TS

It was 1929. Tommy Shelby was a Member of Parliament now — suits sharper, doors grander, the world calling him Sir Thomas — but the man beneath it hadn’t changed all that much. He still carried Birmingham in his bones. He still ran the city from behind a desk in Westminster and a betting shop in Small Heath. And he still had his family: Arthur, John, Polly, Ada, Michael, Karl — and at home, Lizzie, his wife. Charles was eight, quiet and watchful; Ruby was four, bright as a spark, already running wild through the halls.