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humanpurposes · 1 year

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Just for a Moment, part i

Tom Bennett has a habit of climbing through her bedroom window whenever he's in trouble // Main Masterlist

Tom Bennett x OFC

Warnings: 18+, mentions of war and death, friends to lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut

Words: 3800

A/n: Me? Starting another series to avoid updating ongoing fics? No wayyyy. This is going to be a 4 part mini series and their song is When the Sun Hits by Slowdive, just so you know. Also available to read on AO3.

Tom Bennett had always had a talent for getting under people’s skin.

Kitty knew it when they were kids, when they’d run around the streets of Longsight and the alleyways behind Slade Grove. He would rile anyone up, regardless if they were older or bigger than him. He didn’t even do it for a reason, he just liked to get a raise out of people.

He used to tease her too, for all sorts of stupid reasons, because she was a year younger than him, because her mother used to dress her in shirts and shorts that used to belong to her older brothers, because when they’d buy bags of Yorkshire mix from the shop, she would only eat the red ones. Every Sunday after Church, they’d sit in the park or on the front step of the Bennetts’ house, and Tom would pick out every sweet he knew she liked, and keep the rest for himself.

When Tom was eleven he moved to the big school, where Kitty’s brothers all went, Eddie, Art and Stevie. Eddie was a prefect. He used to come home with all sorts of stories of Tom Bennett, ‘from over the road’. Tom talked back to his teachers, disrupted assemblies, picked fights with other kids, every offence Kitty’s mind could imagine.

It only got worse when his mam died.

Thursday 12th July, 1928

Kitty had never been to a funeral before. She had a new dress and a black overcoat for the occasion. It was cold in the church graveyard, overcast and windy. Mam had held her hand so tightly she wondered if she’d ever get it back.

The Bennetts stood together, on the other side of the grave. Lois’ hair was braided into a messy plait that stuck out on one side, the ribbon at the end tied into a knot rather than a bow. She was trying to hold her father’s shoulder as he cried, but she couldn’t quite reach. Tom stood a little further away from his father. His hair was messy, his knees scabbed and bruised, his shirt skewed and the buttons done in the wrong places.

Kitty kept her eyes on him, all through the service, the burial and the wake back at number 27. Tom didn’t cry once.

That night, when she should have been asleep, she lay awake in her bed, listening to her brothers whispering and in the next room as they always did. Sometimes she felt sad to be left out of their antics, but tonight she was glad to be on her own, in her little box room at the front of the house.

Until she heard a tapping on the window.

She froze between her sheets. Was it too late for it to have been a bird?

And then it came again, tap, tap, tap.

With a determined little huff, she rose from the bed, smoothed her hands down the front of her nightgown and drew back the curtains.

“Tom?” she whispered.

He grinned when he saw her, perched on the windowsill behind the glass.

Kitty raised the window and before she could invite him in he was crawling through it.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

Tom shrugged and went to sit on the edge of her bed. He glanced around the room, at the little shelf of books, dolls and small wooden animals, the black overcoat hung on the back of the door and the drawings stuck to the wardrobe. He’d been in the Wheelans’ kitchen before, but he’d never been allowed upstairs.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, far too loudly for Kitty’s liking.

She pressed a firm finger against his lips. She held her breath, waiting for one of the lads to notice, but they kept on chatting– whatever it was teenage boys chatted about.

“Keep your voice down,” she said.

Tom smiled against her finger and made a cross over his heart.

She sat beside him, swaying her legs while she tried to think of something to say.

Tom reached for a book on her bedside table and flicked through the pages. When he was bored of that, he grabbed her teddy. He tossed it about in his hands and ran his hands over the ancient and matted fur. It had been Eddie’s, back in the day. Every single one of her brothers had owned it before her.

“I don’t like seeing my dad cry,” Tom said.

Kitty frowned. “Why not?”

“I just don’t like it. He’s always been a bit…”

Dad had often mentioned the case of Douglas Bennett. They had fought in the same regiment in 1914. When Micheal Wheelan came back from war, he returned as a self-proclaimed hero. His boys loved to hear his stories and take turns wearing his medals. Douglas Bennett had returned to Manchester a far more troubled kind of man.

“And with mum he–” but he stopped himself with an irritated grunt. “Can I stay here?”

“What?”

“Not forever, I just… can I sit here, just for a moment?”

Kitty took the teddy from him and placed her hand firmly in his. “That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?”

From then on, Tom made quite a habit of appearing at the window and hiding in her room whenever he was in trouble.

Saturday 2nd September, 1939

Being up and out before the boys are awake is a strange feeling, it’s the only time the house is so quiet.

It’s just before dawn. The sky is a hazy shade of dark blue but an orange glow is starting to appear over the rooftops. Mr Gregory wants her in the shop early to help with a delivery.

Something draws her eyes from her black leather shoes on the pavement, up to the end of the street. A figure makes his way down Slade Grove. She recognises the sway of his shoulders and the end of a lit cigarette in his mouth.

“Alright, pretty Kitty?” Tom says when they’re in earshot of each other, taking the cigarette between his fingers. “What are you doing up so late?”

“It’s early,” she says. He’s in a jacket and slacks, and he has a dazed sort of look in his eyes. She can guess where he’s been but it doesn’t stop her from asking. “What have you been up to?”

“Don’t give me that look,” he says, taking another drag. He tilts his chin up and exhales the smoke above their heads through pouted lips. “Just been down the pub, nothing scandalous.”

A likely story. She’s seen the police knocking on their front door twice in four weeks.

“How’s your job in the shop going?” he asks.

It was supposed to be temporary, a little money to make ends meet after dad got laid off from the factory. Six months later and she’s still there.

“Grand,” she says.

“Can you do me mates rates on a packet of Marlboros?”

“Yeah, if you promise to actually buy them.”

He clutches his chest and his face lights up in an ironic expression. “Of course, what sort of man do you take me for?”

The sort who used to sell cigarettes in the schoolyard— God knows how he got his hands on them in the first place. At that age he could talk himself out of anything. That’s what makes Tom Bennett every parent’s worst nightmare, he’s a troublemaker with pretty blue eyes and an infectiously charming smile.

“I should get going,” she says, taking another step until Tom moves in front of her. Her eyes meet with the collar of his jacket and the hollow of his throat. She can smell the musk of the pub on him, the cigarette smoke and the faded scent of his aftershave.

She looks up to his face and his expression has changed, not quite smiling but amused, smug and somewhat severe.

“What?” she says impatiently.

“Nothing,” he says, unphased, “have a good shift.”

The morning drags on at a gruelling pace. Mr Gregory’s getting on a bit now so Kitty has to do a lot of the heavy lifting, piling boxes into the storage room round the back, going through the stock in the shop, filling the shelves, flattening the boxes and bringing them to the bins outside. It feels like hours of work, but when she looks at the clock it’s not even 9. Eight hours until closing. Mr and Mrs Gregory live above the shop, so at least she gets a steady supply of tea, toast and bits of carrot cake.

By the afternoon she feels her eyes start to close. The morning rush is over now and business will dwindle for the rest of the day. She tries to stay awake, fanning herself with her blouse and nibbling on little mouthfuls of cake.

The bell above the door rings. She straightens her spine and smooths down her apron, ready to put on her best customer service voice, only for Tom Bennett to swagger in through the door.

He’s changed his clothes and donned a blue jacket instead of the earthy green she had seen him in earlier.

“Did you get enough sleep?” Kitty asks at the heavy look under his eyes.

He grins it off. “Packet of Marlboros please, Miss Wheelan.”

She fetches them from the cabinet behind the counter and places the packet in front of him. His aftershave smells a little stronger now. “Anything else?”

He drums his fingers against the counter, looking around innocently at the array of chocolate bars and the jars of sweets behind her.

“I’ll have a bag of Yorkshire mix,” he says.

She takes the jar down from the shelf. She can hear him breathing steadily through his nose as she scoops the sweets into a paper bag. When she turns back around he’s watching her.

“Nine pence,” she says, swallowing down a nervous feeling in her throat.

Tom counts through some change from his pocket and drops the coins into her hands, a sixpence and a thruppence. His fingertips brush over her palms and his knuckles are scabbed over. She dreads to think why.

“Nice one,” he says once she puts the payment through the till. “What do you make of this stuff going on in Poland then?” he says, popping a pear drop into his mouth.

She’s only been reading the headlines of the papers when she stocks them in the shop every morning, or hearing snippets from dad’s radio.

“Since when did you start taking an interest in foreign affairs?” she asks.

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a raspberry. “Been reading the news, haven’t I?” he says, holding it out for her.

She hesitates for a moment before she takes it. She lets the sugar melt over her tongue. It tastes like summer afternoons after school and weekends in the park, tearing at the grass and watching the boys play football because they’d never let her join in.

“That’s where Harry is, isn’t it?” she says, “Lois must be worried.

Tom tuts and tucks the bag into his pocket. “Posh boys can talk their way out of anything,” he says. “Speaking of, I met Madge’s new man last night.”

“At the pub?”

“Yeah. Right ponce in’t he?”

She purses her lips in irritation. She hates it when he does this, poking fun at others until he feels better about himself. “He’s training to be a barrister.”

“Like I said.”

She shrugs. “I suppose there are worse jobs to have.”

