Jean stretched, she rather liked being Mrs Blake, there were certain advantages, such as tea in bed in the morning, brought to her by her loving husband. There were other advantages too, perhaps not advantages as such more... ooh, what was the word? Whatever it was, she couldn't think of it at the moment, but it had to do with night time activities and not having to pull apart whenever Matthew stomped through the house, as he was wont to do.
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"Morning, my love," Lucien pushed the door open and carried the tea tray into the room, "how are we this morning?"
"I'm fine, darling," she fluttered her eyelashes at him, "you?"
"Oh I'm just dandy," he grinned, pushing the door shut with his backside, there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
"Seriously, Jean," he sat on the bed and handed her, her tea, "are you alright?"
"Yes, Lucien, I suppose I should have expected it, really," she sighed, "but being told you are too old to adopt hurts. Well, when you are told quite so sharply, anyway."
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The previous day they had been to the Family Welfare people to discuss their application to be adoptive parents. It turned out Jean had been right to be worried, their application was gone through with a fine toothed comb and right at the end of the interview they had been told, quite firmly that as they were both over thirty five they would not be considered. They could be, perhaps, considered for fostering. When Jean had asked, trying hard to keep the hurt out of her voice, what did they mean by that?
"Well, a child would be placed with you until a permanent home could be found, or it was deemed acceptable for it to return to its natural family," the woman and huffed, "it could be a baby or a schoolchild, just whatever comes along."
Seeing how upset she was, Lucien had stood and offered his hand to his wife and said they would think about it.
At home she had cried, for the loss to them, for the child who could have had a loving home with them and for the heartless, cold way they seemed to deal with children.
Lucien was gentle with her, but angry at the callous way they had been allowed to go through process and then told they were too old. He had written a letter to the board suggesting that, rather than getting people's hopes up they should send a gently worded letter thanking the prospective parents for their interest but they only accepted applications from the under thirty fives. That way hopes would not dashed quite so cruelly as they had been for himself and his wife.
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"Much as I would like to give a child a loving home,' she leant back against the headboard, "I'm not sure I could give a child up, either to adoptive parents or its natural family, when the time came."
"Yes, that's it, isn't it?" he agreed, "it's the giving the child away, isn't it? Even long term fostering is not forever." He leant over and kissed her cheek.
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Life carried on much as before with no more talk of children or adoption or fostering. Matthew and Alice agreed, privately that it was a crying shame their friends couldn't adopt.
"I really don't see what age has to do with it," Alice had huffed over a quiet coffee with her not quite lover, "I mean women of Jean's age still have babies, admittedly not often, and there is a higher risk of miscarriage or disability. But they have a good home, are well enough off to support said child, and to top it all off, a lot of love to give."
"Yeah,' Matthew grunted, "well unless you find one abandoned under a hedge, they are not going to have a child."
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Jean looked down at the doorstep and shrugged her shoulders, "Lucien!" she called into the house, "did you bring the milk in?"
"What?" he appeared at the far end of the hall, "no, why?"
"Looks like we didn't get any this morning," she closed the door, "I'll have to ring."
"Well, I assure you," she said down the phone, "there's none on the step."
She put the phone down after being assured that milk had been left on the step, along with the loaf of bread she had ordered. So, if the note had been read then they must have called. She'd have to get some in town when she went shopping, but for now, no toast for breakfast and only enough milk for her tea. Thank heavens Lucien didn't take it.
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Over the course of the next week, milk and bread disappeared from the doorstep, and a couple of small hand towels off the washing line.
"I can't understand it, Lucien," Jean looked frustrated, "I mean it happens, once in a blue moon, when there are travellers in town, or the fair is around, but there's none of that going on, and," she put her cup down, "I am sure there were some apples ready on the tree, and they haven't dropped."
Lucien sat back in his chair and scratched his head, "What do you want to do? Call the police?"
"Well, not really, it's petty theft and I'm sure they have better things to do than find a milk and apple thief," she sighed, "though perhaps we could tell Matthew, he does live here, after all."
"Ok, let's," he agreed, "see what he suggests."
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"Man traps?" Matthew grinned, "stake out, trip wires, sniper?"
"Matthew," Jean hit his shoulder as he sat at the table finishing his dinner, "be sensible."
"Right, sorry, it's been a quiet week," he wiped the last of the sauce up with the last of his potato. "When do you reckon it's happening?"
