March // John Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Chapter 15

"And what do you do in your spare time?" Polly asks me.

"Um... serve customers," I say, after a moment's thought. "We're open every day, you see."

John's knee grazes against mine beneath the table as he sits himself upright. The touch echoes through my legs, bone-deep. Every part of me stills, frozen, as though my body's short-circuiting. I had not been expecting that.

I quickly stab my fork back into the cake, unable to look up while John speaks.

"She's an artist," he tells Polly.

"Hardly," I have to quickly add. "I draw sometimes. I suppose it's a hobby."

"I daresay Florence would commission you for your work," Polly says, pouring herself another drink. "Has John seen any of your other drawings?"

John glances at me hopefully, expectantly.

"No." I lay down my fork. "There's nothing really to show."

"You added pictures to the prices on the food," John says.

"When did you get so observant?" Polly mutters, smiling into her cup.

"I was just bored." I clear my throat, setting down my fork. "Thank you so much for dinner."

"We should be thanking you," Polly says, standing to her feet and clearing the table, yanking John's half-full plate from beneath his fork while he frowns in protest. "John, make sure you walk our guest home."

"I'm still eating," he says, but relents under Polly's fierce gaze. "I'll get your coat," he tells me.

Polly straightens herself as John leaves the room. "You'll have to forgive my nephew," she tells me. "He's had a lot on his mind since... well, since everything that's happened. Your friendship is good for him," she adds, balancing the plates in her hands.

"It's not really a friendship," I say, standing to my feet.

"It seems you've got a fair bit on your mind too," she tells me, smiling thinly.

I feel there's a hidden meaning to her words, though I cannot deduce what they might be. "I'll just say goodbye to the children," I tell her.

I head out to the garden, where all four of them are bent over a vegetable patch, speaking in hushed whispers. There's guilt across their faces as they look up when I approach, and George steps sideways, hiding whatever they've been looking at.

"I'm going home now," I tell them. "It's been lovely to meet you all."

"We found a slug," William blurts out.

Katie scowls at him. "It was meant to be a secret!"

"I want to squash it," George whines.

"No," Katie tells him. "We can't do that. It's mean."

"But it'll eat the cabbages. Won't it?" He asks me, with all the air of someone about to receive validation from a high authority.

"Why don't we move the slug?" I say. "We can find a nice patch in a different part of the garden, where he can't eat your food."

"But he'll just come back," William says.

I smile. "Not if we make him a nice enough home. Come on."

Florence squeals as I lift the slug onto a sturdy leaf from the ground, and we carry him across the garden to a bush near the rock wall. We lay him on the dirt, and the girls pick flowers while the twins build walls with garden pebbles, creating a nice, big enclosure. We build him a little house, with some moss for a bed, and fill his enclosure with flowers and leaves he might like.

"And we can give him a bwack bewy for tea," Florence says, running over with one between her fingers.

Everyone seems appeased as we pull away and watch the slug explore his new home. William and George go back to sword-fighting, and I hug Katie and Florence goodbye.

"I haven't forgotten about your hair ribbon," I tell Katie. "I'll have a nice blue one for you next time I see you."

"Okay," she says.

When I return to the house, John's watching from the back door. He holds my coat for me to slip my arms into, and hands me my gloves.

"What was that about?" He asks, bemused.

"I can't tell you. It's a secret."

He shakes his head, and I call out a goodbye to the others as we leave. The streets are dark once more, and this end of town is busier than the south end where he walked me home from the pub. I see John assess each man we pass, nodding hello to a couple of them. His shoulders don't relax until we reach a quieter street with nobody around.

"My family didn't terrify you, then?" He asks.

"Not at all," I say. I take a breath, mustering all my courage. "Though I was sad not to meet your wife."

His brows knit together. "My wife?" He asks.

"I'm assuming someone else was involved in creating your children," I tell him.

"Oh." His eyebrows raise as he exhales. "You won't be meeting her, I'm afraid. She, uh. She died."

My feet slow down. I look at him, suddenly mortified I brought it up at all. "I'm so sorry," I whisper.

He shakes his head. "It's alright. She wasn't the great love of my life or anything."

We walk in silence for a moment. My head spins. Those poor kids — having grown up in a war, with their father off fighting, and now they've lost their mother.

"It was the Spanish flu," John says quietly. "She caught it right before we came home. I walked into that house, and I found her in bed, and... she couldn't even remember who I was." He sniffs, though his eyes are dry. "Died just a few hours later."

"That must have been brutal."

"It's just life. She was a fine person. But I'd seen enough men die in front of me. Watched enough people lose their minds. I'd known Martha since we were young... I mean, Christ, Katie's seven. And Martha's parents were catholic so we had to marry. But it didn't hurt me. Not like it should have."

He's silent again, and I try to think of words to say, a way to tell him that it's okay. But I come up short, and then he speaks again.

"I just... sometimes I just get so fucking lonely."

His shoulders still swing as he walks, the toothpick is still between his teeth, but for what might be the first time, I don't see John as intimidating. I don't see him as a Shelby, as a gang member.

For the first time, I feel as though I want to be the one to protect him.

"Well," I say slowly. "Anytime you get lonely, you just come into the bakery. You can buy all the lemon muffins you want. And... you can talk to me. If you like."

He smiles as he turns his head to me. "I do like to talk," he says.

"Then please do."

We reach my home. He turns to face me completely, his shoulders square in his coat.

"Pol says I'm to invite you round again," he says. "Only if you want."

I nod, smiling. "I'll bring a chicken and mushroom next time."

He gives a short laugh and ducks his head. "I'll let her know."

Perhaps it's because he's been so honest with me, that I'm struck by bravery. "Do you want me to come round again?" I ask. "Regardless of Polly?"

His forehead creases. "Yeah," he says, and his voice is soft. "Yeah. I do."

He reaches out a hand, and my breath catches in my chest as he takes the lapel of my coat between his gloved fingers. Old spice and whiskey.

"Goodnight, Miss March," he murmurs, looking deeply into my eyes as his arm drops to his side.

"Goodnight, Mr Shelby," I whisper.