"What do you mean, pregnant?!" he yelled at her.
"Precisely what I say," she snapped back, "having a baby, your baby!"
"Are you sure?" he ran his hands through his unruly black curls.
"Of course I'm sure," she sobbed, "I know my own body."
"No, are you sure it's mine?"
That earned him a slap across the face, "whose do you think it is?"
"Well, Matthew Lawson's always hanging around," he huffed, holding his hand against the stinging cheek, "and there's Bill Hobart ... I saw him, when you were shopping ..."
She slapped him even harder, barely able to see through the tears coursing down her cheeks. She had caved in to his dancing dark eyes, his charm and eventually let him bed her, in the barn of all places. The first time had been painful, but he had assured her nothing would happen, not the first time. After that, he had taken her when she would let him, though he had made her feel guilty when she refused. Sometimes it was just kisses that went too far, other times he chased her into the barn or an outbuilding and threw her down and they recklessly copulated, though he would pull out when he remembered. Now, she was pregnant, with child out of wedlock, and he was the only one she had been with. She had thought that when she told him he would do the honourable thing and marry her, but here he stood, doubting it was his, insinuating she had been with others. She was hurt, angry - with herself and with him in equal measure - and terrified at what her parents would say.
They said a lot. How disappointed they were, how she had dishonoured the family, how her mother would not be able to hold her head up in town, and finally, that she would have to go if Christopher wouldn't marry her.
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Dr Thomas Blake saw her, standing at the bus stop, counting her change. She could only go as far as the money would allow, then she had no idea what she would do.
"Jean?" he stepped out of the car and went to her, "going away?"
He had been the family doctor for as long as she could remember, gentle and kind, sad, she thought, something to do with his son, Lucien, who had been sent to school in Melbourne some years previous, then, who knew?
"Oh, er yes, Dr Blake," she tried to hide the red eyes and nose, dipping her head to hide the pallor that she had no make up to cover. "I, um," she sniffed, she had promised herself she would be strong, but right now ...
He could see she was in trouble, upset, and ... Jean would never leave Ballarat without saying anything to him, he knew more about her than he did his own son. She had cleaned for him, on occasion, baked shortbread and left a casserole in the oven. His housekeeper was less than reliable and many a time he had thought of letting her go. Perhaps he and Jean could support each other - her as his housekeeper and he - well a father figure of some sort, maybe. She was younger than Lucien so he had no impure thoughts.
"I need to give you a quick check up," he held out his hand and smiled gently, "before you go travelling."
"Oh, no, Dr Blake," she gasped, "really, it's not necessary," she stepped back.
"But I think it is," he looked down at her, "after all, I will have to send your notes to your next GP, and what kind of reputation is that going to get me, if I let you go, without a check up?"
Jean was too tired, too miserable to argue. Dr Blake would soon discover her secret and she was sure he would be very disappointed in her and that hurt even more than Christopher's abandonment of her.
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He took her blood pressure and weighed her, noting she had gained a little, not enough given her shape, which she had hidden under her coat. Her face looked thinner.
She could see he had worked it out, and blushed. Well he was a doctor ... a tear made its way down her cheek, she palmed it away and sniffed.
"So Jean," his voice was so soft and warm, with no hint of disappointment, only perhaps, sadness, "running away?"
"No, oh no," she gulped, "no ... mother ... I have to go."
"Jean," he leant forward over his desk and linked his hands together, "what are you going to do? You have no money, except what is in your purse, a few shillings at most, where are you going to stay?"
She looked down at her hands and twisted her fingers together.
"I need a housekeeper," he sat back, "someone who can cook and clean, answer the phone and be polite to my patients. In return I will give you bed and board, a small wage, and, if you prove to be willing and able, I will see you are trained to do the books, manage the practise for me."
"Dr Blake ..." she gasped, "I can't ..." she stroked her hand subconsciously over her still flat stomach, "the scandal."
'Scandal be blowed,' he thought, "we can sort something out," he spoke, "I'm sure you would be better off here, than running away to some place where you don't know anybody ..."
"The baby ..." she was openly crying now, "what about the baby?"
"This is a big house, Jean," he smiled, "it had a little one running around here, once. And yes, he annoyed me, too excitable, bursting in on my surgeries ... but, Jean, I miss those days." There were tears in his eyes, she could see his regret.
