VICES AND VIRTUES | Thomas Shelby

TWENTY FOUR

trigger warning: brief mentions/inferences to historic child abuse

23rd December 1925
The cold chill of the December air grazed Florence's skin as she stepped out of the car and onto one of Soho's many busy backstreets, the sound of carol singers muffled in the distance.

"Will you be needing me to pick you up at the same time, Mrs Harrington?" Her driver asked as she stood on the pavement which was the quietest it would be that night.

"Come by earlier, I want to spend tomorrow with the children so I'll be getting an early night," Florence told him, "Midnight should be fine."

"Very good, Mrs Harrington," He smiled, "Have a good evening."

"You too, Raymond," She replied before turning on her heel and walking towards the entrance to the all too familiar nightclub.

A lot can change in six years, as can a person. When Florence Harrington, once Dawson, left behind the smokey streets of Small Heath she vowed that she would never let herself be hurt again. She had felt more pain in the year of 1919 than some people experience in an entire lifetime, and she knew that was something she didn't want to feel again.

When she left Birmingham she knew that she could either let the grief and anger from losing her mother consume her, or she could allow it to be the making of her.

A year after arriving in London, Florence and Elijah opened their club, Daisy Lou's, something that their daughter could one day inherit. As Elijah continued to lead operations at Harrington's brewery, Florence proceeded to run the club herself, turning it into what some would call a business masterpiece, creating a venue that became a cornerstone of Soho nightlife.

Florence looked every part the gangster's wife, a fur coat resting on her shoulders, her hair was neatly styled, with red lipstick painted on her lips, dark makeup on her eyes and a deeper shade of red on her fingernails, all that was missing was the gangster husband.

"Evening, boss," Henry, one of the bartenders, nodded as she entered the premises, ready for another night of work.

"Evening, Henry," Florence smiled, leaning against the bar, placing her bag on the counter as he prepared her usual drink, Irish whiskey, "Will you be heading home for Christmas?"

"Yes, boss, I'll be on the train down to Suffolk first thing," He nodded with a grin, "What about you?"

"My husband will be back from America tomorrow," Florence explained, "Then it'll be a quiet Christmas here in London, just us and the children."

Richard had died four years earlier, leaving the entire Harrington Ale company in Elijah's capable hands. Elijah had offered George a job as head of operations, but George had succeeded in finding employment elsewhere.

"That sounds lovely," Henry smiled as he placed the glass in front of her, "Will there be any business meetings here tonight?"

"Just one," Florence replied, taking a large gulp of her whiskey, "But I'll need Vinnie level headed, so when he gets here, keep him on beer, no whiskey."

"Of course, boss," Henry nodded, "And will you be requiring a clean up of the office once the meeting is complete?"

"No, this will be a slick operation, after what happened last time I've made some alterations to how we do things," Florence replied, aware of what Henry was alluding to, "And we won't be meeting in the office, we'll be sitting over there, at the best seat in the house."

"I'll be sure to keep the table free," Henry muttered as several waiters entered the club.

"Good," Florence smirked, picking up her glass, "I'll be up in my office, send Vinnie up when he arrives."