“Is that what you’ll do then? Find some rich boy with a big house and stick up his arse?”

It’s not quite the future she has planned out for herself. Her friend Madge is a secretary in Manchester. There are all sorts of exams she had to pass, but it could be doable. Mam’s always tried to put her off it though. “Parents need their girls,” she says.

“I don't think I’m likely to find any of those in Longsight. Maybe I should ask Lois for advice?” she says, trying not to smile.

“Steady there, Kitty, I didn’t mean to get you all excited,” he says, leaning into the counter. His voice is lower all of a sudden, it sends an odd, jittery feeling though her chest and stomach.

He winks at her before he turns and leaves. The bell rings and the shop is quiet again.

Her feet feel heavy when she walks through the front door. Her bed calls her name but she’s unbearably thirsty. Saturdays are half days and the boys are already home from the factory. Mam’s started on dinner and the others are around the kitchen table.

Dad waves a blue leaflet at her. “One of Douglas Bennett’s pacifist… things,” he says.

“Do you really think there’ll be a war, dad?” Kitty says, shrugging off her coat.

“If there is, it won’t be long,” he says with a determined nod, “no one wants another war.”

Eddie and Art hum in agreement. The oldest of the four Wheelan siblings, they were born before dad went away to war. Their faces are older and more stern, like they can still remember a time when they didn’t have their father around. They still call Stevie and Kitty “the babies,” which she thinks must make them feel more important.

Stevie’s in good spirits though. “Ran into Lois and Connie on the bus, and Connie personally invited me to their gig tonight!” he says brightly.

“Come off it,” Art grumbles, “she was just being friendly.”

“Kitty!” Stevie sings, waltzing over to her. He takes her coat from her hands and twirls her around the kitchen, to mam’s despair. “Come to the Fiddler’s Bow with me tonight, please.”

“So you can ditch me for Connie once their set’s done?”

“There’ll be other people there,” Stevie says, turning her around to face their brothers, “or ask one of these grumpy bastards to join us.”

“Stephen Wheelan!” their mother chides.

Eddie and Art share a pointed look and shake their heads, already backing away towards the front room.

In the end she decides she’ll just have to brave it. After eating, she changes into a flowy, white blouse and an emerald green skirt, pinning her hair up so it won’t go everywhere as she moves. She hides a tube of lipstick inside her purse. Mam and dad would rather die than let her leave the house with makeup. She only owns a lipstick because Lois Bennett had given her one.

Stevie brushes up well, in a white shirt and freshly shined leather shoes, his hair slicked back with wax. They run into each other on the landing and race downstairs.

Mam gives them the usual instructions. Home by 11 o'clock and not a minute later. One drink each. No smoking. No noise when they get in.

Stevie’s already pulling a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket when they’re halfway through the front door.

And Kitty’s breath hitches when, for the third time that day, she sees Tom Bennett. He’s hovering in the doorway, putting empty milk bottles out. When he notices them, he smiles. “Off somewhere nice?” he says.

“Fiddler’s Bow,” Stevie calls back, “to see Lois and Connie play.”

“She’s down there already,” Tom says, his eyes flickering to Kitty for only a moment, “left half an hour ago.”

He’s in a white t-shirt now, that’s just a little too tight against his torso.

“Why don’t you join us?” Kitty says without thinking it through. “Stevie’s going for Connie, I’ll need a partner once he ditches me.”

Tom looks down at the pavement. His lips are thin and his hands fidget by his side. “I’ve um… got something else on tonight, ‘m sorry.”

Her heart sinks. Any lighthearted hope she had about enjoying the evening dissolves right in front of her. Right, of course, because why would he actually want to spend more than a few moments with her?

“Movin’ on,” Stevie says, steering Kitty down the road with a brief farewell to Tom. “He’s no good, you know that?” he whispers in her ear. “Eddie says he nicks scrap metal from the yard, sells it to all sorts dodgy fuckers.”

“Yeah, I know,” she breathes. Her chest feels tight and suddenly she feels like she wants to cry.

Stevie has a good time at the gig. Lois and Connie are first in the lineup and once their set is over, Stevie makes a point of cheering the loudest. The four of them spend the rest of the night dancing.

When Stevie and Connie disappear outside for a smoke, Kitty drags Lois to the bar, to catch their breath and down glasses of tonic water. Lois drones on about her Harry issue, but having three older brothers who presume every word they say is profound and worthy of note, Kitty knows where to hum and nod without really listening.

They walk Connie home first before the three of them make their way to Slade Grove. The houses are quiet now, save for a few lights in the windows, creeping through drawn curtains. Two policemen are standing outside number 27.

“Have you seen your brother?” one of them calls to Lois when she reaches the door.

“No,” Lois says, “but if you see him before I do, will you tell him he’s in trouble?”

Kitty meets Stevie’s eyes and he raises his brows.

“Piss off,” she grumbles.

Mam and dad have gone to bed, but Eddie and Art are playing cards in the front room— or they should be. Eddie is standing by the window, peering through the curtains.

“Who are they after?” Eddie asks.

“Who do you think?” Kitty mutters, but she doesn’t stay to hear another rant about ‘troublesome Tom Bennett’, and slips her shoes off before she makes her way upstairs.

It can’t be said Tom doesn’t make an impression on the people he meets. Mam and dad still have a soft spot for him, though less so since he’s started getting into trouble with the police, and the lads seem to outright despise him.

She’d be lying if she said he didn’t find him irritating, to a certain degree. Maybe it’s because he’s cocky, maybe it’s because he used to be surprisingly sweet, or maybe it’s because nothing seems to phase him, but something about Tom Bennett makes her restless.

She wipes off her lipstick, takes out the pins in her hair and changes into her nightgown. Her eyes feel heavy, but tomorrow is Sunday, which means the shop will be closed and she can have a whole day of ‘freedom’, so long as that includes helping with the laundry and the dinner.

Dad’s snores are evident and the boys are still distracted downstairs, they’ve even put the radio on by the sound of it.

She’s about to turn off the light when she hears three taps on the window.

He knows it’s unlocked. The window slides up and Tom squeezes through it, slipping his boots off so he doesn’t make too much noise when he plants his feet on the floor. He goes straight to the bed, making himself comfortable over the throw with his hands under his head.

“Lois says the police have been round,” he says quietly.

She looks down at her hands, nervously playing with the fabric of her nightgown. “I saw.”

He turns his head to where she stands. The lamp hits his face like sunlight, catching the sharp features of his face, the point of his nose and the curve of his lips.

She nudges him closer to the wall, making some space for herself beside him. Her body rests against his. He smells like smoke and fresh air.

“What did you do this time?” she asks.

He doesn’t give her an answer. In a way she thinks she’d rather not know.

His arm falls around her and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Nights with him are often like this, quiet, just two people existing in the same space.

He turns on his side to face her. “Can I stay the night?”

“Tom,” she whispers, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Please, or I’ll have to sleep on a couch in the pub.”

“Are you mad? can you imagine what Eddie’ll do if he sees you walking out my bedroom in the morning?”

“Kitty,” he hums. He brings his hand to her face, gently stroking his thumb over her cheek. His eyes are wide and pleading. “Please.”

It’s in moments like this when she hates Tom the most, when her heart thrums in her chest and she wants nothing more than to lose herself in the feeling of his skin against hers. When their heads are so close together, all she sees are two blue eyes.

Each time she thinks she wants to close the distance between them, something stops her.

Neither of them ever dare to move closer than this.

She reaches to turn off the light and turns back to Tom. Her head falls into his chest and her arm settles around his waist. She falls asleep to the pulse of his heartbeat, the sound of his breath and the warmth of his body.

And by the time the sun shines in through the window, he’s gone.

Sunday 3rd September, 1939

She appears in the kitchen just after 11 o’clock. Her body feels heavy and her eyes are still tired. She shouldn’t have gone back to sleep after she woke up the first time.

Dad’s fiddling with the radio, Art’s pouring tea into six cups, and Eddie and mam are listening to Steive’s retelling of the previous night. He seems incredibly proud of himself, despite the fact the closest he came to kissing Connie was lighting her cigarette.

She helps Art with the tea. They all like it the same way. Strong, with one sugar and a little dash of milk.

It might almost be a perfect morning, if dad were listening to something more uplifting than the news.

“How about some music?” she says as she hands him his cup, but he doesn’t take it. His eyes are fixed on the radio, and his hands are shaking.

“Dad…”

Art appears over her shoulder and turns up the volume. “Quiet,” he says, and the others fall silent.

A voice speaks through the crackles in the transmission, “consequently, this country is at war with Germany.”

Kitty looks at the faces around her, Eddie and Art glaring furiously, Stevie’s wide eyes and his lips fallen like a child’s, mam and dad’s haunted sorrow.

The transmission ends and she wishes it didn’t, it would save her from the grave silence in the house.

She decides to make herself busy. She washes out an empty milk bottle and goes to leave it by the door.

When she opens the door the two policemen are back, only now they’re walking out of the Bennetts’ house.

Her heart sinks. They have Tom in handcuffs.

His eyes meet hers across the road. He doesn’t make a fuss, or try to protest. He hangs his head as they walk him down the street.