"But ..." she knew this was not just a kind offer, it was something they both needed, she a home and job, he a friend, someone to run his home and surgery. The only trouble was she was pregnant, known in the town, and unmarried. She would be shunned by everyone she knew, the church would turn its back on her ...
"You just need a story," he smiled, "without pointing the finger at someone."
"I didn't want to," she sniffed, "at first. He said if I loved him ..."
"Emotional blackmail," Dr Blake grunted, "what do his parents say?"
"I don't know if he's told them," she had thought about heading up to his family's place and confronting Christopher's father.
"Well, my dear," he reached over to the phone, "I think they ought to know."
"Oh, but ..." she gasped, fear in her eyes.
"No buts about it, Jean," he continued dialling the number, "if it was my son who had done this I would want to know. Now, while I talk to Mr Beazley, why don't you go and make us some tea, eh?"
"Yes, doctor," she sniffed and headed to the kitchen. Frankly, at the moment, after what the doctor had offered her she didn't care if Christopher married her then left. At least her child would not be labelled a bastard and she would be able to go about the doctor's business with her head held high.
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Mr Beazley was not impressed with his son's behaviour. He knew he could be manipulative, particularly with his mother, who he would accuse of not loving him if she didn't give in and let him have a little spare cash to go out with his mates. Now it would appear he had manipulated that sweet Randall girl and got her into trouble. Well, he was going to marry her, whether he liked it or not, his first grandchild was not going to grow up with the worst label Ballarat could bestow on it.
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As they left the church Dr Blake whispered to Jean that, if necessary, his door was always open to her, and her treatment would be free, if she would pop by occasionally and do a little cleaning for him. She was grateful to him. Christopher's family had made over a tiny cottage for them, given him work on the farm, but that was all. They were, to all intents and purposes, on their own.
Mr Beazley made sure that half of the small wage he paid his son went to Jean, to feed and clothe them. Christopher's mother knitted like fury for the baby, and helped Jean make the required nightgowns and stockpile nappies and baby paraphernalia. There would be no new pram or cot, a large laundry basket would do for a bassinet, and it could stand on a bench outside the door when Jean was in the yard.
Christopher resented Jean, and the baby. He wasn't gentle with her if he engaged with her at all and she knew that when he went into town, at night, he was seeing other women and drinking much of his wages. She began to wonder if it would have been easier to run the gauntlet of shame and gossip, than to live this half life.
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She was six months pregnant when Christopher didn't come home. He had gone into town after shovelling down the stew she had made for their dinner, pushed his plate away and grunted.
"Don't wait up," he grabbed his jacket, and the small amount of change in the tin she kept the housekeeping in, and stamped out of the house, slamming the door behind him. She sighed, she didn't cry, the tears had stopped weeks ago, she just washed the dishes and went to sit down in the small living room. The baby kicked and she stroked her stomach. This tiny thing would depend on her for everything, for sustenance, warmth and love.
"I'm sorry, little one," she whispered, "but, I don't think he's going to be much of a father. I'll do my best, please forgive me."
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She woke to his side of the bed, cold. There was no sign he had been there, the pillow remained undented, and anyway, she would have noticed. She got up, washed and dressed and went to make tea. She looked out over the field and could only see one person working. She wandered far enough to dentify that person, and it was her father in law.
Christopher hadn't been seen. Jean told his parents he had gone out the previous evening, though she didn't mention he had taken what remained of her housekeeping, she didn't know where he was, who he had gone to see ...
"Right, lass," Mr Beazley patted her shoulder, "I'll go into town, see if anyone's seen him, report him missing if I have to."
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Nobody had seen him, or so they said. His friends said they had left him after he had won a few shillings at two up. Mr Beazley asked the girls in the shops, even checked with the priest at Sacred Heart. The last place he went was the bus station, where he showed a photograph, it was the one of the wedding, and where it transpired Christopher had taken a bus to Melbourne, one way.
"Seems he's run away," Mr Beazley told his wife, before he spoke to Jean.
"What about Jean, the baby?" she sniffed.
"Maybe we shouldn't have made him marry her," he mused, "she's still going to be on her own with the bab, we can't keep this place going. I offered it to him, to run as his own, but he just sneered and said he'd rather join the army."
"D'ye think he's done that?" she asked, almost hopeful.
"He's in for a shock if he has," he grunted, "I'll make some enquiries."