"Very early morning, as the milk is going missing," she mused, "they're very quiet though, I've never heard anyone in the tree. I left the washing on the line when I went shopping, but that's not unusual. When I came back the two towels had gone."
They sat each thinking of ways to catch whoever was making free with the doorstop deliveries. Nobody else had reported anything like it happening.
Jean tidied the plates away and looked at the small piece of boiled ham left and had an idea. Instead of trying to catch whoever it was she would try and entice them to be bolder. In the fridge she found some cheese, a tomato and a slice of apple pie. She put all these things, with the ham on a plate and added an orange.
"What's that for?" Lucien asked as he began to wash up.
"The thief," she grinned.
"Jean!" he gasped.
"They only take milk and bread, so they are unable to feed themselves," she reasoned, "they haven't broken in and taken anything of value, so I think we need to find out why."
"So..?"
"I'm going to leave this plate out, before I go to bed," she covered it with a tea towel, "and see if it's taken. Then I'm going to watch through my old bedroom window and see who is taking the apples."
"Then follow them?" he raised his eyebrows.
"Unless they're built like football players, yes," she nodded.
"Not on your own, you're not," he huffed but smiled at her ingenuity and generosity. "I shall accompany you," he bowed politely as she looked at him with an "I am quite capable of looking after myself," kind of expression.
"If you must," she put the plate on the table ready.
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In the morning the plate had disappeared, along with a bottle of milk, Jean had ordered an extra one just in case, and the tea towel, but the loaf was left.
"Mmm..." Jean mused, "so they didn't need the bread, that's interesting."
"What?" Lucien appeared behind her, "oh, your plan is working?"
"It's interesting that the bread didn't go, this time," Jean picked up the remaining bottles, "and they took the cloth."
He held out his hands for the milk and they headed inside.
"Don't suppose they'll need apples today," Lucien looked out onto the garden at the tree. It was laden with fruit not quite ready for picking, yet, which Jean pointed out, but some she could cook with.
"The ones they took were only just ripe, probably a bit tart still," she started to fry some bacon for the breakfast, "I'll have a look round and see if they dropped them."
"After tasting them?" he put the knives and forks out, "I suppose so."
"Depends how desperate they are for food," Jean sighed, "I hate to think of someone that needs food that badly." She turned and he saw tears in her eyes.
"We'll catch them," he put his hands on her arms, "and help them, if we can." He kissed the top of her head, "as you say, it's petty theft, not breaking and entering."
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Jean hung the washing out and took the time to look around the garden. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but she was going to do some gardening and she might see something that would indicate night time visitors.
She weeded and pruned, but saw no footprints, or broken stems. Whoever it was, was running across the grass, so they were coming round the side of the house. She decided she would get up before the milk was delivered then next morning and sit in the one room that overlooked the porch. Now, what to leave out, tonight?
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Lucien wasn't sure of the wisdom of her plan and insisted he would get up with her.
"We can follow them, at a safe distance," he told her as she plated up some cold chicken, left over vegetables and a piece of cake, "find out who they are, and how many there are."
Jean smiled and agreed, she was an early riser and he could cope with little sleep, though he slept better than he ever had, since they married.
"I'll alert the station," Matthew told them, "you can call Danny and Bill. I'm afraid I'm er... otherwise engaged on a... erm... case, tonight."
"It's alright, Matthew," Jean laughed, "we know you're having a drink with Alice. It's not an official case or complaint."
Matthew blushed and cleared his throat, hastily leaving the room as Lucien roared with laughter.
"Lucien," Jean warned, "don't, and don't go spreading rumours. I'm glad for them, however it turns out."
"For both of them, Jean," he leant over and kissed her cheek, "they both deserve a little love."
"They do, and..." she looked coyly from under her lashes, "if he's out for the evening, how about an early night, as we have to be up very early."
"Can I help you clear away," he grinned, "you know, get tidied up and..."
"You don't take much persuading, do you?" she laughed.
"I'll light the fire in the studio, shall I?"
"That's a good idea," she took the plate, covered it with one of her older tea towels, and headed up the hall. He heard her tell Matthew to have a good evening, knowing they were unlikely to see him until the morning, if he came home at all, and went to light the fire.
She locked the door and headed to their room, the old studio. Perhaps he could be persuaded to scrub her back in the bath, while the fire got going.
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Lucien was easily persuaded, when it came to scrubbing her back, and, not for the first time, she was pleased with her suggestion they have one of the side rooms turned into a bathroom, with a slightly larger bath than was usual.
