𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈.
two photographs
❝ DO YOU REMEMBER GRETA JUROSSI? ❞

—

BIRMINGHAM,
ENGLAND 1925

♜ ━━━━━ EVERYONE WAS out and about just as they used to be, on business and the like.

Adeline had business of her own to attend to.

All of her friends' fathers had gone on strike, even though Ada said the Bolsheviks couldn't organise a f—ckin' picnic if they wanted to. They sure could organise a strike but, couldn't they. Anyway, it didn't bode well for everyone's mood, or the overall tension. Each of them were a knife's edge away from utter explosion. Now they just had to decide who'd they explode onto.

In a huddle, Della's long lost gang stood. They had their backs to alley walls and cigarettes passed between them, tucking between their lips 'fore smoke could drift above their heads. Margo was late, that was just as well but. They were only at the very beginning. The first item of business hadn't even been discussed as of yet.

Which was just what Del was just gettin' to.

"There's danger afoot," the twelve year old announced with the cigarette smoldering between her fingers, "Coming closer and closer all the time."

Thirteen year old Ruthie's lips thinned, "D'you know what it's about yet?"

"Nah. No one will say a f—ckin' word."

"Bloody adults," Henry grumbled, and he was right.

Georgie thoughtfully rubbed his imaginary beard, "Remember when we talked 'bout all of us gettin' weapons?"

Ruthie groaned, "That was ages ago, Georgie."

"Yea, but, we hid all sorts round the lane, didn't we? Glass shards and nails and razors and things."

Ruthie lit a cigarette of her own and raised it to her mouth. The girl made a concerted effort to blow her next smokey mouthful in Georgie's face. Georgie coughed. Del did not.

Instead, she hummed and took a long drag of her cig, "There's someone after us Shelby's and we've to do something."

"Which is why I was late!"

They all turned to see Margo approach, mud splattering absolutely everywhere as she jogged over. She heaved for breath when she finally dropped onto the brick at their side, gratefully accepting the cig from Del. She took in a long inhale to steady herself 'fore she handed it back and straightened up to address the gang.

"I'm late 'cause I was collectin' evidence." The girl was still a little breathless, "There're photograph copies going round Small Heath, in all the pubs and street corners."

That was news to Del, "Photograph?"

"Yea. Managed to nick it from my uncle's pub, don't say you got it from me but, orright?"

The gang solemnly swore. With this assurance, Margo bent, reached into her stocking, and brought forth a curved photograph. The group scrunched in tighter, all leaning in for a better look. It was a wedding photograph from the looks of it, but the couple themselves didn't seem as important as the group of men surroundin' them.

"There's a reward for information," Margo added, then giggled and pointed at the man over the groom's shoulder, "His nose is a f—ckin' beak, ain't it?"

Del and Ruthie giggled, too.

But with their cigarettes brought to an end, it was decided amongst Della's gang: these were the men they would watch out for.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

After lunch, things grew grim.

On a day such as this, she could usually be found making a ruckus at Uncle Charlie's or on the roof of Henry's building or even in the road near the Garrison. With Henry and Ruthie away at their jobs and Margo taken ill from the cigarettes, both her band of scoundrels and her roaming territory was rapidly shrinking.

Then, bloody then, to add insult to injury, Frances, f—ckin' Frances, who was always kind and who always had the best intentions, determined it'd be nice for Charlie to get some fresh air (meaning without cigarette smoke) for a few hours. Del had promptly informed her there was absolutely no fresh air to be found in Small Heath so it'd be nice for Charlie to stay inside for a few hours, instead. Frances didn't go for that. And with all the adults at hospital visiting Michael, there was no one to trump her authority.

F—ckin' Frances.

Now, so, Del was destined to babysitting duty and a cigaretteless existence. These great tragedies hadn't helped to put her in a stellar mood. But there was George, good ole Georgie, willing to sit with her and her kid brother, the three of 'em languishing on the edge of the sidewalk on Watery Lane.

He pulled an unlit cigar from his mouth, "Think the weather'll turn, Missus Shelby?"

"Surely will, Mister Hughes." Del gave a puff from her unlit cigarette, "I can feel it in me joints, I can."

Georgie tsked in great dismay.

Charlie watched the pair of them with great interest, cold hands folded between his knees. So far, he'd seemed equally curious as he was terrified which rendered him mostly mute, and Del thought this was the best way for her little brother to remain if she had anything to say about it.

