Chapter Twenty: Lavender and Violet

Churches weren’t safe.

Her mother was in one, and in others bako fulgi journalists that were too damn good at their bako fulgi jobs might pop out of roofs asking for interviews. No, churches were bad places for Stella to be. In fact, there was only one safe place in the entire city, and that was exactly where she was.

Cannon Street Railway Bridge was impossible to enter for everyone except railway staff. It was fenced, gated, locked, and constantly patrolled by railway security and police. There was no public footpath, and trains crossed it every few minutes. It was absolutely impossible for a journalist to wander out into the middle of it: not even the greatest, most daring, best journalist in the entire world, who was also now her nemesis, could manage it.

But even if Hildy Johnson had made it to the middle of the bridge, she still wouldn’t have found Stella, because Stella was wrapped in a silk cocoon suspended over the dark river beneath the railway.

She hung there upside down, swaying slightly in the breeze, watching the waves and boats go by. No one on the boats glanced up at the bridge, and if they did, they wouldn’t see her anyway. Between the constant clouds of steam pushed down by the trains, the coal smoke from the boat’s own furnaces, and London’s general smogginess, it was hard to spot anything under here. Even better, the iron and steel girders had been darkened from decades of soot, coal smoke, and river grime, and she only had to change the colour of her black silk slightly to fit in. Even the pigeon shit that covered her added to the camouflage, which was absolutely what she had been planning when she rolled around in it.

This was what she had been needing all along. She realised that now. The cocoon fitted around her like a full body bag or a giant sock, with just her head sticking out the bottom. Her hair trailed towards the river. She was cosy, comforted, safe, alone. No journalists or Bricks or mothers could reach her.

She could finally do what she had needed to do.

She could think.

She stopped holding herself together, and the storm of thought and emotion devoured her. She let it. She was safe. She was cocooned. She was upside down, though she had no idea why that helped. It just did.

Eventually, after what might have been decades, but judging by her level of hunger was less than three hours, the thoughts wore themselves out. They’d done their best to destroy her, but she couldn’t be destroyed. She was undestroyable, which she was sure was a word. She hadn’t ever seen it in the newspaper, but that didn’t matter.

Now, she finally had peace.

Now, she could think about the brothel.

Now, she could ask herself why she stole the lavender.

Now she could… try and work out why she was crying. What was wrong with her? It was lavender, it was purity; it wasn’t supposed to be sad. Besides, she’d saved the lavender.

She hadn’t saved Violet.

