CHAPTER NINE:
WATER ON THE BRIDGE
(trigger warning: mentions of vomiting)

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SMALL HEATH SEEMED TO mourn for the next couple of days. The world went quiet. In the confines of her home where Helen spent most of her time hunched over the toilet puking up her guts, everything seemed to pause; Tommy and Grace, the coppers' agenda with Freddie, Ada's grief, the birth of a new life shadowed by the loss of a loved one. Freddie Thorne wasn't dead, but Ada acted like he was. She shut herself away from everybody, so much so that Helen hadn't even heard what she named her son. Only Polly went to see her, the rest of Small Heath waiting with bated breath.

Not that Helen blamed them. Everywhere Tommy went, a cloud of doom and gloom followed after him. One foot out of line and there would be hell to pay.

On the fifth day of sickness, Helen got tired of being tired and forced herself into something presentable before heading over to the Garrison. Even with her stomach twisting and her face coated in a light sheen of sweat, Helen donned her favourite lipstick and pinned her hair up in a bun. When Grace saw her sitting at the bar, she had to do a double take.

"Miss Mavis," she breathed, and Helen's lips twitched at the faint hint of panic she detected in her voice. "It's been a while. I didn't expect..."

Helen laid two coins on the bar and waited. "I'm here for a drink," she said when Grace merely stared at the sight. "Whiskey, please."

"You look..."

"A mess?" Helen grinned. Some of the tension eased off Grace's shoulders then, and she reached for the whiskey bottle and a fresh glass. "I know. Hence my drink of choice."

"Are you alright?" Grace asked, and Helen had to wonder if her concern was genuine. "You look like you should be resting."

"I've been resting all week," Helen grumbled, eagerly snatching up her drink the second Grace placed the glass in front of her. The whiskey was bitter on her tongue, and Helen knew it would come back to bite her later, but a drink or two would be nice in the moment. "It's nothing serious. I just think I've caught a stomach bug. Must've been the damn chicken at John's wedding. I knew just by looking at it that it was questionable. But did I listen to my instincts? No. That'll teach me."

Grace chuckled, quirking a brow at her jokingly, "You sure you're not pregnant?"

Helen paused.

The silence lingered just a second too long, and Grace's smile began to fade.

"Of course not," Helen scoffed, but her stricken expression was hard to hide as she quickly placed her half-drunk whiskey back onto the bar. "Come to think of it, I think I might head back home, have another lie down. Maybe you'll see me tomorrow, Grace..."

But Helen had no intention of going home. When she made it to Watery Lane, her hands subconsciously cradling her stomach, she went straight past her house on the corner and didn't stop until she reached Number 6. There was a steady line of men coming in and out of the side alley, pocketing their money with thinly veiled glee. They only spared Helen a brief glance as she made her way inside, but she didn't get very far before someone stopped her.

"Helen?" Polly stood in the open door of the Betting Shop, a thin eyebrow raised somewhat curiously. "If you're looking for Tommy, you just missed him."

"I'm not here for Tommy," Helen said, and nervously let her hands fall from her stomach. Polly's eyes keenly tracked the movement, narrowing for a second before her face dropped and she slammed the doors behind her. It was just the two of them now, cramped into the Shelby kitchen Helen had once known like the back of her hand. "I was hoping you could read my tea leaves."

"I think that would be best," Polly agreed, then lead the way over to the table.

As the tea boiled and Polly busied herself gathering a teapot and two cups, Helen lowered herself into a seat and let her head fall into her hands. How could she be so blind? So stupid? Not once had she stopped and considered what her symptoms could really mean. And the timing. She'd last seen Patrick three months ago, and there she was, vomiting her guts up every other morning.

You sure you're not pregnant?

No, Grace.

No, she was not sure.

"Here." Helen forced herself to sit up as Polly placed the teapot down onto the table. She poured one cup for herself, then sat down opposite her like they were merely discussing the weather, not the fate of Helen's entire future. "Go on, pour, then swirl the tea cup."

Helen did as she asked, feeling mighty stupid, and scared.

What if she wasn't pregnant, and she'd run to Polly like a dog with her tail between her legs?

But what if she was? And she was alone — no partner and no parents, just herself and a child she'd surely ruin...

"Polly—"

"Think about what you want."

"What I want?" she echoed, frowning at the thought.

"From your future," Polly rolled her eyes like this should be obvious. "So much has changed. And if you are what we think you are, the rest will change too. Is that what you want, Helen? Do you want your future to change?"

She says this like what I want will change anything, Helen scoffed.

Still, she let her mind wander, retreating back to a time where a child wouldn't have been so terrifying. She'd have Tommy, and a big house full of family to support them. The child would know they were loved. They'd have both a mother and a father, and a whole world at their feet.

Helen wanted so much.

She hated herself for it.

"Okay, now what?"