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince (comment to be added)

Series taglist: (comment to be added)

#my fics #tom bennett #tom bennett fanfiction #tom bennett fanfic #world on fire #wof #world on fire bbc #world on fire season 2 #world on fire fanfiction #tom bennett x ofc #tom bennett x female reader #tom bennett x y/n #tom bennet x reader #ewan mitchell #tom bennett smut

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assortedseaglass · 1 year

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The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Sixteen

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Strong Language, Smut, World on Fire spoilers

Word Count: 9.3K

Notes: Hiya pals.

“Welcome home, Mr Bennett.”

Tom looked behind the suited man and his clipboard. Beyond the small dockyard pier, he could make out the beginnings of a town still sleeping. Mist, or was it rain, was rolling in from the horizon of hills. In just a few hours, the train would take him through those valleys, along the Pennine Way and to Manchester.

“Not quite home,” Tom said to the man, who smiled in turn. “But almost.”

The boat from Gibraltar to Scotland had taken five days and, after his journey through central Spain, Tom was glad to be back at sea. In England, summer would have been making way for autumn but the heat still lingered in Spain. Days of walking, being bundled between cars, and of weeks waiting in Gibraltar for any news of his departure left Tom agitated. The heat had not helped. The days at sea had given him plenty of time for reflection. Stood on the stern of the boat, gazing as mainland Europe disappeared, he watched the surface of the water for disturbance. After the Battle of River Plate, he couldn’t shake the fear that U-boats were lurking beneath the waves, waiting to strike. Fighting for attention alongside these fears were thoughts of Bess. She had told him, before he left, that the Navy could be the making of him. In a way, she was right, for faced with the open ocean and endless sky, Tom felt freer than he ever had on land.

Home was so close now; he could almost smell it as the gentleman on the dock led him and a few other evaders towards a waiting vehicle. Roast dinners, grease from the dockyard, rain on the cobbles, perfume at the Palais and buttered chestnuts at Belle Vue. The dusty picture house, clean linen, Bess’ hair. Tom had tried to think of what he would do when he saw her, for seeing her was inevitable. For a while he thought of going to the Infirmary; she couldn’t scream at him while in her uniform. Or else, he could climb into the window of her flat like old times, but he didn’t know which was hers and hadn’t she said that the boarding matron had a strict rule of no gentlemen? Perhaps Tom could charm the woman. He wasn’t a gentleman, after all. He settled on seeking her in Longsight. Neutral ground. What he’d say he didn’t know, but that was one part of the plan he could account for; no more performing.

By evening, Tom and the other evaders that had made the crossing were trundling southwards, through Scotland and towards England. It was a supply train, and they had been given bunks by the men that worked to deliver steel, food and other resources across Britain. Tom watched as the sun set below the Pennines, knowing that in the morning he would awake in Manchester. He looked at the photograph of Bess. Almost nine months since he had laid eyes on her at the train station. Maybe tomorrow, he would see the real thing.

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Bess removed the blackouts to be dazzled by sunlight. She stood at her window a while; autumn was coming and soon all warmth would disappear from the sun. God she hated Manchester in winter. She scanned the city skyline. At least, what was left. As if in some perverse game of dominos, a few buildings that had been there last night were gone, dark smoke billowing in their stead. She had heard the first loud crashes. The air raid sirens hadn’t noticed this attack, and after the first distant explosion came banging doors as the girls of Carver Mills, dressed in nightgowns and curlers, hurried to the shelter at the end of the road.

Despite the terror of the night past, Bess found herself in unusually high spirits. The months had not been kind to her, and she could count on one hand the few times she had been truly happy since new year. Most of those times had been the first promising two weeks of 1940, sharing stolen kisses and glances with Tom. But this morning, with the sun shining through the horror, Bess felt perhaps if she couldn’t conquer the world, she could at least conquer the day.

She sat at the small vanity. She had been dancing at the Palais over the weekend and her rollered curls lingered. If she draped them just right at the base of the neck, she could hide them from Sister Stern under her nurses cap. Bess surveyed her reflection. It was a day that called for rouge. Rolling the lipstick from its tube, Bess swiped the colour across her lips and thought of the men at the hospital. She’d certainly brighten their day. The last thing to do was grab the photo from her nightstand. The paper was worn at the edges but despite this, and the black and white hue of the paper, Bess could feel Tom’s blue eyes gleaming at her. She tucked him into the pocket of her apron and donned her coat before glancing round the flat. It wasn’t much, but in the early autumn light, it felt like home. Perhaps she’d have Joan and Helen over that evening for supper and wine, if they could find some.

The bus was just pulling away from the stop when Bess reached it, and she ran to join it. Douglas appeared at the open door and held out his hand to haul her onto the moving vehicle.

“Thank you,” she half whispered, half panted. Douglas touched his cap. A little awkwardness still coated the air after she had kissed him then revealed her feelings for his son; the month since had left little time for her to visit but she made a point to every time she was in Longsight. She valued Douglas’ friendship too much to allow her moment of insecurity and fear get in the way.

“Your father’s down the front,” he said as Bess moved to find a seat. “Looking a bit worse for wear.” Bess nodded and found her father slumped against the window behind the driver. His hair was unkempt and a little stubble was starting to show.

“Dadda,” Bess nudged him as she sat down. “Dadda!” He woke with a start and looked at her. A sleepy smile spread across his face and he took her hand in his own, patting it gently.

“I was going to pop into the hospital on my way home, to see if you were okay.”

“We’re all fine,” Bess squeezed his hand in reassurance. The Blitz was taking its toll on Fergal. More frequent air raids on the city meant that after his shifts at the dockyard he was straight into his warden’s uniform and on patrol, helping put out fires or guiding civilians to safety. Since Albie’s death, he was rarely home, his time taken up with helping the war effort and avoiding his grief. Bess laid her head on her father’s shoulder and they sat in amicable silence.

“Heavy night last night, they got Oxford Street. Palace Theatre got hit.”

“Many dead?”

“A fare few my girl, a fare few.” When they arrived at the Royal Infirmary, Fergal spoke again. “I do worry about you Bess. It’s only a matter of time before they get the hospital-”

“We’ve got a shelter in the basement, Dadda, we’ll be fine.” She kissed his cheek. “Tell you what, I’ll come by at the weekend for dinner. Stay over?”

“I’d like that, you take care.”

She waved off her father and Douglas from the stop as the bus made its way to Longsight, then hurried in to begin her shift. Sister Stern said nothing about her hair and lipstick, though from the twitch of her eye, Bess knew she wanted to. She was right too, the men loved it. She, Joan and Helen were the most popular nurses at the Infirmary with their beauty, charm and care. With every flirtatious comment, smile to her friends and patient helped, Bess felt her heart lighten. Uncertain the cause of this newfound contentedness, Bess was desperate to cling onto it regardless, and set about making plans for the evening with Helen and Joan.

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On any other day, the walk from Manchester London Road to the Bennett house would take an hour. But as Tom strolled the streets that had coloured his childhood, his buoyance at being home turned to horror. The pub in which he snuck into for his first pint was no more than a pile of rubble. Houses of friends gone, skeletons of their childhoods all that remained. Even his secondary school, once an imposing building, had been brought down to a singular wall and the scaffold of the gymnasium. He felt sick. The war had at last come home. What if he arrived in Longsight to find it no longer existed? Walking through smoke and the rising dust of devastated buildings, he saw lines of people watching on as wardens and firemen attempted to put out the still simmering flames of the night before. At Victoria Park, a woman was trying to calm her young children, some of whom sat atop the rubble, as men scavenged what they could from the bombed-out street. A football lay abandoned in the road and Tom, taking pity on the woman, offered to kick the ball about with her sons while she rested.

By the time he had arrived in Longsight, any thoughts of happy reunions had vanished, replaced by the anxious dread that had followed him since his final days on the Exeter. The fear that around every corner, no matter how safe or familiar, life could be upended as easily as the spinning of a top. Keen not to feed his fear, Tom walked along the ginnel, avoiding the sight of the street and what it may hold. He reached the gate to the yard of his home as paused, taking a deep breath. The handle was cool in his hand, and it clicked gently as he opened it. Washing was strung across the line, mostly his dad’s shirts and a few of Lois’ small things. Instinctively, Tom took the sleeve of one of Douglas’ jumpers and brought it to his face, inhaling the smell of familiar laundry detergent. It fluttered from his hand in the breeze, and for a moment, Tom felt he could cry. It was that exact sound that stopped him. High and coarse, a wailing cry came from within the house, and Tom’s heart somersaulted.

Tentatively, he opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside the house. A dull light streamed through the net curtains. Nothing had changed. The piano sat unused, the chairs the same, exactly where the family liked to sit. Douglas at the table, Lois by the window and Tom at the hearth. The only difference was the baby that lay swaddled and crying in its basket, set on the kitchen table. Slowly, ever so slowly, Tom inched towards the little creature. Its red face contorted as it kicked its covered legs and balled its tiny fists. He didn’t know who it belonged to, but Tom knew that somehow, he loved the little babe. Steps thundered on the landing upstairs. Tom just managed to tear his eyes away from the child when a pair of feet appeared on the stairs.

