A somewhat domestic chapter.

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It was decided that Thomas would be released from the hospital while the girls were at school. It would be easier than having them fussing about him, dancing round him and hugging him. He was frail, tired easily and, in spite of his opinion of the regime put in place for him, stubborn. He knew perfectly well what he should and shouldn't do, but, as Jean said, "he's a doctor, and the rules don't apply to him."

He insisted on stepping back into the house unaided, apart from his usual walking stick, waving away Jean's hand and Lucien's arm. Jean just shrugged and headed for the kitchen to make him a cup of tea. He had complained that the drink he was given in hospital was too weak to crawl out of the pot and he liked his tea with a bit of, in his words, 'life in it', so she set about laying a tray for the three of them

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Lucien took the small valise that held his pyjamas and robe and the toiletries that he had used in hospital into the bedroom, and pushed the door to the new bathroom open so he could see inside. Behind him his father looked round the house and smiled at the familiarity and warmth he felt there. He had so missed the smell of polish and Jean's cooking, the dark wood and the pictures on the walls. He entered his room and stopped. The bed was made up with clean linen and a bright new cover, there was a small vase of garden flowers on the dresser and an envelope propped up in front of it. He smiled at Mary's familiar handwriting on the front but didn't immediately go to open it.

Lucien helped him out of his coat and hung it in the wardrobe and smiled at him. The little time he had spent in the house, since returning from the camp had made him see his father for who he was. Loving, generous, compassionate and lost; lost when Genevieve died so suddenly, lost in his grief and unable to show his son just how much he loved him. Jean had brought the generous and loving man to the fore, cared for him when he had shown her the compassion she needed, and in return he had probably supported her through the divorce, and treated her more like a daughter than a housekeeper.

"So, son," Thomas' voice broke through his musings, "this bathroom you insist I need ..."

"Through here, father," he waved towards what had been the dressing room, "Jean's idea."

"Don't go blaming her," Thomas grumbled good naturedly, "you had a hand in it too."

"Well, maybe I did, but it's for your comfort," he grinned, "now, see what you think."

Thomas poked his head round the door and gasped, he had no idea how such a little room could be made to appear so spacious and bright. Whoever had actually done the work must have worked day and night, they had even managed to cut a small window in the wall, letting in natural light over the sink.

"I ... I ..." he swallowed, tears sprang to his eyes, "well ..." he stepped in and surveyed the shower cubicle with its discreet stool set to one side, the shelves with the toiletries arrayed on them, the towels hanging on a radiator and the toilet set in the corner. The linoleum on the floor was a soft blue, speckled with darker shapes, the curtains matched the mats also in blue, and the whole was tiled in white square tiles with the occasional one having a nautical themed picture, such as a sailing yacht or a lifebelt, painted on them. He studied the one of the yacht and saw in the corner the initials 'MB' for Mary.

"This ..." he pointed at the picture.

"Mary, Li made the curtains and covered the chair," Lucien smiled, "they wanted to be part of it."

"It's truly remarkable," Thomas finally managed to get out, "I always thought it was a rather poky little space, it seems so much bigger."

"So, a good idea, then?" Lucien raised an eyebrow.

"Alright," Thomas laughed, "yes, it is a good idea, thank you, son."

"You must thank Jean, too," he stood aside and let his father pass back out into the bedroom, "tea, in the living room."

"I'll be right there," Thomas smiled and started to take off his jacket, "just got to get out of this and into something more .. relaxed."

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Jean looked up as Lucien entered the living room, a question on her face.

"He likes it, very much," he sat in one of the chairs opposite the couch, "I think he's a bit overwhelmed," he added in a whisper.

She relaxed. "It's a lot to take in, I suppose," she smiled, "is he coming through?"

"Just changing out of his jacket, and probably reading the card from the girls."

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With the card set on his bedside cabinet and his resolve back in place, Thomas took up his stick and headed for a much needed cup of decent tea and, with a bit of luck, some of Jean's homemade shortbread. He had done a lot of thinking while in his hospital bed and he needed to talk to his son.

