Lucien stood in the doorway silently for once, mesmerised as Jean pieced together some garment from what, for all the world, looked to him scraps left from other projects. She patiently gathered pieces and arranged them, turning one way then another, until, pleased with the way the shapes or colors went together, she pinned them into place for sewing – an artist, with that needle, that's what she was.
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He'd made a mess of it. That's all there was to say. Worse than usual, even. Was there anyone left in Ballarat, hell, in all Victoria, perhaps in all Australia, that he hadn't offended and pushed off? His father must've been right not to want him nearby … don't go there, not again … a swallow of whiskey washed down the frog starting to form in his throat. P'r'aps it was well Mei Lin and Li … No, not there either … another swallow, but it wasn't enough this time … the bottle sailed across the room; shattered pieces and last drops scattered.
Hearing the clatter, Jean appeared at the door, and he saw the Look … shock? … distress? … disgust? … but missed the tear trailing down. Still it was enough to shake him; he rose, stumbled against his desk slurring, "Sorry … I'll just get that," nearly tumbling onto the broken glass he was reaching to clean up.
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A soft noise wakened Jean. After the superintendent's warning, she'd been expecting to have to calm nightmares after Lucien'd been retrieved from the bottom of a forsaken mine. But no, this was the screened door at the kitchen? Who the devil? … at this hour?
Jean found Lucien in the garden, in just his shirt sleeves, crouched at the base of the tree, breathing heavily … was he ill? He hadn't been drunk enough to retch for months, now … or was he … sobbing quietly, tears watering the tree? She reached him a moment later and draped a blanket around his shoulders and let her touch linger, moving gently to smooth things over, wanting him to know he didn't have to be alone. Horrified, she realised for the first time, the wrinkles under her fingers weren't in the cloth.
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Lucien shook out the paper, folding it down, "What's that you're working on now, Jean?"
Holding a handful of ribbons from years of baking prizes, she pinned one to the next, making tidy, colorful rows. "Don't know yet, a couple pillows or a small blanket … Just trying to make some use out of all these bits. Tired of them taking up space in the cupboard; make room for something new, maybe."
"Oh? If it's pillows, could I have one for my room?" He picked up another section of the newspaper.
"Lucien, not bed pillows, just a couch pillow, like this one." She tossed it, flung it really, at the once-more raised shield, so she could see his face.
As it knocked the pages down again, she added, "Anyway, what would you want with a bunch of old rubbish like this?"
His face softened, haunted eyes pleading for understanding. "Well, Jean … I, uh … well, after ..." How much did he want her to know? He started before he lost nerve, "At Singapore, what was left of … felt … shredded to ribbons. Then after, when I couldn't find ..." Tears were gathering. Damn, now he was for it, but best plug on. "Well, it was as if the ribbons … were tossed to the winds ..." He hoped she could fill in what he couldn't say out loud.
"Oh, Lucien," Jean lowered her sewing. Oh dear, would this help or make things worse? "You don't have to ..."
He swallowed, took another deep breath, "Just let me finish, Jean." He swallowed again, "I, just … well, it has seemed … somehow you've found … some of them and … well, bound them back ..."
Just then, the phone rang, and Jean rushed out of the room. He put down the paper quickly and ran to wash up and gather his bag before he would once more head out to reach toward mending someone else's trouble.
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Sorry to anyone who saw this with all the codes to sort through.