“I’m coming, I’m coming-” Lois slipped down the last few steps in her haste, buttoning the blouse she wore. “Come here then, you little bugger.” There was a moment when Tom thought he was a ghost, had died at Dunkirk and drifted home, for Lois looked straight through him with unseeing eyes. Her steps faltered as she made towards the Moses basket, looking at the space Tom occupied. She stopped and the wailing continued. The two siblings stared at each other, neither moving, as though scared they would startle. It was when Tom smiled at his older sister, dimples appearing in his cheeks, that Lois knew he was real. With a shriek she leapt at him, arms tight around his neck as she burst into sobs.

“Hiya,” he whispered with a laugh. She pulled back to look at him, taking his face in her hands and assessing him, making sure he was there. Deciding it was true, her brother was really home, she took a step back and smacked his arm, hard.

“You bloody bastard,” she laughed through her tears. “We’ve been so worried.”

“And busy,” Tom nodded his chin in the direction of the baby. Lois wiped her face with a watery smile and scooped the baby into her arms.

“Give over,” Lois huffed, unbuttoning her blouse and sitting in the rocking chair by the hearth. Tom watched as the baby’s cries turned to snuffles of contentment.

“Christ. Everything’s so different,” Tom whispered. Manchester, the war, a baby. The home he had longed for was irrevocably changed. And yet, looking at his sister cradling that little baby in her arms, Tom felt that somehow everything would be ok in the end. Lois watched Tom watching the baby and another small sob left her. “Don’t be soft,” Tom laughed, though he held out his hand and Lois took it.

“I’ve missed you,” she wiped her eyes again. “Needed you here.”

“Did you know? Before I left?” Lois nodded. “You should have told me.”

“I was scared. I’m sorry,”

Tom shrugged his shoulders, and Lois gazed back down at the baby. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” He said with a chuckle. The baby had finished feeding, and Lois held the little creature up.

“Sit down then,” she said, indicating the armchair opposite the rocking chair.

“You what?” Tom tried to sound light, but a spike of terror caused his ears to turn pink.

“Just sit down!” Tom did as he was told, and Lois lowered the baby into his arms. She laughed at her little brother, whose eyes were wide in shock. “You can relax, Tom. Lean back in the chair and I’ll put a cushion under your arm. Just take her head, that’s it-” Everything in Tom’s body stilled. His breath became deep, his racing thoughts quietened and any sound beyond the house disappeared. The baby in his arms licked its little pink lips, still milk-drunk, and looked up at him with shining eyes. “This, Tom, is your niece.”

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Language.” Lois teased. “And this, little one, is your uncle Tom.” Knowing she was in tender care, the little girl gargling in his arms took hold of the finger that had reached out to brush her cheek.

“Fuck,” Tom said again, and wiped a tear of his own from his eye. With Tom missing, Harry married and facing a world of raising a child on her own, Lois had lost all expectations for the future she once dreamed of. A little piece of hope she thought missing slotted back into the space of her heart, as she watched her brother embracing her daughter. She ran hand through Tom’s hair tenderly and he leant into the touch, reminded of their mother. After minutes of contented silence passed Tom, never looking away from his niece, spoke.

“Is she Harry’s?”

“Yes. Though what he’ll have to do with her, I don’t know.”

“Bastard.”

“Quite.”

When he spoke again, it was to his niece. “Doesn’t matter thought, does it? You’re perfect.” Lois smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Are you alright with her there? I’ve got some folding to do,” Tom waved his hand; he’d sit there forever. “Not sure what to call her yet, I thought it’d be nice to name her after mum?” Tom nodded and Lois’ heart burst with pride. Her little family would be ok.

They talked for hours. Tom told Lois about his travels around the south of Europe, and about Dunkirk. How he ended up in Paris and his escape. About Claudette and the others he met along the journey. Lois told him of ENSA, Harry’s betrayal and of adoring Vernon. Of the baby and the birth; she spared him the detail, all but one fact. “Bess helped me deliver her.”

“Oh right,” Tom’s voiced croaked and Lois smiled to herself.

“You’d better go over and see the Vaughns later. They’ll be so happy to see you.” She came back to sit next to Tom and her daughter, now sleeping in her uncle’s arms. “I don’t suppose you’ll have heard that either, God, there’s so much to tell you-”

Tom didn’t get the chance to find out what Lois had to tell him, for the front door clicked open. Douglas walked in, shucking off his shoes and coat. “Where’s my granddaughter then?” He was happier than Tom had heard him in a long time and his stomach sank a little. Was it wrong, to have hoped to find his father devasted? Maybe he was right after all, maybe things were easier if he wasn’t here.

“Dad,” Lois’ voice was soft.

“Yes, love?” Douglas turned from hanging up his coat and glanced at his daughter, before his eyes flickered to the man sat beside her, cradling his granddaughter. Tom stood and Lois hastily took the baby from his arms. Douglas looked between his daughter and son, mouth a little ajar, and swayed on the spot.

“Hi dad.”

The words were barely out of Tom’s mouth before Douglas clapped a hand to his own and laughed. He bent double, laughing, and at this Lois began crying again. It was when his father stood straight that Tom saw the tears rolling down his face. “Dad,” Tom stepped forward but hesitated. For the second time in his life, he froze. The first was when Bess fled from this very house in tears, the second was now. Luckily for Tom, he didn’t have to wait long, for Douglas staggered forwards and gripped him in a desperate hug.

“My boy,” Douglas laughed through his tears. “My boy,”

“Hi dad,” Tom said again, weakly. Douglas, as Lois had done, cupped Tom’s face to look at him.

“My brave, brave boy.” Tom laughed awkwardly, but his heart soared with happiness. At long last, he was home.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

The afternoon was reaching for evening when the Bennetts finally grew tired of chatting. Baby Bennett was sleeping on her grandfather’s shoulder, who was watching his two children with adoring pride. Tom had taken the picture of Marie down from the wall and placed her at the table, the way the Vaughns did with their mother. Sipping the last of their tea, they sat in gentle silence and simple enjoyment of the fact that their family was together again. And not just together, but growing.

“What are your plans, Tom?” Douglas asked as he placed the babe back in her basket.

“Well, I imagine it won’t be long until I’m called back.” He hurried on at the darkness that befell Douglas’ face. “But it won’t be for a while. I’m not sure how much paperwork it takes to resurrect the dead. In the meantime, it’ll be a few good meals and see as much of home as I can.”

“Speaking of which,” Lois said. “You best get over the road. They need some good news and I think you’re just the thing.”

“Must have been devastating when I left, all the good-looking fellas gone-” Lois smacked his arm again.

“Be off with you!” Tom kissed her cheek and patted his father’s shoulder.

“Save some tea for me, Lois. I’ve been dreaming of your roast dinners.” Dressing in an old jumper and clean slacks, he made for the door and the Vaughns. The air was still warm from summer though an autumnal breeze was gathering through the street. A few little girls playing in the street shrieked when it lifted their petticoats around their woollen tights. Tom laughed. That’ll be the little one someday. Crossing the road, something else fluttering in the wind caused him to stop dead. A black ribbon, tied around the knocker of the Vaughn’s front door. His blood ran cold. Surely, Lois would have told him if it was one of the girls. If it was Bess. The sensitivity of the day’s emotion caught at the back of his throat and he swallowed. Hadn’t Lois tried to tell him something before his dad arrived home? Tom watched with quiet fear as the ribbon teased him, before stepping to the door and knocking. He straightened his jumper and ran a hand through his hair. God damn it, he should have looked in a mirror before he left. Or at least washed. Tom was just shaking out his shoulders when the door opened and he snapped to attention.

“Co-” The words died in his throat as the eldest Vaughn sister jumped at him.

“Oh my God!” Cora withdrew to look at him, then crashed into him once more. “Oh my God! Dot. DOT! Come down here right now!” She dragged him over the threshold. As yet, Cora had said nothing to Tom, and no words were exchanged further when Dot came hurtling from the back room and screamed at the sight of him. Running across the kitchen, she jumped into his arms and bounced up and down.

“You’re alive, oh thank God,” Dot turned back to her sister. “Some good news at last!”

Cora didn’t take her eyes off Tom. “Bess will be thrilled,” Tom could have sworn he saw Cora smirk.

Bess. Tom remembered the front door. “Cora. What’s happened? The ribbon on the door,” Dot stopped her giddiness, still holding on to Tom’s hand.

“Oh Tom,” Cora shuffled around the table to hold her sister. “It’s our Albie. The Siege of Calais-” Her voice died away and Dot hiccoughed. Tom looked between the sisters.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hating how feeble the words were and how they sounded in his mouth. Dot looked up and tried to smile through her watery eyes.

“But at least we have you back. And like Cora said, Bess will be thrilled.”

“I’m going over there to Manchester soon actually, Tom, taking some food round for Bess. If you want to come?”

Cora looked to Dot, who still had hold of Tom’s hand. She began to swing it, looking up at him mischievously. “Um,” he coughed. “Yes, will do.” Christ.

The journey back into the centre of town was easy. One of Douglas’ friends from the bus service gave he and Cora two free tickets on account of him returning home, and the bus detoured around the bombed buildings. Tom thanked God; he didn’t know if he could stomach it. Not when his mind was so occupied on seeing Bess within the hour. Next to him, Cora chatted away about Roger and how well he was doing with the RAF, about the memorial mass for Albie, and at that Tom tried to listen. But through imagined glimpses of the Vaughns’ grief, all he could see were flashes of Bess running alongside the train. It wasn’t until he and Cora departed the bus and arrived at an old mill building that he noticed he hadn’t been paying attention at all to the route they had taken. All he knew was that this was the old cotton trade quarter of the city. Tom looked up at the tall chimneys, smog-stained red brick and the shadow the old mill cast. Half of him thought that facing the Germans would be less terrifying than stepping in here and he laughed. Cora smiled lightly.