"Pour your tea back into the pot."

"What a waste," she mumbled, trembling as the silence continued to stretch.

"Indeed," Polly agreed, though she didn't seem to hear what Helen said as she stared into the empty cup, her eyes seeing symbols that Helen's never could. Slowly, she looked up at her, the only sound being Helen's heartbeat, and another slowly growing. "I'm not sure what the gender is yet, but they're certainly growing."

Fuck.

"Who's the father then? Is it Tommy?"

"So it's true," Helen whimpered.

Tears had gathered and began to trail steadily down her face, but she couldn't find it in her to panic, to do anything other than breathe and feel the ache pressing down on her chest. She was pregnant. And so alone.

"You knew it was true, Helen," Polly sighed, but that wasn't what Helen wanted to hear.

"What am I going to do, Polly?"

"Is it Tommy's?" Polly repeated, and pursed her lips when Helen shook her head. "Then I don't know. Where is the father?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," she bit out, and suddenly pushed back her chair so she could pace the length of the kitchen. "He didn't take me to his place when we went to London, just a hotel. Said he was going to stick around in Small Heath for a while, but then he disappeared and I haven't heard from him since—"

"Since you created a child together?"

"Yes," Helen breathed out, and squeezed her eyes shut. "I don't know what to do, Polly. This wasn't supposed to happen."

So much was meant to be different.

But history and wishes were things of the past, and Helen would never get them back.

She stared down at her stomach.

A child was growing inside, day-by-day, her blood and the blood of a stranger mixed together. They would never have Tommy's blue eyes, or Helen's blonde hair. They'd never know the Shelby love, or the love of Helen's brother, or anything but an empty house and a mother in ridicule.

Could she do that to a baby?

To herself?

Birmingham was cruel, but the rest of the world was ruthless. Helen would never find a place of acceptance for them. She'd be running forever.

"Will you help me?" she turned to Polly pleadingly. "Polly, please. I can't do this on my own."

"And you won't," Polly said. She moved to stand opposite Helen, drawing her into her arms with a warmth Helen hadn't felt from Polly Gray for years. It reminded her of a mother's touch, a promise that Helen's darker days would not be spent in isolation. "You have options, Nel. Nothing is set in stone, not that I can see. You have time."

All of a sudden, there were footsteps heard out in the hallway, followed by the familiar boisterous laughter of Arthur and another voice Helen couldn't quite place. No sooner had Polly frowned and pulled away from her when the door slammed open and a man Helen never thought she'd have to see again stepped over the threshold. He grinned, and held his arms out like he expected Polly to run into them.

"Pollyanna." Arthur Shelby Senior was a sight for sore eyes. His hair was grey and balding, more so than the last time Helen had seen him, and he wore a cheap suit that was unravelling thread by thread. He had a moustache much like Arthur Shelby Junior, and rotting yellow teeth that bared in Helen's direction creepily. "And Helen! Why, this is a surprise!"

"Dear God, give me strength," Polly grumbled, turning her eyes Heavenward for a second before rounding on Arthur accusingly. Behind him, John and Finn sank sheepishly into the background, clearly wanting to avoid Polly's wrath as much as humanly possible. Smart boys. "Give me one good reason for why you bought him here, Arthur Shelby."

"He's our dad," Arthur said weakly, and Helen suddenly felt cold, like she was intruding on something deeply personal. She attempted to inch past Polly, but the older woman kept her wrist in a vice grip.

"Was that supposed to sway me?" Polly scoffed. "Just wait until Tommy finds out."

"Where is Thomas?" Mr Shelby had made himself comfortable at the table and was pouring himself a cup of tea in Helen's discarded cup. She grimaced when he set his eyes on her and grinned again. She sheepishly tugged at her wrist but sighed when Polly shot her a look as if to say if I have to suffer through this, I'm not going down alone. "You've been keeping him busy, Nellie?"

"Uh, actually, Mr Shelby—"

"Just call me Arthur, dear."

"Mr Shelby, I'm not—"

"Why don't I make you a sandwich, dad?" Arthur suggested, shooting Helen a look that she only shrugged her shoulders at. What was she meant to do?

So the room went silent. Well, more like the Shelbys, except one. Polly leaned up against the counter and lit a cigarette, staring pointedly out the window whenever Mr Shelby would attempt to goad her into conversation. John and Finn waited by the door like soldiers lined up for war. John kept his head bowed, glare thinly veiled, while Finn stared at this stranger, the man who was meant to be his father, like he'd found a freshly printed fifty pound note on the street.

He'd never met Arthur Shelby Senior before.

Helen wished she could say the same.

"Here you go, dad." Arthur cut off his father's rambling by placing a plate down in front of him. He seemed especially chuffed when Mr Shelby grinned and replied, "Thank you. You're a good boy."

