XVIII
Jean developed a lovely rhythm to her life. Each morning, Monday through Friday, she woke up and spent the morning doing her chores before going to see Father Blake. She made his breakfast and did some tidying for him before going out to see to the rectory garden while he went to hear Confession. The flowers were starting to bloom and she would clip those that were ready and made arrangements to adorn St. Catherine's. Then in the afternoons, she would help with catechism or with preparations for Wednesday Mass or whatever else the priest needed. Saturdays were her own, often spent doing shopping or spending time with some of her friends and neighbors. Often Abigail Harris would come by for a cup of tea. Sometimes one of the Collins children would come by to see her. Sunday, she accompanied them to Mass more often than not. Father Blake was very good when the occasion called for him to actually fulfil his duty as the parish priest. Perhaps that was how he'd been able to escape notice from all his drunken behavior for so long; the parishioners loved him and did not look for any of his many faults. Jean liked to see him like this, though. He was obviously a priest presiding over the Mass in his vestments, but he was very much in his element, and it made her happy to see him doing such a good job.
The routine seemed to suit them both. He was not drinking as much as when she had first arrived, though she did find an empty bottle of scotch at least once a week. A small part of her wondered how he was about to get his hands on so much of it without raising suspicion, but she didn't need to bother about such things. He was only hungover about once or twice a week at the very most nowadays. A definite improvement.
One Wednesday, she assisted him with a particularly difficult homily. He had gotten it into his head that he wanted to talk about the true nature of loving thy neighbor. They'd spent over an hour debating back and forth. Jean's perspective was that the idea was to treat people with kindness and understanding and to provide assistance when asked or when needed. Father Blake argued that it went further than that. He felt—quite strongly—that loving thy neighbor was not merely an act of selflessness and generosity but the radical notion of working to understand others.
"How can we claim to love anyone if we maintain rigidity?" he asked her rhetorically. "Too often the Church is so focused on the prescriptive nature of religion. Go through the motions and do what you're told and everything will work out fine. But how can that be so? Shouldn't the rituals have meaning? Shouldn't our care for our fellow man be based not on the idea that we're supposed to care but instead based on a genuine love? Take you and I, for example."
"You and I?!" she asked in surprise.
"You don't like that I drink. But you don't turn your back on me for my bad decision. You help me ease the pain of it. That is loving thy neighbor. And you don't go to Confession. But I do not judge your choice or think less of you for doing what the strict law of the Church might think of as a wrong choice. I respect your decision for I know that it is your own and I celebrate your free will in making that choice for yourself," he explained.
He spoke with such passion and conviction, Jean felt her mind changing ever so slightly. She had been raised within the strict confines of the Church and taught that it was the only way and deviation was to be reviled. Father Blake operated differently. His liberal interpretation of canon and the radical understanding he preached were how he lived. And though Jean did not want to agree that acceptance and understanding of the choice of others was always the best way—after all, some decisions should not be celebrated—she could not entirely argue against the compassion that he wanted to impart through his homily.
Jean did not always stay for Wednesday evening Mass, but she did that night. She wanted to hear what he ended up saying and she wanted to see the reaction of the handful of others who had come to Mass that night. The way he preached, he could not help but get others on his side. Jean could see on people's faces the way he had convinced them. Perhaps his influence would last, perhaps this small group of people would leave the church tonight feeling kinder. Perhaps Father Blake could instill just a little more compassion out into the world. Her heart was filled with admiration for him and pride in seeing him succeed and do so well. He caught her eye, right as he finished and led them all in a concluding hymn, and they shared a smile together.
After Mass ended, she lingered, gathering her coat and purse slowly. A couple of people stayed to ask Father Blake something or other, but he handled them quickly. At last, only the two of them were left in St. Catherine's that night.
"I'm a bit sorry we had such a small group tonight. I would have liked for the homily to go to more people. But it wouldn't have been right for a Sunday," he said, crossing through the aisle toward where she was waiting on the end of the third pew back.
"No, an evening Mass was the right place for it. And it was wonderful," she praised.
"I appreciate your assistance, as always," he replied with a soft smile.
Jean nearly blushed at that. Something in his tone was almost…intimate.
He continued, "Because we had so few people, I could hear your voice during the hymns."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I was probably too loud."
"No need to apologize," he assured her. "You have a beautiful voice. I like hearing it. You should think about joining the choir, actually. You're around here enough that it wouldn't be too much extra time for you to attend rehearsals. And Mrs. Williams is getting on. There's no one to take over the choir when she can't manage it anymore. I think you'd be perfect," he suggested.
"I don't think so," she replied tactfully.
"No? May I ask why?"
"Well, I think it would take a lot of work for the choir to improve."
"Oh I don't think you're afraid of a little hard work, Mrs. Beazley," he teased.
"I'm not, but that would take time and when I am working here at the church and in the rectory, I…" Jean trailed off, not knowing if it was right to finish that sentence.
"You what?" he pressed.
She should have known he wouldn't just let it go. "I prefer to spend my time here with you. And you don't direct the choir."
The look of absolute elation on his face warmed her heart. She did enjoy spending time with him, and to know that fact pleased him was quite endearing to say the least.
