Another time jump, we are now at 1939.
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"Well, that's it then," Thomas huffed over his evening whisky, "it was inevitable, I suppose." He leaned over and turned off the radiogram, "war in Europe, troubles in the East ..." he looked into the distance, the ghosts of his past in the first world war pushing back into his mind.
Jean didn't know how to reply to this, the doctor was going to worry about his son even more, and she couldn't blame him. He shared all the letters with her and she felt he was a distant relative she had never met.
"He'll be alright," she suddenly voiced her thoughts, "he'll come home, one day."
"How can you be certain, Jean?" he looked up at her, "good men die in wars, the innocent are slaughtered. Look at what Hitler has been doing, in Europe to the Jews - they have never done anything to him."
"He's your son, doctor," she whispered, "he's a survivor."
Her faith in his son amazed him. She only knew him from the letters and what he had told her. But she was right, in many ways, he was a survivor. He thought of Genevieve, his late wife, Lucien's mother - what would she think? He had closed off from Lucien when she died, sent him away to school - then the boy had distanced himself from his seemingly cold and unfeeling father only to tentatively hold out the olive branch when he was deployed to Singapore with the army. She would be proud of him, he hoped she would be proud of him. He looked towards the studio, still locked after all these years, Jean had suggested her open it up again when he had talked about her work, the paintings she had never seen. They didn't really need the space, but ... he sighed.
"Doctor?" Jean sipped her sherry, "are you alright?"
I was just wondering," he hummed, "the studio, maybe I should open it up. It has a lovely fireplace for the winter evenings, and Genevieve used to let tiny pieces of gold leaf float up to the ceiling, on the warm up-draught."
"It sounds lovely," she smiled gently, "but if it upsets you ..."
"Before you came, it probably would, but I would like to share her work with you," he straightened his shoulders, "tomorrow," he said firmly, "tomorrow we will unlock the doors and see how the years have treated it."
She was glad. It would take his mind off the war, perhaps, and she would like to see Mrs Blake's work. He had told her about it, how she used gold leaf on the paintings, how she wasn't appreciated because she was a woman, and female artists were universally ignored.
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The morning was cool but fresh. Jean and Li walked Mary to school. Jean was so glad she had settled well, even though questions about her absent father had started to come out. How her friends had daddies, why didn't she? She had asked Thomas how on earth she could explain to a five -nearly six - year old, that her parents had had to get married and he had walked out on her before Mary was born.
"A difficult one, Jean," he agreed, "perhaps you should just tell her that he wasn't ready to be a daddy and decided to go and see what the rest of the world had to offer."
"And if she asks if he'll come back?" she bit her lip, she didn't want to tell her daughter that her father didn't actually want her, or love her mother enough to stay through the hard times.
"Be honest, Jean, lying or fudging the truth will only get you caught out in the end, and she will hate you for that."
So they had sat down, after Li had been put to bed one evening, and told Mary that Jean loved her with all her heart, but her daddy was just not ready to be a father. He had left to go and see other places and mummy (the 'mama' of her baby and toddlerhood had gone) had come to Dr Blake because he wanted her to keep his house and look after his surgery.
Mary had looked from one to the other and finally climbed onto her mother's knee.
"I love you, mummy, and I'm glad you came to doc-doc's - he's better than anybody else's daddy," the little girl snuggled into her shoulder and reached out to hold Thomas' hand.
Thomas had always liked that she called him 'doc-doc', Li called him 'gran'papa' and there were times he wondered that, as Li insisted on calling Jean 'mama', one day she may slip up and call him 'gran'papa' or gran'pa'. Of course he would never correct her, just as Jean had given up trying to get Li to call her 'Auntie Jean'. Nobody who heard commented on it, but he was sure the Clasby ladies saw to any of that kind of nonsensical gossip, anyway.
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With a small amount of shopping stowed under the stroller seat, Jean headed home to begin opening up the studio with Thomas. She hoped he didn't feel pushed into it, though part of her thought he was trying to find his family again, Lucien and Genevieve. He had grieved for twenty years for his wife, she hoped he wouldn't be grieving for his son when the fighting eventually stopped.