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He sipped the tea, nibbled the shortbread and sighed, "that's better." He looked at the other two in the room and addressed Jean, "thank you, Jean," he shifted to get more comfortable, "I know the design, the colours are your idea, it's really lovely; quite remarkable in fact."

"We just want you to be comfortable, not to, oh," she blushed slightly, "not to strain yourself ..." she dropped her shoulders when he smiled.

"I understand," he took another sip of the tea, "and I am grateful, really. Nobody could have as caring a family as I have, with you ... all of you."

"Thomas ..."

"Dad ..."

Stop," Thomas held his hand up, "before the girls get in, I need to speak, to both of you."

Jean and Lucien both turned and looked at him and then at each other, what could he have to say to both of them. Jean was slightly embarrassed, she wasn't his kin, just his housekeeper ... and his friend.

"The thing is, Lucien," he sighed, "while I was in hospital I had time to think, a lot of time, and this is what I came to believe - you, son, are a better doctor than I am, you know more, you have seen more, more up to date procedures ... and you are younger. I want you to take over the practice and the police surgeon duties, all of it."

"Dad," Lucien gasped, "I only did it while you were indisposed."

"Lucien you are a doctor, a good doctor," Thomas huffed, "you know fine well I am not well enough, certainly not at the present time, so, I would like you to take over. Jean will help you, I expect she has been doing ... and Dr Harvey popped by to see me, she doesn't seem to mind working with you."

"That's very kind of her," Lucien looked at him, then over at Jean, "but what does Matthew say, and his boss, do they agree?"

"Matthew is quite happy, and as long as you don't overstep the mark, Inspector Ashby will be too."

"Well, I'll see how it goes," Lucien sighed, in the back of his mind hoping it would go well because he had already begun to formulate the letter to leave the army. "Are you happy to carry on with the way we have been working, Jean?" he turned to her, "you have been doing an awful lot."

"No more than usual, really," she smiled, "we'll sort it out, I'm just glad you are home, Thomas, and on the road to recovery."

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They settled into a routine. Nobody was surprised to have Dr Lucien Blake see them in surgery, everybody asked after his father, and Thomas would occasionally wander into the waiting room to pass the time of day with some of his older patients, like the Clasby ladies. Sometimes they would join him for tea in the living room or in the garden. He rose later and retired earlier but in between times his recovery continued at a pace his son considered acceptable. Lucien had spoken about his diet, to Jean, and she had altered some of her recipes to contain less fat and sugar but not less taste.

"It will do all of us good, anyway," he smiled, "I noticed my trouser waistbands were becoming a little tight."

"Good," she laughed, "you needed to put some weight on, perhaps fewer trips to the biscuit tin, doctor," she teased, "from now on."

"It was your idea," he nudged her with his shoulder as they washed up together one evening.

"That was then," she pushed back.

Mary and Li watched them from the corner of the living room where they were finishing off some homework and smiled to each other.

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"It would be nice," Mary whispered to her sister, that night in bed, "don't you think?"

"You would have a father and mama would really be my mother," Li agreed, "though, as I have never really known any other ..."

"You wouldn't mind?" Mary whispered.

"No, I've shared your mama, I'm happy to share papa, if that's what you want."

Mary smiled and wriggled down under the covers.

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Jean lay in her bed and thought about how the atmosphere in the house had changed. The girls were still their usual cheerful selves, excited about Christmas and glad to have gran'pa home but they did a fair amount of whispering behind their hands. She sighed, they were probably thinking of the gifts they would make, or buy, for herself, Thomas and Lucien. That aside, and Lucien's now rare nightmares, things were changing. Lucien was far less formal than his father had even been, much more tactile with his light touches to her arm, the kiss to the top of her head that day that still made her blush when she thought about it, his nudging her with his shoulder ... she felt, that whatever happened, she would always have a home here.

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Lucien stared at the ceiling, and wondered ... wondered why he had slipped so easily into life in his father's house, his father's practice was now his. The day Thomas had told him he wanted him to take over he had had a private discussion with him in the study and formally handed it over to him.