Without really realizing it, the pair of them had cleared away things in the church and headed back to the rectory. They'd reached the front door before they knew it. Jean had intended to go home but here they were.
"Would you like to have a cup of tea?" he offered.
In truth, she was glad he asked. She did not quite want the evening to end just yet. Going home to her own house with all her things was always a comfort, but she was alone there. Here, she could be with him. "I'd like that, thank you."
He led her inside the rectory and turned on the lights. She put her coat and purse by the door as she did every day when she arrived there to start her work. This time, there was no work to be done. Jean went into the kitchen to start the kettle. "Will you be joining me?" she asked, calling to him in the parlor.
"No, thank you, I like a bit of scotch in the evenings," he replied.
"More than a bit," she muttered to herself. But she wouldn't stop him. He was a grown man fit to make his own decisions, and if he wanted to wake up with a headache, he was well within his rights to do so. Jean would be by in the morning to make sure he was alright.
By the time she brought her mug of tea out to the sofa, Father Blake had put on one of his jazz records. He had also taken off his cassock so he was left in only the white button-down shirt and black trousers he always had on underneath. She saw him swallow the last of what was in his glass and fill it again. Already. It made her wonder if he always removed his priestly garb when he drank. But Jean did not ask. She just sat down and drank her tea.
They talked a little about church business for a little while, but that did not get them very far. He changed the subject quite suddenly by asking, "Mrs. Beazley, may I ask about your husband?"
The question took her by surprise but it was not unwelcome. "What do you want to know?"
"Anything. I am just curious about what sort of man you married all those years ago."
She smiled. It was painful, at times, to think about her married life. It had been so important and significant and defining, yet all considered, she had only been married a short while. But it had been, for the most part, a happy time. And she liked to think of it that way. "His name was Christopher. His family lived on farm down the road from ours. We were the same age and we went to school together," she said. "He was always a bit of a troublemaker. Never the ringleader, but he was fiercely loyal to his family and his friends, and he would get in fights to defend them. Impulsive, a lot of the time. But when he decided he cared for someone or something, that was all that was needed. He would do anything for the people he cared about."
"And most of all you, I can imagine."
Jean hesitated slightly. That was a sore subject. Knowing how far Christopher had gone to war because he thought it was what Jean wanted. It had gotten him killed. "He loved me. I do know that. And I loved him. First love is like that, all big dreams and excitable romantic notions. We were married when we were nineteen."
"That's quite young," he noted.
"Well, we had to get married," she explained delicately.
"Ah," Father Blake said knowingly. "Did Father Morton know?"
Until that moment, Jean had momentarily forgotten that Father Blake had grown up going to Sacred Heart just as she had. They both knew the old Ballarat priest. "I think he suspected. He wasn't very pleased with me, I know."
"Oh yes, it's always the woman's fault, isn't it?" he said sardonically, rolling his eyes. "As though your Christopher was dragged into temptation by you at no fault of his own. I was a nineteen-year-old boy once; I have no doubt that any fault was an even distribution between you both."
In spite of herself, Jean chuckled slightly. "Very true."
Father Blake poured himself yet another glass of scotch. This was his fourth, by Jean's count. "And then a few months later you were a mother, is that it?"
"Actually, no." Jean's expression tightened. This was not something she liked to tell people. But somehow telling Father Blake did not make her feel as ashamed as such thoughts usually did. "Your father, actually, was the one who told me that my daughter was stillborn."
"Oh I'm so sorry," he said sincerely. "I cannot imagine how difficult that must have been."
Jean did not want to linger there. She only nodded. "But a year later, our Christopher Jr. was born and Jack came along a year and a half after that. And things were difficult, living and working on a farm with two small boys. Mouths to feed and too much work and not enough money. Too many things to do always. But we were happy, I think. I thought that was what my life would always be. We had each other and that was all we really needed."
"I am sure any home of yours would be a very happy one, Mrs. Beazley," he told her kindly.
"But then the war broke out and all the workers enlisted and left us. Eventually Christopher did the same. He died in the Solomons. I wasn't notified until seven months after his death. And after that, of course, everything changed. I kept the farm as long as I could, I worked whatever odd jobs I could at the school and as a seamstress. I had to move in with my sister in town; she'd lost her husband in the war as well, and her son Danny was the same age as my Jack. But then the boys all grew up. My sister remarried and moved to Melbourne. And that was how I ended up working for Doctor Blake."
He took the last sip out of his glass. "So that's the story of your life, is it?" he asked. She frowned at him. His words were slurring.
"Yes," she answered quietly, watching him very carefully. He leaned forward to reach the bottle on the table and nearly knocked it over. That was Jean's cue. She stood up and took the bottle away. "No, I think that's enough for tonight. Time for bed, I think."
"The record's not done playing," he protested drunkenly.
Jean took the bottle and put it on the usual shelf. She lifted the needle of the phonograph. "It'll be there in the morning for you," she told him. "Come along, let's get you into bed."