She unclipped the straps holding Li in the stroller and lifted the shopping before pushing the door open and calling through that she had returned.
"Gran'papa!" Li called as she trotted down to the kitchen, "we got oddiges!"
Jean laughed at her pronunciation of 'oranges' and Thomas came out of the studio with his arms open for her.
"You and your oranges," he lifted her high above his head, "how many do you eat?"
"Not too many, doctor," Jean put her basket on the table, "or she would have a poorly tummy." She passed the fruit to the child as he set her down on the floor to put into the bowl on the table, and put the meat in the fridge.
"Good, good," he smiled, "now Jean I have unlocked the studio door, it's very dusty in there."
She knew he had had to do that one thing while she was out, so she would not see the tears he would shed, give himself time to take stock of the sights and smells and the memories.
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With her apron over her dress and Li in something she didn't have to worry about Jean followed him into the studio. She gasped at the sheer size of the room. Almost half the width of the entire house with tall windows looking out onto the garden. There were canvases around the walls, some finished some not quite so, portraits, mainly, paints and brushes lying on a table, or standing in pots of long evaporated turpentine, half used tubes of oil paints and a couple of palettes with dried colours covered with a layer of dust. She looked up, remembering what he had said about the gold leaf - the ceiling was high and glittered with flecks of gold, like stars in the night sky - it was beautiful. There was a leather Chesterfield couch in front of the large fireplace in front of which lay a, possibly red patterned, rug.
"Doctor," she whispered, "it's wonderful."
"Do you think so?" he scratched his head, "I thought it was a bit gloomy, myself."
"No, no it isn't," she stepped further in, "it's lovely ... well, it will be," she rolled up her sleeves, "once I've cleaned and dusted, beaten the rug, tidied the paints away ..."
"Those may as well be thrown out, Jean," he sighed, "they are no good now, she replaced the brushes often, anyway."
"Right, well, Dr Blake," she knew she had to keep going or he would start to become depressed as his memories flooded back. "I need your help, with the art things, then, perhaps Li can take you into the garden while I dust and clean."
Thomas found it hard to take things out to the garbage, sort the canvases out, the unfinished ones to the outbuilding, the finished ones to be set aside and perhaps displayed around the house, but with Jean's and Li's constant cheery manner and exclamations of wonder at the paintings, he managed it.
"Hello," hummed Jean, lifting one up that had fallen sideways behind a pile of half painted landscapes, "I know this face." She held up the portrait and grinned, "Miss Agnes Clasby, I believe."
"Heavens, I remember her painting that one," he took it and held it at arm's length, "we had had a row about her losing a painting I was selling to Michael Tyneman. Fortunately no money had changed hands, but I never did find out what happened to the painting."
"Patrick Tyneman's father?"
"The one and only," he grinned. "I often wondered if Agnes knew anything about it, it was a Davies, worth a bit now. Ah, well," he shrugged his shoulders, "water under the bridge."
They continued tidying, throwing things away, sorting until Li decided she had had enough of the dusty room that made her sneeze and pulled gran'papa out into the garden.
"Sorry, Jean," he waved over his shoulder.
Jean just waved and returned to wiping the dust off the mantel piece.
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She had almost finished, just the rug to beat; and she had taken that out into the garden; when Thomas and Li reappeared, he carrying a welcome cup of tea for her. He looked round and smiled.
"Jean, it looks marvellous," he noticed she had polished the fire irons, sills and table, possibly the leather Chesterfield and moved the table to behind the couch. The wooden floor was clean and dust free. She had put some of the paintings round the room, just enough to make it feel like a proper living space and not too much that it looked like an art gallery.
She took a deep drink of the tea and brushed her hair out of her eyes, she felt dusty and grubby, but rather as if she had achieved a great feat.
"Thank you, Jean," he smiled, "thank you for helping to banish some of the demons."
