7 August 1959
Another Friday, another steady stream of customers, another evening spent watching the girls traipse up the stairs with men in tow, but this particular evening felt different to Jean, somehow. Perhaps it was her visit with Lucien the day before that left her feeling rattled and out of sorts; perhaps it was his sudden return and the accompanying uprising within her own heart that left a sour taste in her mouth.
I want you, she'd told him. Three little words she was not meant to speak, a longing she was not meant to feel, and yet he'd drawn it out of her just the same, the heat of his back beneath her palms, the strength of him between her thighs, the joy that he brought to her leaving her loose-lipped and unable to contain her own wild heart. To want him was to admit that there was something missing from her life without him, and that was the first step down the path towards discontent and ruin. She knew it, had seen it happen to other girls in the past, had watched them go doe-eyed over some man who could never give them what they truly longed for, had watched them crumble when he left.
You have me, he'd told her. She could still hear the ragged sound of his voice, feel the warm rush of his breath against her cheek as he spoke. For an hour, for a moment, yes, she'd had him, but she did not have him now; he was nowhere in sight, and would not return until his wallet was replenished, eager to see the hourglass turn again. She did not have him when she slept, did not have a partner beside her while she worked; she had one small piece of him, and nothing more, and could not hope for better. A hundred times she'd had this argument out with herself, and a hundred times she had drawn the same conclusion. There was too much want, too much feeling between them; she must make an end to it, and soon, before they both lost too much of themselves.
Yet she did not want to do such a thing, not truly, and as she looked out across the dining room of the pub dark thoughts consumed her. The pub could be made respectable, if she wished. She could open her doors for lunch, could make a ladies' lounge upstairs, could sell nothing more salacious than a glass of whiskey; last call at six o'clock, just like the Pig & Whistle, send all the lads home with smiles and promises to see them tomorrow. She could elevate this place, could ask a few friendly gentlemen - Matthew Lawson, for one, one particularly friendly councillor for another - to frequent this place in search of no more than a pint, and let word of her change in profession spread. It was not the first time such thoughts had come to her, and now, as had always happened in the past, the counterarguments formed despite the protestation of her heart.
If the girls could no longer sell themselves here, they would find themselves in need of work. There was nowhere in town that would offer them as much pay as Jean did, and while some of them might accept this change in circumstances, might go to a factory in search of work, or stay on to help Jean as cooks and waitresses. But their rent would cost them more dearly, and they would not want to stay, and there were several of them who would leave her establishment only to go to someone else's, or take the risk of setting up shop for themselves. Without the income from their rent Jean's own finances would suffer; perhaps in time trade might pick up enough to make up for it, but while she waited for that she would be forced to deplete her savings, and the dream of moving to Adelaide, the garden and the time spent with her family, would be pushed back several more years. To stop this business would put her girls in danger, and risk the shattering of the one precious dream to which she still clung, after all this time.
Not if you accepted Major Alderton's proposal, though, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind. If she swallowed her pride and silenced her conscience and took his six hundred pounds she could easily turn the pub over to Maureen - at a loss - and still make her way to Adelaide, and be shot of the whole sorry business. Despite the practicality of such a plan, however, she had already made up her mind against him; the touch of Lucien's hand had decided matters for her. Jean no longer had to make such sacrifices to keep herself fed, and she would not do so now, not even for the sake of her own freedom. She could purchase her dream on her own terms, without stooping so low.
As if thoughts of him had conjured him on the spot the man himself appeared, marching smartly through the doorway as the little bell tinkled above his head, and Jean's heart sank. Major Alderton had come, and he would want his answer, and she could only hope that he would take the rejection with good grace, that he would not cause a scene. As she watched he made his way to the bar, not looking around, apparently in no particular rush to find her. He wasn't so very bad to look at, she thought as she watched him; his heavy grey jumper was finely made, and he was tall, and well-muscled despite his age. But though his appearance was hardly offensive, though he had been perfectly polite, still he left her feeling uneasy, for he knew things he had no right to know. He knew she had been purchased, and for how much; did he know who had paid her? And if he did, how had he come by that information, and what did he mean to do with it?
Maureen was behind the bar tonight; he said something that made her smile, and as Jean watched the girl handed two glasses off to him. He nodded to her, turned, and caught Jean's eye at once. The Major did not quite smile, but there was a calm, pleased sort of recognition in his gaze, and he approached her then, winding his way smoothly through the maze of tables until he stood before her at last.
"Good evening, Mrs. Beazley," he said warmly.
"Good evening, Major Alderton," she answered.
He was not so presumptuous as to take a seat beside her without being asked, but he did lean over the table, and carefully he placed one of those glasses in front of her, just beside her teacup.