"I always hoped, son," he smiled, "that you would come home and take it on. I will always regret the years I missed, of your growing up, but I am so proud of the man you have become. Be gentle with Jean, she is the daughter I never had. Listen to her, she knows more about the town than Matthew or Ashby will ever do, she is well respected and cleverer than she thinks."

"Well, Dad," Lucien hummed, "I suppose it is right, that I come back, for good. I don't want to go back to the army, I have written the letter resigning my commission it just needs posting. I want to make my life here, watch my daughter grow up, like you I have missed so much of her growing into this lovely girl and I know it is due to you and Jean."

He would send the letter the next day and start his life properly. Working with Jean these past weeks had been interesting, she had shown him that she was insightful over his cases, when he got over the shock of her taking an interest in a murder he had done the autopsy on. Matthew had, he found, a glare he used when he was getting in too deep, but he had listened to his theories and ultimately the case had been solved and the murderer brought to book. Jean hadn't been too impressed when he arrived home, having missed dinner, a little the worse for drink, He, Matthew and Dr Harvey had headed to the club for an end of case whisky that turned into a rather long session, though Dr Harvey had been the sensible one, remained sober, and driven them both to their homes. He smiled at the scolding Jean had given him and the lack of sympathy at the headache he had had in the morning. It had been some time since he had drunk so much, he was out of practise he thought, though perhaps he had better be careful the next time he went out with Matthew - he didn't fancy the scolding again. He still felt he knew so little about her and his naturally curious nature pushed him to find out more but gently, she was obviously a deeply private person, so he would content himself with watching her and picking up any hints she dropped, teasing her and enjoying his nightly drink with her in the studio.

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Matthew stopped him at the door to the morgue. He had called Lucien out in the early evening to do an autopsy, with Dr Harvey, on an elderly woman found dead in her garden.

"It's probably natural causes," he shrugged, "but I think I ought to warn you, the deceased is Jean's mother."

"Oh, I see," he hummed, "have you told Jean?"

"They were estranged, really," Matthew shoved his hands in his pockets, "Jean will explain. Her father wasn't about, which is strange." He scratched his head. Mr Randall had tried to keep in touch with Jean, though his wife tried to keep them apart. It was he that sent a Christmas card to his daughter and grand-daughter, a birthday card to Mary, and even though she only saw him occasionally she appreciated the thought, the older she got.

"Right, so no talking to Jean, then?"

"Not just yet," Matthew sighed, "maybe when you have ascertained the manner of her passing?"

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Jean went to bed before Lucien arrived home. He planned it that way knowing she would ask who the body was, and offer suggestions as to why, but as it happened Matthew was right, Mrs Randall had had a massive stroke and passed, "probably before she hit the ground", Lucien sighed, signing off the death certificate. "Now the whereabouts of her father?"

"That's the odd thing," he leant back in his chair in the station office, "all his things have gone, there is no indication he ever lived there, and the neighbours just said they hadn't seen him for a while."

"Any rows?"

"Not according to them," Matthew leant forward, "just one day he was there and the next he wasn't. She carried on tending the farm, a new patch was -ploughed ..." Matthew didn't like where his thoughts were heading.

"Would you like some company?" Lucien raised his eyebrows, his thoughts heading in the same, general direction.; but - why was Jean estranged from her mother?

"Bloody hell, Blake!" he grunted, "you don't think ...?

"Stranger things have happened."

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Lucien was up and out before Jean the next morning. It had been too dark to start digging the newly ploughed patch the previous night, though the biggest question was, why plough now, it was too late for planting?

In the daylight the doctor and the policeman could see the farm had not been going well, much of the land was untended and growing weeds, but the ploughed patch ...

"What a way to spend my day off," Matthew huffed, shedding a lightweight jacket, "digging up a field ..."

"Quite," Lucien agreed, he had dressed in his old combat trousers and green shirt, "but we can't tell Jean anything until we have tried out this theory. Though if we are right, god knows what we tell her."