"I think we should see if the gallery would like to show one or two of her works," she looked at him over the rim of her teacup, "though we may be disappointed."
"The curator is a philistine, more than ever I am," he huffed, "he would probably dismiss her work as that of an amateur, and a female? really Jean, I don't think times have changed that much," but he laughed at the idea that she would probably embarrass the little, weasel of a man into showing at least one - he hoped it would be the one of Agnes.
Jean laughed at the idea he was a philistine.
"I didn't really appreciate art, still don't, though I do know what I like," he perched on the arm of the couch, "I loved Genevieve for who she was not what she painted, she could be infuriating at times, the life and soul of the party and there isn't a day goes by that I don't miss her."
Jean touched his shoulder, "and she must have loved you, to leave you with all this and the love you still have for her."
"I'm sorry, Jean, that was selfish of me, after all you have been through," he patted her hand, "now, the rug needs beating, yes?"
"It does, and I will get on with that after we have had lunch, or Li will be eating the kitchen table." She turned and headed out to prepare some sandwiches.
As she cut the bread and sliced the ham she thought on Thomas' worry that he was selfish for remembering his marriage and the love he had for his wife. She didn't miss Christopher, she missed the life they might have had if they had married for love and not because of Mary. She wasn't even sure she loved him, six - seven years on, not as she should have loved him. Oh, it all got so confusing, she was happy as she was, a good position, respected in the community with a few good friends. Yes, all things considered, life was not bad at all.
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Mary peered into the studio after school, Li had chattered on about gran'papa's new room with pictures as she sat in the stroller.
"See," Li pulled her over to the picture of Agnes Clasby, "mama knows her."
"I know her too, Li," Mary tipped her head to one side, "it's Miss Agnes."
Li giggled, she liked both Miss Agnes and Miss Nell, they gave both girls sweets when they thought mama wasn't looking.
"Come on you two," Jean chivvied them out of the room, "milk and a biscuit, then you can play or help me with dinner." She closed the door behind them, regarding it as a special space for Thomas, not a room for general use or for children to run around in, but she would put the Christmas tree up in there, this year. Maybe they should have two, on for the living room as well, even if there was a war on.
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Thomas would now sit in the studio in the evenings, and encouraged Jean to join him. They would talk over the day's surgery, how certain patients were doing, and about Lucien. Opening the studio had opened his heart, and he told her tales of how his son would run around the house, interrupt consultations and ask a constant stream of questions at inappropriate times.
Jean laughed at the stories and reminded him that both Li and Mary did similar things, though not during surgery ... well not often.
"I think I've mellowed with age," he laughed and raised his whisky glass.
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Ruth knocked urgently on the door. She had to catch Jean, before she went to do any shopping. Thank god it was Saturday and she wouldn't be taking Mary to school. She stood waiting, running the handle of her handbag through her fingers, wondering what she was going to say to her.
"Jean," she stepped inside as soon as the door opened, "thank god I caught you."
"Ruth, what's wrong?" Jean guided her to the kitchen where the children were just finishing their breakfast.
"Hello, Auntie Ruth," Mary grinned, "are you coming shopping with us today?"
"Er, hello, Mary," she stammered, "no, I need a quick word with mummy, if that's ok."
She pulled Jean into the living room.
"Ruth, what's going on?" Jean hissed, "why are you here so early."
"Christopher's back," she blurted out, "and looking for you."
"What? Why?" Jean ran her hand through her hair, disturbing the carefully styled curls.
"I don't know," Ruth sat down on the couch, "nobody will tell him where you are, Bill Hobart rang me this morning, got me out of bed; I'm here to see mum; and told me that he'd been in the pub last night, trying to find out where you are. Said he'd been up to the farm and it was in the hands of another family, well you know that, so he thinks you have done something with the money from the sale of the place."
"Mummy?" Mary stood and looked at her shocked face.
Jean couldn't speak, couldn't tell her daughter that her father had returned.
