Tommy, of course, still does answer to the title. Even if he is no longer on active duty, so many of the men here see him as the Sergeant Major that he's kept answering to it. He runs a hand through the horse's mane to calm it, and then gracefully dismounts.
"I remember kindness and strength in the middle of pandemonium," he says, slowly, looking at her. Yes, she's changed, but not in a way that anyone would find surprising. She has made it all the way to Birmingham, and for a woman alone to think that trip is worth it she must have seen things far worse.
"If someone took that rank from you, they didn't deserve to. Have you come for your gun, Corporal?"
If there is anything in the world Tommy respects, it's a man who did his duty, who served. That courtesy certainly extends to women.
That almost does make her smile, or at least makes her less willing to scowl at him, but the truth is she resents it only because she will always resent anything that has been taken from her by any stretch of the imagination. She willingly announced her departure from the company. They placed their exit demands upon her, of which that was one.
"Letty," she offers instead, to set aside the conversation. Then a deeper breath, and more firmly still: "And yes, I have. Although I admit to doubting it would be that simple." She straightens off the wall, scraping the lit end of the cigarette off behind her, tucking it away into her pocket.
"Would it, brother?" All but the last word is English. His treatment of the horse and the few words he's given her so far speak to a man she might not need to threaten to keep away from her, but she has ever been the kind of woman that makes certain others know exactly where she expects them to stand in relation to her.
"You've travelled too far to meet resistance now, sister." His hand
is still resting on the horse's neck, keeping it quiet and still next to
him as he looks at her. Yes, he decides: he'd pegged her right in the war,
and she still deserves the respect he'd given her then.
"Though I hope you'd let us receive you as a guest in our home before you
left with what you came for." He keeps his distance, says our so she
knows he doesn't wish to lure her into his home.
She doesn't need calming like the horse does, although she doesn't miss that at all; neither does she miss returning the title here, too. She nods after a moment, stepping forward to hold her hand out to the horse, letting it decide whether to draw back from her or investigate by standing absolutely still for him.
And then our, which makes Letty's glance go quickly to Tommy's hands for something she'd missed before, raising an eyebrow. "Us?" A pause and, utterly straight-faced and without softening at all: "You don't mean the horse."
He twitches a small smile; the one she'd been considering as the horse brushes its tough, coarse upper lip over her palm sets under her skin where it had started to form. His family. Of course. Most people have that, after all.
She's just proud and just spiteful enough that she drops her hand and clears her throat to decline out of hand; but the horse pulls against Tommy's steadying grip to stretch its neck after her and she hesitates.
Finally, weighing how very tired and alone she is against how far pride can get a woman in life - especially misused as an excuse to be contrary - she nods.
"If it was trouble I wouldn't have extended the invitation in the first
place," he says, jerking his head slightly to indicate the direction
they'll be going. He's not a man hangs tightly onto courtesy.
It's a short walk from where he'd seen her, and he leaves the horse tied
down to a ring in the wall. "We'll be right back for you, girl, don't you
worry," he murmurs, before patting her and opening the door.
He's taking them through the office, and so she walks right into the chaos
of betting, of John calling out the races, the times, the horses that are
up to be betted on; Scudboat taking and cashing out, Arthur in his office.
She's welcome to look, but if she doesn't want to he'll go through the
green doors in the back, into the kitchen.
She follows, pulling her coat tight around her and waiting as he tethers the horse. Letty doesn't know what it is she's expecting when they walk through the door but it certainly isn't what she's confronted with, and her eyes go wide in the splitsecond before she catches herself.
Look she does, once she notes that Tommy doesn't bustle her on through; she's seen war and she's been far from home but she's not worldly enough to have the first clue what she's looking at, at first. Her eyes narrow as she tries to follow the current of it, watching where the money goes, trying to match it up with why, with the numbers and the names the men are calling. She glances at the cards with their numbers, and the men counting the cash.
Most of all, she notes that no one so much as looks twice at her, and the only time she has to push her way through is when there physically isn't enough space for her to pass.
By the time ages followed Tommy into the kitchen, her cheeks are ever so slightly flushed and she's forgotten all about being acerbic for the moment.
"Family business," he says, twitching a smile at her as he closes the
doors- it's immediately quiet, leaving them with the fire in the hearth,
the tiles, the china cabinet and the personal photographs.
