This is the beginning of an occasional series. Having started one for the Lady Detective, Phryne Fisher, I wondered if it was possible to do something similar for Lucien, so, here's the first, introductory chapter. New chapters will be published as the muse strikes.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He rolled the watch around in his small hand, 'Do your best', it said. A week ago he was told his mother had passed away, three days later he was standing at the side of a grave watching them lower a coffin down - she was gone. He would never see her again, never feel her hold him, smell the oil paint and turpentine on her, or watch her paint, see the scraps of gold leaf float on the warm air from the fire and make stars on the ceiling in the studio, now locked. The best he got were hugs from Nell and Agnes Clasby - his father got glares from them. He had heard them both argue with him not understanding what they were saying until now - now as he sat in the car, his trunk on the back seat, heading to Melbourne, to a school that would become his new home - he felt so utterly and completely alone.

The taxi took him to the station, where the driver had been instructed to put him in charge of the guard until he got to his destination, where, apparently, he would be handed over to a schoolmaster he had never met.

As the miles rolled by he wondered what he had done wrong, to be sent away from all he knew. From his home, his father, his friends - Matthew Lawson, even Patrick Tyneman, he'd even miss him. This was the only time he allowed himself to shed the tears he had held back, except in his bedroom, but he had not cried in front of his father.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lucien Radcliffe Blake, aged ten years, stood on the platform with the guard, next to his trunk. The station was busy, people of all shapes and sizes bustled about, some knocking into him, most trying to avoid him. The guard gripped his shoulder, as if his charge should suddenly bolt, apart from the last hug from the Clasby's this was the nearest to human comfort he had had in the last couple of days.

"Blake? Lucien Radcliffe," the man, tall and thin, loomed over him.

He could only nod in reply, his mouth dry, his throat tight.

"This way," he hefted the trunk onto his shoulder, even he could see it was far too big for the child to move himself. "I'm Greaves, porter and general handyman around the school, you need anything , son, you let me know," he looked down and winked.

"I thought you were one of the masters, sir," Lucien swallowed, "that's what I was told."

"Teaching," he stowed the trunk in a car, 'and giving the lads grief,' he thought to himself, "I'll take you there, stow your trunk and take you to the Master."

Lucien climbed into the car thinking that maybe this man would be a friend, because at that moment he didn't think he had any others.

He spent the journey taking in the sights of the city. He'd been to Melbourne before, with one or both of his parents, but usually to get more art equipment for his mother, or new clothes.

They pulled into a gateway where Greaves got out of the car. Lucien made to move but he shook his head.

"Just got to open the gates, son," he smiled, "then it's the long drive up to the school."

Lucien looked ahead and could just see a building that seemed to spread along the edge of a vast green space. As they drew closer the building grew larger - spreading sideways from a central arched doorway - three rows of windows separated by ornate pillars every third window. The honey coloured stone was warm and inviting, but the little boy was under no illusion that that would be the only inviting thing about the school.

He shivered in the entrance hall, it was vast, high ceilings, cold black and white tiled floor and dark doors leading to goodness knew where.

"Sit there, lad," Greaves pointed to a hard chair by one of the doors. This door, at least had a brass name-plate on it, 'Professor A Carlton-Jones B. Ed,' and underneath that, 'Headmaster.'

Greaves knocked on the door and entered when a disembodied voice commanded he do so.

Lucien could hear mutterings and mumblings through the heavy wood of the door, then it opened and Greaves came out.

"In you go, Blake," he said gently, sweeping his hand over the boy's head and removing his cap, handing it to him as he stumbled forward.

Lucien gripped his cap as he stood before Professor Carlton-Jones. The man before him was grey haired and sported a magnificent handle-bar moustache. His hair was thick and wavy, held in place with some kind of pomade. He had blue eyes under bushy eyebrows as grey as his hair. But, underneath the moustache was a generous mouth that was trying not to smile, too soon.

"Hmm ..." he looked up and linked his hands together, his elbows leaning on the desk, "Lucien Blake."

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

"Well, young man," he picked up a piece of paper, a letter. Lucien recognised the headed paper his father used in the surgery, "your father seems to think you need some discipline, some order," he looked up.