“Are you excited to see her?”

“Pardon?” Tom’s reaction was quick, so quick that when he whipped his head around from gazing up at the mill, he heard it crack.

“Give over Tom, I’m not stupid. I know all about you and Bess. She told me, after I caught you both kissing in the window.”

Tom grinned mischievously and rubbed the back of his neck. “I always get caught, in the end.”

“At least this time it isn’t trouble. Though I’ll tell you know, Tom Bennett. I adore you, but if you break her heart, I’ll kill you myself.”

“I think Dot’d kill me first.”

Cora laughed. “That she would. Now,” she put her hand on the door knocker. “Mrs Russo, the boarding mistress, doesn’t like gentlemen visitors so we’ll just tell her you’re waiting outside. Then we’ll sneak you in when she isn’t looking.”

“Aye, aye!” Tom saluted and with a laugh, Cora knocked. Once. Twice. Three times. There was a little noise behind the door and the two heard a pair of footsteps growing louder. It opened to reveal Mrs Russo, broom in hand and beaming, her bonny face shiny with exertion of cleaning.

“Cora, love, hello!” She pointed at the basket of food in her hand. “Got any for me?”

“Just deliveries for Bess I’m afraid,” the two women laughed and Tom sensed this was an ongoing occurrence. Mrs Russo then turned her eyes to him appraisingly and did not hide that she clearly approved.

“And who is this handsome lad?”

“Mrs Russo, this is Tom.” Cora lightly touched his shoulder. “A childhood friend. He’s just returned home this morning.”

“Ah, the missing fella!” Mrs Russo clapped her hands. “Bess has told us all about you, of course.” Tom felt a blush rise up his cheeks and Cora smirked. “Now, I don’t allow young men in the house, even ones as good looking as yourself, but would you take a cup of tea while you wait for Cora? I can open up the courtyard for you.”

“Only if you join me, Mrs Russo.” Tom winked.

“Oh, he is a charmer! I can see why you girls are so fond of him. I best get back to my cleaning but if you follow the building round, I’ll open the gate to the courtyard. Coming, Cora love?”

Tom began to walk along the red brick wall as Cora whispered, “I’ll come and get you when the coast is clear!”, and followed the lady inside. Mrs Russo had already opened the courtyard gate and hurried back to her chores when Tom reached it. Washing, bedsheets and nurse’s uniforms, hung between every window and at the centre of the small patio was a table and two chairs, a steaming cup of tea already awaiting him. No sooner had Tom sat down and taken his first sip was Cora hissing at him from a side door.

“Psst! Tom!” Tom hastily threw the tea into a plant pot and strode towards Cora. “Bess is still at work but I can let you in. You’re alright waiting for her, aren’t you?” Tom nodded his assent and felt his heart rate double. The two wound their way quietly up a few flights of stairs before Cora stopped to fumble with a set of keys. “Here we are, Bess’ humble abode.” She entered the flat first and Tom followed. It was as if he was trespassing on the room of someone recently deceased; it was so full of life yet the occupant was nowhere to be found. He half expected Bess to jump out at them.

The kitchen was miniscule. A cup and plate had been left by the sink, and Cora set about washing them for her little sister and putting away her parcel of food. On top of a rickety table was a vase, the dried flowers losing their leaves and scattering around two picture frames. One of Bess and her family, one of Etta. Tom smiled and moved to the window. Despite the missing buildings and the faint smoke rising from the air raids, Manchester looked magnificent in the late summer light. The sun was low on the horizon, piercing through chimneys, spires and mills. A little way off, Tom could make out the cranes of the dockyard. Beside him was an old armchair, its fabric faded and patched in places. Over the top lay some clothes, haphazardly draped, and a book of Nursing Practice. A little to his right, the bedroom door was askew, and Tom just caught a glimpse of the bed when Cora spoke. She was halfway out the door.

“I know what happened, Tom, before you went away. Bess has a steely mind and a sensitive soul, but she needs the truth.”

She didn’t allow Tom to add anything more before shutting the door. He was left alone.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

“Got a bottle of wine from one of the lads,” Joan said, placing dirtied bedding into the wash bin. Helen was smoking discreetly out of a store cupboard window, carefully avoiding Sister Stern.

“How on earth did you manage that?”

“Said I’d give him a kiss,” Joan said sweetly and Bess laughed.

“Honestly,” Helen pretended to chastise her friend, but still smiled as she exhaled a plume of smoke. “What time shall we come up to yours Bess?”

“Eight o’clock, I’d say.” Bess was helping Joan to tidy away the linens before heading home to pick up some sewing work. “Gives me a chance to finish the clothes.”

“I wonder if there’ll be another air raid?” Helen worried the skin of her lip as she flicked her cigarette away.

“If there is,” Joan straightened and stretched her back from the day’s labour. “I’m glad I’ll be with you girls.” Bess squeezed her hand and waved her goodbyes.

The five o’clock sun set the city ablaze, and when Bess stepped onto the street, the glare the sun cast from the windows caused her to walk straight into somebody.

“I’m so sorry,” she held out her hands to steady herself against the person.

��Bess,”

Bess looked up, and into the sullen and scarred face of the man before her.

“James!” Bess took an instinctive step back. “How are you? The scarring is healing well, glad to see my stitching was neat.”

“Yes, I uh-” James looked nervously at her and shuffled on his feet. “I’m here to see one of the doctors about my sight. If he thinks I’m healed, it’ll be back to the front for me.”

Neither spoke for a moment, then Bess reached out to hold his arm. “The offer still stands, James. If you want someone to write to, you know where to find me.” She gestured to the building behind her. “Good luck.” She began to walk away when the calling of her name stopped her.

“Bess, if I do go back, would you come for dinner with me before I go?”

“James-”

“Please, just one last time.”

Despite his height, the soldier seemed to slouch under Bess’ gaze. His messy hair blew in the breeze and the coat he wore hung loosely around his shoulders. He looked completely lost.

“James, I’m sorry. I’m taking care of my heart at the moment, I don’t think I can handle any more heartbreak.” The man she spoke to straightened at this, seemingly buoyed by the fact that in some life somewhere, he could have the capacity to break this magnificent woman’s heart. The reality was entirely different, and Bess’ mind drew images of blue eyes and thin lips before her. Still, this little offering seemed to ease the soldier’s spirit and she smiled. “Good luck, James,” she said again, before heading for the bus stop.

Mrs Russo was exiting Carver Mills when Bess arrived home a while later. The little woman was buttoning her coat over a blue skirt Bess had mended for her when she spotted her tenant.

“How was work love?”

“Exhausting.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know that Cora popped round a little while ago with a very handsome man and a food basket for you.” Bess smiled, imagining the fuss Mrs Russo surely made over Roger. He really was taking his time with that proposal.

“Perfect. Helen and Joan are coming up for supper later if you’d like to join us?”

“Oh heavens no!” Mrs Russo smiled. “I’m off to see my daughter, and besides, you girls don’t want an old biddy like me hanging around. No, you have your fun.”

“And you,” Bess passed Mrs Russo in the doorway and dragged herself up the stairs towards the flat. Despite her weariness, and run in with James, Bess still felt in her heart the lightness that had settled there that morning. For the first time, she smiled as she thought of Albie. Bess had never been particularly faithful, unlike her mother and father, but she wondered if this happiness and warmth came from her brother watching over her. Perhaps he was annoyed at her moping and was sending her a gift from the heavens. He always got annoyed when she was miserable, the likely cause being their twin moods. Or maybe it was because she had finally settled into her life in Manchester, away from her family. It was true, she missed them, and missed the piano, but this newfound sense of freedom gave her something she hadn’t known since she worked at the atelier. Only three miles away from where she was born, yet somehow this little world felt like hers entirely. The only thing that could dampen her happiness was Tom. She heard Albie’s reassuring and logical voice in her head. “Missing, not dead.” She reached the door to her flat, a little out of breath and pulled her keys from her bag.

“Missing, not dead.” She said aloud to the stairwell, placed her key in the door and began humming Mack the Knife. The sun painted her kitchen a brilliant gold, and Bess stood in the open doorway letting the last of the day’s warmth touch her face. She turned back to the door, still humming and locked it before removing her coat and shoes. Reaching up under her dress, she unhooked her itchy tights and pulled them off also, the cool tiles of the floor sending shivers up her legs. It was as she was retrieving the contents of her bag that the sudden and harsh scraping of a chair across the kitchen floor caused her to gasp and spin around.

A man was stood at the table. Wisps of his blond hair were haloed in the golden sunset, his broad shoulders squared, and Bess could just make out the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Electricity hummed in her fingers tips. If I reach out and touch him, she thought, I might spark. At this surge of power, of energy, warmth welled in her bosom and her chest burned, as though taking her first gasping breaths of oxygen. Bess’ body, far before her mind, reached out to the figure, lit like a beacon in the autumnal light. She stepped forward, yet the figure didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

Bess would have known it was him had she been blind. If he’d not been a man, but a perfect ray of sun or a bird perched on her window or the chime of bells on Sunday, she’d have known. She would have known it as the air stilled around them. If he hadn’t come back until she was an old maid, and he an old man. She would have known it was him, just like she knew he was the reason for the day’s high spirits. Bess raised her hand and, shielding her eyes from the light, she saw him. The depths of those grey eyes, the sweep of hair. The strong neck that led to that stone jaw. The slope of his nose, pink at the tip and those lips, curved and oh so tempting. She edged ever closer, her hands instinctively reaching out to him.

