26 June 1959
That night, the night, after, when Jean escorted Lucien to the door and bid him a soft goodnight, she had been certain he would be back as soon as he could, perhaps even the next day, eager for a second showing. He had, after all, asked her if they could meet again, and she had assured him that they could, whenever he wanted. The decision was in his hands; it was not Jean's place to request a meeting herself. He was the paying customer, and if he wanted to see her again he would have to ask. But though she had looked for him, he had not come; Sarah and her baby no longer required daily visits, and arrangements had been made for them to move to Queensland in a fortnight. Without that rather convenient excuse, Doctor Blake had not put in an appearance, and that troubled Jean somewhat, for in the weeks before their dalliance he had not waited for an excuse to see her, had come to her in the evenings, and sat beside her in the pub, and talked to her quietly as if no one else in the world existed. Now, though, now it had been ten days, and no sign of him.
If she were younger, less experienced and less sure of herself, she might have worried that Doctor Blake had not enjoyed his time with her as much as she initially believed. As it was, however, Jean knew very well that he had enjoyed himself; he'd left her side with that dazed, love-drunk look that only a thoroughly well-shagged man could wear. Her face must have looked much the same that night, she knew, for he had shaken her down to her very core, and awoken within her a need that had lain dormant for so many long years. For the first few days after his departure that need had coursed like fire through her veins; she had looked for him each time the bell rang out above the door, and each time she looked and did not see him her heart had been flooded with disappointment. She wanted him to come back, and she had not ever wanted that before, not like this.
But if he was not displeased with her, if he did indeed wish to see her again, as he had told her he did, what could be keeping him from her side? Why this long delay, this drought in his affections, when he had so earnestly opened the floodgates of his own passion while he lay in her bed? He is a very busy man, she tried to tell herself, but his occupation had not previously been an obstacle keeping him from the pub. He had found the time for her before, why not now?
The days passed, in their usual way, and though Jean was perhaps a bit quieter than usual, and though Maureen watched her bit more closely than she ordinarily might have done, there was no interruption to her daily life. Jean cleaned, and kept the books, and fed her girls, and waited, and waited, and waited some more, and in the waiting she felt the bonds of her life begin to chafe, just a little. Jean did not often venture from the pub; Dimitri delivered food and drink every Friday, and so she had no cause to go to the butcher's or the greengrocer's. She went to mass on Sunday, and one Thursday a month she went to confession and listened to Father Morton sigh, made weary by the repetitive nature of her sins. In the warmer months she went to the florist's, sometimes, and purchased flowers for her girls, and when the need arose she'd pop into the haberdashery, or the fabric store, but her clothing was well made - for she'd sewn it all herself - and was not often in need of repair, nor was she often in need of new pieces. The Lock and Key was the center of Jean's whole world, and weeks would pass when she did not leave it, save to go to church. Hers was a small life, and she had been happy in it, but now, consumed with worry, having had a taste of something more exciting, the walls seemed to close in around her, and Jean found herself suddenly anxious for an excuse to leave.
Other women did not worry, when they stepped out from their homes, what sort of reception they might receive in the town. They met friends for tea and lunch at the cafe, and smiled to their neighbors as they strolled through the shops, and sometimes threw small dinner parties attended by their nearest and dearest. Other women had families to tend to, and did not cause a stir when they showed their faces in public. Jean, though, Jean knew what people thought, when they saw her pass by. Not everyone knew what she did; there were some who went their whole lives never encountering anyone who knew what could be purchased in Jean's establishment, but enough people did. The women gave her a wide berth and whispered behind their hands, and the men either leered at her knowingly or pretended as if they could not see her at all. The haberdasherer frowned, when she darkened his doorstep, and the florist watched her pityingly, and Jean could almost hate them both, for the way they looked at her. Inside the pub she was a queen in her castle, but outside it...outside she was a pariah, and though for years she had taken their judgement in her stride, knowing the reasons for the choices she had made and knowing the number of the notes she had carefully put aside to support her in the future, now she was beginning to feel the pinch of her isolation. The girls were lovely, and Jean adored them all, but she had wanted so much more, when she was young and full of dreams, and to find herself still stuck in Ballarat after all this time was galling. It was Doctor Blake who had awoken this restlessness in her, she was sure, Doctor Blake who was worldly and well-traveled, who treated her so differently from all the rest, who wore the story of adventure written on his skin. Doctor Blake who had disappeared, and left Jean with nothing but questions.
Whatever she was feeling, however, life did not stop or slow; Friday came again, and with it came Dimitri, and his smiles and his truck full of provisions, and so Jean did what she did every Friday, pulled on her trousers and her most sensible shoes, and went outside to greet him.
"Kaliméra, Jeannie!" Dimitri called cheerfully as he climbed down from the back of the truck carrying a box full of potatoes.
"Good morning, Dimitri," Jean answered warmly.
"Your man is here today?" Dimitri asked.
Jean frowned. He'd asked her that every Friday since he'd met Lucien, eager no doubt for the chance to converse with someone who spoke his own language. It must have been hard for Dimitri, Jean knew, to be so very far from home, in a place so mistrustful of outsiders, and Lucien had been kind to him. He'd been kind to Jean, too, but he had left her, just the same.
"No, he's-"
"Kaliméra, my friend!" a hearty voice called out behind her, and Jean spun on her heel, shocked to find Doctor Blake marching through the doorway. He'd already disposed of his jacket and his hat, and was even then in the process of rolling up his shirtsleeves, apparently set on assisting Dimitri as he had done once before.