Her mate's eyes suddenly widened in excitement, "Why don't you give us a fortune, Della?"

"Eh?"

"Come on, Del, Charlie and I'd like to see it, wouldn't we, Charlie?" Georgie nudged her brother who eagerly nodded, just for the sake of being included. When Del still didn't look convinced, her mate pushed, "Well, you've it in your blood, don't you?"

He was goading her on, she was clever enough to tell. She hesitated but.

Del'd told fortunes countless times before; she, a giggling mess sitting with Polly over a clump of tea leaves. Pol always spun the best of tales, but none of Del's had ever come true. She'd never read clouds before, and neither had Polly from what she recalled. She knew it was done but. Still, it would be a grand time and anyway, Georgie was a gadje, he'd never know the difference. Neither would Charlie, really. He was basically gadje, too.

"Orright..." Del finally agreed with a sigh, eyeing the clouds thoughtfully, "Let's see..."

George lounged back like a house cat while Charlie pulled his knees close to his chest, folding his arms round his shins.

"Ah no... see that heavy swoopy one, eh?" Both boys leaned in close, squinting to follow her finger, "'S trouble coming, trouble for some but not for youse two."

Georgie gasped beside her and Charlie's pale purple lips were chapped and stretching open. They were definitely hooked now, they were, hook, line, and sinker.

She shivered, cuddling her nose deeper into her scarf, "Better have your coat, though."

"Really? How can you tell?"

She rolled her eyes, "'Cause it's bloody cold, Georgie."

Charlie giggled.

Her mate elbowed her, making her nearly slip off the step, "Ah Del, stop foolin'!"

"Orright, orright. They're crackly, and there's light shining through..." Del went on, tilting her head to the side a little, "So you've an adventure coming. And a great snow."

Just then, the very first snowflake flitted down from the sky, and Del and Charlie and Georgie stood up in wonder of the snowflakes now falling all over the street. The girl tilted her head back and stuck her pink tongue out to catch it on the very tip. She shivered and then beamed as it turned to liquid and trickled down her throat. Charlie quickly followed suit, copying her as he always did, nose wrinkled and mouth gaping while he careened back to catch one of his own.

Georgie yelped as it touched his tongue, "It's hot!"

"No, George," Charlie was quick to correct him, polite as anything, "It's so cold it feels hot, 's burning is all."

"Oh."

Del heaved a great sigh, sounding a thousand years old when she shook her head at her mate. Even Charlie knew better than him. Children, the pair of them.

They both were back at it then, the three goofs fumbling round the step with their heads tilted back and their mouths gaping wide open like a trio of lunatics. They were giggling like mad, bumping into each other and yelling at each other when they'd caught the biggest one.

"Oi!" A sharp voice shrilled 'cross the street, "Git off my stoop!"

The three children jolted and scampered off of Missus Masters' front step, sighing in great dismay because it was a widely known fact round the Watery Lane kids that Missus Masters' fireplace was always lit and if you scooted real close to the door, you could feel the heat coming through. The woman was fuming as hot as her fireplace, face red and hair dusted with snow. She marched all the way towards them and stopped just when she could loom over them with flaring nostrils and wild eyes.

"See what yous've done?" Old Missus Masters accused, wildly motioning at what looked like a whole lot of nothing.

Charlie lunged and dug his fingers into the back of Della's coat, hiding his face in terror. The girl instinctively moved her body to cover him, shielding the boy from view. The old hag wouldn't hurt them, of course, she could definitely reduce her little brother to tears but. Georgie stood bravely at her side, though looked almost as terrified as Charlie.

"We didn't do anything but." Folding her hands and cheesin' a grin, Del tried to look as innocent as she could, "Promise."

Old Missus Masters was havin' none of it. She leaned in close, gripped her by the cheek, and shook her.

"It's bad children like you that makes the seasons change!"

Del cringed at the strain on her cheek, speechless. If Missus Masters was to be believed, she'd have been bad an awful lot more than she even realised. Both Charlie and George were looking at her in complete awe, and Del suddenly felt strangely gratified.

Who knew she held so much power?

It was enough for a twelve year old to get chuffed, it was. Besides, snow was an excellent sign. It always meant winter break coming, her birthday and Christmas together in one glorious package.

But then Missus Masters went on, "It's too bad your mother never lived to raise you properly, Adeline Shelby. Lord knows what your father teaches you."