"The truth," Matthew stabbed a spade into the earth, "always with Jean it's best to be up-front."

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"Sorry, Jean," the note propped up on the kitchen table said, "had to rush off, should be home for dinner, Lucien."

She smiled, she had a feeling things would be different with Lucien and perhaps this was the start of the changes. He was occasionally late for dinner, at least this time he had warned her.

The girls went to school and Thomas pottered around, going through the records by the radiogram. He played them occasionally but had been threatening to sort them out for some time now.

"Some of them are so old they are more scratch than music," he sighed, "I shall throw them out, I think. I might look at replacing them with something new."

By 'new' Jean knew he meant newer recordings of his favourite melodies, not 'new' as in more modern music.

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Drs Harvey and Blake surveyed the cadaver on the morgue table. Still covered in the mud from the field where Matthew and Lucien had found him, he cut a pathetic and rather sad figure.

"Not long gone," Lucien sighed, "d'you think?"

"Matter of a month, I should estimate," she looked closely at the head. "No apparent head injury, but after a wash it will be better to see."

They undressed him from his formal 'Sunday' suit, washed the dirt off him and placed folded sheets over him to preserve his modesty. They walked round the table, stopping periodically to look more closely at him before deciding to open him up and see if there was any indication of the cause of his demise.

As they drew the scalpel down the centre of the torso clots of blood became apparent.

"Internal bleeding but how?" Lucien peeled back the skin, carefully, "there are no external bruises or marks."

Dr Harvey started to clean out the abdominal cavity clearing it so they had a better view of the organs and blood vessels. She had a hunch, but first she had to find the aorta under all the detritus.

"Aha," she tried not to sound too triumphant, "ruptured aorta, poor man, he didn't stand a chance."

"So why bury him in the field, and not register the death?" Lucien slumped onto a stool.

"So Jean wouldn't find out," Matthew stepped into the room just as Lucien asked the question. "Old man Randall tried so hard to reconcile them, Jean and her mother, but she stubbornly refused to have anything to do with her daughter."

"I suppose I should speak to Jean," Lucien sighed, "at least he would have known nothing about it."

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Lucien wasn't sure how he was going to tell her, but it would have to be quietly and in private. So, he headed back to the house around lunch time. There would be no girls to distract her just him and his father, perhaps it would give her a little time to start the grieving process.

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Jean looked up from folding some laundry and smiled as he entered the kitchen.

"Hello, stranger," she hummed, "hungry?"

"Not just yet, Jean," he sighed, "tea?"

Not as subtle as he wanted to be, but he had never had to do this face to face, only in a letter.

"Er, yes, alright," she drew her brows in, "is something wrong?"

Lucien didn't answer, he just continued setting a tray, boiling the kettle and warming the pot, filling a little jug with milk and placing everything, plus the sugar bowl on the tray, before carrying it into the living room.

"Sit down, please," he nodded to a place on the couch, next to him, "sugar?"

"Please," she watched him, so serious and so sad.

"Jean ..."

"What is this case about, Lucien, why the tea?"

"The body I had to autopsy, the other day ... it was, er," he took a deep breath, "it was your mother."

In spite of everything Jean still had some love for her mother, she had taught her all she needed to know to become the housekeeper to Thomas, but she also hurt that she couldn't put her transgression aside and come to love Mary.

"Oh," she stared into her teacup, "how?"

"Massive stroke," he watched her, "she would have know very little, dead before she hit the ground."

"Dad?"

"Ah, yes, well .." he put his cup down, "I don't know how to tell you, but ..."

"Lucien," tears sprang to her eyes, she had tried to ring her father over the past few months but every time he mother heard her voice over the phone she slammed the receiver down. She had tried passing but each time her mother had told her to get off the property.

"It looks like your father had an aortic aneurysm, it took him, he would have known nothing," Lucien took the rattling cup and saucer off her, "but we think your mother buried him on the farm and failed to notify the authorities, so you wouldn't find out. Matthew said you were estranged."

Her trembling fingers went to her lips as she tried to fight the urge to cry.

