24 January 1960
Having no other option available to her Jean was forced to slip back into the black satin nightdress and knickers she'd been wearing the night before for the journey back to the Lock and Key. Clothes hadn't been among her priorities the night before; she'd been thinking only of escape, of a warm bed with Lucien in it, far from prying eyes, but in the cold light of day she was regretting her choices, somewhat. Ever the gentleman Lucien offered her his jacket once more, and she had taken it gratefully, had sat beside him on the cracked leather bench of her ancient truck, let him drive them both back to the pub, to her home.
Only it didn't feel much like home, just now, and wasn't that strange, she thought; she'd stumbled into the Lock and Key some eighteen years before, had lived there for the last thirteen or so, and though it had once been a refuge, a place of relief and much needed freedom, when she thought of it now she felt only sorrow. Was it truly freedom she had found in that place, when she devoted herself every waking moment to the making of money and the pleasure of others? Was she truly free, when she was not able to love, when her time must of necessity be doled out in one hour increments, when she could not even walk into the greengrocers without attracting stares and whispers? Somehow she thought not, now; somehow she thought that freedom was the way her heart took flight every time Lucien touched her. Somehow she thought that freedom was Lucien whispering whatever you want you shall have, making no demands of her, not bargaining or bartering but promising to be her partner, to help her make her dreams come true, and his own in the process. A bedroom and a parlor and a private bath did not constitute a home, not when strangers were constantly traversing the corridors and the kitchen was made to feed customers, and not a family. A dingy carpark lit by a streetlamp was not a garden, and a place of business was not a home, to Jean's mind. Not any more.
Now when she thought of home she remembered the farmhouse she had traded her very body to save, and lost just the same, thought of the faces of the ones she loved gathered around a table, and the warm scent of the earth on her hands. Now when she thought of home she thought of bookshelves, and dancing with Lucien in the sitting room, and a piano that might sing out again, one day. Home was two arms meant to hold her, and a heart that understood her own. Home was not the pub, any more.
Its name, The Lock and Key, had originally been intended as a double entendre of sorts. A key fit into a lock, as a sword in a sheath, a hand in a glove, a man and a woman. But Jean couldn't help but wonder, now, if it meant something else besides, if those women who had lived and worked beneath that roof had not themselves been held under lock and key, prisoners to circumstance and finances and the whim of whichever man liked the look of them at any given time. Jean had clawed her way to a position of authority, saved herself from the steady stream of strange hands reaching for her skin, but all the little birds who lived beneath her roof traded sex for coins, and passed those coins to her; the house took its percentage from every transaction, in addition to charging rent for the rooms. Jean might not have done the work, any more, but for the first time she found herself acknowledging that her hands were dirtied by it; she had, for so long, repeated to herself over and over that her girls had made this choice, and that she was doing the right thing by offering them safe lodgings, but there was little reassurance to be found in those words just now.
I have to be rid of it, she thought as Lucien pulled the car in behind the pub. Not in six months, or a year, or three; Jean was itching to be shot of the whole business, the memories of Derek Alderton and the end that had befallen him, the endless parade of hopeless girls, the pouring of the drinks and the quiet leering of the customers. The time had come, she thought, to put an end to it.
"Can I ask you something, Jean?" Lucien asked as the car lumbered to a stop.
Jean hummed, to let him know she'd heard him, his voice pulling her out of the swirling chaos of her thoughts.
"The six hundred pounds. Did Derek give it to you?"
If he'd asked her such a question six months before, she would have lied to his face, and begged forgiveness for the transgression the next time she went to confession. If she were still looking for reasons to be rid of Lucien she would have counted it an impertinence, and reprimanded him for it. As it was, however, Jean was tired of deceit, and she loved him too dearly to lie to him.
"Yes," she said. "It's in my box upstairs."
"Good," Lucien mused, rubbing at his beard. "I don't know that Matthew necessarily needs to know that."
"Oh?" Jean had not been expecting him to say such a thing, and she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about it. Surely it would be wrong, she thought, to hide such a thing from the police, something akin to theft, and whatever else Jean had done, thievery had never been counted among the list of her sins.