Del had become almost accustomed to hearing insults aimed at Tommy, even from fellow children, even from adults. It was the talk of her mother that struck her but. This wasn't the first time the old b—tch had talked about Della's mother, certainly not, it caught her off guard every time but.

Her jaw loosened and her lips parted, she couldn't say a thing but.

Charlie tugged on the back of her voice, voice tremulous, "Della?"

Missus Masters was still spitting, "Why don't they put mittens on you? Can't your father afford to buy you a decent pair of mittens? Don't he know how t' raise you?"

Something dark and terribly sad slithered awake inside of her. Del could feel it like tar spreading over her guts, black and hot. Her fingers twitched and formed a fist at her side. She should let her have it and she might've, had she not been under Tommy's strict instructions, which she regrettably assumed included not fighting vicious old ladies.

So, Del reached back, grabbed Charlie's bare hand, and tugged him down the step of Missus Master's stoop. Georgie also departed, sensing her mood, fleeing for home. Little Charlie kept shooting wary glances up at Del, she ignored them but. She didn't say a single word as she stormed them back into number six, leading her brother into the kitchen where Pol and Ada were back from whatever business they'd been about.

"We made it snow," Charlie very proudly announced, like he was waiting for applause.

"Did you?" Polly asked in an amused sort of way, cradling a teacup in her hands, glancing between Tommy's two children.

One was shining, the other was sinking.

"We did!" The little boy nodded with wide eyes, "Honest we did!"

Ada snorted, "Well done, then, you two."

Della couldn't say a word as she numbly turned round and disappeared upstairs.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Thirteen years ago, Tommy Shelby had been just a boy in love with a girl and had a baby on the way. They had their whole lives ahead of them, a great big world they were determined to change together.

Now, all these years later, when so many bad things had already happened, when their Adeline was only just twelve and already seeing the world and her father for what they truly were, a much older and colder Tommy Shelby sat across from Jessie Eden when she took him by surprise.

"You know, when this business began, I did some research on you. It turns out I know someone who used to know you very well..." Jessie paused, eyeing the cold man across from her, "Kitty Jurossi."

The reaction had been minute, barely there at all, really.

For once, it was his ever—piercing gaze that drifted just a bit.

His jaw shifted.

His head tilted back.

He swallowed hard.

"You were in love with Kitty's sister, Greta Jurossi. Before the war."

There was something accusational in Jessie Eden's tone, as if she was trying to find something to pin him down with, like she was trying to find where it hurt the most.

"Do you remember Greta Jurossi?"

Tommy Shelby wasn't a man who forgot things. He was a man who remembered everything, and forgot nothing.

But he was also a man who buried things, buried things so deep within the tunnels he'd dug within himself, and he'd laid her to rest down there amongst the dark and the damp with all the other things that'd threatened to tear down his walls.

Tommy said nothing.

They didn't talk about her, Tommy and Del, they just didn't. Her name, an unspoken thing as they traversed through whatever storm he had brought down upon them. Past is the past, he was always telling Del that, Let the dead lie with the dead.

He'd not heard her name said aloud for must've been over a decade, now. Her name had been drowned out by... by whatever had been closest at hand, really. By war, by pipe, by whiskey, by Grace, by business.

All for the sake of drowning out the memory of Greta Jurossi, Tommy'd drowned his own daughter out in the process.

"Her parents were Italian. They didn't approve of a Watery Lane Gypsy, but you won them over. With your charm. Sweetness."

"Very..." Tommy had hoped to mock her, but it came out low and rasped, nearly choked when he scoffed, "Very thorough research."

Jessie continued on, undeterred, "Greta died at the age of nineteen. Of Consumption."

Tommy couldn't breathe.

"And Kitty said you were at her bedside for three months. Every day, holding her hand."

He wanted to run, suddenly, leave behind this place and all of its memories and feelings that he'd so long ago buried within that tunnel.

"And after she died, you left your child and went away to war. Kitty said that the sweet boy who left never came back."

"No one came back," it was the easiest response he'd ever given, the most honest thing he'd said in ages.

And even long after the conversation had ended and he'd left Jessie Eden's flat, her final question still hung heavy on his mind when he stared down at the photograph taken in Blackpool of June 15, 1913:

Do you recognise the boy in the photograph?

The answer was no.

