Lucien sat with his elbow propped on the edge of his desk, his fingers slowly working through his beard. It had been six long weeks since he had been diagnosed with hepatitis, seven since his last drop of alcohol, and now, after semi-confidently declaring himself recovered, he looked upon his vice with longing. He swallowed dryly, hesitant to take his first sip. A crystal tumbler with a healthy measure of whisky held his gaze as he lost his thoughts to contemplation.
It had been a long time since Lucien experienced any great lengths of sobriety. Abstinence had been forced upon him by the harsh confinements of the camp where occasionally something rank and inadequately fermented would pass his lips, but still, it was never enough to elicit a response. After he was released and learned the fate of his family, alcohol slowly became his elixir of life, sustaining him in a haze of apathy and fortifying him with numbness. Now a lifetime had passed, and so much had changed. He had found his way back to Australia and felt safe, here, in Ballarat. Li was alive and well, and a mother. His work had reignited a spark within him, and a sense of purpose had taken root. He was content for the first time in a long time.
An easy smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. And then, of course, there was Jean, the woman who, without agenda or pretense, had become such an integral part of his life and happiness. She was his friend (yes, he could confidently say that now), and he trusted her implicitly. Her voice offered sense and reason whenever he doubted, and she had seemingly shifted his perspectives, making him want to do, to be, better. Still smiling, Lucien's thoughts drifted as he remembered how, after learning of his illness, she moved through the house cleaning and sterilizing with thoroughness and efficiency that put the cleaning staff at the Ballarat Hospital to shame. Jean, who had nursed him through his withdrawal and revived his spirits, and on nights, such as this, when they had nothing pressing, they would often find themselves together in the parlour.
Lucien had come to enjoy their evenings together. When the rush of the day had dissipated, and nothing from the outside world demanded their attention, he would join her in the parlour where they might share a pot of tea and discuss the news of the day or watch a television program. Sometimes they might move themselves to the dining table and play cards. And then there were times when they would merely share the silence that unfolded around them, calm and peaceful and easy. Jean made it easy.
Dragging his fingers through a final pass of his beard, he smoothed the unruly hairs over his chin and reached for his glass. With his fingers splayed out around the rim, he lifted it off his desk, bringing it close enough for the sweet, woodsy aroma of the flavorful liquid to reach the tip of his nose and flood his senses. His craving for the drink was gone but not forgotten, and he swallowed wetly. Lucien stood and gently pressed the glass into his other hand. The only thing stronger than his hunger for whisky was his desire to see Jean.
He knew where he would find her, and so Lucien ambled down the hall toward the gentle thrum of the music that played out from the parlour, and as he got closer, he recognized the sounds of brassy horns mixed with the effortless crooning of an old favourite. Stopping short of the entrance, he spied Jean sitting on the sofa, her legs crossed at the knee, her foot swaying in time with the music, and to his delight, he overheard her softly singing along while she worked on her knitting. Seeing her, so content was heart-warming and more than anything, he longed to know this Jean.
For a moment, he lingered silent and still, watching and listening, but his fear of being caught out sent him into the room, and he slowly moved towards his usual seat. Predictably and regrettably, his presence brought about a subtle change in her demeanour; he noticed it in her posture and how her foot no longer moved with the music. He noticed that she had stopped singing. He sighed. They had come such a long way since their early days together, with both of them learning lessons in acceptance and tolerance, but he worried she would always remain somewhat reserved around him.
Jean had just finished a row of intricate stitches when she saw movement from the corner of her eye. Knowing it was Lucien, she continued to work. Having long moved past the social awkwardness that comes from cohabitating with a complete stranger, she was also hesitant to seem too eager that he had decided to join her, so she did her best to ignore the distraction of his watchful gaze. Leaning into her hands, she narrowed her focus, concentrating as she counted stitches while the weight of his eyes settled over her. Satisfied that her work was correct and she hadn't dropped a stitch, she started her next row as a new song began to play. Ella Fitzgerald's smooth voice filled the air. "Ah," Lucien's low voice tugged at her attention. "Isn't she lovely," he finished his thought.
Jean smiled and answered without looking up, "I read in the paper this morning that she is coming back to Australia next year." Her hands were now moving rhythmically, and she finally glanced up, immediately spotting the whisky glass.
"Wouldn't that be something!" He offered with enthusiasm as he lowered himself down into the armchair next to the sofa, her eyes trailing his glass, halting when it came to perch on the armrest. "Just you this evening?" He asked, casually looking around the room.