Helen's heart hurt for him. His whole life, Arthur had searched for approval in places he'd never find it. He'd sooner draw blood from a rock than convince his father to stay for good. Still, he tried, again and again, like the first dozen times hadn't ended in tears and bloodshed.

"Bless thee, Father, for these bounties we are about to receive—"

"Jesus Christ."

"Please, woman," Mr Shelby glared as Polly smirked into her hand. "Not in vain."

"Alright," Polly snapped, done with the pleasantries. "Finish your sandwich and sling your hook! You're interrupting my tea with Helen."

"Tea?" John snorted, the first words he'd spoken since he arrived. "With Nel?"

Helen found it hard to believe, too.

"Pollyanna, I'm a guest of the head of this family," Mr Shelby sniffed. He didn't seem truly annoyed — rather, he was more impatient, like he was swatting at a fly that just wouldn't bugger off. "So why don't you, maybe, tend to your mangle or your scuttle?"

"The head of the family ain't here," John muttered darkly.

Mr Shelby looked at Arthur curiously, waiting. Arthur shuffled around nervously in his seat, failing to hide some of the pink that flushed his cheeks. "Tommy, uh... He sometimes helps me with... with business, Dad."

Before Mr Shelby had the chance to reply, the back door opened and closed. When Tommy stepped into the room, he was almost certain he was dreaming. His father, the family, and Helen all in the same room. Helen stood beside Polly and Polly hadn't killed her yet. Arthur was cowering in front of their dad like a lamb at the slaughterhouse. Tommy blinked and took in the scene in silence.

"Ah, well, speak of the devil," Mr Shelby chuckled as he rose to greet his second son. "How are you, son?"

Tommy shook his head, as if he'd grown weary just at the sound of his dad's voice. "Get out."

"Come on, son. I'm a changed man."

"This family needed you ten years ago and you walked out on us," Tommy murmured, voice low and quiet. Once again, Helen wished she'd left when she had the chance. She wasn't supposed to witness this, had to fight the urge to cross the room and comfort him, even then, with a child in her stomach that wasn't his, no matter how much she might've wanted them to be.

And she so wished they were.

"But not now. Get out."

"Tommy, he's different—"

"Shut up." At last, some anger appeared on Tommy's face, directed at his older brother who sighed and caved almost immediately.

"It's alright, son," Mr Shelby nodded at Arthur, but Arthur couldn't look him in the eye, couldn't bear to see the disappointment he knew would be staring back at him. "Arthur Shelby never stays where he's not welcome."

With that, he gathered up his coat and hat, then turned to smile at Tommy with what could've been pride had he been a different man. "Quite something you've become, Thomas. Look after your wife, eh?"

And then he was gone.

As if he wasn't ever there in the first place.

"I should go, too," Helen said before the silence could settle in too deep. She could feel Tommy watching her, his gaze searing down to her bones, like he was picking her apart for the taking. She needed to get out, before she gave up her secrets in the wetness of her eyes, in the tremble of clenched fingers digging crescent moons into her palms.

Out. She needed out.

"Thanks for the tea, Pol," she continued, struggling to keep her voice even as she curled her own coat around her shoulders. It was the black one she'd kept from Tommy, but no one seemed to notice, least of all Helen as she hurried towards the door. "I'll see you later."

Polly said nothing back, but Helen wasn't worried. Polly had promised to help her, and everything else aside, Polly Gray did not make promises then break them.

So Helen walked home, kept her composure until the door was closed, then shattered like splintered glass, each piece crumbling away, the weight of the world too much, so heavy...

Helen couldn't breathe, and neither could the child, her child and hers alone. She thought about finding Patrick, but where would she start? And what was she supposed to say? Finding Patrick meant reducing herself to a life of pleasantries, of polite conversation and surface level love. But nothing genuine. Nothing of the heart, of the soul. Helen and Patrick would be everything that Tommy and Nellie weren't.

So Helen sobbed for her mother, for her father, for Frank and for Florence. For the little baby with a widowed mother, and a father they would never know. For Tommy and for his family, hers once, and for what could've been. She sobbed for herself, and for her own child, destined to suffer because she was scared and fear meant failure.

Helen couldn't describe it, the pain of that moment, the terror for a life fracturing in her hands.

She was pregnant, and she'd face it with her head held high. She just needed a second.

A second for a lifetime.

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A/N: okay i just want to end this chapter with a couple points! by no means am i shaming helen for getting pregnant out of wedlock or anything along those lines. helen's fears are deeply rooted into what her time period was like. we saw it with ada. an unmarried woman getting pregnant out of wedlock was the biggest of sins back then. and at the moment, helen feels like she has no one to turn to. her own relationship with her parents is strained, so she's terrified she'll end up like them, and it's an endless, painful cycle that i thought was pretty realistic for someone in her circumstances. let me know what you guys think of it?

only one or two more chapters left in this act... let's see what happens ;)