No, he did not.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It rained like f—ckin' cats and dogs that night. The sky seemed furious, the wind screaming past their small house on Watery lane. The rain pummeled their window, and beyond it Del could see men watching the street, guarding the house, protecting it from strangers. There'd been strangers in the shop earlier while her father conducted business and dealt threats, and of course Del was told to keep far and away. That was fine enough. She was used to it. All she seemed to do nowadays was keep far and away from her father.

She should be used to that as well.

Del had been a baby without a mum, but she'd been a baby without a dad, too. By pestilence and war, she'd been orphaned. Sounded like something out of a f—ckin' storybook. For the very first time, Del thought maybe it might've been easier with a mum. It might've been lovely with a mum. She'd never known her and she'd never known to miss her, but it looked nice, didn't it? Polly with Michael. Ada with Karl. Linda with baby Billy. She saw how they cherished them, how they doted on them, took care of them, how much they loved them.

To be loved by a mother might be very nice, indeed.

A sob choked and stopped halfway up Del's throat, and it hurt to swallow it down. She wrapped her arms tighter round herself and sank deeper into her blankets. For some reason, that song from the road, the one she and the Lee girls had performed at the fairs, it was playing round and round in her mind.

"No mummy's arms to hold me or soothe me when I cry. 'Cause sometimes I feel so lonesome, I wish that I could die..."

Charlie was the only reason the song didn't reach its end.

A singular finger poked at her back followed by a soft call of her name.

With her shaking eyelids still closed, Del tearily mumbled, "Go back to bed, Charlie."

He whispered in her ear, "But I can't sleep..."

The older sister sighed. Usually Frances would be there to handle this, but with the moving to Small Heath, they had to place the nanny in a separate house of her own. She would be there in the mornings through to the evenings to take care of her brother, the midnight hours but were left to Del. F—ck's sake. The girl huffed to herself, wiping roughly at her running nose.

"Then go see Da, orright?"

"I can't." Charlie was fiddling with her sheet, eyes huge and teary, "Scared to bother him."

Del rolled to get a better look at her little brother in the scant streetlight. She was shocked. Properly, properly shocked. Charlie, the golden boy, the angel child, he was afraid to bother their father? She'd never thought that possible, much less probable. Del had bothered Tommy since the day she was born. She always knew she was bothering him, she'd never been afraid to but.

"Orright. Get in." He slipped quickly into the blankets and she hissed when his cold toes pressed directly into her shins, "Ah, bloody hell, Charlie—,"

"Sorry," Giggling, he sounded distinctly not sorry at all, the little b—stard.

She sighed, she didn't push him away but. Her big eyes rolled closed once again, and she let herself drift back into her dreams. That was 'til her brother decided to speak again.

"Della?"

"Charlie?"

He paused, letting the moment linger 'fore he whispered, "I want to go home."

"What d'you mean?" She flicked his ear, "This is home."

"No, it's not."

Del paused. She hadn't realised just how right Charlie was. 'Course this wasn't home to him; he'd been born and raised in the big house while Small Heath was once Della's whole world. For a moment, she found herself understanding where her posh little brother was comin' from. She'd come home; he hadn't. It was no wonder he missed the f—ckin' big house. She could sympathise with that, couldn't she.

"Don't worry, Charlie, we'll be here just a little longer, orright?" Her little brother looked so dubious that Della took it upon herself to convince him, "'Sides, Small Heath is grand. You can run round without shoes and steal whatever food you can find and make all sorts of trouble 'cause the adults are all too busy to notice. What's the big house got to compare, eh?"

"The portraits of Muma."

Della knew that Charlie had been a baby without a mum, too. But as stupid as it was, when Grace died, Del almost forgot that she'd been Charlie's muma at all. Because Grace didn't ever really seem like his mum, did she? She'd been so busy with being a wife and going to parties and tending to charities that somehow Del missed it completely. At least Charlie had Tommy in those earliest years, at least Tommy had been able to see one baby grow into a child.

Charlie's sadness passed so he could say, nearly boasting, "I look more like Muma than you do."

Del made a face at that.

"Right, but that's 'cause..." The girl stopped, suddenly shocked at the implication, "Charlie, you know Grace wasn't my mum too, yea?"

Charlie genuinely looked like he'd never heard this before. Del couldn't believe no one had bothered to tell him. Bewildered, he cocked his blond head against their pillow and his little nose scrunched.

