#ilovemecore

It was that small voice in the back of your mind after the first few months that would whisper just how futile struggling was. For all they knew your friends and family probably thought you dead, mourned your loss and tried moving on. Seeing you now would be akin to someone who came back from the dead, a ghost of a past they left behind.

There's also the fact that they may no longer be alive, your understanding of how time and space worked was limited, but if this place was light years away from Earth, even if they were to send you back, there wouldn't be nothing worth coming back to. The state of the planet, wars and political regimes that come and go, social collapse, history and culture, all those detached from everything you knew. You would go back to a place that might make you feel even more alienated than here. To your absolute horror, this is the first time the thought of going back brings you more dread than comfort.

You spend the next hours sleeping fitfully, getting caught in the same dream over and over again. You walk towards a group of people, their faces are fuzzy, but you have the clear feeling that you know them. When one of them turns around, a voice that sounds like your mother's, but not quite right asks you who you are. When you open your mouth to tell her your name, nothing comes out, you can't remember the shape of your own name and you wake up gasping.

When the morning alarm sounds, Johnny's already waiting for you, drawing shapes with a stick on the ground. His whole face flushes when he notices you, smiling sheepishly when he greets you, rubbing the back of his neck, a habit you noticed more than once. You feel like it's better not to sugarcoat it and explain the situation to him as it is. So you tell him everything, about the doll and the message and what it all means. He listens intently, a crease between his brows, his features arranging themselves into something you can't quite figure out what it means.

"Then will stay just like we are now and that will be enough."

"Johnny?"

"Hm?"

"Don't you want to go back home?"

"Of course I do, bonnie. But not like this and as you said yourself, there's nothing waiting for me there."

"You don't know that."

He gives you the saddest smile you've ever seen, but doesn't elaborate and you're afraid to press more. All you can do is take his hand in yours and hold it tight and that seems to be all he needs in that moment. The two of you stand like that for hours or for minutes, the multiple pairs of eyes peering above the cages feeling distant.

The days start bleeding one into each other and as time passes you feel something that closer resembles happiness making its place into your heart. For the first time in so long you're looking forward to something, the heavyness that would usually keep you tied to the bed for hours, now almost gone.

It all comes crashing down the day Johnny doesn't show up. After the second meal of the day goes by, you can't wait any longer and make your way to his quarters. You tentatively call out his name, but no one answers so you go ahead. The space is a copy of yours, white walls and barely furnished, a sanitary look that reminds you more of a hospital room. Still, there are bits of pieces that hint at what kind of person lives here. The bed unmade as if someone thrashed through the sheets, a pillow thrown to a corner of the room near some weights.

Going to the bathroom the image of your fractured reflection meets your eyes in the broken mirror. Carefully stepping around the shards on the floor, you look at his scattered belongings through the bathroom: an uncapped bottle of shampoo, a half-empty one of shower gel, some remains of shaving cream next to his razor on the edge of the sink. You touch them in passing, lingering for a moment on his aftershave, the smell comforting in a way that manages to trick your brain that he's sitting right next to you. Without thinking about it, you put it in your pocket, holding yourself from touching the shape of it during the walk back to your sleeping space, afraid that they might notice.

The shadows of your restless nights nestle under your eyes. You mostly ignore your reflection, focusing only on specific parts as you put yourself together. Some cream scraped from the bottom of a pot across your cheeks and forehead; a chafe of dried lipstick on your lips.

You put the last pin in your hair as a knock comes at the front door. Mr. Shelby mentioned a car despite your insistence on the tram. He won't hear of it, he said. Stuart never much worried when you went out unless you weren't back to his expectations.

The man announces what you already know. He's come on behalf of Mr. Shelby. You introduce yourself. The man seems surprised by the courtesy but does the same. His name is Joseph and he's younger than you. You can tell. Likely no more than twenty two or three.

He shows you to a car. You like the leather trim and you tell him so. He says it's the boss' car but he might have one like it some day. The boss. Thomas Shelby.

You cradle your purse above your knees. You notice how Mary Lynn and old man Robert watch the car pass. It's much too polished for the council housing. Have they noticed your errant husband as well? And Mr. Shelby's visit?

The Garrison waits, not so desolate as the first day you went. You thank Joseph as he directs you inside and remains without. The bulbs are lit and there are no stragglers at the bar. But the place is still empty.

You slowly walk between the bar and the tables and take it all in. You're not sure this will be a bustling breakfast salon, not that you've ever had the luxury of eating in one. You simply think of those illustrated Parisians on the front of magazines with their pastries and coffee.

