Written for the 'prequel' challenge.
It was old Mr Simpson, sitting on the pew in front of her, who prompted Jean into action. He'd tutted over the state of the war. Not the death or misery which followed the fighting, but the way it was encouraging women's independence.
"We're making do, I 'spose," he'd said to his crony, Mr Wallace.
"You'll have to make do," Christopher had told her in a letter. After he'd enlisted she'd been forced to send a plea to Queensland, asking him to check with his superiors regarding the unexpected small portion of his army wages she was receiving. His only other comments in his reply were about the heat and a promise to send 'round Jock Hobbins.
Jock wasn't serving due a technicality he hadn't even revealed to his closest mates, but Jean soon guessed the army probably refused due to intemperance.
Jean had always made do when Christopher disappeared behind the men's only door at the Royal and she simply made do when Jock's enthusiasm for farming wanned. She counted her blessings he was a quiet drunk who never approached the main house (or her) in an inappropriate way.
Having seen hide nor hair of Jock for some days, Jean was pegging out washing when the unmistakable stench of death blew in on the breeze. She called the police, who attended along with their police physician.
A newspaper advertisement caught her eye almost a year later. The war continued, but doctors still needed someone to manage their appointments.
Doctor Blake remembered her apparently. He noted she would make do with or without her husband.
Now Jean squeezed into the small booth, bowed her head and crossed herself. However, she doubted the priest would be able to absolve her sin.
"I'd rather make do without," she confessed.
She could only pray.