of her.

“I’m thinking I want to remember this,” she says. “Us being here like this.” He nods, just once. He understands. “Because I know you’re right,” she continues, speaking as softly as the noise of the rain will let her, because she doesn’t meant to accuse him – it’s just the plain truth. “You’re right, it won’t be like this when we go back. This is…it’s like a dream.”

“I wish it could be,” he admits. It’s the kind of thing he’ll only admit like this, hidden away in the dark with nobody else around. “But I mean it when I say it’ll be different to before, Lizzie. Do you believe me?”

“I do,” she’s quick to assure him. “But we’re both going to make mistakes, I know that.” She cups his face with her hand, rubbing her thumb gently over the scar on his cheek. “I promise to try, too,” she says. “To be better.”

“You’re enough as you are, love.”

The bluntness of it, the honesty, nearly takes her breath away. She can’t say anything in response. There aren’t the words. She kisses him instead, like he’d kissed her a few minutes ago – soft and sweet and brief. Speaking without words. It’s nice not to have to use words, to know he understands what she can’t say, and that she hears what he means.

“You’ve made a lot of promises, Tommy,” she manages then. “Only feels fair I should make this one, too.”

“Hm.” He lifts his hand to her face, cups her cheek in a mirror of her position. “I’ve not promised anything I don’t mean.” She nods; she knows. “There’s this poem I keep thinking about,” he says, seemingly tangential except that she knows him, and she knows there’ll be a point. “The last verse goes like this: ‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.’ I keep turning those words over in me head. Over and over.”

“You’re out of the woods,” she murmurs. “You are, Tommy.”

“Yeah. Out of the woods and out of the ground.” He strokes his thumb across her lower lip. “But I have plenty of promises to keep, and I will, Lizzie. I will keep every one of them.”

“Alright, Tom,” she says. “Alright.” A yawn threatens suddenly, and in the darkness she feels Tommy’s smile more than she sees it. He rolls onto his back, his preferred sleeping position, but he doesn’t let her go. Instead he guides her to settle against him, her arm around his waist and her head resting against his shoulder.

“Sleep, love,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” she asks, like she’s a child again, because she wants him to say it. She wants to hear it.

“I promise,” he says. And she believes him. She believes he means to keep his promises – even if it’s just his promise to try to be better. But he’s sworn on their daughter that he’ll never again use his body to gain a deal or information or access. He’s promised he won’t forget she deserves better than he’s given her in the past. He’s promised not to let her go. She believes he’ll keep those promises, because he keeps showing her that he knows her value. He knows her value to him.

Lizzie believes him. She loves him. And he loves her, and it is good, being loved at long last by Tommy Shelby. It’s good enough to let all the rest fall away, all the uncertainties and hurts and fears. It’s enough. It’s everything.

So she closes her eyes, and she drifts into sleep to the sound of rain on the wagon roof, and the regular rise and fall of Tommy’s chest as he breathes.