Tom had been prepared for stony silence, a confrontation, or an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a “welcome home”. But when Bess looked at him as though he were the only man on earth, Tom Bennett could do nothing but watch. Watch, as she stood bathed in the sunlight. Watch, as she took in every feature of him. Watch, as her shock turned into recognition, and watch as she advanced on him, her dark eyes set and certain.

“Bess, I-” his voice was barely above a whisper, and the hopeful need he heard in his own was matched in the stormy eyes of the woman before him. Months of despair and self-hatred, years of waiting and wanting all came undone at the sound of his voice. Taken over by carnal desire that only he could ignite, Bess rounded the tiny kitchen table and collided with him.

“Tom,” her voice was shrouded in desperation, and no sooner had his name left her lips were they on his, warm, wanting and needy. Tom sighed, letting Bess devour him in a frenzy of lips, teeth and tongue, and in an instant his hands were at her back, pressing her body flush against his chest. Bess pushed Tom into the wall and pawed at his chest, desperate to touch any part of him she could. Pulling away from his lips, she tugged at the jumper he wore. She dropped it to the floor and pressed her body against his, wanting nothing more than to melt into his touch. Bess untangled her hands from Tom’s hair and frantically began undoing the buttons of his shirt. Her nimble fingers made quick work of the offending garment and Tom watched with proud awe as she ripped it away from his body and ran her eyes over his hard chest. When a small gasp left her parted lips his pride turned to fear however, until Bess ran gentle fingers under the skin his left shoulder. There, above his heart and below his collarbone, the puncture of scar tissue darkened his alabaster skin.

Seeing horror flash across her eyes, Tom placed a hand on hers and held it over his scar. “They shot me,” he said simply with a sad smile.

“And that’s why you didn’t come home,” it was a statement more than a question, and Tom nodded. Slowly, Bess removed her hand from the scar and placed a tender kiss to the mottled skin. Tom’s wayward heart drummed in his chest as something akin to hope anchored there.

“I’m sorry,” Bess whispered, peppering kisses across his chest, always returning to kiss the gunshot. “I’m so sorry,” her voice quavered and when Tom moved away from her she whined. Tears were forming in her eyes, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She reached out to Tom but he batted her hand away and instead took her face in his hands.

“Why are you apologising?”

“I didn’t say goodbye to you,” Bess took a shuddering breath. “What if you hadn’t come back? It’s, it’s-” Her voiced raised in pitch. “It’s so close to your heart, Tom.” She had barely finished the words before prolonged grief racked her body. She tried to hide her face but Tom didn’t let her. Instead, he ran a thumb over her cheek and committed this moment to memory. In the streaming, yellow light, and filled with tears, her brown eyes looked gold. She must have been wearing lipstick during the day, for the faded pigment lingered at the centre of her full lips, now wet with his kisses and slightly parted. A flush covered her cheeks and nose, and her eyebrows were knitted with anguish. Tom grinned with tenderness for her. Once more running a finger over her cheek, he wiped away a tear and spoke softly.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he kissed her slowly, savouring the taste of her salty tears and the warmth of her tongue. “I’m here, Bess. I’m home.” At this, Bess whimpered through his kisses and clutched at his shirt. The sound sent tremors straight to Tom’s cock and he inhaled harshly, attempting to restrain his desire to take Bess where they stood. Urgent for closeness, Bess wound her hand through Tom’s sandy hair and gripped hard at the nape of his neck. When he moaned aloud, she ran her tongue along his lips before moving to nip at his jaw, down his neck and his bare torso. His head fell back and hit the wall as she ran her tongue up the length of body, skirted her hands over his chest and wound them around his neck. She bit him there once again and Tom laughed.

“I missed you so much, love.” Tom whispered, the ghost of a smirk on his handsome face.

“Tom,” Bess ran her tongue along the column of his neck and bit the pulse point there. The action caused Tom to buck his hips and Bess giggled. She did it again and this time, Tom growled. “Fuck, Tom,” once more her hands found his hair and she tugged him down in a fiery kiss, their tongues fighting to gain dominance. One of Tom’s large hands gripped Bess’ waist and pulled her towards his groin, where she felt the growing hardness beneath his trousers. Head spinning, and whining at the friction through his trousers and her layers of uniform, Bess broke the kiss and licked her lips seductively. Tom pulled forward. She pulled away.

“I dream of this every night, Tom Bennett.”

That was it. That was all it took for Tom Bennett to snap. Months, if not years of wanting Bess Vaughn burst from him as he roughly took hold of her face and crashed his lips onto hers. No longer were his kisses soft and loving, but hard and wanton. Bess mewled at his display of ownership over her and began unbuckling his belt.

“Fuck,” he tore his mouth away from hers to suckle at her neck; hot, wet kisses as she fought to free him from his trousers. When the belt was undone, still dominating her mouth with his tongue, he gripped her hips with his hands and forced her backwards until her legs hit the wood of the kitchen table. With both hands under her backside, he hoisted her onto its surface and she grabbed him for another devouring kiss. Without coaxing, she spread her legs and Tom groaned as he stood between them, grinding against her layers of skirt.

“Tom,” Bess’ head tipped backwards and he ground into her. He reached behind her back and pulled the ties of the nurse’s apron and threw it to the ground. With her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms about his shoulders, Bess clung to Tom as he fought with the buttons and zip of her bodice. Cold air and Tom’s long fingers traced the skin there when he managed to undo it, and no sooner had Bess moaned is name was Tom pulling her free of the arms and bodice of her uniform. He huffed at the sight of her brassiere, and with no warning or hesitation, ripped its satin straps so that Bess’ chest was entirely bare to him. Instantly, her pink nipples puckered with cold and Tom’s eyes blew wide. He dipped his head to kiss at the full flesh there, and Bess’ hold around his waist tightened.

“Please, Tom.” His name was all she could say. Tom was all she could comprehend. Still teasing her breasts, Tom reached beneath her skirt and roughly pulled down her knickers. She moaned with need as Tom ran a finger through the treasure he found there.

“Fuck,”

Bess bucked her hips.

“Fuck,” he said again, bringing his lips back to hers and moaning into her mouth. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined doing this to you.”

Bess laughed with the pleasure and power those last words brought her. “Yes I do,”

“Confident,” Tom smirked as he continued to kiss her and run his long fingers through her now dripping folds.

“’I’d have fucked you with my mouth, my fingers, my cock. Watched you take me.’” Bess quoted, and Tom stilled. Through lust-hazy eyes, he looked down at her. His fingers stopped their work and Bess whined.

“What did you say?”

“’I don’t want to imagine anymore what those nimble fingers of your can do.’” Bess quoted again, and she watched as his pupils dilated further and his Adam’s apple bobbed with nerves. He huffed a laugh and Bess bit her lip.

“How do you know that?”

Bess tried to drive her hips upwards, frantically trying to feel his fingers against her but he moved them away. “What do you mean?”

“I-I didn’t send that letter,” Tom whispered, his mouth close to hers. Bess frowned a little, confused but eager for their reunion to continue.

“Well, you have a guardian angel because not only did they send you back, but they sent that letter too. And I’ve read it every night and every morning since it arrived. I’m tired of using my hand and pretending it’s your mouth around me.” Bess kissed him quickly, chastely.“I could say exactly the same.”

Tom regarded her with admiring shock then, with a harsh thrust as quick as lightening, brought his fingers to dip inside her. Bess cried out but was silenced by Tom’s hot mouth on hers. Who was more wanton, neither could say, for no sooner had he touched her was Bess bucking her hips onto his hand. Faster and faster, Tom fucked her sex with his fingers. First one, then two. When he added a third he felt Bess clench hard around him and he buried his head in her chest.

“Please,” she whimpered, curling an arm around his neck for purchase. “Please, I need you Tom.” At the sincerity of her words, a singular sob rent its way from Tom’s tense body. He looked down at her, at his Bess, spread before him on the table, half dressed and flushed with lust. It was true that Tom had thought of this moment, though his dreams could never equal the excitement, terror and elation that he felt roaring through his veins. But his obsession with Bess was so much more than lust. These nine months he had carried her in his pocket, through battles and enemy-occupied states. If he did have a guardian angel, surely it was she. Surely, it had always been her. On the Exeter, wasn’t it her hair he saw in the flames? When entangled with another woman he didn’t know the name of, wasn’t it her lips he’d imagined? It was memories of her, teaching him piano, nights at Belle Vue or the Palais, the momentous occasions he had made her belly laugh, or quiet evenings sharing a cigarette that had got him through those lonely, fearful nights at sea. It was the certainty that when he got home Bess would be there, waiting for him or not, that dragged his tired and war-battered body across Europe to safety. He needed her, completely and entirely.