"Mattie is out for the night," Jean answered as her needles stuttered. "I see you're drinking again." She continued sharply, nudging her chin towards his glass. "Feeling better?"
They held each other's gaze for a moment before Jean looked away, turning her attention back to her knitting. Lucien slowly looked down at his hand, no longer shaking with the absence of the drink yet still not strong enough to bring it to his lips. "Yes… right," his voice drifted off. "Well…"
It was Jean's turn to sigh. "Lucien. You're a grown man," she gave him a fleeting glance. "You do as you please. I just wish..." the pace of her hands slowed as she silently chastised herself for giving voice to her opinion. Tempering her response, she continued. "I hope you're able to exercise some control," and then added quickly, "for the sake of your health."
Lucien stared at her ball of yarn on the floor; watched it unravel as her words sunk in. The concern for his welfare was there, laced in her tone, but he knew the truth behind her disappointment. His drinking had affected those around him, especially her. Far too often, he had pulled her into his nightmare, be it awake or dreaming, but things had seemed better with his sobriety, and he reasoned that somewhere along the line, Jean had become his tonic. Lucien considered the impact of his behaviours and wondered about his ability to drink responsibly; after all, there was a time when he could.
Jean's needles moved in time with the music as she worked.
"You may find this hard to believe, Jean, but I didn't always drink to get drunk." He was watching her but quickly looked away before their eyes had a chance to meet. "Before the war... When I was in Scotland." He shook his head, reluctantly allowing his memories. "I drank with friends," and then clarified. "For fun."
Jean scoffed, feigning disbelief and looked back down at her knitting.
He grinned at her response. "I won't lie, I didn't enjoy it at first, but I suppose I developed a taste for it."
"Oh?" Her eyebrow arched as she watched the tips of her needles weaving the yarn together.
"Well, let's put it this way, I never poured it down the drain," he reflected waggishly as Jean's head snapped up. "I persevered," he continued smartly.
Now that he was on the mend and his mood had improved, he was more companionable, and facets of his personality, such as his humility and teasing sense of humour, began to shine, offering glimpses of the qualities Jean found endearing. She longed for more of this Lucien.
Her hands slowed as she looked over at him wryly. "I am sorry, Lucien," she said, clearly amused, "but I find it hard to believe that was the best whisky you had in the house." Her expression soured, "it was vile."
He tipped his head back and laughed, his winsome smile pulling at his dimples.
They fell silent again, content to let the music play on while Lucien's foot bounced with the beat and Jean's needles scatted against one another; the whisky remained untouched. When the next song ended, Jean spoke again, quietly. "I think I understand it, though. Your drinking." She glanced at his glass. "Sort of." Lucien's mouth dropped open, surprise and confusion on the tip of his tongue. "I drink; you've seen me do it," she gave him a feeble smile, "not to the point of.."
"..getting drunk. Yes." He finished her thought with a nod.
"But I have." She looked back at her hands and began fidgeting with her needles. "I've drank too much on purpose before." Her voice was soft and mournful. "To try and forget."
He nodded, knowing very well that, like him, she had more than enough sorrows to drink away her sense of reason.
"I just don't like the feeling. Not being in control."
He had no doubts that she despised the lack of control invoked by intoxication. "Aah, and that's where we differ, Jean. I seem to feel the greatest sense of comfort when I have no control because I don't. Nobody does." Clutching her needles, she dropped her hands into her lap and turned to face him. "Look at our lives. Neither of us has had any control; the things that have happened to us…." he trailed off. "The whisky reminds me to stop trying, to let go of something I never had ahold of in the first place."
A wave of contemplation rolled over her features as a thoughtful sound escaped the back of her throat.
Flooded by his perceived lack of control, Lucien lifted his glass and looked at its contents. Dispirited, he studied it for validation. "Listen to me; I do sound morose tonight," he murmured and then tilted the tumbler towards her. "To my first drink, Jean. In control," and then he took a sip, wincing and hissing as the liquid moved down his throat. He finished the demonstration with a subtle, huffed cough.
"Did you enjoy that?" She asked him smartly, refusing to engage in his moment of self-pity.
He cleared his throat. "I'm just out of practice," he defended, but rather than going in for a second drink, he let the rush of the spirit mellow over his tongue.
