Chapter Text
Birmingham, 1919.
Smoke coiled from the train engine like the last breath of a dying beast. The platform was thick with people. Catherine stepped onto the cracked stone, boots worn from years in the trenches, uniform long gone, but the posture still military. Back straight. Chin high. Eyes forward. But she was alone.
"Bristol's behind you now," she murmured, adjusting her coat. "Time to find what's next."
The streets of Small Heath were grey with soot and smoke, every surface tinged with coal dust. Even the wind smelled burnt—like it had passed through the fire before it reached you.
Catherine kept moving, weaving through the narrow, muddy roads with her suitcase in hand.
Her burgundy coat, a too-large hand-me-down, clung to her frame. The wool collar scratched her neck. She reached up to adjust it with a sigh. Her mother's voice echoed: "It's not for fashion—it's for warmth. You'll thank me."
She hadn't—until now...
Birmingham was louder than Bristol. Grimmer, too. Here, even the sky seemed reluctant, perpetually the colour of old dishwater. The air buzzed with the sound of machinery, the clang and hiss of factories looming overhead like iron skeletons. Their chimneys roared, belching out steam and fire, like war machines refusing to rest even after the armistice.
She passed groups of women heading home in soot-smudged dresses. Men lounged near corner shops, smoking, eyes sharp. No one smiled.
Her fingers curled around the letter in her coat pocket—a recommendation from her old field surgeon, ink faded but still legible.
Didn't matter.
Factories didn't want women who stitched wounds and braved mustard gas. They wanted girls who could fold linen or operate machines, not former nurses who looked men in the eye and asked too many questions. They wanted fast fingers and silence. Girls who knew how to keep their heads down.
She knocked on her fourth door by midday. The foreman barely looked at her before waving her off.
"A nurse? In a munitions line? Go home, sweetheart. War's over. We need hands, not healers. Try the sanitarium if you want to be useful."
She bit her tongue. Said thank you anyway. Kept walking.
She didn't want charity. She wanted purpose.
The world she knew had ended in a muddy trench outside Ypres. This one was louder, faster—and just as cruel.
By dusk, she found a cheap B&B tucked between two shuttered shops on a narrow side street. The windows were cracked, but warm light glowed behind them. A "Rooms Available" sign tilted slightly to the left.
She stepped inside suitcase in hand, and approached the front desk, where a plump woman in a knitted shawl glanced up from her papers.
"A room, please," Catherine said. Her voice was tired but steady. "Just for a few nights, let's say three... for now."
The woman squinted at her.
"You look knackered, love. Factory girl?"
"Nurse," she replied, sliding a few coins across the counter. "Was, anyway."
"Ah." The woman softened. "Well, you'll find your feet. This city's always moving, but if you keep walking with it, it tends to notice you."
Catherine wasn't so sure. But she offered a faint smile and took the key.
The room was small but clean. Catherine dropped the suitcase beside the bed and sat down slowly as if her bones remembered the weight of war.
Outside, the city burned with motion. She stared at the cracked ceiling for a while, listening to the hum of factories even now. Then she dug into her coat pocket and pulled out her old medical satchel—the one thing she'd refused to leave behind.
She laid it on the bed.
Tomorrow, she'd try again. Somewhere else. Someone would need her.
They had to.
Morning came with a groan.
The light through the window was dull and grey; no sun, just a shift in the shade. Catherine sat up, blanket tangled around her legs. She forgot where she was for a moment—until she heard the factory whistles screech outside and the clatter of boots on wet pavement.
Still Birmingham. Still here.
She washed quickly with cold water from the basin, pulled her coat tight again, and tucked the recommendation letter and her worn medical satchel back into her case.
Downstairs, the small breakfast room smelled of tea and burnt toast. A wireless crackled softly in the corner with last night's news—more strikes, more men home from the war with nowhere to go.
The landlady—Mrs. Fenton, she'd said her name was—was already setting plates on the table.
"Sleep alright, love?"
"Well enough," Catherine replied, voice rough with sleep. "Thank you."
Mrs. Fenton gave her a look—half concern, half curiosity.
"You heading out job hunting again?"
"If I'm lucky."
A pause. The older woman wiped her hands on her apron and glanced toward the front door.
"My sister's boy's just come back from France. He's a Bit rough around the edges but decent. Name's Freddie Thorne. Keeps talking politics and revolution like we haven't just crawled out of one war already." She snorted. "But he's good with people. Knows everyone worth knowing in Small Heath."
Catherine hesitated. She didn't want to be anyone's charity case. But pride didn't fill a stomach—or buy her another week's lodging.
"Where can I find him?"
Mrs. Fenton had pointed her toward a back street cafe near the old Black Patch, where the railway met the canal. The air stung her throat with coal smoke and wet brick. Men clustered outside the doors in loose knots, muttering and coughing, caps pulled low.
Inside, it was dim and narrow, smelling of sausages and bitter tobacco. Catherine scanned the room—until someone turned at the sound of her boots on the tile floor.
A man in a worn coat with broad shoulders, a narrow face and dark, cropped hair. He was leaning over a table, gesturing fiercely to a group of younger workers; they seemed to be in a passionate debate.
Freddie Thorne.
He looked up, meeting her gaze with sharp, quick eyes. Not hostile. Curious.
"So you're this Catherine I've heard... well, quite little about?"
"Indeed, I am," she replied sheepishly.
"You're not from around here."
"No," she said. "But I'm hoping that won't be a problem."
He grinned, straightened, and walked over.
"That depends entirely on what you're after."
"A job," she replied, plain and simple. "I was a nurse during the war. I've got references. No factory will take me."