"Doc-doc!" she ran through to the surgery where Thomas was looking through his list for the day, "doc-doc," she pulled up short at the door, "mummy looks scared."
Thomas looked at her, Mary wasn't given to silly stories, so he put his notes down and followed her to the living room. She was right, Jean looked horrified.
"Go play in the garden with Li, Mary," he guided her back to the kitchen, "I'll look after mummy, with Auntie Ruth."
"Doc-doc?" she whispered, fear in her eyes.
"It'll be fine, sweetheart," he smiled and rubbed her back, "mummy's probably just had a shock."
With a last look at her mother, Mary did as she was asked, slowly.
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They watched the children go into the garden and Dr Blake made sure they had gone right out and were not lurking in the sunroom.
"Now, Ruth," he turned to Jean's closest friend, "what's happened.?"
Ruth told him how Christopher had come back and wanted to know where Jean was and why the farm had been sold. That he believed Jean had made off with the profits of the sale, that he was angry but nobody had said where she was or who she was living with, or that they were no longer married. Bill Hobart had warned him that if he didn't get out of the pub and sober up he would take him in to spend the night in the cells. Christopher had been less than complimentary about his relationship with Jean and had brought Matthew into it, although he was still in Melbourne.
"Bill told me he was going to ring Matthew," Ruth finished, "but it's two hours away and he might be on duty."
"Did he end up in the cells?" Jean gulped.
"Yes," Ruth nodded, "but it wasn't Bill that took him in, it was someone over from Bendigo, Ashby, I think."
"You stay here today, Jean," Thomas steered her to sit down, "and I want Bill here too."
"He's ..." the phone rang and cut her off. Thomas went to answer it, while Ruth continued, "... on his way. He's off duty today so he said he'd come up and ... that'll be him now," she smiled as a sharp rap was heard on the front door and got up, "I'll get it."
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It was indeed Constable Bill Hobart with a grin on his face.
"Mornin' Ruth," he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, "Matthew's coming over, too. Ashby is keeping Christopher in the cells until he has woken up, boss says it's not a hotel but I told him it was to keep a local safe and that's our job."
"That was Matthew," Thomas returned from answering the phone, "he's just going to catch the express and come over." He turned to Bill, "Morning Bill, now does he know where his parents are?"
"Don't think anybody told him, but I called them after I phoned Ruth," Bill moved to stand beside Jean, "they are shocked, understandably, and on the other hand are glad he is alive, but..." he looked at Jean, "he was drinking a lot last night.. He looked haggard, if I may say, thinner than I remember. That aside, I got the impression you, Jean, are not his favourite person."
"He left me, Bill," she sniffed, "he blackmailed me into being intimate with him, before we were married, even though I knew it was wrong. He suggested that Mary was either yours or Matthew's, when I told him I was pregnant. He doesn't love me, and he never did."
Ruth put her arm round her and guided her back to the couch.
"We'll sort it, Jean," she murmured, "Bill and Matthew won't let him hurt you ..."
"Nor will I," Thomas looked down at her. "Now, what do we do?"
"I think I should see him," Jean sighed, "tell him we are divorced, and send him on his way."
Bill scratched his head at the thought Christopher accused Jean or sleeping around. Of all the people less likely to sleep round, Jean was top of his list, for even suggesting that, he would like to give the drongo a thorough beating.
"What about Mary" he asked, "does she know about him?"
"Only that he wasn't ready to be a father and went to see what there was outside of Ballarat," Jean recalled the conversation they had had with her, on why she didn't have a daddy. "She knows she is loved and seems quite happy with that and living here, in fact she said she was glad I had come here and that Dr Blake was better than any daddy."
Thomas blushed, Bill grinned, "hear hear," Ruth smiled.
"I don't think she should see him until we know what his intentions are," Thomas folded his arms, "but if he was drinking heavily then it doesn't sound as if his intentions are honourable."
"So, we wait?" Ruth asked.
"I have chores to do," Jean stood up again and squared her shoulders, "but there is shopping that needs getting."