Jean watched him, wondering if he would (if he could) maintain control. She could see that his mind had started to wander as he absentmindedly began spinning the glass in a circle where it sat on the arm of his chair. The fingers of his other hand started drumming along with the music as a soft, indulgent smile lifted her cheek. Raising her hands, she went back to her knitting.
Slowly, they resumed their easy conversation while the music played on. Lucien began sharing happy memories of his time in Scotland, the pubs he frequented and his subsequent exposure to scotch, "which is just a type of whisky," he explained. He then took the opportunity to impart his knowledge on the various grains used and the different varieties of whisky. Malting and fermentation, the distilling and ageing processes that contribute to the rich aromas and flavours, providing enough detail should Jean decide to barrel the drink out in the sunroom it would be a success. He teased her about wasting a good drop and even accused her of unfairly judging his drink of choice without understanding its complexities.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she muttered, holding out her hand for his glass.
Lucien's eyes sparkled with mirth as she encouraged him to pass the tumbler to her. "I can get you a sherry if you'd prefer."
Ignoring his offer, she reached across the arm of the sofa and pulled it from his hand. Lucien twitched as she lifted the glass towards her mouth, and she remembered how he had tried to coach her through her first taste of whisky. Jean stilled, lifting her eyes; she watched him as she lowered her nose to the rim of the glass.
"Tell me." Captivated by her gesture, he gave his head a subtle shake, "what do you smell?"
Jean furrowed her brow and tilted the glass towards her nose. Dropping her eyes, she looked inside as though searching for the answer, and then she inhaled deeply. "It smells... earthy," and without thinking, she swirled the liquid around the sides of the tumbler, smelling again.
Lucien hummed his agreement.
She looked up at him, her gaze filled with wonder. "You really enjoy this?"
"I do," he grinned and gestured for her to continue.
Turning her attention back to the glass in her hand, she finally brought it to her mouth and took a small, hesitant sip. Her eyes widened as the shock of the fiery liquid hit her tongue and moved down her throat.
"Well?" Lucien's eyes were bright as he watched. She grimaced and then sucked in her upper lip, removing any trace of lingering whisky.
"It burns, Lucien." She clutched at her throat with a gasp. "I don't know how you drink this."
"It's an acquired taste," he said with a laugh as Jean thoughtfully lifted the glass to smell the whisky again. She swirled it, and to his surprise, she took another small sip. Lucien beamed with admiration, impressed that she had tried the whisky for a second time.
Jean let the hearty liquid sit on her tongue a moment longer this time, trying to understand the spicy flavour, but quickly became overwhelmed by its abrasiveness and swallowed. Shaking her head, she looked back at him, and he noticed that the colour had risen high in her cheeks. "I think I'll stick with the sherry for now," she said as she handed him back his glass, now nearly empty.
"Well done, Jean," he said quietly, accepting the glass. He then rolled the tumbler in his hand, swirling the liquid and releasing a fragrance only he could smell. He put his nose to the rim and inhaled deeply before tossing his head back and finishing the drink. They exchanged a look and another easy smile before he inspected the empty glass and considered refilling it, not quite ready to call it a night. Leaning forward in his chair, he reached out and placed his hand down on her forearm. "Shall I get you a sherry then?"
She knew she shouldn't, with an early mass the following day, but she indulged him. Strange as their conversation had been, she was enjoying herself and not yet ready to go upstairs. "Oh, alright. Go on then," she waved him off as he hopped up.
"Wonderful! Back in a tick."
While he was gone, Jean busied herself tidying away her knitting. She couldn't help but notice the subtle sweetness that lingered on her tongue, having replaced the intensity of the alcohol that had also left her lip tingling. The sound of Lucien's approaching footsteps forced her to bite back her smile. "You know, Jean," Lucien had started speaking before he entered the room, a sherry for her in one hand, his crystal tumbler, refreshed with a modest amount of whisky, in the other. "Sometimes whisky is aged in old sherry barrels," he handed off her drink, and their fingers brushed together. "I'd be happy to look for some if you're ever interested in trying it again."
"Perhaps," she answered as they settled back into their seats. Shifting on the sofa to make herself comfortable, Jean crossed her legs, and her foot began to sway with the Bobby Darren song that played. She had come to enjoy these peaceful nights with Lucien and found herself more and more at ease with him. Lifting her glass, she took a small sip, noting that the sherry tasted a little duller than it had before.
