31 July 1959
Friday nights were the best for business. Established gentlemen could assure their wives they were meeting friends for drinks at the Colonists' and make their way to the Lock and Key with no one the wiser. The officers from the Army base came mostly on Fridays and Saturdays; the lads poured off the base like water off a duck's back come Friday, and while the officers were generally more reserved in their tastes when it came to the search for entertainment they looked upon the excuse for freedom with a similar enthusiasm. Dimitri made his deliveries on Fridays, and so Jean's larder was full, and ready for whatever the night might bring. Most of her girls were upstairs with clients already, and the gentlemen gathered at the bar and around the scattered tables were quiet and respectful.
Jean was, as ever, sitting in her usual booth, a cup of tea and a biscuit laid out before her, her knitting spread across her lap. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, hardly needing the direction of her conscious mind as a sky-blue blanket slowly came to life beneath her gentle touch. The blanket served no purpose other than to provide her with occupation; when it was finished she would donate it to the charity bin at Sacred Heart, and start another project. Idle hands do the devil's work, Jean's mother used to say, and she had taken those words to heart, and found ways to keep herself busy, and keep the more morose thoughts at bay.
It had been a full month, since Lucien left. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, people said, but they also said out of sight, out of mind, and that had always struck Jean as strange, that people could claim both statements as equally true despite their contradiction. With every day that passed she thought of Lucien less, as the more pressing details of her daily life took precedence over worrying for a man on the other side of the ocean. And yet, when she did think of him it was always fondly; she knew she could not have him, that when he returned she must of necessity put an end to things between them, but for now, for these days when he was far away and that bleak future remained only a distant possibility, she could think of his smile, and his strong arms, and how wonderful it felt to be held by him, and she could treasure the affection she carried in her heart.
The sound of the little bell above the door drew her attention, and she looked up from her work, then, to see who had come to visit her.
It was two men, strangers to her eyes. Though they were dressed in ordinary clothes she marked them as soldiers at once; their backs were too straight, their posture too rigid, their shoulders too broad, their arms too well-muscled, their eyes too sharp for them to be businessmen. They were both of middle age, though one was older than the other. The younger man had a shaved head and an eerie sort of blankness to his expression that Jean liked not one bit. He wore plain black trousers and a grey coat, and as the pair of them made their way across the bar he shrugged out of it, revealing a plain white shirt beneath. He held out his hand, and the older man passed off his own coat, let the younger carry them both to the coat rack in the corner while the older man flagged Maureen down behind the bar and ordered their drinks. Jean liked the look of the older man as much as she disliked the younger; he had thick, dark hair, and he wore a heavy navy jumper, finely made. His face was worn, handsome in a dignified sort of way. Whatever he'd said to Maureen made the girl flash a smile at him, and Jean smiled herself, glad to see that these newcomers had not brought trouble with them. It was an officer from the base Jean had first taken on as a customer, and she'd always had a soft spot in her heart for them. They reminded her of Christopher, sometimes, brave and selfless, and sometimes they reminded her of Lucien, weary but kind. The officers never caused trouble, and their presence alone was enough to keep everyone else in line. Still smiling, then, Jean returned her gaze to her work, and paid them no more mind.
Everything was as it should be, as it had been before Lucien exploded into her life. Maureen behind the bar, Danny leaning against the wall by the door, a quiet hum of conversation, the clink of glasses against tabletops, and Jean keeping watch over all of it, removed from the action, a queen surveying her kingdom. It was not such a bad life, she told herself. She had the pub, she had her girls, she had a steady stream of money coming in, notes and coins tucked away, piling up until she had enough to leave the Lock and Key in Maureen's capable hands, and start over fresh somewhere else. Christopher was stationed in Adelaide, these days; she could buy a little cottage, with a little garden, and get to know her grandchild, and stand beside the sea. She could be content.
Idly she looked up, and found Maureen stepping out from behind the bar. Elizabeth had come to take her place, and Maureen was leading the younger of the two soldiers towards the staircase in the back. He hadn't wasted any time, then, Jean thought, but there was nothing so unusual about that. Men came here for one reason, and the sooner they got what they came for the sooner they would leave, and the less risk there was for trouble.
"He always did have a penchant for redheads."
Jean cursed herself for her inattention; she had not seen the older officer drifting towards her, and his sudden appearance had caught her by surprise. He must have been light on his feet, but then the officers often were; he looked to be fifty, or thereabouts, and if he was a career soldier, as Jean thought he must be, then he had surely seen combat, as Lucien had done, would surely have survived more horrors than she could even imagine, and to come through all of that and continue to serve his country he would have to be strong, and cautious, and clever. Those were all traits Jean rather approved of.
"He has good taste," Jean answered carefully. "She's popular."
"Is that a good thing, for a young lady in this line of work?"
The dark haired man was watching her thoughtfully, and he offered her a little smile before taking another sip of his beer. Jean had to lift her chin to look up at him; he really was quite tall, but he leaned against the side of the booth as if he were aware of his stature, and trying not to tower over her, and Jean approved of that, too.
"More customers means more money," she answered. It also meant more hands, more risk, less chance for freedom, but Jean did not know this man, and she did not intend to share such thoughts with him.
"Well, let them have their fun, I say."
He did have a nice smile, she thought. He wasn't movie-star handsome, but he seemed kind, and he had an easy way of speaking that reassured Jean somewhat. Most of the customers knew better than to seek her out, but this man was new, and had not yet learned the way of things in the pub, and she was willing to forgive him this minor transgression.
