7 July 1959
It was very late, but Jean was not sleeping. Sleep had not come easily to her for days, not since Lucien left; her thoughts were chaotic, her body restless, exhaustion and worry twining within her, leaving her quiet and withdrawn. It had been only a week since he left, only a week without him, but those paltry few days felt as heavy to Jean as if they contained an eternity within them.
It was very late, and even the most enthusiastic customers had long since departed. The girls were asleep, as Jean knew she should be, but though she lay nestled in her bed she could hardly close her eyes. How long would it take, she wondered, for Lucien to reach Shanghai? Would he go by boat? Perhaps a man of his means could afford to fly, for at least a portion of the journey, but Jean could not say for certain. Jean had never known anyone who had traveled so far for personal reasons; the only people she knew who'd ever left the country were old friends of Christopher's, soldiers who'd marched off to war and come home with their shoulders bowed by grief, swearing to never again leave Australian soil. Them, and Lucien, of course, but she had not ever spoken to him of his travels abroad, and she had not had a chance to speak with him before he'd taken off on this most recent adventure.
What would he find, when he arrived? His child would be a young woman now; would she be glad, to be reunited with her father at last? Would she grieve for her mother, would she blame Lucien for the many long years of their separation? It wasn't his fault, Jean knew; he had been held captive for so long, and by the time he was free all traces of his family had vanished. Would Li understand that, and forgive him his absence? Would she even want to know him, now? For his sake, Jean hoped that she would; Lucien was a good man, a kind man, and she did not doubt that he loved his daughter with everything he had.
What would she look like, this daughter of his? Lucien had told her that his wife had been a local girl, someone he met while he was stationed in Singapore. Had she been Chinese, then, his wife? Would the girl take after her mother, and look nothing at all like her strapping blonde father? Maybe there would be something in her face that called him to mind; both of Jean's boys looked just like Christopher, to her eyes, though they looked so different from one another. Jack had his father's eyes, his thick hair, his nose; young Christopher had his father's mouth, his chin. It's nature's insurance policy, Jean's mother had told her once. All babies look like their father, so there's no doubt when they're born. Jean wasn't entirely sure about that, but she hoped for Lucien's sake that when he looked at his daughter he would see some piece of himself, that he could feel the call of his blood in her veins, and that she, too, could look upon his face and see at once that he was not a stranger, but the father who loved her, who had spent so long missing her, searching desperately for her.
Jean knew she ought not spend so much time thinking about Lucien. There was nothing she could do for him now, nothing but pray, and wait. But wait for what? That was the question that troubled her most, for its answer was dark and hopeless.
I'm coming back to Ballarat, to my father's house, to you.
When she'd read those words her heart had soared, grateful to know that he planned to return, that he cared enough for her to say such a thing. To promise to come back to her, as she so longed for him to do. It was what she wanted, more than anything else, to see him, to hold him again. And yet her initial relief had given way to despair; whatever he might feel for her - or she for him - the stark truth remained that she was a whore. That word had lost its sting, over the years; she knew what she was, what she did, and she did not shy away from it, any more. She took payment for pleasure, one hour at a time. The best and brightest Ballarat had to offer, the councilmen and solicitors and doctors and old money aristocrats with whom Lucien rubbed shoulders at the Colonists', they all knew it, too; some of them had even paid her themselves. There was no future for Jean and Lucien together, no quiet candlelit dinners, no brief engagement fitting two people who had both been widowed and saw no need to fuss, no happy, comfortable marriage. For him to be seen with her, publicly, would ruin his reputation, put his profession in jeopardy. He stood to lose everything, if he threw his lot in with hers. All that they were, all that they could ever be, was a whore and her customer. Their story would play out one hour at a time, until Lucien's money ran out, or he became disenchanted with the harsh reality Jean had accepted long before.
Yours, with much affection.