Lucien didn't know what to say to this. He had attended school in Ballarat, attained good marks in his work, but had been 'cautioned' about some of the pranks he and some of his friends got up to. Frogs in one of the teacher's desks, and discovering that, when the ingredients for the ink were mixed together they could be lit with a match. The line of newly filled inkwells on the window sill in the classroom, looking like little candles, bore testament to that.

"This school is not a prison, lad," he thought the two pranks his father had offered as reason for the boy requiring stricter schooling were just that, pranks. No one was harmed, "we will educate you, help you choose the right path and teach you self reliance. Punishments are decided dependant on the severity of the crime, from detentions through learning in isolation, punishment runs round the field, and finally the cane." He stood up, towering over the child, he was tall and rather well built, quite imposing. Gathering his cap and gown he told Lucien he would give him a tour of the school before ending up at the San, or Sanatorium, where the school nurse, known as Matron, would show him to his dormitory and help him settle in.

"Any questions?"

Lucien blinked, grown-ups didn't usually ask for questions, they usually told him 'not now, Lucien,' or shushed him. Maman had answered what questions she could, while teaching him French and the beginnings of the piano.

"Did I do something wrong, sir?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did I do something wrong, for father to send me away?"

Carlton-Jones thought back to Dr Blake's letter about his son. That he had very recently lost his mother, that he had been in trouble at his local school and that he was a busy man and his son needed to learn to be independent. All in all, he couldn't say that the boy had done something wrong.

"I think your father thinks this is the right thing for you, so you can learn to be the best you can be, Blake," he pushed open a door. "Down here you will find the classrooms for all your lessons ..." They walked through corridors, past rooms, laboratories for science, the changing rooms for games and the refectory, where he would eat his meals with the other boys. Finally, after a whirlwind tour which left Lucien lost and confused they found themselves at the Sanatorium.

"Matron," he knocked and pushed open the door to a small office, "this is Lucien Blake, Junior Dormitory, please."

Matron, a middle-aged woman, dark hair streaked with a little silver, stood up and held out her hand.

"Nice to meet you Master Blake," she offered a small smile to the clearly bewildered boy.

Lucien shook her hand as he had been taught to.

"Leave you to it," the Headmaster turned on his heel and in a swoop of his gown he was gone.

Lucien's shoulders dropped, in relief, and he relaxed his grip on his cap.

'Poor lad,' she thought, 'looks completely overwhelmed.' "Come on, Master Blake," she touched his shoulder gently, "let's go and show you your bed, where you can put your things. Then I'll show you the bathrooms and run through the rules. Don't worry if you forget them, the other boys will help you," at least she hoped so. Perhaps she could introduce him to young George Fordham, she could usually trust him to keep an eye on the new boys.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

George Fordham did his best to help Blake settle in, and, although to the young doctor's son it seemed like the longest week of his life, he began to get used to the early rising, making his bed then racing down to prayers, then breakfast. The food, he found, was filling and reasonably tasty, though nothing like his mother's cooking. Occasionally he wondered what his father was eating as he had hastily engaged a housekeeper to cook and clean for him. Lessons followed and he started out well, determined to make his father proud of him, keeping his head down, as his old friend, Matthew, would say, and doing all that was asked of him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At the weekly staff meeting Carlton-Jones asked how the new boy was doing. Not out of any sense of particular care, he always asked the same question when a new pupil joined the school.

"No trouble, yet," the English master observed.

"Mathematics is good, above average I'd say," another noted. All in all he got good reports.

"Speaks French, did you know?" one of the few female teachers pointed out, "said his mother was French."

"Not in the information I received from his father," Carlton-Jones replied, "make sure he keeps it up, he lost her very recently."

"He's a clever lad," his house-master put in, "he could go far, if he keeps it up."

"Keep an eye on him," Carlton-Jones mused, "I've a feeling about this one, hidden depths."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Saturdays were for writing letters home. Lucien wasn't sure what to write, the only letters he had written had been apologies for the pranks he had pulled or thank you notes for gifts he had received.

"Dear Father,"

Now what? Perhaps he should enquire after his health.

"I hope you are well."

Should he tell him he was working hard? Something about school ...

"I got top marks in mathematics this week ..."

