29 June 1959
Maureen had offered to watch the pub all evening, and for once Jean was resolved to take her up on it. The gentle sound of whispered conversations, the clink of a teacup against its saucer, Maureen's accusing eyes and the parade of customers making their way up the stairs; none of it held any appeal for Jean, at present. What she wanted was quiet, and a moment to herself, a chance to catch her breath and consider all that she had learned.
That Lucien Blake had been a soldier was not surprising; given his age and the scars upon his back Jean had worked that much out for herself already. That he'd married and had a child of his own was not surprising either, for he had spoken of his daughter to her, once, and Jean had pondered what little she knew of the girl, and wondered what it meant, that Lucien did not know where she was. The scope of his grief, the depth of his suffering, that had surprised her, and her heart was heavy, full of sorrow on his behalf, as if the touch of her hand upon his arm had transferred some of his pain from his soul to hers. It was unthinkable, the horror he had suffered. Jean had fought her war in the dirt and prosaic isolation of Ballarat, letters from the bank cutting her like knives, but there had been no bullets, no bombs, no horrible drumbeat of approaching enemy boots. Her home had been invaded by sorrow, not by soldiers. Lucien, though; Lucien had been a husband, a father, had built a home and a life in Singapore he must have treasured, given how his voice cracked when he spoke of it now, and his home had become a war zone.
How terrified must he have been, she wondered, knowing what calamity was coming for his family? How painful must it have been, to choose to send them away? Had he walked into his child's bedroom, and watched her sleeping, peaceful and secure for the moment, and wept to think of the danger that surrounded them? Did his wife weep, when she boarded the boat and left him behind? Jean had wept, when Christopher left her, had put Jack down for his nap and felt her knees go weak with grief, had sunk to the floor beside his little bed and buried her face in her hands. But she still had her children, her home to cling to; Lucien had been utterly alone, when the bombs came for him.
And he had been held captive; Jean remembered very well the stories from the war, the things the Japanese did to those who fell into their clutches. She remembered the Burma railroad, the tale of those brave lads who had led an uprising in Selarang and been butchered for it. Lucien had been there when it happened; had he been among their number? How many friends had he lost to chaos and grief? Had he starved, had he fallen ill? The marks upon his back spoke so eloquently of pain; she had wondered, before now, if perhaps it had been a grenade, or a bomb that rent his skin, but she rather thought she knew better, now. Those marks had been left by a whip, or a cane, scored into his flesh not by some mechanical beast but by another man, full of anger and hate. She couldn't imagine how Lucien dragged himself out of bed each morning, when he carried such memories with him everywhere he went, but perhaps it was love of his family that compelled him, that desperate hope that one day they might be reunited.
Jean wandered through her rooms, washed her face, tidied her bed, prepared herself for sleep with her thoughts consumed by him. Lucien was so kind, so gentle with those less fortunate than himself, so eager to help, and knowing that he retained those qualities despite the horror he had endured only made her love him more, only made her want to reach out, and hold him close, to keep him safe in her arms. She wanted to banish the memory of pain from his body, wanted to comfort him and make him whole, but in her heart she knew it was not her place to offer him such peace. She was not his wife, not the woman who'd borne his child, not the woman his heart still ached for, after all this time, and she could not ever be.
As she laid down, rested her head against her pillows with the ghostly sensation of Lucien's hands still lingering on her thighs, she thought about that letter, and what news it might bring him. Lucien seemed convinced it contained grim tidings; he had clearly been carrying it for some time, given how crumpled the envelope was. Carrying it, and yet not reading it, for when he finally did, if he learned for once and for all that his family was dead, all his hope would be lost. Jean had felt that way, once, had spent each day with one eye on the long winding drive that led from the road to her little house, praying for word of her husband, begging God to send her a letter, or Christopher himself, but not two grim-faced soldiers in a dark car. Each day that passed without word was a blessing and a blow, all at once; she did not know what had become of him, but no one had told her he was dead, and so Christopher lived on, in her mind, in her prayers, in her heart. That period of waiting had ended in grief for Jean, and she prayed now that Lucien would not meet with such a fate.
If the letter told him that his wife and child still lived she would lose him, she knew, and while she would grieve for that loss her mother's heart prayed, for Lucien's sake, that they were well. He deserved such happiness, she thought, deserved such joy after suffering for so long. Though Jean cared for him, with everything she had, though she wanted him, though she wished that things were different, she knew she could not give him what he sought. She could not be his wife, could not give him a home, could not even kiss him, could not hold him whenever she wanted to.
He deserves better, she thought. He deserves more. Please, God, please let them be living, for his sake.
The day would come, one way or another, when Jean would have to let him go, and she prayed it would be happiness that parted them, rather than grief.
Not tonight, Lucien told himself as he stepped into his house, as he locked the door behind him and hung his hat upon its accustomed peg.
Not in the darkness.