"But what happened to your mum, Della?"

"She died." She wiggled on their shared bed, suddenly feeling like the blankets and her pajamas and everything was too hot and too tight, "When I was a baby, like Grace died when you were a baby."

"So we're the same?"

"Yea Charlie..." Her heart twisted in her chest and she found herself gently brushing aside his blond fringe, mumbling, "We're the same."

Little Charlie beamed at that, curling up his legs and tucking his knees against Della's ribcage. Even if he did just drive the air from her lungs, Del didn't bother resisting him or pushing him away. Two pairs of sleepy eyes slipped shut, and she felt his little breaths from across the pillow as they each drifted closer and closer to sleep.

"Del?" He whispered into the still air, "Was your muma nice?"

"Mm, don't remember her, do I..." She whispered back, eyes still closed.

"Was your muma pretty?"

"Dunno."

"Did you love her?"

"Must have."

"Did Da love her?"

"Hope so..."

"Do you miss her?"

Del opened her eyes to peek at him, biting her lip, unable to give the answer for fear it would choke her. Instead, so, the girl wrapped an arm round her brother's shoulders and pulled him closer, whispering for him to go to sleep. Charlie had one last question to ask.

"Can you sing?"

Del couldn't refuse him, not now.

Eyes closed, goosebumps on her skin, the twelve year old girl began to sing:

"Just like the flowers, I'm growing wild. I got no mummy's kisses, I got no daddy's smile."

Already halfway asleep, already mostly gone, Adeline Shelby finished the last words of the song:

"Nobody wants me, I'm nobody's child."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In the hallway, on his way home from meeting Jessie Eden, Tommy stood outside his children's door with a tear running down his face.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In the cold dawning light, Del was lying in bed, resting a book on her sternum, and eating from a tin of biscuits she'd nicked from Frances two days ago. Biscuits were the best way to soothe anger, after all. For at least a few minutes, her mind was at rest, her belly was near full, and her brother's warmth at her side. Even if Charlie did kick viciously in his sleep, this all seemed quite lovely.

Quite lovely, indeed.

At least 'til a gunshot cracked out somewhere next door.

Charlie fairly fell off the bed when Del leapt over him and out of their sheets. The girl eagerly pushed up her window, climbed onto the ledge, and peered out. Across the way, in the backyard beyond, Uncle Arthur was out there in his undershirt and shorts, gun in his hand and eyes near tears. From the looks of it, there was no one worth shooting at — just a whole lot of nothing. Del cocked her head.

"Orright, Uncle Arthur?"

Her uncle spun round, gun still in hand, looking like he was 'bout to shoot her eye out.

"F—ck!" Della ducked for cover, and when she dared peek up again, it looked like Tommy and Linda were arriving to calm him down, "Holy hell."

"What..." Charlie's bottom lip was trembling, "What was that?"

"Don't worry 'bout it, Charlie. They've gone mad." Del sighed, shut the window, and trudged towards the door, "The whole world's gone f—ckin' mad."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Adeline, get up."

It was near dark already, the sun set over the rooftops, at least the rain had finally stopped but. Della barely glanced up from her spot in the parlour, reading some boxing magazine, to find her father with his cap and coat on. He'd been out and about all day, and then he'd hunkered down in the shop — not to be disturbed. Now, he was disturbing her.

"Tommy, what in the hell could you—?"

She stopped when she saw the look on his face.

He was serious. This was serious.

Without a word, the girl tugged on her coat and walked with him out the house, down Watery Lane, and towards the canal. She kept shooting uncertain glances up at her father, he didn't say a thing but. Eventually, Tommy led her beneath a bridge on the side of the canal where the water ran green and the mist clung close to their feet. She followed his lead and planted herself on the edge of the water, her boots softly squishing into the wet soil.

She could see her breath in the air and her hands ached; she'd forgotten to bring her scarf, too.

It was f—ckin' freezing, and no mistake.

It felt wrong to speak above a whisper, "What're we doin' here, Tommy?"

Tommy didn't respond for a long time. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, in his own world. He'd taken Lizzie here earlier. To see if he could bear it. To see if it was still the same. He could and it was, and so he'd decided to bring Della. Because of what she'd said to Charlie. Because of her song.

"We used to come here, she and I, waiting for each other."

Del cocked her head, "Who?"