Freddie whistled low."Nurse, huh? Why not go to the sanitarium, then? Surely you'll get some interest there?"
"I want to leave all that behind", Catherine admitted, not looking him square in the eyes. "Like most of us who have come back."
"You're not wrong. Come on then. Let me buy you some tea before we sort your life out. A lot of folks are losing their jobs around here or taking cuts in wages, see. You came at just the wrong time, but I'm sure we can figure something out."
She followed him to the bar, suspicious but willing.
"And how exactly are you going to do that?" she asked as he nodded to the server, who poured hot water over a chipped mug.
"I know a girl named Ada," he said, passing her the sugar. "Bright one. Doesn't give a toss about rules, either. She's got ears everywhere. Her and that cracked aunt of hers. If anyone can find a place for a stubborn war nurse, apologies, ex-war-nurse, it's them. Besides, you might be useful with their brothers'... line of work."
Catherine took the tea and lifted it to her lips. It was weaker than she liked, but it was warm.
"And what do you get out of this?"
Freddie shrugged, smiling.
"One less person drowning in this damn city. That's enough for me."
The underpass smelled like rust and river rot. Water dripped steadily from the iron ribs overhead, echoing in the hollow space like a ticking clock. It was their usual place—hidden from the road, tucked beneath the railway near the old canal. A place for secrets.
Ada was already waiting, her cream fur coat drawn tight around her. Cigarette smoke curled from her lips as she leaned against the brick.
"You're late," she muttered without looking.
Freddie grinned as he approached, hands tucked in his pockets.
"And yet you're still here."
She turned, eyes narrowing, then caught sight of the woman walking beside him.
Ada straightened.
"You brought someone? A woman, Freddie, what the fuck?"
"Relax, relax," Freddie said, raising a hand. "This is Catherine. She's new in town. Staying at my Aunts, you know, at the B&B."
"So what? You brought a stranger here?" Ada hissed, dropping her cigarette to crush it under her heel.
"She's not a threat," Freddie replied calmly. "She was a nurse. Served in Belgium. Can handle herself surprisingly well."
Catherine stepped forward, chin lifted.
"Nice to meet you," she said coolly. "But if I'm going to be judged before I open my mouth, I'll save us both the trouble and go."
Ada blinked. The fire in the woman's voice caught her off guard.
Freddie gave a short laugh.
"See? Told you she had guts."
"Jesus, Freddie," Ada muttered. "You can't keep collecting strays."
"She's not a stray. She's just stuck. Just like the rest of us."
Ada looked Catherine up and down.
"You've been to the front?" she asked.
"Ypres. Two years. Moved around before that."
"And now?"
"No one wants a woman who knows more about stitching arteries than hemming skirts."
Ada tilted her head, considering.
"You're not wrong. Funny how all the men in the factories served, ay? but women, nah, on your bike." Ada said to no one in particular, a slight annoyance in her face that Catherine could tell was no longer aimed at her. "I think, well, you're too posh, the factory men are likely scared of ya."
"Not much posh about mud and amputations."
Freddie scoffed.
"Still not what they're looking for, unfortunately."
"Where are you from anyway?" Ada said, stepping forward.
"From Bristol."
"You don't sound much like you're from Bristol."
"Well, I am..." Catherine sighed "Look, sorry to butt in to your evening, I'll just go. If it's too much trouble, and don't worry... I never saw... You two... here together."
There was a beat of silence. The wind rushed through the underpass like a whisper of coal smoke
.
"Don't... don't go", Ada said, raising a hand. "Why bring her to me?" Ada finally asked, turning to Freddie.
"Because you're the only one with half a brain and enough pull to get her in somewhere decent. She's sharp. And if I'm honest... I think she'd do better working for a woman than under some pisspot foreman with coal-stained fingers."
Ada sighed through her nose, pulling her coat tighter around her.
"So what—I'm a charity case now? Fixing broken birds for revolutionaries?" There was a teasing tone in her voice.
Freddie raised an eyebrow, a smirk ghosting across his face.
"You always did have a soft spot for lost causes."
Ada gave him a withering look, then turned to Catherine.
"Alright. Fine. Meet me at my aunt's place tomorrow. Morning, let's say 9."
Catherine blinked. "Your aunt's?"
"Polly Gray. You'll find her. Just ask Mrs Fenton. Everyone in Small Heath knows our Polly."
Freddie nodded.
Catherine gave a slight nod, tucking that name away.
"Alright. Tomorrow, then."
Ada narrowed her eyes again, something unreadable flickering behind them.
"Don't be late. And don't make me regret this."
"I won't."
Ada gave her a final once-over, then turned and started walking toward the far side of the bridge. Freddie lingered a moment.
"C'mon then, Freddie, I got us tickets for the penny crush. They're showing a Tom Mix picture."
"You'll be alright," he said to Catherine, his tone gentler now. "She talks like she bites, but she only draws blood when she means it."
"I've had worse," Catherine replied. "Believe me."
Freddie chuckled, then turned and jogged to catch up with Ada. "I'm not in the mood for pictures, Ada."
"Well, I'm not doing it here again..." Ada's voice trailed off as they moved further away.
Their silhouettes moved side by side, close but not touching, disappearing into the city fog beyond the bridge.
Catherine watched them go, adjusting her coat against the creeping chill. She didn't see the way Ada leaned into Freddie as they walked. Didn't catch the moment their hands brushed. Didn't hear the soft laugh that escaped Ada's lips before she pushed him lightly on the shoulder.
Catherine turned back toward the road.
To her, they were just two strangers heading in the same direction.
She didn't know yet how tangled those directions would become.