"If you tell Matthew you have it, that'll be proof that you agreed to trade sex for money. It might be enough to force the police to investigate the pub more closely, and that would mean trouble for you and your girls. Now, the way I see it, you're owed some compensation for what Derek put you through, and it's not as if he can make restitution to you now. And it's not as if he can come to collect on a broken contract, either. Between you and me, I say that money's yours, and it's no business of Matthew's."
Jean didn't quite know what to make of that. Perhaps it did qualify as theft, for Derek Alderton had paid for a service Jean never intended to provide. But Derek had likewise always intended to kill her and take his money back, and perhaps his ill intent was enough to disqualify his claim to the funds. And Lucien was right; he could hardly collect what he felt was owed him now. If Jean reported it the money would likely be taken into police evidence, where it would be no good to anyone at all. But if she kept it...well, six hundred pounds would balance her ledgers once and for all.
One last sin, she thought, and then maybe I could be free of this place forever.
"There's a cottage for rent in Brown Hill," Jean mused quietly. "Paul was telling me about it. It would cost a few pounds a month, and I might need a bit of money for furniture, and to keep me fed while I look for other employment."
Beside her Lucien's eyes had gone wide, watching her closely, and she could almost feel the hope radiating off him, even as it took root within her own heart. Perhaps if she kept that money, Derek Alderton's last vile act could be put to good use; perhaps it was time for Jean to make her own fresh start, and perhaps the means had just been delivered into her hands.
"Jean-"
"I don't think we need to tell Matthew," she declared, cutting him off before his mouth had the chance to run away with him. There was so much left to be said, so many decisions left to make, but in her heart Jean knew that she had chosen her path already. She had chosen freedom, and she had chosen Lucien.
They must have looked quite a sight, Lucien thought, walking through the back door of the pub; Jean had washed her face and no trace of her makeup remained, her curls had gone a bit flat in the night, entirely too much of her smooth pale skin was on view beneath his oversized jacket, and Lucien walked beside her in a fine navy suit. They found Matthew and Danny and Paul and Maureen waiting for them by the bar; Jean excused herself to go and change, hurried up the stairs as fast as her legs would take her, and Maureen chased off after her, and so Lucien went to join the gentlemen by the bar.
"All right, Matthew?" he asked, clapping his hand on the superintendent's shoulder.
"We were just going over everyone's statements from last night," Matthew told him grimly. "I don't suppose you fancy telling us what the bloody hell part you had to play in all this?"
"Gladly," Lucien said. He plunked himself down upon the nearest stool, and began to tell his tale.
"Are you all right, really?" Maureen called. She was sitting in the parlor while Jean hurried to dress in the bedroom, the door left open between them so that they might converse even while Jean attempted to preserve what remained of her dignity.
"I am," she called back. "Really, Maureen. It was a terrible night, but it's all been settled now. There's nothing to worry about."
That wasn't entirely true, she thought, but none of the worries that tugged at the back of her mind were life threatening, and that made them seem of little consequence in comparison to the havoc Derek Alderton had wrought.
"I suppose it's just as well that it's Sunday today," Maureen said, and it was only then Jean realized she forgotten entirely about church. Under the circumstances, I think I can be forgiven, she thought. "We will open for business tomorrow, won't we?"
With her dress firmly in place and her curls pinned neatly at the nape of her neck Jean's work was done, and so she marched out to answer Maureen's question face to face.
"I want to talk to you about that, actually," she said.
Maureen frowned, the way she always did when she felt Jean was about to confess to something terrible.
"You know I want to turn the pub over to you, when the time comes."
"Mrs. Beazley-" Maureen started to protest at once, but Jean still had more yet to say, and so she raised her hand, asking for quiet.
"You've got a good head for business and you won't tolerate foolishness. There's no one better equipped to take over for me. And I know it's perhaps a bit sooner than we both imagined, but I think you're ready, Maureen."
"And what about you, Mrs. Beazley? Are you ready?"
Maureen's question was soft, and hesitant, and Jean could not help but smile.
"I am," she said simply. The time had come, and an avenue of escape had been provided to her; Jean felt she would have been a fool to pass over this chance.
"I'll sign everything over to you. There's no need for money to change hands. I paid off the bank years ago, so you would own the entire pub free and clear."