"It's my fault," she whispered, "if only ..."

"It's not your fault, Jean," he touched her shoulder fighting his own urge to take her in his arms and hold her while she cried

"You don't know that, how could you?" she sniffed, trying not to be short with him, unless she told him the whole story he would never understand, but what would he think of her, when she did?

"Tell me," he murmured, "tell me why she did this, why you were estranged."

She stared at her intertwined fingers in her lap, it wasn't a secret but it wasn't something she shouted about either.

"Mary," she swallowed, "Mary was conceived out of wedlock. Christopher, he was good looking, persuasive, your father described it as emotional blackmail, if I loved him, he said, I would let him ... "

As she told him the whole sorry tale, how she had been foolish and weak, how his father had found out, always been around when she needed him, of the offer made on her wedding day, all of it came flooding out and as it did she found herself sobbing in his arms taking solace in his unspoken gentleness, finding relief in the embrace she had never thought to find again, but an embrace she may never experience again for Lucien was her employer, not someone she should consider a potential suitor.

He let her cry, stroked her back and her head, and understood to a greater extent. The love and support she had craved from her parents had not come, just as the love he had needed from his father, when his mother passed away had not been forthcoming. He would not weep with her, not this time, this time he had to give her the support she needed, but he was even more amazed that his father had done what her own could not do - he had been there when she needed him, with his guidance and his lack of judgement.

Jean's tears began to slow and she pushed herself away from the comfort of his arms.

"I'm sorry," she sniffed as she took the handkerchief he offered, the one she made sure he had in his pocket every morning.

"For what?" he didn't fully release her, but looked down at his jacket, now streaked with her tears and the mucus from her nose, the makeup that has transferred to his suit, "the cleaners will soon sort this out," he smiled gently.

"I er," she wiped her face, she must look a sight, she thought, "perhaps I'd better wash my face, then lunch." She drew herself up.

"You don't have to," he squeezed her shoulder, "I can ... a sandwich," he shrugged, "I can do that."

"It's my place," she murmured.

"No, well, that is, you don't have to hide how you feel, Jean, take some time, if it helps."

His kindness was almost as bad as hearing the news, again. She bit her lip and stood up, "thank you, doctor," she nodded, "for being so understanding."

"Any time, Mrs Beazley," he watched her head to the stairs, wondering if he had overstepped the mark. A polite cough broke his thoughts.

"Lucien?"

"Oh, dad," he turned and stood, "I have just autopsied Jean's mother, and her father. It appears Mrs Randall buried her husband on the farm after he died of an aneurysm, aortic, and failed to tell anyone ..."

"She was a hard woman," Thomas huffed, "he tried to help, but she felt ..." he looked to see if Jean was within earshot, "that Jean let her down. Which she didn't in any way shape or form. The boy was manipulative, had his way with quite a few local girls ... did she tell you he suggested Matthew or Bill could be Mary's father, all because she was friends with them? And that's all it was, friendship."

"No she didn't," Lucien looked angry, "I knew him, as you recall, in the camp. A lazy boy, moaned a lot and tried to get more treatment for his wound, using up valuable resources. He was sulky and selfish, and I can see how he would manipulate someone as sweet as Jean. Emotional blackmail, Jean said, the worst kind."

"Exactly, so now you know her story ..."

"It doesn't change what I think about her, dad," he picked up the tray, "that she is a totally respectable woman, intelligent and caring," his voice dropped to a whisper, "and a damned pretty one too."

"You behave," his father warned.

"I will, I won't have her reputation sullied, or embarrass her or hurt her, at least I will do my best."

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Jean looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and grimaced. Her eyes were puffy and her nose was red, her makeup streaked but strangely her hair was not out of place. Lucien had stroked it gently and it had stayed in place, in spite of her refusal to have it rigidly set each week and sprayed with hairspray until quite stiff, or wear a hairnet, at her age that was ridiculous, she thought. She splashed cold water on her face then held a cold flannel over her eyes hoping to reduced the signs of weeping.