Father Blake hauled himself up from his chair and teetered where he stood. And just like that first night they'd met, Jean put her arm around his waist and tossed his arm over her shoulders and helped lead him to safety. Luckily the distance from the parlor to the bedroom was not as great as from the willow tree to the rectory.
She helped him sit down on the bed, and he flopped back immediately. "I'll get you some water," she told him.
"Hmm, thank you," he slurred. "Very sweet of you. Sweet. Good."
Jean couldn't help but appreciate his kindness while drunk as opposed to his gruff annoyance when he was hungover. An interesting dichotomy to be sure. She hurried from the room to get him a glass of water from the kitchen. "Here, drink this," she said upon returning.
But he was already fast asleep. His mouth was open and his head lolled to the side on the pillow. Jean got a blanket from the foot of the bed to put over him. And, since he was passed out, she indulged for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him.
Ever so gently, she placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating and the rise and fall of each breath. "Why do you do this to yourself, Lucien?" she asked quietly. He would not hear her question, nor would he hear her use his first name. But here, like this, he was not the Father Blake who had so passionately preached his homily. This was Lucien. Sad, broken Lucien. It was Lucien who needed her. And, Jean was coming to realize, she was enjoying spending time with Father Blake because he was Lucien underneath it all. She only wished she understood more. Why was he like this? Where did this incessant drinking come from?
Jean sighed softly and removed her hand from him. He was alright for now. Time for her to go.
Only she could not seem to bring herself to leave. What if he needed something during the night? What if he got out of bed and hurt himself somehow? Jean would not abandon him when he needed her. That much they had established long ago.
Seeing no real alternative, Jean took off her shoes and curled up on the sofa. She draped her coat over herself as a blanket and rested her head on a throw pillow. And eventually, she fell asleep.
Lucien woke up in early in the morning. He hardly remembered how he'd gotten to bed. He'd been drinking, of course. That was the only way he was able to sleep uninterrupted through the night. But he was still wearing all his clothes, even his shoes. And as the dawn bled through the window, he saw a full glass of water on the nightstand. Mrs. Beazley must have put it there after helping him to bed. He sat up gingerly and drank it all down.
She really did take better care of him that he really deserved. And now she had shared more of herself with him. He had dared to ask her about her husband and was amazed and honored with the way she'd responded. Pregnant and married and miscarried all at age nineteen. She'd raised her two sons after her husband had died in the war. She'd tried to keep a farm running, she'd done whatever she could to take care of her children, and after they'd left her, she ended up with his father.
It was almost cruel, the unfairness of life. Lucien knew he himself had lived a rather wretched, selfish life, and he had been punished for it, as he deserved. But Mrs. Beazley…Jean…she was goodness personified. Perhaps a bit rigid at first, but she had softened as they'd spent more and more time together. She deserved happiness more than anyone he'd ever encountered. And yet all she had was the enjoyment of spending her time with a drunk priest. He wished more than anything that he had more than a paltry wage to offer her in return for all she had done for him.
When he felt able, Lucien stood up from the bed, slightly wobbly, and took his glass with him to refill in the kitchen. But when he reached the parlor, a shocking sight caught his eye. There, lying on the sofa, was Mrs. Beazley. Fast asleep.
Lucien approached her quietly. He put the water glass down and sat on top of the coffee table in front of the sofa. It was in his mind to wake her up, but he couldn't. Not just yet. It struck him how beautiful she was. Her makeup had smudged off during the night, leaving some black dots of mascara around her eyes and hints of red streaks of lipstick around her mouth. But she was beautiful. The lines of her face were all at rest. Her lashes fanned out over her cheeks. Those high cheekbones were so sharp in contrast to the soft, elegant line of her nose. Her lips were parted slightly as she breathed during her sleep. One of her now-limp curls fell over her face. Lucien could not stop himself from brushing it back. In doing so, he noticed a hint of gray at her temple.
At his touch, she stirred. He removed his hand and watched as her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, neither of them said a word, they just stared at one another.
"Good morning," he greeted softly.
"Good morning. How are you feeling?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse from disuse. Curiously, she did not attempt to sit up.
"I'm alright. Thank you for helping me to bed last night, and for bringing me a glass of water. That was nice to wake up to."
"You're welcome. I didn't want to leave you alone, just in case."
Her concern gave birth to an unparalleled warmth in his heart. "That was very kind. You needn't have worried, though. But I think it's time you went home," he suggested.
Now, at last, she did sit up. She stretched her arms and back, and he could not help but notice the way her breasts strained against the wrinkled blouse. "What time is it? Shall I start breakfast?" she offered.
"No, I can manage for today. Go home and take care of yourself. And if you're feeling up to it, I'll see you for catechism in the afternoon."
She considered a moment, probably thinking whether she should protest. But in the end, she agreed. "I'll be back this afternoon," she said.
He gave a nod, standing up and offering a hand to help her do the same. "I look forward to it," he murmured. A strong urge to kiss her hand passed through him, which he thankfully resisted.
Mrs. Beazley slipped her shoes back on and put on her coat. She pushed her hair away and picked up her purse. And with a kind bid of good morning, she left out the front door.
Lucien was left by himself once more, but he strangely did not feel alone.