"We're bookmakers. Horse racing." And there's a subtle undertone of is
that going to be a problem? Because it has been, too often.
She's still too focused back where they came from to really note their current surroundings, which is good; it lets her acclimate to being in what is clearly the private portion of someone's home - a stranger's home - before she has to actually deal with it.
She just looks at him for a moment at the question, hearing the unspoken one loud and clear, before she shakes her head just once. "No," she adds, just in case. Then: "Was that a test?"
He rubs his mouth, once, and raises his eyebrows. "No," he says, slowly, as
he walks to the stove, to boil some water. "But you passed it either way.
What would the test have been, in your opinion?"
He begins making preparations. She watches him, her hands folded around her elbows.
"I haven't the first idea. What I do know is the way some people reacted when I said your name, and the fact that licensed businesses have signs outside of their buildings so they can be found."
Obviously, not something that unlicensed businesses would want.
"So either we trust our customers to find us, or we are unlicensed," he posits, turning back to her. He looks a little harder, like he still expects her to walk right out the door.
She doesn't look as though she's about to walk anywhere; indeed, she has always had a particularly solid way about her when she refuses to budge, despite her size. Much larger men than she have backed down from trying to go through her when she sets her jaw just so and pins them with her eyes.
This is the much milder version: still immobile, but nodding, agreeing. "Or both."
"Not like you mean," she allows, rolling her shoulders back a bit, dropping her arms. "Country races, boys in the field on their prize horses trying to prove them better than the other. Higher prices, not much more, and the bets are for chores or for a piece of jewelry, spending money."
Nothing like this. "It does well for your family, this business. Bookmaking."
His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when he smiles at that description-- he remembers those as well. He remembers participating in those, as a boy.
"It does. It has done, for a long time. It isn't easy, but it's good."
"The two men I came in with, that day- they're both still here, too."
And that makes him proud, and happy- even if Freddie doesn't talk to him outside of cussing him out, even if Danny sees German soldiers in the streets of Birmingham.
She remembers Danny and Freddie; she remembers pulling them out of the tent and handing them off to another nurse, but of course so many men died after that day anyway. She hadn't wanted to ask for the exact reason that she hadn't wanted to hear they were alright, and she hadn't wanted to hear that they were dead.
Her lips thin a little, but when she nods again, when she says, "That's good. I thought about the three of you, after we lost each other then. I spared a prayer for you. I'm glad someone was listening." she means it, too, even if it feels like swallowing sandpaper.
"Yes," she answers, her voice faintly, inexplicably sour-bitter right around the edges. "After I've done everything else I can do. A little breath seems a small price yo pay if it really does anything."
"Does it?" she asks, half earnest, half arch. "All the same, it's my breath to waste as I see fit. I won't assign it credit - certainly not more than cover fire and a level head - but nonetheless, here the three of you are, home safe, which is more than others can say."
In his opinion, it does. It doesn't say that she didn't see enough, or
suffered enough: it says that she has a different kind of personality than
he does. Less cynical, perhaps, though he does see enough of that in her.
"If not your prayers, then your care and strength during the attack helped
us come home. I'm glad you were there for us, and the rest of them."
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"I remember kindness and strength in the middle of pandemonium," he says, slowly, looking at her. Yes, she's changed, but not in a way that anyone would find surprising. She has made it all the way to Birmingham, and for a woman alone to think that trip is worth it she must have seen things far worse.
"If someone took that rank from you, they didn't deserve to. Have you come for your gun, Corporal?"
If there is anything in the world Tommy respects, it's a man who did his duty, who served. That courtesy certainly extends to women.
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"Letty," she offers instead, to set aside the conversation. Then a deeper breath, and more firmly still: "And yes, I have. Although I admit to doubting it would be that simple." She straightens off the wall, scraping the lit end of the cigarette off behind her, tucking it away into her pocket.
"Would it, brother?" All but the last word is English. His treatment of the horse and the few words he's given her so far speak to a man she might not need to threaten to keep away from her, but she has ever been the kind of woman that makes certain others know exactly where she expects them to stand in relation to her.
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"You've travelled too far to meet resistance now, sister." His hand is still resting on the horse's neck, keeping it quiet and still next to him as he looks at her. Yes, he decides: he'd pegged her right in the war, and she still deserves the respect he'd given her then.