Tommy didn't answer, not really. Instead, he put a hand in his coat pocket and held a small worn photograph out for her to take. Del took it carefully, fingers frigid and stiff in the cold air. It was a bit hard to make out, but with the flicker of his lighter and cigarette, she could see hints of it in the dim light. Wild rovers beside the seaside — June 15th, 1913. She caught her breath; she knew the face of the man and that meant that the woman beside him...

"Who... is that?" Tommy didn't respond, and in his silence, Del could guess at his answer. Breathlessly, she hoped, "Is it...?"

"It is."

Del's small finger gently traced the curved lines of her mother's face, heart lodged in her throat. She'd never asked for a photograph, and her da had never given one. She'd always just assumed...

"Where'd you get it, Tommy?"

"It's yours now. All that matters." His hand twitched, like he wanted to move it towards her, hold her hand, touch her head, but he forced it to still, "A gift, from me to you."

Del wiped roughly at her nose, "She's beautiful, ain't she?"

"Yea. She was."

Della's mother died when she was barely a year old, so she didn't remember what she looked like or what she was like. Some people on Watery Lane remembered her, but. Only one dared speak about it — Missus Masters, namely. Besides being the sassiest, most disrespectful brat who had ever crossed her path, Della was told that it was quite a pity her father stopped caring for her after her mother's death. A lovelier woman than Greta Jurossi never lived, she'd said, and it was heartbreaking the way Tommy Shelby let her only daughter run wild.

Biting her lip, she murmured, "You've never talked 'bout her. Not ever. Not even once."

There was guilt in that, so much endless guilt. How many promises had he made to Greta that he wasn't able to uphold? How many promises had he made to Del that he hadn't been able to keep? Too f—ckin' many. Greta deserved to be kept alive through words, she deserved to be alive at all. But he'd killed her; with his curse, with his silence.

"She was a..." He snuffed as well, rubbed at his nose, "A good person."

"Yea?"

"Yea."

It was clear he wouldn't say her name. He couldn't. She wouldn't force him to. Maybe it hurt him to talk about it, maybe that was why he never did. She needed him to, but. Just a little, just some — even without calling her by name, without calling her his Greta.

"Tell me about her. Please?" Della's hand shook, and not from the cold, when she rested it on his sleeve, "Just ten things, just ten and I'll never ask for more... Please, Tommy?"

Tommy wasn't quite able to hide his flinch when she said his name that time.

He should tell her, he know he should, even if all he wanted to do was push her away and tell her that the past is the past, and to let the dead lie with the dead. Del deserved to know, and Greta deserved to be known.

So, he took a deep breath. And then, Tommy told Del about her.

"One."

He stopped 'fore he even really got started. He seemed to be chewing on his words, staring past her at the canal where the mist was smoothing out over the green water. Del found her eyes were burning from staring at him so hard. The girl gently nudged her hip into her da's thigh, and even she wasn't sure if it was more to remind him to keep going or to comfort him.

"Right. One." Tommy repeated himself, clearing his throat, "She was funny. Said things that should've cut ya, but she was so charming, they just made you laugh."

Del found herself smiling, feeling younger than she had in years. Even her Tommy looked younger somehow. She leaned a bit closer into him, terrified of missing even a single word.

"Two." He continued on, "She'd black hair and freckles, known for her secretive smile and her raised eyebrow."

"Like me," Del murmured.

"Yea, like you..." Tommy exhaled softly, nodding to himself. "Three. She was the sharpest girl in Small Heath, made infamous for her strong opinions and her radical ideas."

Every f—ckin' bit of this seemed impossibly sad, Del could see a smile tugging at the corner of Tommy's lips but. How long had it been since she'd seen him smile? How long had it been since she cared about how long it'd been? Too f—ckin' long.

"Four." He continued, "Her legs were made for running. The fastest runner I knew; outrun me, your uncles Arthur and John. If we were racin' her, they'd never let her get a head start, 'cause she'd beat 'em and no mistake."

"I'm that way, too," Della was saying it 'fore she really meant to, "Back at the old school, we'd races all the time, and I beat all the boys. Most of 'em. William Lewis got sore, saying it weren't fair 'cause boys and girls shouldn't race each other to begin with. I said he's just a bad loser."

She blushed immediately. She hadn't meant to share so much; it'd just flowed out of her.

Her da nodded. He was quiet for a long moment.

"I'm ready for number five, Tommy," Del softly prompted.