"The young lady at the bar tells me sherry is your drink of choice," he said, by way of explanation.
I shall have to talk with her about this later, Jean thought darkly. It would not do, men buying her drinks in full view of the other customers, and Maureen should have known better. Or perhaps she did; Maureen did not approve of Jean's liaison with Doctor Blake, and perhaps this was her way of encouraging Jean on to other, less dangerous pursuits.
"That's very kind of you," Jean said, but she did not reach for the glass. His eyes flickered across her face, and she rather got the sense that he had noticed this, and did not approve of it.
"I'm wondering if you've had a chance to consider my proposal," he said. He took a sip of beer from his own glass, and then leaned against the side of the booth, neatly blocking Maureen and the rest of the pub from view. Jean did not care for that, either; she didn't like not being able to see her girls, and she didn't like the effortless way he'd trapped her here. There was a vulnerability in not being visible to others, and that vulnerability made her uneasy.
"I have," she said slowly. There was nothing else for it; her mind was made up and she did not intend to lie. "You've made a generous offer, Major Alderton, but I don't do that any more. I'm afraid my answer is no."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was not a pleasant sight, and Jean's heart constricted with fear.
"Six hundred pounds is not sufficient for an evening, Mrs. Beazley?"
"Money isn't everything," she answered carefully.
"An unusual sentiment coming from a woman in your line of work," he said. His tone was easy, untroubled, as if he felt he'd won this little battle of wills already, despite her rejection.
"Ladies' choice, Major Alderton," she said, bristling; it would be unwise to rise to the bait, she knew, and yet she did it just the same, for she did not care for his tone, or the way he continued to press her. "Every woman in this establishment retains the right to decide which man she'll have, and which she won't. I don't take customers, any more."
"What is Lucien Blake to you, then?" he asked shrewdly, and Jean knew then that she had been right to refuse him. Everything about him was wrong; his smile was grim, and he had too easily isolated her, and he knew too much about her life, her doings. Whatever his reasons for seeking her out might have been, he had just proved her suspicions; his proposition must have had very little to do with her, and everything to do with Lucien, and that made him too dangerous to entertain. There was so much about Lucien's life, his past before he came home to Ballarat, that Jean knew nothing about, and whatever he was mixed up in she wanted no part of it.
"You have made your proposal and you have my answer," she told him firmly. "I've nothing more to say to you. Good evening, Major Alderton."
Jean made to rise; though she did not appreciate being roosted from her position she knew the best thing for her now would be to make herself visible, to draw attention to her distress, perhaps to call Danny off the door to see the Major on his way, but she was prevented in her efforts as the man spoke again.
"Where is young Christopher these days?" he drawled slowly. "He's just come back from Korea, hasn't he? He must be glad to be back in Adelaide with that charming family of his."
"What do you want?" Jean asked, trying to keep the tremor from her voice, clasping her hands together in her lap to conceal their shaking. Jean had never in her life been as frightened as she was in that moment; this man knew too much, and his position in the military afforded him more power than one former whore turned brothel-keeper could match. He was taller than her, stronger than her, more respectable, and completely unpredictable, and the sound of her son's name in his mouth left her terrified.
"All I want from you, Mrs. Beazley, is one evening. I will pay you six hundred pounds, and you can use that money to move to Adelaide. A mother should be with her child. You could live quite comfortably there, and leave all this behind you. I'm offering you a chance for a better life, in exchange for your services, which you have provided to Doctor Blake far more cheaply than what I'm asking."
"And if I refuse?"
He grinned, tightly, and she shied away from that terrible grin, desperately trying to find some means of escape, and yet seeing none. He had snared her, a bird in a cage, and her heart pounded wildly in her chest.
"That would be unwise," he said. The threat remained unspoken; there was no need for him to be explicit. An Army officer, confident and cool, strong and self-assured, who knew where her son lived, no doubt knew what unit he served in, knew of his family - the possible forms his revenge might take were too horrific to contemplate.
"I can see you need some time to mull it over," he continued. "I'll leave you to it. But let's keep this between us, shall we? I'd hate for there to be any...misunderstandings."
Jean did not answer him; she couldn't seem to find the words. She wanted to shriek, to spit in his face, to claw that grin off his lips, but fear for her son held her in check. The Major had offered her a reprieve, however brief, and she knew it would be best to take it, to fall back and rethink her strategy.
"Be well, Mrs. Beazley," he said. The Major took another long drink, set his half-full glass down on the table, and walked away from her, his bearing proud. He did not pause, but went straight out the door and into the night, and Jean collapsed back against the booth, her thoughts racing.