"Order it over the phone, Jean," Thomas reminded her she didn't need to go into town if she had other things to do. "I have surgery this morning, so it is reasonable for you to stay here."
"Have you something that needs doing in particular, that you have been waiting for time to do?" Ruth thought, "maybe we can help, give Bill and Matthew a reason to be here, for the girls."
"Well," Jean tipped her head, "the grass needs cutting, and there is some weeding to do, Mary and Li like to help with that. The girls' bedroom needs a spring clean, Ruth, and then there are the patients to see to."
"And you thought you had time to go into town," she grinned, "right, well, Bill are you gardening?"
"Will do," he saluted, "mower in the shed?"
"And the rest of the tools," Jean nodded.
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Mary and Li didn't mind in the least staying in the garden with Uncle Bill, once Mary had made sure her mother was alright.
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Christopher blinked in the harsh light of the naked bulb in his cell. His head throbbed and his throat was dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. God he hated Ballarat. What the bloody hell gave him the idea to come back? There was nothing here for him, his family farm had been sold, the girl he had bedded, impregnated, wed and left had sold up and taken all that rooted him here. He hated everything about the place.
"Beazley!" a sharp, solid bass voice called, "you have a visitor."
"Wha ..?"
"Your father has come to see you," Doug Ashby, Senior Sergeant from Bendigo, unlocked the door and stepped to the side to let Christopher's father see his long lost son.
It wasn't a sight he enjoyed, a grubby, unshaven and scrawny young man, one tooth broken at the front, probably from a fight and unkempt hair that needed washing and cutting. He was so glad he had not allowed his wife to see him, it would have broken her heart.
"Son," he nodded and sat, gingerly on the edge of the bed, "you've come back?"
Christopher grunted.
"Where have you been?" his voice was gentle, he reserved judgement until he had heard his story. "We have been worried about you, seven years is a long time."
"Huh," he sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Like you care."
"Yes, son, we do," Mr Beazley tried to catch his eye, "you left so suddenly, never wrote or phoned ... abandoned your pregnant wife ..."
Christopher turned his back. His father put his hand on his shoulder and tried to turn him back but he shrugged him off.
"Christopher ..."
"What happened at the farm?"
"We sold up, I couldn't keep it going on my own, Jean couldn't work in the fields, not pregnant ... we, your mum and I, have a nice little place out of town, I grow and sell flowers to the markets and the local florists, it's not much but it's enough, for us."
"Her?" he grunted, meaning Jean, who he couldn't bring himself to name. He still blamed her for dragging him into a marriage he didn't want. "Set her up, did you, with her own little place ..."
"You can stop that right now," Mr Beazley ground his teeth, "Jean is happy, has a good standing in this town. She doesn't blame you, she knows she should have been stronger and not let you do what you did, but she did, because you blackmailed her, emotionally. Her child, your child, is happy and healthy, settled in school and none the worse for not having a father." He was careful not to tell him that he had a daughter, or that Jean worked for Dr Thomas Blake and lived in his house, in his current state he would assume the worst.
"I don't want them," Christopher hissed.
"You haven't got them," his father sighed, "she divorced you and had the marriage annulled, she doesn't want you back, you never loved her, though she did love you, and has never wished you ill."
"How could she do that?" he turned, "I never heard anything."
"You couldn't be found," Mr Beazley stood up and glared down at him, "she could have waited seven years or so and had you declared dead, but, she decided she couldn't live with that hanging over her. The church agreed you had no intention of entering into a lifelong commitment, they call it Defect of Contract." He reached into his jacket pocket, "here, your copies of the papers, you can use these to prove you are free to marry, should you ever decide to do so again. Jean gave them to us, in case you got in touch."
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The phone rang mid surgery. Jean ran down the stairs to pick it up. It was the station Inspector.
"Just wanted to let you know Christopher's father has visited him and passed the papers to him. We've had to release him," he coughed, "don't know if he's going to try and find you, but nobody has told him where you are."