He slowly brushed the sponge over her shoulders and down her back with just enough pressure to make it a light massage. She hummed in appreciation and aahed as the sponge passed lightly over her breasts and his free hand slipped over her stomach and down until she squeaked when his fingers found that little spot that gave her so much pleasure. She didn't need to open her eyes to know he was naked and smiled as she felt him climb into the bath with her.
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There were times she couldn't believe she allowed her husband in the bathroom when she was in the bath, much less actually in the bath with her. The fact that they frequently made love in the bath and the water would go cold before they got out and he wrapped her in a warm fluffy towel made her wonder how ordinary, loving, but ordinary, life had been with Christopher.
They ended up on the rug in front of the fire and made love again under the gold stars on the ceiling. Jean said it was their own personal universe and she never tired of looking at it especially as stars were added when he took her over the edge in a heart-bursting climax.
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Jean wrapped her hands round her cup of tea as she watched the milk float disappear down the road, the horse plodding lazily as Ned walked beside him. The early morning light missed the porch which was probably why the thief chose their milk to steal. Lucien sat next to her by the window, but they were both out of sight. His arms were round her and he was nibbling her earlobe,
"Lucien," she hissed, " that isn't helping."
He grinned, kissed her and resumed watching the drive.
"There," he pointed to the edge of the drive, a small figure was keeping to the borders, "he'll trample your plants."
"I don't think I'm bothered about that at the moment," she angled her head a little but couldn't see anything until the figure, bent double, snaked through the small gap left when the milk had been delivered. "A child!"
"Shh..." Lucien pulled her away, "we need to see what he does now."
From what they could see it was a small boy, about five, at the most, dirty, torn clothes, Jean bit her lip at the state he was in. They watched him pick up the plate and check the contents, then grab a bottle of milk and sneak away again.
"Right, give him chance to get to the end of the drive," Lucien whispered, passing her the coat she had put ready, "we need to see where he goes."
From their vantage point they could see him cross the road, which is when Lucien judged they could safely follow without scaring him.
"They're away, across the road," Jean turned, "well, the son took Mary away for a holiday, she said they'd be away until next week. I hope he hasn't broken in."
"Come on," he pulled her behind him and they crossed over to the front of Mary's house and crept round the outside. There was no sign of any broken windows and the doors were locked.
Jean tugged his hand and pointed to a corner of the garden. Mary wasn't much of a gardener, and as she had got older just had a boy come and cut the grass for her. The mower was kept in the shed, a tumbledown affair, only just water tight and no lock on the door.
They tiptoed to the shed and stood listening. A faint murmuring could be heard coupled with a sniff and the scraping of a bucket on the floor. Lucien looked at Jean and she nodded as he put his hand on the latch,
"Slowly," she mouthed. He nodded and quietly pulled the door open and whistled softly. Two pairs of wide blue eyes stared at them and the little boy they had seen put his arms up to block the beating he thought he was about to get.
Jean gasped and put her hand to her mouth. She advanced a step but the boy shuffled back.
"It's alright," she murmured softly, "I won't hurt you." She did her best not to gag at the stench, they'd obviously used the bucket as a toilet, or he had, the other pair of eyes belonged to a little girl, not yet out of nappies, which is why Jean was missing some hand towels. They were filthy, starving and terrified. "My name's Mrs Blake," she whispered, "this is my husband, Dr Blake."
The little boy looked from one to the other, grown-ups weren't suppose to be nice. In his world they hit you and yelled at you and each other.
"What's your name, son?" Lucien asked gently, "we've told you ours."
"Ted," the boy whispered, "this is Julia," he pulled the baby close to him.
"Why are you here? Where are your parents?" Jean crouched down.
"Not going back!" Ted shouted, "not to be beat, again."
"We won't let you be beaten," Lucien squatted next to his wife, aghast at the mere thought of beating a child. "How old are you, Ted?"
"Five, near six," he pulled himself up with pride.
"Julia?" Jean asked, "she doesn't look as if she's one, yet."
"Just about, missus," he nodded, "though I can't really say."
Jean stood up and pulled Lucien to the doorway.
"We can't leave them," she hissed, "we have to do something."
"What? Call Family Welfare?"
"Eventually," she hated the thought, "how about we take them back to the house, feed them properly and see to the baby."
"Right, then what? You don't like the idea of long term fostering," he muttered.
"Right now, I think the children are more important than my feelings," she hissed back. "Julia has rampant nappy rash, they are both undernourished and if we leave them here..."
It didn't bear thinking about.