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True to his word, Lucien was more than capable of preparing a sandwich, for himself, his father and Jean, it was on the table when she came down the stairs, the makeup repaired and a semblance of control on her face. She didn't really have much of an appetite though she did try to eat. Thomas watched her pick at the food but she refused to make eye contact.

"Jean," he eventually sighed, "why don't you take the afternoon off."

She looked up and shook her head, "no, it's alright," she muttered, "there is a full surgery."

"Lucien and I can do that," he continued, "you go and potter in the garden or have a lie down - you look all in."

"Thomas ..."

"Jean," Lucien interrupted, "I'm sorry, really, but even I remember what Ballarat is like - talk, gossip. Someone is bound to have heard. You don't need that, in the waiting room, take the afternoon off, we will be fine."

"But ..."

"If you need to see we are behaving ourselves, tea half way would be nice," Lucien smiled. He had a cheeky smile, when he needed to use it he did, and this was one time he needed to use it.

"If you think so?" she sighed in reply.

"As your doctor," Thomas pursed his lips, "I prescribe it."

"I didn't know Jean was on our list, dad," Lucien raised an eyebrow.

"Since she was born," he grinned back. "hardly ever saw her, too darned healthy."

Lucien laughed softly.

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The feel of the cool earth beneath her hands, the smell of the jasmine and lavender calmed her and she knew that the two doctors had been right, all along, that she should take the time to think about what her mother had done. She didn't hate her, but it hurt, that she should deny her the chance to say goodbye to her father. Perhaps, with her death, she had been offered a second chance to do so. She would see how much it would cost to arrange a proper Catholic mass for both of them, her final filial duty. She had some savings, her wages from Thomas had been used to clothe her and the girls, he gave her extra for Li, and buy little treats for them, but the rest had been sitting in the bank earning a little interest.

She stood up and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes, surveying the work. The border was clear of any weeds, the dead heading had been done and the new growth of jasmine had been tied over the fence. Now it was time for tea.

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She washed her hands and set the kettle to boil. It would be a challenge, she thought, to take the tray through to Lucien, then to Thomas, who was holding court and telling amusing stories in the waiting room. She had heard the laughter of the patients.

She added two small plates of shortbread to the tea cups on the tray, and headed, back straight and head high to the surgery.

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She took Thomas his tea first. Agnes Clasby was sitting there telling him how she knew Lucien would be a son to be proud of. She nodded to Jean as she put the cup of tea on the desk, with the plate of shortbread. There were no other patients, Jean thought she must have been so engrossed in her gardening that her timing was 'off'.

"Can I get you a cup of tea, Miss Clasby?" she smiled.

"Very kind of you Jean, but, I think Dr Blake will be ready for me before you have poured," she smiled, "another time, my dear."

The smile and the tone was kind and sympathetic but not condescending and Jean recognised the veiled support, which was what she had come to expect from the ladies.

Jean nodded and headed to the consulting room to take Lucien his tea.

"Aah, lovely, Jean," he smiled, "thank you."

"Will that be all, doctor?" she asked politely, as if nothing had happened.

"For now, yes," he kept it stiff and formal, for her sake.

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Jean had never been able to hide anything from Mary and this time was no different. Her daughter noticed her teary eyes and downcast expression as soon as she entered the house.

"Mum?" she stood at the kitchen door and looked at her. She was going about her usual business, preparing dinner, setting biscuits and juice on the table for the two of them, but her heart wasn't in it.

"Hello, love," Jean forced a smile, "good day?"

"Fine," she closed the gap between them, "what's happened, you look as if you've been crying?"

Jean bit her lip, she wanted to tell Mary but privately, not even in front of Li. Now she would have to tell Mary the whole story, she hoped that, at nearly thirteen, she would understand. She certainly knew more than Jean did at that age, at thirteen Jean hadn't even started the change into womanhood and she knew nothing of that side of life.

Li looked from one to the other and then around the kitchen, "I can carry on, mama," she smiled, dropping her bag onto a chair, "if you want to talk to Mary."

When did a nine year old, alright, nearly ten year old, become so intuitive?