"Thank you, Inspector," she sighed, "will you let me know when he leaves town, though whether he does or not is immaterial, I shall still go about my daily routine, including taking Mary to school."
"He didn't seem bothered about seeing you, but we shall make sure someone is on the route until he does leave."
"Well, alright, then," she tipped her head and thought, "perhaps Bill Hobart, the sight of him might stop him doing anything silly, without it descending into a fist fight."
"Ah, right," he hummed, "I'll put him on patrol there, in the morning and afternoon."
Jean was surprised he would alter the roles of an officer just for a divorced housekeeper with a child. Still, she would say nothing and just be glad he could see it would keep things quiet in Ballarat.
As she put the phone down and thought about making tea for Ruth and Bill, as well as a mid surgery cuppa for the doctor there was a knock at the door. She was pleased to see Matthew, and greeted him with a smile and a squeeze to his hand. He had arrived just as the grocer's and butcher's boys had arrived.
"Good timing, Constable Lawson," she grinned, "I was just about to make tea." She took the meat and Matthew carried the grocery into the house.
"Lovely," he grinned back, "Bill here?"
"Aha, and Ruth," she preceded him down to the kitchen, "the doctor's taking surgery, Bill's in the garden."
"Christopher?"
"They've just released him from the cells," Jean put milk in a jug and set it on the table, "cups, Matthew, please, that cupboard," she pointed, and started to set a tray for Thomas.
He waited for her to fill in the gaps of the story as she put the shopping away.
"His father has visited and handed him the papers, so he knows we're divorced, but nobody has said where I am, or that he has a daughter."
"So, with a bit of luck we should have a quiet day," he laughed.
Jean laughed and took the tray through to Thomas.
"Good to hear you laugh, Jean," he smiled, "has Matthew arrived?"
"Yes, just," she set his tea down, "I think I'll ask him to paint the front door, we've been meaning to do it."
"Alright, the paint is in the outbuilding," he agreed.
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The girls had thoroughly enjoyed helping Bill in the garden and were filthy when he brought them in for lunch. Jean just shook her head and took them upstairs to wash and change.
"Did you two have fun, with Uncle Bill?" she asked as she slipped a fresh dress onto Li.
"Yes, he let us dig with him, and he moved the pretty plant with the white flowers over to the fence," Mary dried her face and hands, "he said it will grow over and along it."
"The jasmine?" her mother passed her a clean dress, "I was going to move that, it would seem he has saved me a job."
"He said he was surprised you planted it in the middle," Mary turned round so the buttons could be fastened.
"I didn't," Jean patted her head to let her know she was finished, "it was there when I came here, but it wasn't looking as if it was going to do anything, which is why I didn't do anything with it. I suppose I shall have to put something in its place."
"Better leave the door slightly open, Jean," Matthew appeared in the kitchen, "don't want it to stick closed." He went to wash his hands in the sink, "I've put the paint back in the outbuilding, but it needs a sort out. What are all those half done paintings?"
"They're Mrs Blake's," Jean set a plate piled high with cold meat and a bowl of salad on the table, "the doctor has opened up the studio and we've cleaned it out. Those paintings aren't finished, as you saw, but there are some that we have kept."
"There's one of Miss Agnes," Mary piped up, as she took the plates to the table.
"I thought maybe the gallery could be persuaded to show one or two," Jean smiled as Thomas came through, surgery done for the weekend, "the doctor thinks that because she was a female artist it's unlikely."
"Some of the major galleries in Melbourne are putting their major works into storage, well away from any looting, because of the war," Matthew turned from the sink, drying his hands, "though I don't think we'll have the same trouble here as they have had in Europe. You know Hitler has been removing art from museums and galleries, looting it from Jewish homes, and destroying work by Jewish artists, or modern stuff he finds offends his sensibilities. Perhaps, if the Ballarat gallery are going to do this, because the curator is a nervous wreck, you could persuade them to hang her stuff to fill up the walls. I'm sure it's great," he added hastily, "just thought it would be a way to introduce her work to the wider public." He gulped. Matthew wasn't given to long speeches and usually kept thoughts on aesthetics to himself.