He barely had a conversation with his father at home, now they expected him to write ... tell him what? He never seemed interested in anything he had to say, why would he want to read a letter?

"I am in a dormitory with nine other boys, they are nice. We play chess, sometimes, after lessons. Fordham is teaching me.

Your son,

Lucien."

Even to a ten year old he could see this was not much of a letter, but he didn't know what to say. Fordham had said that he was allowed to write to a friend as well, but he felt awkward about writing to Matthew. Perhaps Miss Nell Clasby would like to receive a letter.

"Dear Miss Clasby,"

He chewed the end of his pen,

"I hope you are well and following doctor's orders." His father always said she ignored his advice.

"The school father has sent me to is very big, and in a very old building. It's quite easy to get lost, I have done twice, on my way to lessons. We have to get up early, wash and dress, go to prayers then breakfast, before we start our lessons. I am doing well in my lessons, especially mathematics and science. I am ahead of everyone else in spoken French, but not writing it, Maman didn't teach me to write it.

I have a friend, George Fordham, though we use only our surnames here. He has shown me how to get around and is teaching me chess. He is in my dormitory, there are ten of us altogether. Some of the other boys have photographs of their families on their bedside lockers, I wish I had one of Maman and me.

Please say hello to Miss Agnes, I miss you both.

Love

Lucien."

It was better than the one he wrote to his father, maybe they would get better the more he wrote.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The rest of the weekend was free for the boys to do as they wished, apart from Mass on Sunday morning. Lucien decided to use the time to get better acquainted with his surroundings inside and outside of the main building.

The sports fields were bounded by woods and, while not strictly out of bounds, being there was not encouraged. Like most boys Lucien enjoyed climbing trees. He and Matthew, and one or two others, would spend time in the trees round Lake Wendouree , climbing and building dens.

While Fordham was quite happy to show the new boys the ropes he found he enjoyed spending time with Blake. Both had lost their mothers, Fordham barely remembered his, but that aside, they had similar interests in science and, when Lucien has shown him how to set light to freshly made ink, they hadn't got into trouble. They had to write a short piece about how it worked, but neither minded that and a few other boys had joined them, effectively forming a little club.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"So," Lucien looked round the little group sitting on the grass, "what happens after Mass?"

"We're free to do what we want, cricket, football ..." Victor Kirk shrugged and picked at the grass, "what did you do, at home?"

"Went to the lake, climbed trees, made dens ..." he watched a ladybird climb a blade of grass, " ... if my friends were around, otherwise watched Maman paint or went for a walk with her."

"Why do you call her 'Maman'?" Kirk asked.

"She was French," Blake bit the inside of his cheek to stop the threatened tears, "she taught me to speak it."

"My French is rubbish," Steven Southern muttered.

"I could help you," Lucien offered, "if you want."

The other boys looked at him, it was generally agreed that Blake was a good sort, and they were the kind that helped each other anyway.

"Mine's not good, either," Kirk joined in, "could you help all of us? I'm good at Latin."

Not having studied Latin in Ballarat this was one lesson Lucien was finding harder than the others. He considered the idea. He was practically bi-lingual and it would be good to keep up his mother's tongue. On discovering the library, he had taken a couple of French story books out, to improve his writing and spelling of the language ...

"Ok," he looked up and smiled, "how about we speak French, for an hour each Sunday, I could read you a story as well."

The others looked at him, then at each other, then nodded, "Ok," Southern agreed, "then an hour's Latin."

"Make it half, Southern," Fordham grinned, "unless you've found some stories written in Latin."

"Some of the myths," Southern pulled a small, tatty volume from his back pocket, "here, my father's. He gave it to me but I'm not good at reading it."

"Pass it here," Kirk held out his hand, "maybe ..." He flicked through the pages, "yep, we could do this. It's written for kids so the words aren't too hard."

So it was decided, they would spend time on Sundays conversing in French and Latin, climbing trees and building dens. As Lucien pointed out, there would be plenty who wouldn't be able to understand them so, eventually he hoped to be able to teach them some swear words.

"Not that Maman swore," he added hastily, "but if I can find the right book ..." he grinned, perhaps boarding school had it's good points, after all.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

My father used to light the freshly made ink at his school, in the 1940's.