"Though I hope you'd let us receive you as a guest in our home before you left with what you came for." He keeps his distance, says our so she knows he doesn't wish to lure her into his home.
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And then our, which makes Letty's glance go quickly to Tommy's hands for something she'd missed before, raising an eyebrow. "Us?" A pause and, utterly straight-faced and without softening at all: "You don't mean the horse."
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"I mean my family- brothers, sister, aunt," he continues, now twitching a smile.
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She's just proud and just spiteful enough that she drops her hand and clears her throat to decline out of hand; but the horse pulls against Tommy's steadying grip to stretch its neck after her and she hesitates.
Finally, weighing how very tired and alone she is against how far pride can get a woman in life - especially misused as an excuse to be contrary - she nods.
"Of course. If it's no trouble."
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"If it was trouble I wouldn't have extended the invitation in the first place," he says, jerking his head slightly to indicate the direction they'll be going. He's not a man hangs tightly onto courtesy.
It's a short walk from where he'd seen her, and he leaves the horse tied down to a ring in the wall. "We'll be right back for you, girl, don't you worry," he murmurs, before patting her and opening the door.
He's taking them through the office, and so she walks right into the chaos of betting, of John calling out the races, the times, the horses that are up to be betted on; Scudboat taking and cashing out, Arthur in his office. She's welcome to look, but if she doesn't want to he'll go through the green doors in the back, into the kitchen.
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Look she does, once she notes that Tommy doesn't bustle her on through; she's seen war and she's been far from home but she's not worldly enough to have the first clue what she's looking at, at first. Her eyes narrow as she tries to follow the current of it, watching where the money goes, trying to match it up with why, with the numbers and the names the men are calling. She glances at the cards with their numbers, and the men counting the cash.
Most of all, she notes that no one so much as looks twice at her, and the only time she has to push her way through is when there physically isn't enough space for her to pass.
By the time ages followed Tommy into the kitchen, her cheeks are ever so slightly flushed and she's forgotten all about being acerbic for the moment.
"What was that?"
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"Family business," he says, twitching a smile at her as he closes the doors- it's immediately quiet, leaving them with the fire in the hearth, the tiles, the china cabinet and the personal photographs.
"We're bookmakers. Horse racing." And there's a subtle undertone of is that going to be a problem? Because it has been, too often.
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She just looks at him for a moment at the question, hearing the unspoken one loud and clear, before she shakes her head just once. "No," she adds, just in case. Then: "Was that a test?"
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He rubs his mouth, once, and raises his eyebrows. "No," he says, slowly, as he walks to the stove, to boil some water. "But you passed it either way. What would the test have been, in your opinion?"
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"I haven't the first idea. What I do know is the way some people reacted when I said your name, and the fact that licensed businesses have signs outside of their buildings so they can be found."
Obviously, not something that unlicensed businesses would want.
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"Or both."
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This is the much milder version: still immobile, but nodding, agreeing. "Or both."
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"We've done this for three generations, now. We've been here a long time, keeping things in order."
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Nothing like this. "It does well for your family, this business. Bookmaking."
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"It does. It has done, for a long time. It isn't easy, but it's good."
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Then she nods. "I'm glad, then. That you were able to come back to it, and your family, and that all of you seem to be doing well."
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And that makes him proud, and happy- even if Freddie doesn't talk to him outside of cussing him out, even if Danny sees German soldiers in the streets of Birmingham.
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Her lips thin a little, but when she nods again, when she says, "That's good. I thought about the three of you, after we lost each other then. I spared a prayer for you. I'm glad someone was listening." she means it, too, even if it feels like swallowing sandpaper.
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That makes something in his eyes shift, interested but a little hollow. He tilts his head and looks at her, while the water starts boiling behind him.
"Do you still pray, Letty?"
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"That you still have a glimmer of doubt about it doing anything says enough," he says, lips twisting wryly. He stopped long ago.
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In his opinion, it does. It doesn't say that she didn't see enough, or suffered enough: it says that she has a different kind of personality than he does. Less cynical, perhaps, though he does see enough of that in her.
"If not your prayers, then your care and strength during the attack helped us come home. I'm glad you were there for us, and the rest of them."
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