There's a clamour. You look for the source but cannot find it. Your turn as it gets closer. You nearly stumble as you avoid stepping on the little boy. A child with dark hair and suspenders. Perhaps three or four.

"Missus, can I have some tea?" He asks politely.

You stare down at him. How on earth did he get into this place? You smile as kindly as you can.

"Certainly, I'd love to make you some, though I've not any idea where to find a kettle, little sir." You reply.

"Sir? My name is Charlie." The 'ar' is more of an 'aw'. "Charlie Shelby!"

The sense clicks in your head. You nod and bend, offering your band. "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Shelby. I know your father."

"Everyone knows Papa. He's a mean man." He pipes up. He shakes your hand with his small one, taking only two of your fingers.

You blink in surprise at the remark. "Well, Mr. Shelby. I should like to find you that tea. Perhaps your mother could point me to the pot?"

"Mama is dead. She can't help no one." He says brightly. You're taken aback by the child's matter-of-fact tone.

"Apologies, and my condolences," you stand straight.

"There's a kitchen behind there!" He points at the bar. "Papa bought some new pans and knives. He took one away from me."

"Ah, thank you, Mr. Shelby." You clasp your hands. "Shall we find the tea then?"

"I'm not Mr. Shelby." He pouts.

"Sorry. Charles. Charlie." You correct yourself. He is head strong like his father. At least by your measure.

He spins and stomps ahead. “This way, missus.”

You follow, concerned about the unattended child. Especially in this bar. At least by his name, you know he’s not very lost.

He takes you into the kitchen and throws up his arms.

“Nice ‘n shiny. Papa had them all scrubbing and cleaning.” He proclaims.

“Ah,” you look around at the shining metal and polished wood. There’s large fridges at the very end of the kitchen and hanging utensils along the shelves. “I think I see a kettle.”

You go along the counter to the stove. You take the silver kettle and fill it with water. You put it on the burner and light the flame. Charlie is close by as he toys with a cupboard door.

“Papa was on the phone. He talks a lot.” He says. “Nanny told me go away.”

“Oh, that’s not very nice.” You say as you search for a pot or a cup. “Breakfast tea, sir?”

“But you’re nice. I’m happy I found you.”

You nod. You find a pot. Now for the leaves. You turn and wearily search the shelves of a doorless cupboard. There’s all sorts of seasoning in tins and jars.

“Well, it’s an honour to meet you too, Charles.” You say as gently nudge aside a box.

“Charlie!” A holler shakes you and you nearly drop the round tin of tea leaves. “Charlie!”

Heavy soles march through the bar. You look at the child. He grins.

“In here!” You call out.

You hear a huff and Mr. Shelby, the elder, appears in the doorway. He exhales and puts his hands on his hips, pushing back his jacket. “Charlie, you’ve gone and given the nanny a fright.”

“She didn’t want nun’ to do with me,” the boy harrumphs.

“We’re having tea, sir. Would you like some?”

Thomas looks at you then his son. “I wouldn’t mind tea.”

He crosses the kitchen and picks up the errant toddler. He holds him in one arm. “Did he demand it?”

“He asked nicely.” You assure Shelby as you measure by eye. “Didn’t you, Charles? When you’re done, I could even show you how to read the leaves.”

Mr. Shelby tilts his head and brow. You hesitate.

“Unless… you’d rather I not. Sorry. I forget…”

“You know how?” he wonders as Charlie bends up the front of his cap. He gently waves him away.

“My Aunt Genevieve showed me. She loved her tea. Had no bed but at least a hundred tea cups. She claimed one belonged to Queen Charlotte herself though I don’t know it’d survive so long.” You explain. “Forgive my rambling, sir.”

“It’s far more interesting than most of my men,” he says. “If I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure you’d come. I thought you were rather reticent yesterday at the suggestion.”

“Intimidated, I think. I’ve cooked for one man for fifteen years. His mother on occasion and she never liked it much.” You take the shaking kettle off the stove and pour it into the pot.

“Well, it’s your menu, ma’am. Your dishes. You make the rules.” He says.

“Papa,” Charlie pokes at Thomas’ cheek. “Who’s the pretty lady?”

“She’s the new cook.” He pulls Charlie’s hand away, a pink spot left on his cheek.

“She’s the one you bought all the pretty dishes for.” Charlie says.

Shelby’s dark brows draw close. “Yes. She made that pie you gorged yourself on th’other night.”

“Mince is my favourite!” Charlie beams at you. “Are you going to make some more, missus?”

You smile. “Perhaps we might have some left over.”

“Do you make biscuits? I like biscuits and tea.” Charlie exclaims.

Thomas gives you a look. “Please…”

“Yes. Please can you make some biscuits, missus?” Charlie says.