It had been a long time since Jean had been on the receiving end of a man's affection, true affection, like the one she knew Lucien harbored for her. She wanted his affection, his warm smiles, his soft voice, his strong arms. She wanted to hold him, and never mind the time, wanted to sit and sip her tea with him and listen to him speak. She wanted to sit beside him on a comfortable sofa, wanted to dance with him, wanted to feel his hand settle on her back and smile. She wanted to take that affection, and plant it in the hard-packed soil of her own heart, and watch it bloom. But it was not hers to claim, hers to accept, to long for; his love was not meant for the likes of her.
But what then should she do? What could she do?
Who knows what will happen, or how it will end?
The simplest solution would be to cut him loose. To tell him, upon his return, that she was no longer accepting his custom. It would wound him, and that hurt would likely be enough to keep him from returning; he was a proud man, and unused to being turned away. She had not taken customers for nearly a decade before he turned up; she did not need to, and though his handsome payments had significantly moved up the timetable for her eventual plans to retire and slip away to a quiet cottage in the country she would carry on just fine without his money. Everything could return to the way it was, before, and she would not have to watch the light of love fade from his eyes, would not have to remind him, again and again, what she was, how limited her own affections must of necessity be. To cut him off would be the lancing of a wound, sharp but quick. To let him linger, to allow them both the indulgence of more time spent together, would be to shred her heart slowly. Death by a thousand cuts.
To cut ties with him would be the simplest choice, perhaps the smartest one, but as she tossed and turned his face danced behind her eyelids, and she knew she lacked the strength to do such a thing. Though she knew it would be a mercy it felt cruel, somehow, to dash both their hopes so deliberately, instead of letting him slip away of his own accord.
I have found a place of light in the darkness.
Had he not brought light to her, this wonderful man? Had he not brought excitement to her life, set her very soul afire with a passion that she had thought long since lost to her? Did she not think of him often, did she not greet their every interaction with delight? Did she not tremble when he touched her, as she had not done for any man since Christopher's death? She had not known she was in darkness, until he stepped into view, shining like the sun. Thoughts of hearth and home, a garden and a little kitchen made to feed a family, such yearnings had not plagued her in two decades, and yet they came to her now, because of him. She had thought herself happy with her lot, before. Perhaps she had only been blind.
What darkness had troubled him? She wondered now. Was it only the grief of having lost his father, the grief he felt for his missing family? Was it only the memory of old wounds, weighing heavily upon his back? He had never spoken to her of his past, had never told her how he felt about finding himself once more in Ballarat after so long away. She did not know what he did, when he was not with her, how he amused himself in spare moments, what sort of man he was when he was not with her. There were so many things she did not know about him, and that worried her. Unpredictability could be charming, but it could be lethal, too, and she did not know which side of the coin Lucien would land upon.
Thank you for caring, and for being my friend.
Friends, that's how this all started. He had asked to be her friend, and she had let him. She had let him in, let him see her, let him speak and let him hear her, shared her table, her tea, her time with him. Jean had precious few friends, and Lucien she counted dearest among them, for all that so much of his story remained unknown to her. When she called he came without question, helped without being asked as any true friend would. They could not be friends, if she cast him out of her bed. She would lose him, completely, in every way.
And yet, though she remained unsure of her own resolve she felt the moment of their sundering seemed to be barreling towards them with all the force of a freight train. Lucien's letter had been full of hope, kind thoughts for their future, but Jean knew better. Their story could only end in tears, as far as she was concerned, hers or his it made no matter. He wanted more than she could give him, and one day, one day very soon, he would see it. Would he disdain her, in the end? Fling money onto her crumpled bedsheets and storm away, never again to darken her door? Would they argue, would she plead with him, would he cause a disturbance in the pub? Would he grow bitter and moody, would he be petulant with her, would he take and take and take until she was forced at last to put her foot down? And what would be left of her, when he was gone; would he take all her hopes with him when he slammed the door?
Put it aside, she told herself, for perhaps the hundredth time. You can't fix it now.
No, now there was nothing to do but wait. Wait until she could see him again, and gauge his mood for herself. Wait until she could be sure that he was safe, and then, well, and then…
And then, she knew, she would have to begin the long, painful process of disentangling her heart from his, for both their sakes.