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If Christopher had joined the army it wasn't in Melbourne. Mr Beazley made as many calls as he could but it seemed his son had vanished off the face of the earth. Jean knew, deep down that he had left her, that it had been a mistake. She packed her suitcase, put the baby things in the laundry basket and set out to the one person who treated her like a human being, not a skivvy, or a drain on resources ... she headed to Dr Thomas Blake.
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Thomas was sitting with an evening whisky, savouring the tang of the malt as it slipped over his tongue and down his throat. That and his pipe were his little rewards for a good day serving the people of Ballarat, treating his patients at the hospital and performing the occasional autopsy for the police. He was wondering if he should treat himself to a second, small measure when there was a knock on the door.
It wasn't a short walk from the Beazley farm and she practically fell across the threshold into the doctor's arms, dropping the suitcase and laundry basket to the floor.
"Oh my dear girl," he gasped, supporting her through to the living room, "don't tell me you walked? Goodness me."
He settled her on the couch and helped her out of her patched coat.
"Christopher," she breathed out, "he's gone, left."
"Fool," he pulled his lips into a thin line. "When?"
"Two weeks ago," she leant back against the couch, "Mr Beazley's been looking for him, he went to Melbourne, we think, but that's it. I didn't know what to do, there isn't enough for me at the farm, it doesn't pay and they offered it to him, to do something with the land, but he doesn't want it ... or me."
"Right, miss," he smiled, "tea, a quick check up, then you can have one of the rooms upstairs."
"Dr Blake," she looked into his clear blue eyes, "does the offer of a job and lodgings still hold?"
"It absolutely does, my dear," he stroked her hair, "for as long as you want."
"I'll do my best not to disappoint you."
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A quick check showed her blood pressure raised a little, but after such a long walk Dr Blake wasn't surprised; he took some blood to check for anaemia then took her upstairs to show her round.
"There are three rooms, Jean," he opened each door, "one for you, one can be for the baby when it arrives and a spare. The bathroom is just here and the linen cupboard - you'll need some for your bed, none of them are made up."
She chose a room with soft pink walls and a small double bed, blushing as she did so. It had a wardrobe, dressing table and a bedside cabinet on which stood a lamp and a clock. The room next door was the smallest and she said it would be just right for the baby.
"I'll see if I can find the cot we had for Lucien, and the pram," he smiled, he was actually looking forward to having the young woman in the house and the baby. It was too quiet in the evenings, and even though they would have to run the gauntlet of the gossip it would soon die down He'd recently advertised for a new housekeeper, having had his fill of the woman who came in daily, and he had been a little disappointed when Jean had married the Beazley boy, hence his offer outside the church.
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Over the next week, Jean cleaned the house properly, cooked tasty meals, baked the doctor's favourite cakes and biscuits and settled into the house as his housekeeper and receptionist. His previous housekeeper could not be relied on to make appointments in the diary and too often people had to sit in the waiting room until he had finished with a patient whose appointment was at the same time. She also made the waiting room inviting, with fresh flowers on the desk and magazines on the little table. They both knew that patients were looking for any signs of a romance between the old widowed doctor and the young deserted wife but there was none. Agnes and Nell Clasby had agreed that they would fight the battle for them, having known Thomas for many years, and his late wife, and his cheeky son, now somewhere overseas - a doctor himself. They noticed a brightness in his demeanour, a lightness in his step and decided that young Jean Beazley was just the right person to look after him ... and the practice.
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True to his word he had found the cot for the baby, and the pram. The cot was in remarkably good condition, all it needed was a new mattress and a good clean, maybe a coat of paint. It was painted white cast iron with brass finials at each corner. The pram was in need of a clean and polish. The hood, leather, had been left up but not fastened and Mrs Blake must have polished it thoroughly for it to have kept so well. It too needed a new mattress, but Jean was sure she could make one, she would have to price up the cost of a new mattress for the cot. Thomas paid her well, she thought, and she was able to save some of her wages. She saved money by making her own clothes using Mrs Blake's old sewing machine, having decided she needed to do something to show the practice off in a good light. Dr Blake's receptionist could not go around in second hand patched dresses, it wouldn't reflect well on him.
She was so eager to make him glad he had chosen her to work for him that there were times he had to stop her and make her rest.
"You are expecting a baby, Jean," he gently chided her, "you must be careful, now, how are you managing with the new freezer?"