Oh.

~~~

“Mama, I’ve been hearing a Voice. I think it might be God, mama. I think I’m hearing the Voice of God, mama.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“No, mama. I really think I’m hearing the Voice of God.”

“Maria, come look at Stella.”

“Mama, please, I think God wants me to go to a brothel. Uhh, to save the whores. Actually save them, physically, by taking them out of the brothel, not save them by telling them about Jesus. Although, I could tell them about Jesus, but I think the priest might be better at telling them about Jesus. It is presumptuous to think they don’t know about Jesus, though, is it not? They are prostitutes, not… people who’ve never heard of Jesus.”

“MARIA!”

Stella sighed and stared out the window on the opposite side of the tram as London rumbled by. Conversation attempt number twenty-four had not gone well. So far, number twelve was the best, and even that wasn’t good. If her actual conversation with her mother went like any of these, she’d end up tied to her mother’s belt. She hadn’t even attempted to explain how a journalist knew about her and the church yet.

She tried another conversation in her head. “Mama, God has Chosen me…”

Conversation attempt number twenty-five was the worst. She made a note to not call herself a Chosen one and tried to think of an alternative way to describe what was happening to her mother. Should she mention Joan of Arc? Out of all the people she’d researched who had heard the Voice of God, Joan of Arc was the only one who hadn’t built a convent or become a nun. She had led armies, though. Her mother might like that.

Stella had gone home after the bridge, bathed, and changed, and it was late evening now. She was wearing a little black dress, Mary Jane’s, and a bicorn hat with a feather in the side. Ever since The Three Musketeers moving picture had come out last year, tricorn and bicorn hats had been very popular amongst the more modern of young ladies, and Stella had immediately bought some. She was worried the feather might have been too large, and it clashed with her coat, which was heavy, fur-collared, and not silk. It might have belonged to her mother.

It was hard to look fashionable with a large chest when modern fashion was all about boyish figures, but she’d tried her best with the coat and a hidden bandeau and a bright scarf. It was all that Hildy Johnson’s fault anyway; not only was she a genius journalist, she also had the perfect flapper figure, and Stella looked like she’d been drawn by an artist who had never seen breasts, but had had them explained by eight men in a pub.

Why would her power make it so hard to be fashionable?

She just wanted to look pretty, and that had nothing to do with how her nemesis had looked. She’d tried her best, but she couldn’t say it had worked well. She looked exactly like what she was, a young girl alone on a late night tram. She looked like something she wasn’t: prey.

Perhaps it was that without the sprig of heather, there was nothing to indicate her independence, to show that she was an adult. The secret language of the florist-spies was very powerful.

The tram driver stood at the front of the carriage, working the levers. Behind him, twisting steps led to the upper floor. Inside the carriage, a bench ran under the windows on either side, front to back, and at the end of it was another winding stair and a second driver position. Trams didn’t reverse, they drove forward in both directions.

The carriage had been empty except for her, but as she debated the pros and cons of explaining Joan of Arc to her mother, two young men descended the stairs at the rear. Another three came down the stairs at the front.

The men from the rear approached her. “It’s no’ safe for a young bird like ye to be out alone at night,” one of them said. The second was sneering.

Stella stood up. She was several inches taller than the tallest of the two men. Her feather bent against the roof of the tram. “I’m certain I shall be alright,” she informed him.

He scowled, took a step too close to her. “Ye need a man to take care ah ye.”

Stella drove her elbow into his face, breaking his nose. He yelled and staggered back as blood exploded outwards, hitting his raised hands. The second man was staring at the first in shock. She punched him.

That was better than a feather in her cap, any day.

Suddenly more men were pushing down both spiral staircases. “Nobody messes with the Birmingham Boys,” one yelled. Another was pulling on a pair of brass knuckles.

Stella sighed. Her mother and Maria had both warned her to take things easy or the healing might not stick. Already, she could feel a twinge of pain in her shoulder, although that might be her imagination.

Alright, minimum movements. Keep things light. She moved out of the way of a punch, and stepped to the side in a way that made two of the men collide. The tram was a closed space, but she was in the centre of it. There were about fourteen of the Birmingham Boys, but they could only come two abreast, although that was from both ends.

She stepped back, watching them warily.

“Darby’s gone ‘ear ‘bout this,” she warned them, putting on an Eastend accent. She kept her gaze loose, unfocused, observing as many of them simultaneously as she could, noting their reactions to the bomb she had just dropped.