"Thank you, Li," Jean straightened, "perhaps in my room, Mary."

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She sat on her bed and patted the space next to her for Mary to join her.

"I heard today that my mother has died," she started from the end, "and my father."

"I'm sorry, mum," Mary took her hand, "both together?"

"No," her shoulders slumped, "mother was the autopsy Uncle Lucien had to do, the other day, you know, when he wasn't in for dinner and away before breakfast."

Mary nodded.

"My father, it appears died a while ago, but mother buried him on the farm and didn't tell anyone."

"Aren't you supposed to?"

"Quite," Jean nodded. Questions and answers were easiest.

"So why didn't she?"

"So I wouldn't know," she sighed and looked down, "my mother didn't like that father tried to keep in touch and sent you cards. We had fallen out."

"Mum," Mary mused, "why did you fall out? I mean I can't imagine not wanting you around, hating you that much."

"Thank you, darling," Jean gave a hint of a smile, "and I wouldn't hate you for doing what I did - I fell pregnant, with you, before I was married to your father. We were pressured into marrying, and as you know, it didn't go well, at all."

"Oh," Mary thought for a few moments, the circumstances of her conception had never occurred to her, or bothered her. She didn't miss having a father, she had 'doc-doc', gran'pa' and she remembered saying he was better than any daddy, "but still," she continued, "you did marry him, so why still hate you?"

"I did everything the church tells you not to: I was intimate with a man before I married, I conceived a child out of wedlock and then I divorced him, really Mary, not a very good advert for the Catholic church, or for myself."

"Why did you divorce him?" Mary did wonder if this was a step too far, but it wasn't going to make any difference to how she felt about her mother and her family, this family here on Mycroft Avenue.

"He left me, before you were born. I couldn't work on the farm at six months pregnant and his parents couldn't support me, though they wanted to, so I came to Thomas to take up the offer of post as housekeeper he made to me before I married and on my wedding day. Your father disappeared off the face of the earth and I had legal grounds and the church called it Defect of Contract, meaning they would annul the marriage and I would be free to marry again, in church." Jean waited for a reaction, or more questions. She was prepared for both and as Mary hadn't shouted or cried or told her she was a bad person, perhaps it would be alright.

"He doesn't sound very nice," Mary pursed her lips.

"He was good looking, cheeky and very persuasive," Jean admitted, "he told me that if I loved him, and I thought I did, I would let him er ..."

"... I get the idea, mum," Mary touched her hand to stop her.

"Yes well," Jean cleared her throat, "but it wasn't just the once, and each time I tried to say no he did the whole emotional blackmail thing. Mother practically threw me out when I found out I had caught, I was going to leave town, but Thomas found me at the bus stop, insisted on giving me a check up, offering me a job, telling Christopher's parents, who insisted he marry me and grow up. Trouble is, he didn't grow up." She looked deep into her daughter's eyes, "Mary, love, don't make the same mistake I did. It doesn't make me love you any less, I love you so much and always will. You may have been a mistake, but I'm very glad I made it."

"Did you ever find him?"

"He stopped by, before the war, he died in the same camp Lucien was in, Lucien tried to help him but he ended up being executed for trying to escape."

"Well, mum," Mary stood up and held out her hand, "I never knew him and I guess I haven't missed him, though I am sorry about your father. His cards were always very sweet. Let's go and have dinner, I'm hungry and I bet you haven't eaten much. Who told you, by the way?"

"Uncle Lucien," Jean took the hand, "he and Thomas insisted I have the afternoon off, in the garden, I was upset about father. I shall try and organise a mass for them, I should, really."

"That's up to you, mum," Mary wrapped her arm round her mother's shoulders, "you do what you think is right, and what you think he would want."

"I will," Jean slipped her arm round Mary's waist, "I'm glad you understand."

"We have a good life here, mum, this shouldn't change it. Does Uncle Lucien know everything?"

"He does."

And because Jean wasn't packing their suitcases she surmised Uncle Lucien didn't have a problem with her wayward mother!