“I can try… if I’ve the time?” You look at Mr. Shelby.

“I’m sure the customers wouldn’t mind some as well. We’ll set aside a few for you, Charlie.”

🖤

Mr. Shelby takes the boy away with his cup of tea. He leaves you to ‘sort the kitchen’; ‘your’ kitchen as he emphasized. You’re not sure where to begin.

You cautiously take stock of ingredients. Sausage, bacon, eggs, even blood pudding. Enough for a full breakfast. Bread enough, beans too. You can’t recall the last time you had enough for an English breakfast. Stuart often bemoaned the lack of bacon.

Shelby returns alone as you set out stations.

“Barmaids are here. They can help if you need.” He says as he nears and takes his half-emptied teacup. He swigs and looks into the bottom.

“How long until you expect customers?”

“Oh, we’ve a few waiting without. Do you think you can get started?” He prompts.

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“Nothing wrong with making them wait. It’ll be worth it.” He nears. “You said you read leaves?”

He puts his cup down. You grin.

“I’m probably not very good. Aunt Genevieve was… a character.” You shrug.

“Humour me.” He drawls.

You put a skillet on the burner and leave it there. You lean over the cup. You focus on it.

“A… pear.” You make the shape with your finger over the brim. Wealth… prosperity. Good business or a good union. Possibly a business partner?” You guess. “Though you might have quite a few already.”

He squints. He glances past you. “And yours?”

You peek behind you. Your cup is right beside the tin of leaves.

“Mr. Shelby, I should start cooking.”

“I’m curious,” he insists.

You relent and drink the last mouthful. You let the leaves settle. You see a kettle; death. You hesitate.

“Well, what do you see?” He asks.

You clear your throat. “It looks like a square? Contentment?” You lie. “Perhaps then I will find Stuart soon.”

He’s quiet. You don’t look at him. You put the cup aside and reach for his.

“I’ll be sure to rinse these.” You say.

“I will get Ruth to come help.” He assures, tapping his fingers. “That’s all you saw?”

“Yes. But… it’s just… leaves.”

“Mm. You have traveller in you?” He asks.

“Hm?” You look at him.

“Your aunt? Reading leaves? A collector? No bed.”

“I… people called her a witch, I think. I never believed them.” You shrug and turn back to the skillet.

“No, not a witch. A prophet,” he says.

You focus on the pan and all the food before you. He lingers, dragging his fingers along the edge of the counter.

“Right then. S’pose it’s time,” he says.

-

You get lost in the thick of it. Oiled pans, spitting slabs of bacon, steaming beans. You send out plate after plate as the barmaids call for more and sweep in and out to help clear plates. A few of Shelby’s men have taken off their jackets and joined the effort.

The last order goes out. There’s nothing left. You’re about gone yourself. Worn down to the bone.

You gather the dirty pots and pans. Joseph, the same man who drove you, is at the sink scrubbing. He tells you not to help and calls over his cohort, Zachariah. They argue over who gets to scour the iron.

You’re tired but restless. You need to help. You go out into the bar room and help gather up empty plates with the barmaids, Ruth and Dierdre.

On your way back to the kitchen, your name comes from across the room. The stacks in your hands bobble.

“Eh, you don’t need to be doin’ all that,” Mr. Shelby crosses to you. “You’ve done enough.”

“Sir, I… I made the mess–”

“You made a wonderful meal for all these people,” he insists as he takes the plates. “You sit down and let yourself a break.”

He nods to the kitchen door. You push through and hold it open for him. He brings in the plates and puts them at the sink, warning Joseph not to spray his reluctant companion with the hose. They both straighten up and quiet down.

“Ma’am,” Shelby turns and grabs the stool from the back of the kitchen. “Go on, sit.”

He slaps the seat. You walk along the counter. “Mr. Shelby, I should help–”

“You’ve done what I’ve brought ye for.” He argues. He offers his hand. “Sit.”

You accept his help and climb up onto the stool. He squeezes your hand as you settle on the seat. He doesn’t let go right away, his fingertips grazing over your knuckles.

“I’ve secreted a few biscuits for Charlie,” he pats his jacket and whispers.

You scrunch your nose in amusement. “How nice of you. I could’ve made an extra batch.”

“Eh, a few might find their way to me,” he says.

You smile and nod, folding your hands together. You look around the kitchen as the men clean the dishes and the barmaids come in and out. You really should be helping.

Sitting there isn’t helping anyone. Not you or Mr. Shelby. Or… Stuart. You frown. You’d almost forgotten him.

“Ma’am?” Mr. Shelby intones.

You look at him, almost startled. “Sorry, I only… you’ve not heard anything?”