"You're not interested?" she asked him. It was curious, that he should take note of her, that he should seem to want to speak to her, when there were empty seats at the bar and at least three girls not currently occupied who would have happily led him upstairs. Jean had perfected the appearance of insignificance, hiding away in the back of the dining room, but this man had spotted her at once. Almost as if he had been looking for her.
"They're a bit young, for my taste," he answered, and Jean realized what it was he wanted, then.
"I don't take customers, if that's what you're after," she told him primly. "But you can have any girl you like."
"What if I like you?" his smile was somewhat teasing, and she knew he was trying to be charming. In fact, he was rather charming, she thought, had so far been perfectly polite and maintained a certain distance, had not taken the liberty of sitting down beside her, and he had not grown cross at her initial refusal. It was rather nice to be on the receiving end of such simple interest, uncomplicated in comparison to Lucien.
"Well," she said, biting back a smile of her own, "that's very kind of you to say, but it doesn't change things. I don't take customers."
"That's not what I've heard," he said softly, and for the first time Jean felt the flutter of anxiety in her heart. What had he heard? And who had he heard it from? She'd only taken Lucien to bed twice, and they'd been the very picture of discretion. He never entered through the main door, and he only came early in the evening, when there were few customers about. If word of their liaison had already reached as far as the base then their predicament was more calamitous than Jean had realized.
"One hundred pounds for an hour, is that right, Mrs. Beazley?"
His voice was very low, and his smile had disappeared; he was watching her intently, and Jean's worry gave way to dread in a moment. He must have come looking for her, then; he knew her name, knew about Lucien, knew precisely how much she'd charged him, and sought her out deliberately, offering the same. What Jean didn't know was why; who was this man, and why had he taken an interest? Why had he come here? Was he making an offer of his own, or was he trying to tell her something, tell her that he knew what she had done, and who she'd done it with? And had it just been coincidence, that the fellow he'd come with had taken Jean's favorite girl to bed? A minute before Jean had been happy, at peace, but now danger seemed to swirl through the air, tension tightening every muscle of her body. This place was her home, these girls her family, and though she did not know why this stranger had come she couldn't help but feel as if he represented a threat to everything she held dear.
"That's a generous offer," she demurred. "But I'm not for sale."
"Everything has its price, Mrs. Beazley," the man said easily. "What about five hundred pounds, for an evening?"
That gave Jean pause. Five hundred pounds, that was a king's ransom. Five hundred pounds and she could move to Adelaide within the year. Five hundred pounds and she could put all this behind her, could go somewhere no one knew her name. Five hundred pounds, and Jean could find a new church, and hold her head up high, and take communion without reservation. The cottage, the garden, her family, everything she wanted could be had for such a price. She could have a proper home, and an address where Lucien could write to her, come to visit her, if he wished. Five hundred pounds would change everything in an instant. And all she'd have to do, in return, was spend the evening with a handsome man. There was a piece of her heart that wanted to accept him, in that moment. She'd handled difficult men before, and if she made him pay in advance she could always throw him out, if he crossed a line. He had called her by her name, and that was worrisome, and he obviously knew about Lucien and that was more worrying still, but they were in Jean's home, and Danny was close to hand.
Maybe if I accept I can find out what he's after, she thought as she looked at him, weighing her options. Perhaps his motives were not nefarious; perhaps he meant what he'd said, and was only looking for a tumble with someone who wasn't young enough to be his own child. Perhaps he'd heard she was taking customers, and only wanted to pay her himself. Perhaps the worry that churned deep in her gut was unfounded.
"Six hundred?" he pressed.
Oh, good lord, Jean thought. Instinct told her to say no; something about this felt off, though she could not put her finger on it. Was it only instinct that troubled her? she asked herself as she looked at him. Was it only the reactions she'd honed during her many years in this business, or was it Lucien that gave her pause? Before him she'd not taken a customer in a decade. She had accepted Lucien because she liked him, because she wanted him, because she thought he was worth the risk. The man who stood before her now reminded her of Lucien in some ways, but though he offered her everything she wanted she did not know know him, and she felt nothing at all for him, not like she did for Lucien.
It wouldn't be a betrayal, she tried to tell herself. Lucien had no claim on her, and he knew what she was. There was nothing stopping her from going to bed with any man she chose. And this man, this man was offering her six hundred pounds, for one single evening. Why, then, had she not accepted him already? Why should it be wrong to take his money, and right to take Lucien's?
"That's a very interesting offer," she said slowly. "But if I'm going to change my policy about taking customers, I'd like to know your name, at least."
The man smiled and shifted slightly, swapping his beer from his right hand to his left, holding his right out for her to shake.
"Major Derek Alderton, at your service," he said.
"It's very nice to meet you, Major Alderton," Jean said. "I will consider your offer. If you're serious, come back and see me next Friday."
"I'll do that, Mrs. Beazley," he said. "But I can see you're busy with your work. I'll leave you to think things over."
And with those words he turned and left her, made his way back to the bar where he settled upon a stool with his back to her. For the next hour he paid her no mind, though Jean could not seem to keep her eyes off him. Six hundred pounds. That was all it would take, to set her free at last. Her needles flickered idly as she turned the proposition over in her mind, considering her doubts and her hopes, weighing one against the other.
At last the younger officer appeared in the stairwell, and Major Alderton rose, placed a few coins on the bar as payment for his drinks. The younger officer brought him his coat, and they spoke together quietly as they both prepared to leave. While Jean watched the Major turned towards her, and smiled once, fleetingly, before the pair of them departed. In their absence Jean was left troubled, and full of doubts, wondering what lay in store, and what choice she would make.