March // John Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Chapter 1

I hate kneading bread.

My arms burn, and a sheen of sweat prickles across my forehead. It's always so hot in the bakery kitchen, the flames beneath every oven creating a thick smog I can't escape. On really hot summer days, like the ones we've been having, it can feel like breathing in a furnace.

The sand falls infuriatingly slowly through the glass timer, trickling a speck at a time, taunting me as I pull and knead and pound the dough. I remember my Papa's long fingers, the way the flour and water and yeast would come together for him like a dance, a ritual. He would sprinkle flour from three feet above the table and it would fall like snow on a Christmas morning.

He always made good bread, before he left for the war. My love for him is the only reason I endure the early morning starts, the oven burns, my mother's exasperated sighs as I spill frosting all over the floor and waste what little sugar we're rationed to work with for the day.

I hope by the time he returns, I'll be good at making bread.

Mother must be the most patient woman I know, I think, as she mixes up batter on the other side of the kitchen.

The sand in my timer finally runs out, and I give the dough one last punch of malice before preparing it to prove. Mother sees I've finished, and walks across to inspect my work, her lithe arms bent at the apron around her hips.

"My bread is terrible," I tell her, my arms aching as I wrap a warm tea towel around the bowl. "We need to stop selling it. Nobody buys it the days I make it."

She sighs. "It's the only way you'll learn, and we're not wasting the flour."

"It's wasted when we have to feed all my loaves to the ducks," I mutter.

She glances at me reprovingly. "Your bread is fine. It just takes practice. You'll see. Now, come help me with the steak pies."

The morning light rises, and the first signs of life begin to emerge, noise audible through the wall separating the kitchen from the bakery shop. Mercifully, Mother frees me from the kitchen, and I stock the shelves and cabinet with our morning's goods. I'm sliding the last of the lemon and poppyseed muffins into the cabinet when there's a knock on the door.

"Coming," I call out, carefully writing the prices on bits of paper to display.

The knock comes again. I frown. "Be bloody patient, would you?" I call out once more.

When the third knock happens, I roll my eyes, placing the last of the prices on display and making my way through the bakery to open up for the day. I flip the sign to read Open, scowling as I unlock the door for whoever's been so rude.

"Can you not read?" I ask crossly.

When I glance up, I falter. Fuck. I recognise him — he's one of the Shelby's. One of the Peaky Blinders. Standing on the doorstep, fresh in the morning light, with his pressed suit, his long coat, his flat cap. He chews on a toothpick, and raises his eyebrows at my hostility.

I'm a dead woman. I know those hats conceal razor blades. I know Mother deals with the Peaky Blinders, that she's warned me to keep my head down, and never attract their attention. If I piss them off, it might be the last thing I do.

"Can read just fine, last time I checked," he shrugs. "Only, my aunt asked me to get some food, and this place smells better than anywhere else in all of Small Heath."

"Right." My voice is thin. He tilts his head at me, and I quickly turn, scurrying back to the safety behind the counter where he can't reach me as he removes his cap and holds it in his hand. I eye it like it's a live beast as he strolls slowly through, looking at all the food we have on display.

"You're one of the Shelby's," I blurt out, unable to help it.

He nods. "Name's John." He looks at the flower arrangement we have in the window, then turns over his shoulder to glance back at me. "And you are?"

I hesitate before telling him my name, then realising it doesn't matter. He already knows where I live.

"March," he repeats my surname. "You're the baker's daughter."

His polished shoes send footsteps echoing through the bakery. He comes to the bread shelf and reaches for a warm loaf, fresh out of the oven.

"Not the bread." I swallow as he glances at me questioningly. "It's shit. I made it myself." I take a quick breath and busy myself drawing absent-mindedly on the notepad, where I'm supposed to write receipts. "Go to the butcher's. They have a stall outside with bread and eggs and the like. It'll cost you a couple pence more, but it... It won't be shit."

He grins, and I'm captivated. "Alright," he agrees, making his way across the length of the counter.

He's close enough now I can see how clear his skin is. The lashes that frame his light eyes, the line of his jaw. I can smell his Old Spice cologne. I feel suddenly frumpy with my messy hair, my skin scrubbed with lavender soap and already marked by a dusting of flour.

I probably smell like raw beef.

"I'll have a few of the muffins," he says. "The lemon ones. And a steak and kidney pie, that'll do us for tea."

I place the food into brown paper bags and carefully seal them. The silence presses against me, and I end up speaking for the sake of it. Mother always said it's a bad habit I possess.

"You've come back from the war, haven't you?"

He nods.

"My Papa's not back yet," I tell him, as I jot down the food and their prices. "Mother says he'll be home soon. Some men just take longer than others, don't they? Some of them have to stay behind. Help out a little longer?"

He's hard to read as he pulls coins from his pocket. "Yeah. I suppose some of them do."

"Won't I get in trouble for taking your money?" I ask, staring at the coins between his fingers.

He grins, his face softening. "No, you won't get in trouble. Go on."

I hold my palm beneath his fingers, and he presses the coins into it, surprisingly gentle. His fingertips brush against my hand. I pray I don't blush as I drop them into their compartments, and scribble down his receipt. I tear the paper free and hand it to him, realising too late it's the paper I've drawn all over.

I try to snatch it back, but he pulls it away, holding it up to the light and glancing at my scribbles.

"Sorry," I stammer. "I'll do you a fresh one."

"You drew this?" He asks. He looks at the lemon muffins, my muse for the doodle, then back at the receipt.

"It was an accident." My cheeks burn. "Just a silly scribble."

"It's really good," he tells me. He glances at me, still holding the receipt out of my reach. "You like to draw?"

"Yes. Sometimes." I swallow down any mention of my drawing pencils, the ones I'd saved up for almost a whole year, my most prized possession and one I rarely use because I'd hate for any of the colours to run out.

"I'd like to keep it, if you don't mind."

"Are you making fun of me?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

But he's genuine, even as he smiles mischievously. "No. I just really like lemon muffins." He picks up the food in his arms, and places his cap back on his head, tilting his head down in farewell. "Goodbye, Miss March."

I grip the counter where he cannot see. "Goodbye, John Shelby."

And he strolls out through the door, taking the food and my drawing with him. I lean against the counter for a moment. My thoughts are disturbingly quiet. And, despite knowing Mother will slap my hand if she sees, I take a lemon muffin, and I take a bite.