"Five," he forged ahead with a low rumble. "She loved flowers, grew up round them 'cause her father was a florist. Knew each kind and every meaning behind 'em. And six..."

Tommy rubbed his nose, cleared his throat again, and looked up at the curved roof of the bridge. Del found herself looking up, too.

"And number six is that she loved being told stories. She'd sit and listen to stories all day long. She 'specially liked sad ones, stories that made her cry."

Tommy nodded his head, Della thought it was almost like he was agreeing with himself.

"And number seven?"

"Let's see, eh?" He thought to himself, readjusting against the wall, "She had ideas. Loads of them. Big and small, and every single one of 'em good. She wanted to change the world, even if she never got the chance."

Something strange and wonderful was happening to her father. His eyes were more closed than open, and his face looked smoothed of all wrinkles and creases made from time and pain. He looked as if he belonged to another place and time entirely. He looked happier. Softer. Del wished she'd known him like that.

"Number eight..." Tommy said, with his eyes still mostly shut, "Is that she'd've hated the idea of a f—ckin' mansion. She didn't care 'bout politics or money. She just wanted me to come home t' you at the end of the day."

There was an itchiness at the corner of Della's eye. When she went to scratch it, she was surprised to find her cheek wet. It hurt to swallow again.

"Ten."

"Nine," she corrected him with a croaky voice, "You can't skip any, Tommy."

"Orright, nine." He heaved a sigh like it came from the very depths of him, "She'd a voice like no other, a voice that could break your heart. People came from the likes of Digbeth or Saltley just to hear her. Named you after a song she sang to me... Sweet Adeline."

Del's heart twisted. Was he saying the name of the song? Or was he calling her that instead?

"Number ten." Tommy announced with a distinct tone of finality, "Number ten is that she loved you. More than anything. More than life."

That was it. The end.

She was loved. More than anything. More than life. She was loved, even if the one who loved her was dead and buried. It was good enough, Del supposed, the short time she and her mother had together. She'd been loved by a mum once, even for just a little, and she was sure it must've been lovely.

Del knew that when they got back to Watery Lane, she'd write down all ten things that Tommy had told her. She'd write them down just as he'd said them so that she'd not forget anything, and then she'd whisper them out loud 'til she had 'em memorised. She'd memorise it so she'd have some part of her to hold on to. She wanted to know those ten things inside and out, 'til it felt like she almost knew Greta Jurossi herself.

It was good enough.

Tommy didn't stop himself from reaching out this time, gently settling his hand on her head, hesitating like he wasn't sure if she'd allow it. Del didn't push him away but. She was right all those years ago — hatred and anger did make one tired. And she was so tired of being angry at him. With a soft sigh, the girl sunk 'til she could lean into his side, feeling his arm wrap round her shoulders.

Things weren't forgiven, not even a little, but she could at least admit how badly she missed him.

Slowly, her da scratched at her scalp with that familiar rhythm, "Sing us a song, eh, Della?"

Her big eyes somehow went bigger, "Really?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"It's not. Promise," she rushed to assure, blushing to the roots of her hair. Swallowing hard, she folded her hands between her knees for warmth and stared past him to the green canal. Somehow, she already knew what song to sing:

"Everything went wrong, and the whole day long, I'd feel so blue. For the longest while, I'd forget to smile. Then I met you. Now that my blue days have passed, now that I've found you at last..."

Tommy was looking at Del, but she suspected he wasn't really seeing her. Not really. She suspected he might be seeing someone else entirely. For once, she didn't mind it. She'd let him imagine it, for his sake. Her eyes slipped closed and she hoped her da knew she meant every word with her whole heart.

"I'll be loving you always, with a love that's true always. When the things you've planned need a helping hand, I will understand always..."

━━━━━━ annie speaks ━━━━━━

ahhhh! my heart, my heart! this whole chapter just... it's so nice we FINALLY got around to talking about greta. this has been in the making for a long, LONG time and it's finally out in the open. she would've loved del so so much and our poor girl really needed that. i also loved diving into del and charlie's relationship a bit more; she's such a protective big sister, i love seeing it as it grows.

in other news, tommy is still realizing what a mess he's made and there's no way that he's forgiven yet. still... he misses our della. boy, do they have a long and rough road ahead of them...

so! tell me! what did you think of this chapter??

catch ya next with with a very rough chapter! yay!!