"Well, that's one way of handling it, I suppose," Jean smiled and put a large jug of water on the table. "Now, sit and eat, you've all earned it."
As they ate Matthew told them stories of his time at St Kilda, and joining forces with the City South police to solve a couple of murders.
"The Chief Superintendant there, Robinson, has a heck of a reputation," he paused between mouthfuls of ham and tomato, "his wife is some British aristo, gorgeous and a brain as sharp as a scalpel. She turns up at his crime scenes - should be part of the force - helps solve cases. They held a party for those of us that helped clean up a dock side murder and illegal import gang, well, actually, they were white slavers, horrible, poor girls, anyway, she spoke to all of us, and on a level too. Word has it she was born in Collingwood, but you'd never know it."
He was clearly in awe of Mrs Robinson and Jean knew how shy he could be around larger than life characters; she imagined he would have blushed scarlet and mumbled something quite incoherent. Dear Matthew, even when they were younger he had reddened when he spoke to her, no way would he even have thought of trying to sleep with her outside the bounds of marriage. Perhaps this time away from his home was good for him, would help him grow into the fine officer she knew was inside him.
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As they washed the dishes and thought about perhaps taking the girls to the Botanic Gardens, all of them together, there was a knock on the door.
Jean dried her hands on her apron and headed up to answer it. Matthew stood at the kitchen door to see who it was and gasped. He turned to those still in the kitchen, "Ruth, take the girls into the studio," he hissed and went to Jean, followed by the doctor and Bill.
"Christopher," Jean spoke pleasantly, as she would to any caller, "what can I do for you?"
"You're a hard girl to track down," he grunted, "you divorced me?"
"I did, you never wrote or phoned, what was I supposed to think," she stood upright, she would not be bullied by him, not now, "you left before I had the baby, deserted us, left your father to work the farm by himself. You had no intention of sticking to your vows. We are both free to live our lives as we want, now."
Christopher looked beyond her to the three men flanking her, protecting her. He had spent the time since being released grabbing every low life in Ballarat until he found someone who would give up her whereabouts rather than be thumped. She was right in her summation of him, but still, at twenty six, she was the prettiest girl he had ever bedded. He had expected to find her downtrodden, scraping a living somewhere, but here she was, better off than he was, well fed and clothed. He wasn't sorry he had left her, but now he wondered what the doctor and she had, together. He was old enough to be her father ...
"Is there something we can do for you?" she broke through his thoughts.
Quite clearly he had not thought what he would say to her, or what he wanted from her, now. He shrugged, "s'ppose not."
"What are you going to do?"
"Been conscripted," he huffed, "might as well, nothing for me here."
Much as she hated the thought of him going off to war, hated that any young man would do that, she had nothing to offer him, except one last 'kindness'.
"Do you want to see our child?"
"Won't do any good," he turned away, "bye."
"Goodbye, Christopher."
She closed the door before he was halfway down the drive.
Turning to the three men who had stood waiting to offer any help she took in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, tears would be shed in private, later, for now ...
"You lot finished the dishes?" she asked with a little smile, "if so let's take the girls to feed the ducks, instead of the gardens."
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The fresh air, the laughter of the children as they threw bread to the ducks on Lake Wendouree banished any sadness she had at what she felt was the real end to her marriage. She hoped Christopher would be safe, would come through the war unscathed, and perhaps a better man. Bill had been right when he said he looked haggard, she supposed he had not worked properly since he left her, not ate, though he appeared to have enough money for drink. In a way she was glad he didn't see Mary, make himself known to her. One day she would tell her the whole truth, when she was old enough to understand, perhaps as she embarked on courting, or even when she became interested in boys. Just to warn her not to make the same mistake, happy though that had turned out to be, as she did. For now they would continue in the doctor's house, live their lives and love those around them.