"I'm still getting used to being able to store meals, food for us, for so much longer," she had smiled at him, having got over the shock he would embrace such new ideas, though he had had it put in the outbuilding.
"Well, when you have the baby you will not be running around cooking and cleaning for me, dear girl," he placed his hand on her shoulder, "not until I say you can."
"Dr Blake," she fiddled with her tea cup, "will you be there, when I give birth?" She blushed, she had been building up to ask this question, wanting him to deliver the baby, worried about being in a hospital room with nameless medical people telling her what to do.
"Do you want me to be?" he smiled, "would you like me to deliver your baby?"
"Oh Dr Blake," she gasped, "would you?"
"Of course I will, if that's what you want," he smiled and patted her hand. "Now, surgery, I believe, Mrs Beazley."
She giggled, and took their cups to the sink. She hoped Christopher wouldn't come back. She hoped he was alright, she wasn't vindictive, and part of her predicament was her inability to stand up to him, when he insisted they become intimate, outside marriage.
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She was in labour for what seemed like forever. Time dragged - eighteen hours of relentless cramping and tightening around her belly, but all the time, Thomas was there. He spoke to her, suggested silly names for the baby, asked the midwife to get her iced water when she wanted it, and wipe her brow to cool her down.
She finally gave birth as the sun came up, to a beautiful baby girl. As he held her up while the midwife cut the cord he smiled,
"Good morning, sunshine," he winked at Jean, "she's lovely, Jean, perfect in fact."
Cleaned up and weighed, just nudging six pounds, she was handed to her mother. Jean didn't think she had ever seen anything so small and pretty, with huge dark eyes and a smattering of dark curls.
"So, he whispered, "does she have a name?"
"You called her 'Sunshine'," Jean smiled tiredly, "but that's for us, don't you think? Mary for everyone else."
"Lovely," he patted her shoulder, resisting the urge to give her a fatherly kiss to the forehead, "now, get some rest, the hard work begins. Nurse will bring her to you for feeds, in between which you must rest, eat and drink."
"Thank you, Dr Blake," her eyelids were closing, "for everything."
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After a week of enforced bed rest Jean was becoming frustrated and bored. Mary (Sunny to her mother and the doctor) was an easy baby, feeding and sleeping well. Jean had little to do, although Dr Blake brought her books and magazines to read, told her how surgery was going and assured her he was eating properly, that the meals she had left for him, in the freezer, were perfect, she was missing her room at the top of the house and the evening in the living room, talking over the days business.
"Can't I come home now?" she sighed one morning, as he did his rounds, always finishing with her so he could spend a little longer with her, "I promise to be good."
He looked at her.
"I would have a doctor on hand," she smiled a cheeky smile, and tipped her head.
"Well," he hummed ...
"Good, I'll get dressed," she pushed the covers back and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
"Wait a minute, young lady," he stopped her, "where do you think you are going?"
"To get my clothes," she told him, "can't go home in a nightdress, can I? What would the town say?"
"Jean," he laughed, "what am I going to do with you?"
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The house felt like home when Thomas opened the door and stepped aside to let her enter. He had obviously had someone come in and clean. The wood was polished, there were fresh flowers on the hall table and when she entered the living room the cushions had been plumped and the rugs beaten.
She tucked Sunny up in the pram, left by the hat and coat hooks in the hall, and headed to the kitchen where she could hear the doctor making tea.
As they sat at the kitchen table he told her what she could and what she could not do, for the time being. Light housework only, some cooking if she wanted to, arranging appointments for his patients, of course:
"Apart from that, you take things easy," he patted her arm, "your parents know about Mary, so do Christopher's. You will have to register her birth, but you can do that when you're ready."
"Thank you, Dr Blake," she smiled and took her cup to the sink, "now I'd better put my things away before Sunny wakes for a feed."
He watched her tidy up and then head to her room. She picked up the little case at the bottom of the stairs and he could see how much better she was, since she came to work for him. Oh yes there had been tittle tattle about them, but it had died down almost as quickly as it had arisen, a combined effort between Nell and Agnes Clasby and one or two of the doctor's older patients.
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She pushed open the door to her room and dropped her suitcase. There, on the dressing table was a lovely bunch of flowers in a vase.
Thomas heard the suitcase fall and smiled to himself, she had found his little welcome home gift.