Small Heath, 1919 — After Midnight

The house settles once the clocks give up pretending it’s still day.

During daylight it’s boots and shouting and Polly’s voice cutting through the rooms like she’s still fighting the world for us. But at night, the place remembers what it was before the war—just brick and wood and people trying not to lose one another.

I was at the table, papers spread out, not reading a word of them, when I heard her moving upstairs. Soft steps. Always soft. She walked like she’d learned early that noise could cost you things.

I didn’t call up. I never do.

She came down anyway.

She’d changed for the night, hair tied back loose, one sleeve of her cardigan slipping because she never quite bothered to straighten herself when she was tired. And she was always tired. Work does that to people who think they owe the world something.

“You should be in bed,” I said.

She paused, like she was checking whether she was in trouble. Then she shook her head.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Nor me.”

She’d been living under our roof near a year now. Polly took her in after her mam was killed—cut open by a drunken client in a back room she rented by the hour. Her mother had been a pro.stitute. Everyone knew it. No one said it unless they meant harm.

The girl never asked for pity. Just work.

And she worked. Cleaned. Cooked. Looked after Finn like he was her own blood. She belonged to the house now, whether she knew it or not.

“Sit down,” I told her. “I’ll put kettle on.”

She hesitated. Always did, like rest was something she had to earn twice.

I poured the tea proper. Polly’s good leaves, not the dust we used most days. Pushed the cup toward her.

“You don’t have to keep proving yourself,” I said. “You’ve done enough.”

She wrapped both hands round the cup, fingers thin but steady.

“I know,” she said.

But people like us never really do.

I sat opposite her, elbows on the table, hands flat where she could see them. No smoke. No glass. Just me. That felt like enough of a risk.

“You’re safe here,” I said. “Long as I’m in this house, no one lays a hand on you. No one decides your worth for you.”

She looked down, then up again, eyes catching the lamplight.

“I know,” she said again. Softer this time.

Silence stretched between us. The good kind. The kind that doesn’t demand filling.

“I weren’t always like this,” I said, nodding at the papers, the plans, the weight of things I carried now. “Before France, I mean.”

She didn’t interrupt. She never did unless invited.

“I used to laugh,” I went on. “Used to think the world could be fixed if you just worked hard enough and kept your word.”

I watched her listen. Proper listen. Not like most people, already deciding what you’re worth while you’re still talking.

“The war took that out of me,” I said. “Left other things behind instead.”

Her thumb traced the rim of the cup.

“You make it quieter,” I said then. “In my head. When you’re about the place.”

That got her attention. She looked at me fully now, like she was seeing a different man than the one who barked orders and came home smelling of smoke.

“I’m not saying that to make you stay,” I added. “You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe any man anything. Not after what was taken from you.”

Her mam’s blood had dried on cheap floorboards. Men like that didn’t think girls remembered. They always do.

“You’re here because you’re wanted,” I said. “Not because you’re useful.”

Her eyes shone. Just a bit. She swallowed it back down like she’d been taught.

I reached out, slow, and turned her cup so the handle faced her better. A small thing. Small things matter.

“I won’t touch you unless you ask,” I said plainly. “And even then, I won’t take more than you give.”

She didn’t answer straight away. Then she slid her hand across the table—not grabbing mine, just resting close. Close enough to feel warmth.

“That’s all right,” she said.

I stood then. Offered my hand. Palm up. Not an order. Not a test.

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll walk you back up.”