With a swift kiss, Tom removed his fingers from her arousal and fumbled hastily with his slacks. Bess bolted upright and her hands found his. Together, with smiles and desperation, they wrestled with his slacks and briefs until the growing hardness that had strained so uncomfortably against the hard fabric was freed. Bess’ mouth watered at the sight and she kissed Tom with a renewed hunger. Looking back to his hard erection pressed against the soft flesh of her thigh, she whimpered. A few pearlescent beads of precum were gathered at its pink and swollen tip, and the veins that travelled along the shaft to its base in the thicket of blond curls throbbed. Without hesitation, Bess gripped his wide length and Tom hissed as she pumped his arousal before lining it up with her centre. Bracing his hands on the table either side of her lips, Tom’s head fell forward against Bess’ and she ran the tip of his cock along the entrance of her dripping sex. She inched closer to the edge of the table, mouth falling open in a silent moan as the tip of Tom’s painfully hard cock pressed against her entrance. He was panting with need, and the effort to not slam his hips forward and fully seat himself inside her. Already, their kisses were sloppy. The small kitchen was alite with the heat of the sun and their bodies. Bess’ hands gripped his broad shoulders and Tom took himself in hand, but when her legs wrapped around his slight waist, he faltered.

“I-I-Christ,” he was cunt-drunk before he’d even fucked her. “I don’t have a sheath.”

Bess ran a hand through his flaxen hair. She had waited years for this man, known since the war began that it was Tom Bennett or no-one. Any consequences of loving him wholly be damned. “I want all of you, Tom,” she whispered. “Please.”

And Tom, with a shuddering breath, inched himself slowly into the welcoming heat of Bess’ body. Simultaneously they groaned, as Tom bottomed out in the warmth of Bess’ cunt. Her head tipped backwards and exposed the column of her elegant neck. Not moving within her, Tom leant forward to kiss the delicate skin there, the act pushing him forwards so that the tip of his cock brushed that sensitive spot within Bess’s pussy.

“Fuck,” her cry sounded pained, and Tom would have withdrawn from her were it not for the piercing of her nails in his shoulders, or the plump flesh of her thighs holding him ever closer. Slowly, so tantalisingly and cruelly slowly, Tom edged out of her heat, causing Bess’ eyes to flutter shut. He paused to watch the heaving of her breasts as she raggedly gasped for air, and at his stillness she looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Please-” Whatever she was to say next died in her throat, for Tom slammed his hips so forcefully into hers that she saw stars. Over and over, Tom thrust his aching cock into her heat as she mewled and clawed at any part of him she could reach. With every snap of his hips Bess’ body came alive for him, from the quivering of her walls around his cock to the babbled gasps of “more”, “Tom”, and “harder”.

For Tom, the tight heat of Bess around him, the image of her coming undone at his touch and the desperation with which he had always wanted her reached a feverish pitch in which the overwhelming cacophony of feeling rendered his mind utterly blank. All he knew was Bess, the sound of her pleading voice, the harsh rasps of their hot breath on each other’s bodies and the obscene sounds of their love making. Harder and faster he pounded into her, all thought of gentleness gone from both their minds, bodily need and years of craving each other taking over.

The banging of the table legs against the floorboards of the old flat was barely audible over Bess’ moans and Tom’s muttered adorations, and neither noticed nor cared. Tom was too caught up in the waves of pleasure washing over Bess, and when her body fell back against the table and revealed her parted sex taking his cock so perfectly, he reached down to circle a thumb over her needy clit. Bess gripped his wrist and Tom felt her cunt clench around him.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped, and at her demand Tom felt he could continue no longer. Eager to satisfy her, he ground his jaw and with a hand at her hip and the over rubbing perfect circles over her sex, he watched as a flush of red bloomed across Bess’ cheeks and chest. Her body tensed and began to quake, and Tom knew he had never seen anything so beautiful; he promised himself he would bring Bess to pleasure as often as he was able. The shockwaves of her orgasm pulsed through her body, hard and untameable, and at the feeling of her climax Tom came undone, growling lowly as he came within her. Bess’ body went limp and he brought her against his chest, cradling her in his arms. In turn, Bess kissed the side of his forehead and laughed. When he looked at her through his loving and fucked-out gaze, he saw the surely uncomfortable position she was in; legs spread wide around his waist, leant slightly against the hard table and half dressed. Slowly, Tom pulled out of her still quivering sex and Bess gasped. The sound made Tom grin with smug satisfaction and Bess laughed. He kissed her smiling lips and pulled her to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered with a chuckle. Bess stood and, as she did so, the skirt of her uniform slid from her hips and pooled on the floor. Completely naked in front of him, Tom reached out a hand and caressed he full hips.

“Now you’re the one apologising!” Bess stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his perfect lips and feeling his cock grow hard once more at the touch of her bare body. He laughed.

“I had grand plans for when I came back to you, and fucking you on the kitchen table wasn’t one of them. I’m sorry-”

“I don’t know,” Bess cut him off with a languid kiss. “It seems appropriate to me, the course of our lives seems to have occurred in the kitchen.”

“Not anymore, love.” Bess raised a quizzical brow but her question went unanswered, for Tom bent low and flung Bess over his shoulder. She squealed and held his waist, Tom’s own hands firm on the plump roundness of her bottom. Bess could sense the shit-eating grin her wore and she smacked his arse.

“Cheeky,” Tom walked her to her bedroom, kicking open the door and dropping her on the bed. His eyes were hungry and she expected him to ravish her. Instead, he crawled atop her and rested his head against her soft stomach and curled his hand around her hips. It was then that Bess realised that hunger and lust for another person were not the same, and her heart beat with a fresh wave of love for the man clutching at her body.

“I missed you,” he said again, running his hands up her sides. She shuffled beneath him, rolling onto her side and Tom was forced to look up. Bess was reaching for the drawer of her bedside table.

“I want to show you something,” her voice was strained as she stretched awkwardly to retrieve something amongst the pile of makeup, magazines and fabric samples. Sitting up, naked and vulnerable, Bess handed Tom a bundle of paper. It was only when he looked closer that he realised they were letters. Each dated, with his name in the centre. He looked from them to Bess with wide eyes, doubting that anyone, including his father or Lois, had ever loved him this much.

“I never stopped writing, after you went missing,” she wiped her eyes and a glimmer of the old Bess, defiant and hardy, appeared before Tom. He wrapped a hand in the copper hair at the base of her neck and kissed her deeply.

“You’re some woman, Bess Vaughn.” And with dexterous fingers, he opened the first letter and began to read.

Notes: I’m sorry this took so long, hen dos and Eurovision and mega work deadlines and illness got in the way. Forgive me. Expect communication and long, sexy, heart-felt smuttiness in the next chapter! See you soon (I promise!)

EDIT: If you've read Come Back To Me, you may have noticed that in my illness-addled mind I called Bess the wrong name. All sorted now.

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandomprompts @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #tom bennett x ofc #ewan mitchell x reader #the seamstress & the sailor

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evita-shelby · 1 year

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Tie your heart to mine

Summer 1939

On the road with the Lee and Dogs Family, Diane Shelby, eldest daughter of Thomas Shelby and his Mexican wife, Eva, meets Tom Bennett at a dance hall in Longsight where his sister Lois is playing.

An unlikely romance blossoms just as the war her mother predicted long ago arrives at their doorstep.

(Or World on Fire meets Peaky Blinders)

Rated :T (for now)

Discontinued 4/28/2024

sorry

Taglist: @thegreatdragonfruta @peakyblindas @arcielee

Peaky Blinders fic where Diane is from

Moodboards:

Diane moodboard

How sweet it is

The Witch and the Sailor (by @lynnbeth5172 )

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

One shots: with the punctuality of a headlong train

Wrap my teeth around the world (moodboard and blurb)

Diane shelby masterlist

#tom bennett x ofc #tom bennett x oc #tom bennett x diane shelby #oc:diane shelby #eva smith shelby #world on fire peaky blinders crossover #ewan mitchell #world on fire #tom bennett x reader

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suedesongs · 5 months

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These Are The Suede Songs 001: Early Recordings

Suede’s early trajectory is often described, especially by the band themselves, as “the world’s longest overnight success”. Four years of slogging the toilets of London, from playing humiliating gigs to, on one occasion, nobody at all, to appearing on the front page of Melody Maker, may sound quick, but in musical terms can feel like a lifetime. This was during the era of musical trends coming and going in rapid succession, a little like fashion microtrends today. Within those four years, Baggy and the Second Summer of Love, The Stone Roses and Spike Island, raves and ecstasy, made way for American grunge - precisely the opposite, and amongst this cultural shift, quietly grafting their way, were Suede.

Whilst there aren’t a great deal of surviving bootlegs or demos from this era, I still felt incredibly compelled to cover what I could find in a dedicated post. Research was rather fruitless at times, and I found much of the writing on this period of the band’s career to be marred (cough) by the insistence of male writers to throw all of their energy into a somewhat troubling obsession with what is perceived as the infamous Anderson-Frischmann-Albarn “love triangle”. I took to Twitter (or, blegh, X) to vent my frustrations, and received a reply from my friend Tasha who, much more eloquently than I, expressed how Justine Frischmann is viewed as merely an object in an interpersonal drama, rather than a fleshed out musician in her own right. Are women doomed to simply be accessories to their male counterparts? I find this disheartening when Frischmann is so integral to not only the Suede “story”, but, in my opinion, to what would go on to become the sound we all know, and love.