"And it would be mine to do with as I liked?"
Jean could almost see the battle taking place in Maureen's heart. Change was difficult for everyone, and would be doubly so in this instance; while so many of their relationships had been transient and fleeting, Maureen and Jean had clung to one another for years. It would be rather like a child first learning to live without her parents, Jean thought, terrifying and sorrowful and exhilarating all at once. Perhaps a part of Maureen's heart wanted things to remain as they were forever, comfortable, familiar, safe, but she was a clever girl, and she had always been, above all else, a survivor. Whatever happened next, Jean had no doubt that Maureen would flourish.
"It would be entirely yours," Jean agreed. "Do you have changes in mind?"
It was simple curiosity that compelled Jean to ask, rather than any sort of concern over the future of the pub. Once she walked out of those doors she would be gone for good, and it would be no business of hers what became of it. The thought that Maureen had spent time considering it, however, laying plans of her own, was interesting to Jean's mind, and she rather wanted to know what her friend was thinking.
"If you give it to me, Mrs. Beazley, there won't be girls for sale here any more. I won't do it. I'll make this place a proper pub."
It was the last thing Jean had expected her to say, and yet as Maureen revealed the truth of her intention Jean's heart was lighter for having heard it. Maureen had never complained about the work, had in fact always seemed quite content with the pay it brought her, more than happy to give the gentlemen what they asked for as long as she got her own back, never needing reminders to keep her distance, to lock her heart away. Jean had never really worried, before now, whether the work caused Maureen grief. In the moment, however, she could see that grief in the girl's eyes, the long years full of insults she'd suffered, the many wounds and grievous losses that had piled up until she could stand it no more; Jean understood it, for in her heart she knew she had paid the same price. And if she delivered the pub into Maureen's hands, no girl ever would again, not beneath this roof.
"I think that would be wonderful," Jean told her, her voice thick with emotion. It had not been within Jean's power to do such a thing, when the pub fell into her hands. She'd had the bank to pay, and she did not sell enough food and drink to cover the mortgage, and even once that debt was made good she had lingered, stuck in a rhythm that had felt familiar, and unbreakable. Now, though, Maureen would have no such concerns. She could do what Jean had never been quite brave enough to attempt, and start the long, arduous process of cleaning up the building's long-standing reputation, making it a place for everyone, and not just those who sought release under cover of darkness. It was everything Jean had ever hoped for, and she was so proud of Maureen she could have burst. Unable to find the words to convey the depth of her relief, and her joy, she only reached for her friend, and pulled her into a fierce embrace.
"So that's it, then," Matthew said, looking over his notes. They'd discussed it all, Derek's dastardly plot, the way he had come to Jean's home and how Jean and her makeshift little family had dealt with him, how Sergeant Hannam had come to Lucien's home looking for news of Derek's whereabouts. It was Matthew himself who explained that piece of it, told Lucien that Sergeant Hannam believed Derek had become a liability and a disgrace, and sought to put him down before he brought further calamity upon himself and the army. Sergeant Hannam had followed them the night before, when they went tearing through the streets on their way to the pub, and he had waited until most of the bystanders were well back before taking his fatal shot. Considerate to the last, Lucien thought bleakly.
"Yes," Lucien said. Yes, that was it; there was nothing more to say on the subject of Derek Alderton.
At that moment there came the soft sound of voices from the stairwell, and Lucien watched as Jean and Maureen stepped into view. A soft, warm smile split his face at the sight of Jean, made-up and put together now, walking with her protege. She had no daughters of her own, he knew, but that girl beside her, with her fiery hair and her fierce spirit, she was Jean's legacy, and he knew that Jean adored her. Lucien did, too, in his own way; though he did not have Jean's long history with the girls he had come to know them all over the last month or so, come to care for them, and he spared a moment to wonder what might become of them, with their mother gone.
"One of these days, Lucien, you're going to have to tell me what the bloody hell you're thinking, getting mixed up with her," Matthew grumbled, and when Lucien looked at him he found Matthew's eyes were watching the ladies, as well.
Lucien smiled. "One of these days, Matthew, I will," he said.