Dark thoughts bred in darkness; there had been a particularly terrible night in China, after the war, when Lucien had stood on a foot bridge high above a racing river with a bottle of something clear and vile in his hand, staring down at the murky water below. It was the thought of Mei Lin's gentle hands that drove him there, and it was the thought of the little blue ribbon tied in Li's hair that pulled him back. Unable to face the guilt of ending his life himself he had signed up for more dangerous missions than he could count, and each time he had been fearless, had stepped into gunfire and devastation with a grim determination, but still, he lived. He lived for them, he thought, but if he read that letter now, in the darkness, and found that they were gone, he was not certain he could carry on.
You could live for Jean, he told himself as he walked into his bedroom, began undressing in the darkness. You could do that, for her. Would it break her heart, he wondered, if he never came to visit her again? Would she weep for him? Would she attend his funeral, as she had attended his father's, stand in the back out of everyone's line of sight and say her own private goodbyes? She deserves better than that, he thought. Jean had suffered enough. That night in China he had been certain no one would mourn for him, but he rather thought Jean would, now. And Matthew, too, damn him. Matthew was a good friend, and Lucien did not want to leave him without a police surgeon, without a place to go for a warm meal on a Saturday night.
You need to know what that letter says. You can't put it off forever.
He could hear her voice, clear as a bell, even now in the black silence of his lonely bedroom. She was right of course, his clever Jean. He could not stave off this calamity indefinitely, and waiting would not change the words written upon that page. The sun would rise tomorrow, and bring with it a host of responsibilities and occupations and minor distractions, and Lucien knew himself well enough to admit he was unlikely to take a moment to read that letter until his working day was done. The circumstances would be no different tomorrow than they were right now, only now he could hear Jean's voice echoing in his mind, fancied he could still taste her on his lips, and he drew some strength from her, from the memory of how she'd swayed towards him that day in her kitchen, her lips parted, her eyes hooded, her hands on his face. He did not have the strength to face this horror alone, but for now, just for this moment, Jean was with him.
"Bugger it," he said aloud, and then he was striding furious and full of purpose out of his bedroom. With a tight flick of his wrist he turned on the light in the hall, and then reached for the letter he'd abandoned on the side table, tearing through the envelope at once.
Though Lucien was still adept at reading Mandarin Mr. Kim was based in Hong Kong, and always wrote to him in English. The words on those pages were written in a neat hand, and Lucien devoured them hungrily, his heart racing in his chest.
Dear Doctor Blake,
I am glad to say that I at last have some good news to give to you. I have learned that your Li was among several children rescued from a passenger ship damaged in the battle of Hong Kong. I found her name in a record of abandoned children, and learned that she was kept here for some months before the authorities determined that no one was coming for her, and she was sent to an orphanage in Shanghai. I have traveled there, and met with her, and can assure you that she is alive, and well.
A choked, ragged sob tore its way out of Lucien's chest and he collapsed at once on the floor, no longer able to hold himself upright. His Li, alive and well; he could think of no greater blessing, and tears coursed down his cheeks while his shoulders shook, his whole body convulsing with a wild, terrible joy. Mr. Kim was a thorough-going professional, and had seen Li with his own eyes; Li! Alive! Lucien could hardly breathe through his relief. If Mr. Kim had found her, seen her, then Lucien could as well, could go to his child, and hold her, could look into her eyes, beg for her forgiveness, hear her story. There was nothing he wanted more, and for a time he simply wept, overcome.
The letter was not finished, however, and so eventually Lucien brought himself under control, and read on.
I have enclosed her address, and a photograph she sent to you. If you will make arrangements to meet me in my office in Hong Kong, I can take you to her. Travel in China is tricky, just now, but with my contacts I can assure you a safe journey.
Already the plans were forming in Lucien's mind; he could speak to Matthew tomorrow about his taking some leave, could use the phone in the post office to place a long distance call to Mr. Kim, could be on a boat by Wednesday.
I do however have some tragic news to impart. While Li was discovered along with several others on a lifeboat, most of the passengers aboard her ship were lost. I am sorry to tell you that your wife did not survive the journey.
Strange, how grief and joy could live together in one single heart; Lucien's felt like to burst from the strain of it. Li, alive and well, Mei Lin, dead and gone. Two loves, one shattered, one full of hope, tears of relief and of pain mingling on his cheeks, and Lucien unable to tell one from the other. His chest heaved, his breathing choked by the lump of emotion that had gathered in his throat. Mei Lin was gone, his beautiful, brilliant, fierce little wife, lost to him forever; the love that they had shared, the home that they had built, those dreams lay in ruins all around him. It would have been enough to break him, had he not known that Li still lived. There was hope, now, more sweet than bitter, for he knew where their darling girl was, could go to her, could tell her stories of the mother who had loved her, sacrificed everything to protect her, could tell her how while she believed herself to be abandoned her father had never given up on her, and had found her at last.
The letter went on, explaining Mr. Kim's methods, how he had come by this information and how he hoped to continue to assist Lucien in his endeavors, but it was quite some time before Lucien read it all, for his heart was chaotic, shredding itself to pieces in his joy and in his sorrow.