My analysis will frequently include my personal opinions, and should not be taken as definitive. Where necessary to the discussion of the songs, tidbits of info may be provided in order to “set the scene”. This series should not be used as a biography, but instead an exploration of a body of work. It will be by no means objective. I’m a massive Suede fan. I’ve travelled up and down the country for gigs, queued from as early as 6am for a coveted barrier spot, my cat is (in a roundabout way) named after an obscure Bloodsports-era B Side. I’m a self-professed fangirl. Having said this, I’ll do my best to not let this get in the way. And with all of the preliminaries seen to, we begin with,

Just A Girl (Anderson/Frischmann)

Though credited to Anderson-Butler, this light, airy folk ballad is reportedly the oldest surviving Suede tune, dating far before Bernard Butler joined. The version that appears online, and on the deluxe edition of the debut, is likely a home demo recorded by Brett Anderson and Justine Frischmann.

Anderson, in his memoir Coal Black Mornings, explains the titular girl, “north of England way”, is a Middlesborough-born Chemistry student called Emily, with whom he shared a flat on Daisy Bank road in Longsight, Manchester, in the year after he moved from Haywards Heath to the rainy industrial Northern city. ‘Just A Girl’ really couldn’t be set in any city other than Manchester. It describes the beginnings of a fond friendship, perhaps more, distinctly against the backdrop of a harsh, wet winter, overlooked by grey skies and red-bricked former warehouses. It’s the first, blushing, awkward flushes of young love. It’s leaving your University lectures at half past three when it’s already pitch dark. It’s when you say something you shouldn’t to the person you fancy after a few drinks. It’s huddling under the covers to stay warm, the excitement of closeness and companionship.

I typically have a complete, and near visceral, aversion to anything, musically or otherwise, that can be described as “twee”. Just A Girl, I feel, does undeniably dangle its harmonies and lyrical depictions of turning the page of one’s favourite book perilously close to the jaws of this accusation.Yet, I simply cannot bring myself to dislike it. Whilst musically competent, if a little naive, it’s sweet and genuine, and for that, it’s rather lovely.

There are already some allusions to Anderson’s later lyrical themes; the combination of love and tragedy as he laments how “it could have been so different if we’d only had more time”. Anderson, as we’ll explore, is rarely one to write a straight love song. No matter how they may seem, there is always a thread of tragedy, or drama, which underpins the affair and protects against it veering into saccharine territory.

For a few years now, I’ve cited the “ashtray eyes and bootlace ties” line to be a direct harbinger of some of Anderson’s later lyrics, most likely thinking of 2011's ‘Brittle Heart’,from his solo album Black Rainbows. However, this is in fact, lifted from Ian Drury’s ‘Sweet Gene Vincent’, more directly alluded to with Anderson and Frischmann lamenting how “Sweet Gene Vincent was never that good”.

According to Anderson, on regular rotation on the turntables of himself, Frischmann and Mat Osman around this time, were a band called The Lilac Time. Quoted in David Barnett’s comprehensive biography, Love And Poison, he describes them as “quite light, leftfield pop sort of thing (...) lots of major seventh chords”, and this influence is abundantly clear on ‘Just A Girl’, and would have possibly done even more had it made it to the studio around this time.

Frischmann’s, when she and Anderson met, record collection was largely comprised of folk music. In an irritating display of arrogance, Anderson insisted that these records would “no longer be listened to '' with him now in the equation. This decision would, of course, prove seminal in the trajectory of Frischmann’s music career in Elastica, as Anderson introduced her to spiky post-punk, however I find this to be rather ironic considering the undeniable folky nature of this particular song.

‘Just A Girl’ would later be re-recorded by Anderson and Richard Oakes, possibly around 1994, though reports of this vary, but not released to the public until a B-side was required for the single ‘Attitude’ in 2003. More on that (much) later, of course.

Natural Born Servant (Anderson-Butler)

‘Natural Born Servant’ is the actual first song in our timeline to be written by Anderson-Butler, and sees Suede as close to flirting with Baggy as they ever would.

As a result, this one comes across as rather trite, not to mention overlong, clocking in at six minutes and twenty seconds.

During my initial re-listen in my research for this project, I found myself incredibly puzzled as the chugging, Madchester intro spluttered into a half-hearted groove, before realising I’d gotten it entirely confused with a later track, ‘Be My God’. Frischmann shows herself a competent backing vocalist, possibly more so than Anderson. One YouTube commenter, possibly humorously, alludes to him “doing a Phil Oakey”, and there is indeed a resemblance. Anderson’s, however, is more naive, though he can certainly carry a tune and his voice is pleasant and sweet, possibly to the song’s detriment, when one considers the subject matter.

Much like a large proportion of Suede’s work, ‘...Servant’ sees Anderson dallying with sexual imagery, and more specifically, BDSM imagery. This attempt, however, whilst enjoyable enough, is surprisingly sexless. It’s almost a feat in itself to write about sex in such a decidedly virginal manner, but I’m glad this was a theme he stuck with throughout his lyrics and it hints at greatness yet to come. More interestingly, however, is the use of sexual imagery as a commentary on class struggle. “You’re a natural born servant/this is the time to open your eyes”, can be viewed as a submissive accepting their place, or a working class individual gaining class consciousness and becoming aware of their oppression in society.

I must say, I’m glad that this was as far as Suede’s relationship with Baggy really went, at least in the recordings I could find and actively listen to. It’s common to speculate of a song like ‘...Servant’ being indicative of a type of “alternate universe” Suede, but I couldn’t disagree more with this. Suede and Baggy just doesn’t work, and they would have always found their sound one way or another.

Justice (Unknown, possibly Anderson-Frischmann-Butler)

Surprisingly, this is the only song of this lot that I find myself drawn to the YouTube search bar to listen to out of choice. It’s almost certainly my personal favourite of all of the pieces we’ve covered here.I even found myself lip syncing to the chorus as I wrote this very paragraph! Oddly, I can’t find too much to say about it. It’s a sweet little, possibly even catchy, slice of Jangle pop. One of the thousands of happy-sad breakup songs of the late 1980s and very early 1990s. Anderson likens it to Aztec Camera’s ‘Oblivious’, which is a far, far better citation than the endless Smiths comparisons I once myself fell privy to, which have since become a cliche.

We again hear Anderson’s vocals not quite having come into themselves yet, there’s a hint of insecurity and hesitancy. They’re so far removed from what we understand as his vocal styling, that one YouTube commenter on the version I found asks if Butler sings vocals. There is present, however, a deep understanding of melody and an undeniable hookiness. I can see myself going back to this one for the odd listen.

Wonderful Sometimes (Unknown, possibly Anderson-Butler)

Gary Crowley, the geezer-ish presenter of the Sunday Afternoon show Greater London Radio, was the host of Demo Clash; a competition held each Sunday on the aforementioned radio station. As the title suggests, this was a show where London bands would send in demos, that would go head-to-head in a public vote. As pointed out in Love and Poison, however, this would largely amount to a game of “who has the most mates”. Anderson would later show dismissal, if not outright disdain for ‘Wonderful Sometimes’. In Dave Thompson’s Suede The Next Life, First Time Around, he describes the song as “shit (...) nothing to get interested in. (...) [GLR] was a little local station, and we’re talking about London where everyone’s in a band.” Still, it would end up on a compilation cassette called What The World Is Waiting For compiled by Adrian Gibson, programmer at Powerhaus on Liverpool Road, N1.

According to the Discogs listing, the idea was to showcase ten up-and-coming bands who were performing at the venue during this time (from a title like that, go figure). There was additionally a launch night at The Powerhaus, and Gibson was interviewed by Crowley to promote the gig.

As for the song itself? ‘Wonderful Sometimes’ contains a few witty one-liners, “you couldn’t liven us up with a cattle prod” and “i’ve heard of happy ever after / it was just a joke but you could die laughing” particularly stick out. Personally, I quite enjoy “Do I just love you ‘cause you look quite good”, but that’s because, as a young-ish woman and a passionate fan, this is an accusation I’ve had levelled at me in the past, and I know I’m not the only one!

‘...Sometimes’ is viewed by many as the holy grail of early Suede recordings, but for something so revered, it’s a decent enough piece of music, but it’s nothing special, even in the context of the other songs we’ve covered. Musically, I try to avoid Smiths comparisons, but here it’s unavoidable as the whiff of William, It Was Really Nothing and even some base notes of Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now, is enough to give you a migraine. Butler’s playing really is more Marr-ish than Marr, but drenched and sadistically drowned in a wah-wah pedal at times, eliciting a comparison to Fool’s Gold, though, mercifully, this is over much sooner.

More excitingly is a noticeable shift in Anderson’s vocal styling, now carrying slightly more confidence and having something of a personality. Here, he’s sounding almost like Robert Smith of The Cure, minus the “Robert Smith-isms”. A deliberately but self-consciously Sussex drawl (The Cure, and Smith, were from up the road from Haywards Heath in Crawley), and a slight nasal intonation.

Ultimately, I don’t so much understand the hype around this one - the reviews on RateYourMusic are unanimously positive, but it’s a jolly tune and, likely because of that, decidedly un-Suede.

#suede #suede band #brett anderson #justine frischmann #mat osman #bernard butler

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