"And good morning to you, Mrs. Beazley," he added as he walked by her, his smile soft and gentle, and Jean felt a sudden flash of anger wash through her. How dare he? She thought to herself as she watched him leap easily into the back of the truck, reaching for the nearest box while Dimitri chatted animatedly with him. How dare he just turn up, out of the blue, without warning or apology, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if he had any right to barge right into her home without invitation? How dare he looks so handsome, and smile at her as if he had not wounded her grievously, as if he assumed he had already been forgiven for leaving her alone and in doubt for so long? Or did he think it was of no concern, that she would be content to wait for him for as long as he wished; did he think of her at all? Rich men, in her experience, often gave little thought to anyone save themselves. She had thought that was not the case with Lucien but perhaps, she realized glumly, she had been wrong on that score.
"If we could move things along, gentlemen," she said acidly, and thought they both frowned at her they did as she asked, and began to haul their wares into the pub under her watchful gaze.
The work went faster, with Lucien's help; he handed down some of the lighter boxes to Jean, sparing her the need to clamber into the truck herself and watching her with curious eyes, and Dimitri hustled back and forth, eager to move the boxes so that he could get back to laughing with Lucien. When everything but the kegs had been settled Jean went back into the kitchen, fussing over her provisions while the men rolled the kegs down the ramps. She did not want to watch them at their work, did not want to see the sheen of sweat on Lucien's brow or the ripple of his muscles beneath his shirt and be reminded of how he'd looked, naked and stretched out over her, the way he'd made her feel when he turned the full force of that strength loose upon her. She did not want to think about how wonderful he had been, holding her; she wanted to be angry, and so she held onto that anger for as long as she could, believing it to be her only defense.
At last the work was done, and Dimitri was out of excuses to linger.
"He is good man, Jeannie," Dimitri told her, clapping Lucien on the shoulder. "Strong man. You keep him here, yes?"
"We'll see," Jean answered archly. "Be well, Dimitri."
He waved to her cheerfully, and shook Lucien's hand, and then he was leaving, and she was alone with Doctor Blake and her anger and her uncertainty.
"Jean?" Lucien said, a bit hesitantly, as he walked back to her side. "Could we...could we talk, please?"
For a moment Jean wanted, very much, to tell him no, and send him on his way. To make him wait, as she had been forced to do. But he had worked so very hard to help her, and he was so very handsome, and despite the ten days of silence he'd forced her to endure he was a kind man, and she did not want to be petty or cruel. She would defend herself, always, but he had done her a service, and she knew he ought to be thanked for it.
"Cup of tea?" she asked him, and then without waiting for an answer she spun on her heel and marched back into the kitchen. He followed behind her, docile as a chastised puppy; he closed the door behind them, once they were safely back inside, and went with her to the same corner where they had sat and sipped their tea weeks before. As Jean fired up the ancient kettle and began to gather the tea things he settled himself onto the same stool where he had sat once before, watching her all the while. She felt the weight of his gaze upon her back, but she did not turn to face him, did not dare ask him what he was doing, coming round the pub in the middle of the day like this, when he could have just as easily come days before, and spared her so much worry.
"Jean," he said softly, when the silence grew too heavy for him to bear. No more Mrs. Beazley, now; perhaps what they had shared together had been too personal, too intimate, too earth-shattering for him to revert to such formality, but Jean had been too long in this business, and compartmentalization came too easily to her.
"Doctor Blake?" she answered, when he did not follow up with any sort of question.
Behind her Lucien sighed, and the beginnings of guilt stirred somewhere deep in her belly. It had only been ten days, after all, not a month or two or six, and he had come, and -
"I'm sorry I've been away for so long," he said then, and she could not help but turn to him, wanting to see his face, and when she did she saw that he looked most contrite, and the last tenuous threads of her anger vanished altogether.
"There was a murder, that night I was here," he explained. "Matthew Lawson was waiting for me, when I got home. We've been terribly busy, and I had to go to Melbourne for a few days. I thought about calling, but I don't even know if you have a phone, and I wasn't sure if that would be acceptable, in any case."
He was telling the truth. Over the years Jean had heard all sorts of lies from all sorts of people, and she had learned to recognize when a man was being sincere, and when he wasn't. His work was important, and unpredictable, and she knew that. Likewise she realized as she watched him now that he truly did not know how to navigate their current circumstances; it wasn't as if they were courting, but absent the normal rules of engagement between a man and his paramour Lucien was left with absolutely no understanding of what was and was not appropriate. Jean knew what she was, and knew she was not his lover, or companion, or whatever word adults used to describe the person they were walking out with when girlfriend seemed to immature and trivial a descriptor. She had been called a whore so many times the word had lost its sting. She had no claim over him, could not expect him to ring her or write to her or visit her or bring her flowers, for their relationship was transactional, and nothing more. We are friends, though, aren't we? She asked herself, and in the asking of it realized just how muddled things between them had become.
"You can ring me here, if you want to," she told him slowly. "But you don't have to tell me every time you leave town, Doctor Blake." I'll be here, waiting for you. That's all I can do, is wait.
"I want to tell you, Jean," he answered earnestly. "And I want, very much, to see you again."
"Well, you're here now," she told him, and behind her the kettle began to whistle.
