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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.