The Birmingham Boys were in a turf war with the Sabinis. Darby Sabini was not known for his gentle ways, though he was known to be a gentleman. He always looked out for women, Italians, and Catholics.

It had been his men at the warehouse.

About half of the Birmingham Boys froze when she mentioned Darby. One of them paled. If she’d wanted information, he was the one she’d have picked. Right now, though, she just wanted off this tram without her healing coming undone.

Two of the men scoffed. Bravado, acting tough in front of their friends. Those were the ones she could worry the least about.

One of the men, with a flat cap and a trimmed black beard, in the middle of the pack, stared at her. “Darby’s far away. How’s ‘e gonna protect you?”

Ah. That one. He was their leader. He’d instantly replied with something to save face, to derail any fear she’d given his men.

He was the one she needed to beat.

Not physically.

She’d studied the gangs extensively before beginning her war. She knew the Faces, the ones who’d achieved some infamy. She was facing one of the Macdonald brothers, which was interesting. They weren’t with the Birmingham Boys, they led the Elephant Boys.

She glanced at the downed men, only now rising to their feet. “You thin’ one of Diamon’ Annie’s girls needs Darby’s protection?” she asked. “Nah, don’t need it, don’t want it, but ’e’s gonna be mighty cheesed off that you lot jumped me the night ‘im and Annie sealed their deal. Who was it what grassed us up to Kimber?” Billy Kimber was the head of the Birmingham Boys. He’d survived being beaten, shot, and left for dead by Sabini a few months back, and word was he wanted blood for blood.

“The Forty Elephants would never side with Sabini,” the Macdonald brother protested. She wasn’t sure which one he was, Wag or Wal. She should have done more research.

“Tell that to an elephant, mate. Wotcher just did.” She laughed at her own joke.

He chewed on that for a moment, glancing sideways to watch how the Boys were taking her words. She was watching them, too. The quiet, calm chat was leaching away some of their anger, their willingness to fight. “Wag, is she right? Has the Forty Elephants linked in with Sabini?”

“Course not. You think Bert’s moll would get in with that Italian son of a bitch?” He glanced at Stella. “What’s your name?” he asked.

Wag it was, then. Bert was the third brother. He wasn’t a leader of the Elephant Boys, not like the other two, but he was the boyfriend of Diamond Annie, leader of the Forty Elephants. Two gangs, one all male, one all female, mostly allies. Sometimes rivals. There were families that had siblings in each gang, and lovers that blurred the lines between them.

“Nellie,” she replied, lying easily.

“Well, Nellie the Elephant, maybe you don’t know, but Sabini would never have any kind of agreement with your lot. Your Diamon’ leader is my brother Bert’s girl.”

Stella scoffed. “He’s Annie’s girl.”

Wag considered that. “Maybe. Maybe. But she still wouldn’t get in with Sabini when she’s in Bert’s bed, now, would she?”

“Beg at Darby’s table like the dog you are, let your tail Wag before a real man. Maybe he will take pity and feed you scraps.” She regretted the words as soon as she said them.

She’d been doing well, sowing doubt. Making them wonder what protection she had. Making him worry his gang’s sisters and girlfriends had betrayed them. Making them think an attack was imminent. He’d pushed her into a place she could only attack from and by the way his eyes narrowed and his knuckles tightened, the attack had landed. Now he had to escalate.

He took half a step forward, then staggered sideways as an explosion shook the tram. Four distant explosions followed it, spread out to the west and south.

She had no idea what was going on, but none of them did. “Sabini started early,” she whispered, throwing more confusion into the mix. “Bombs away, Birmingham boys.” Stella took advantage of the distraction and leapt onto the bench beside her, bending so her head didn’t hit the ceiling. She launched from the bench, smacking into the men at the back of the carriage. They went down in a flurry of fists, knees, and elbows, and she came up spitting blood and threw herself past them. She tucked into a roll and rose from it by the back stairs, then leapt off the tram, running to bleed off speed. She went down, rolled, came up in another run, her hat lost to her. Behind her, she could hear the yells and shouts of the Birmingham boys as they followed.

In retrospect, she shouldn’t have hit the first one. If she’d just claimed to be one of the Forty from the start, they might have seen her as an ally.

No, she hadn’t known there were Elephant Boys in the mix. Besides, she had really wanted to hit someone.

Previous Chapter: Chapter Nineteen

Next Chapter: Chapter Twenty-one

Author’s Note

The queerguide today has a post on symbolism. I, uhh, may have accidentally invented a literary device. Sorry.

Leave a comment if you’ve ever invented a literary device. No?

Okay, leave a comment if you haven’t.

Also, if you think Stella wouldn’t refer to herself by a song title that won’t be released for 30 years, you’re absolutely right. But she would refer to herself by a common name that accidentally references a future song. That’s just meta-coincidence.