Astor // Arthur Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Chapter 53

It becomes an unspoken routine.

Each morning I wake, I dress, and I take the dogs for a walk of the grounds. I never intend to spend half the day on the farm. But there's a knot wound tight in my stomach, and my footsteps move quickly, and I cannot rest until the farm's come into view. Until I see Arthur covered in dirt.

All tension leaves my body.

Over the course of a few weeks, we get the soil ready for planting. We level the garden, and Arthur begins building borders for garden beds. We work together in silence, save for the occasional comment. We add Sulfur and then blood meal to the soil.

I arrive the next morning, and Arthur has already built the water tank for our irrigation system.

I frown. "You did this without me?"

"Couldn't sleep," he tells me. "Gave me something to do. Don't think you're off the hook, mind. I'll need your help getting it up."

We roll it across the grass, up the incline to where it will stay. It's heavy even without the water, and I pant from the exertion — and then I realise a month ago, I wouldn't have been unable to push it at all. A layer of muscle now coats my bones from all our work. And the copious amounts of pork chops and battenburg cake the cook has been serving me, my appetite recovered and enjoying more with every meal.

Once we've installed the tank and begin to fill it with water, Arthur shows me how to make pipes for the main supply line. He's patient, using simple words to explain it to me. Once or twice, I find my gaze resting on him a little longer than it should... I wish I could blame the brain zaps, but that doesn't explain why I linger on the shadows his eyelashes cast below his eyes, or the way the stubble across his jaw catches the morning light.

"Not quite finished," he says, jolting me back to myself. He holds up the section of the long line, inspecting his handiwork. "We'll have to do the last bloody bit tomorrow."

"You're leaving?" I ask. My voice is small. "But... It's not three yet."

His jaw clenches as he swallows. "Have to start work a bit earlier today. Tommy wants us to go into London."

"Oh." I pause. "Alright."

There's more I want to say. Words, sentences, entire concepts rush into my mind. It's overwhelming. Phrases overlap, drive safe, have a nice trip, will be you be back tomorrow?

But I choke on everything that comes to my tongue, and nothing feels right. I suck in a breath. I try to swallow.

It's no use. My head begins to pound. It feels as though my brain has erupted from the sheer weight and clarity of wanting to wish well this man — who is practically a stranger.

I cannot say any of it at all, and so I simply leave.

I spend the whole day feeling miserable. It culminates in me knocking every chess piece from the board onto the floor in frustration.

"I'm not in the mood today," I say bitterly as I enter the office room.

It's cosy as ever, with velvet armchairs, and even a bar hidden behind the desk. How do I know there's a bar hidden behind the desk? I wonder for a moment in amazement.

But the female doctor who smiles kindly at me doesn't seem the type to drink while working. I wonder if she knows about the bar at all.

"What's going on?" She asks me kindly.

I curl up on an armchair with my knees pulled up to my chest. I try to remember the way she wants me to frame our sessions.

"I feel frustrated," I say. Identify the feeling.

The doctor nods slowly, pressing her lips together in concern. "I'm sorry to hear that. What's made you frustrated?"

I close my eyes and take a breath. "My head hurts. I'm just not in the mood for the memory exercises, or the puzzles, or the reading."

"Alright," she agrees, scribbling a quick note of this down in her file. "The last thing I want is to overwork you. We can forego the program today. But... we'll be replacing it with talk therapy."

I blink. "What's that?"

She smiles. "Talking. Tell me what's going on inside your head."

"I don't know. I... I have new thoughts. If I have too many thoughts, it hurts. And I can't get them out."

The doctor nods. "That's completely normal. I'm fact, it's a good sign for your healing."

"My healing," I repeat.

"Miss, can you remember why we are doing the program?"

I swallow. "To restore my memory."

"You seem more accustomed to the idea," she says. "The first time I told you that, you left the room and refused to come back for three days."

I squeeze my eyes shut. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be constantly told things about yourself? Things that don't make sense. You know they're not true. But other people keep saying these things regardless."

"What things, Miss?"

"Things like me leaving the room and not coming back. I can't remember that. Things like that—that Arthur man from the farm. He said I was his wife. Back in the car. Whenever that was."

My words hang between us in silence.

"Is Arthur bothering you?" She asks kindly.

"No, I didn't mean that."

"I can have him leave," she continues. "He will not come back and see you again. Not if he knows being here is making you feel worse."

"Don't." I cannot understand why fear runs through my abdomen at the thought. I cannot understand why tears sting at my eyes. This is all so confusing. "He's not making me feel worse."

She frowns in concern. "Miss, you're almost in tears just talking about him. Has he... Being around him... Has it triggered any memories?"

"No." I wipe my eyes. "I'm not getting any old thoughts, I just... I think I'm creating new ones. And it hurts my head."

"Okay. As I said, I think these are positive signs... I know you have said you would prefer not to take medication, but I can prescribe something for the headaches?"

"No." My voice is sharp. "They're not that bad."

She smiles sadly. "Alright. I think a new therapy might help. And I will be giving you homework." She pulls out a stack of paper, and a fountain pen. "If you cannot speak your thoughts or memories, try writing them. Get the words out into the page. You can even write letters, if you want. You can write whatever you like."

Cautiously, I take the paper and pen from her. I glance at them as though they might try and bite my head off at any moment. But they remain perfectly still and harmless.

"Alright," I finally agree. "I'll give it a try."

"Good." The doctor stands to her feet. "If you're not up to the memory recall exercises, we'll finish here for today. Try the therapy. And I'll see you tomorrow."

I nod, but my mind is preoccupied as I leave the office.

I don't know why, but I'm eager to escape back up to my bedroom and spend some time alone with the pen and paper.