Jean placed the suitcase on the end of the bed and decided that was all she should do, for now. She had no idea how long he had been travelling, or if the case was full of laundry that needed seeing to. He had arrived in uniform, so she assumed his civilian attire was stowed there. She looked round the room, again, to make sure it was to her liking, not too bright, but cheerful and inviting. She had checked the bulb in the bedside lamp and wound the little clock and set it to the correct time. She smoothed down an imaginary crease in the bedcover and left the room.
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Thomas didn't know what to say to Lucien and Lucien didn't know how to start a conversation with his father. They drank their tea in silence until Thomas asked Li how school had been, that day.
"It was alright," she shrugged, "Miss Craven said we were going to learn French, but then she changed her mind and we did sewing instead," she pouted.
"Both of which you are good at," Thomas turned to his son, "Jean has taught her to sew and I have brushed up my French teaching her - because she asked about your mother."
"I wish we could sew something interesting though," the young girl continued, "we had to hem the edge of a hankie."
"Sometimes, Li sweetheart," Lucien smiled gently, "we have to do things we don't want to, but if you are good at something can't you help the others?"
"Miss Craven won't let us," she sulked.
"You may remember Esther Craven, Lucien," Thomas huffed, "your year at Grammar School?"
"Esther Craven," he hummed and thought, "ah, yes, I believe I do."
"Papa?"
"Don't you worry about Miss Craven, Li," he smiled, "give me some time, please ..."
"Let him settle in, Li," Thomas interrupted, "he's had a long journey."
"Sorry, of course, papa," she felt heartened that he would, eventually, help he with this particular problem. Miss Craven was not the most gentle of teachers and everybody knew she had never liked it that she was overlooked for the head teacher's post in favour of a woman from out of town, a younger one, at that.
"No worries, darling," he smiled, he felt so at ease with her when he had thought their reunion would be stilted, tentative, but she had positively thrown herself into his arms. "Now, if you don't mind, I should like to speak to gran'papa for a while."
"That's ok," she grinned, "I should help mama with dinner, shouldn't I gran'papa?"
"I'm sure she'd like that."
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Li was on her own in the kitchen, washing up the tea things, Mary was playing a practise piece on the piano, after she had helped her mother all she could, when Jean went to start the evening meal. She immediately knew Lucien and Thomas had gone to the study to talk. She hoped this would ease Lucien's way back into the family for Thomas had confided that he was unsure how his son would feel, coming home after so long, to see and speak to his father after such a long time silent to each other.
"You have corresponded, though," she reminded him, "for some time now, though, and he asked you to look after his child."
"It's how we parted, Jean," he sighed, "that's what matters, I sent him away at a very vulnerable time and I can't take that back."
She knew they would both need time but she would go on as usual, and that meant preparing dinner.
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Lucien looked round the small study, little changed from what he remembered. There were photographs on the bookshelf, him and his mother, his parents on their wedding day next to the one he had sent of him and Mei Lin. A couple of Li and Mary and some of Li on her own. He sat down opposite the desk, Thomas sat in his customary seat, paused, then leaned forward on the desk.
"Lucien," he sighed, "oh my boy, you don't know how glad I am to see you. I should never have sent you away ..." he knew he was rushing an apology of sorts, but having started, "... when you started to write to me, I thought , perhaps you wanted to let me know you didn't need me, ever, but ... when you wrote more, all about your life, your marriage ..."
"You weren't pleased about it, were you?" Lucien grunted.
"Pleased, I don't know if that was the word, it took time, to accept it, I admit, but Jean reminded me I had done the same, by marrying your mother and I saw from the picture she loved you and you looked happy, so I was happy for you." Thomas took a breath and waited.
"I thought she loved me, I cling to that because I don't know if she did," Lucien picked at a broken nail, "not now. When she refused to come to you and I sent Li she didn't seem bothered. She told me she had the child because that was what I wanted, it was her duty, she said, to give me a child."
"Lucien," Thomas reached over, "I don't know what to say ..."
"There's nothing you can say, and it's too late now, Li is the best thing to come out of my marriage," Lucien sighed and Thomas could see the sadness in his eyes, tears that should be shed, "I don't know what I would have done if I couldn't send her here, even though, when I thought of it I had no idea how you would react or how you would look after her or how Mrs Beazley was with children."
"Ah, yes," Thomas allowed himself a little smile, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about her, other than that she is my housekeeper ... I thought you might get the wrong idea, given she is about five years younger than you."
"I admit I imagined a rather stout woman wielding a rolling pin if you were a second late for dinner." He laughed. "Dad," Lucien leant forward, changing the subject "it's not going to be easy, I'm still in the army, for now, I don't know how I'll cope, here, and I can't take Li away, I won't take her from her home."
"But you will stay, for a while ... please."
"I'm on extended leave, until after Christmas, sick leave, if you will ..."
"Will you leave the army, eventually?"
"Honestly, dad, at the moment I have no idea," he sat back, "they want me, or rather certain people want me for my languages, possibly espionage ... I don't know, I really don't," his voice caught, "I've missed Li growing up, she's nine, I don't know her and I want to. I want ..." he stood up and ran his hand over his head, "oh god I wish I knew!"
Thomas stood up and grabbed both his hands, "Son, look at me," he commanded, "you need to rest, to recuperate from what you have been through ... plenty of sleep, good food maybe some exercise ... take your time, Lucien ... the army owes you that."
Lucien was too tired to argue and part of him knew his father was right, part of him, a tiny part, hated him for it. For now, he would acquiesce and eat and sleep in his father's house and get to know his daughter. There were things they would talk about over the days, weeks he was there.
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Feeling dusty from his journey and the walk up from the station, Lucien decided he'd be better washing and changing out of uniform before dinner. He went to his room, instinctively the one he had slept in as a boy and on his infrequent visits home, and found it a haven of calm. Jean had left the window slightly open, letting in a cool breeze, the bed was covered with a dark eiderdown and a blanket in subtle shades was folded at the foot. She had left his case; unopened; on the bed, and a robe on the back of the door. It must have been one of his father's, he didn't recall leaving one or seeing it before. Still, she had thought there wasn't room for one in his small valise.
He wondered how they stood for hot water, did his father still heat it up twice a day? Jean would know, she seemed to be on top of things. He headed to the kitchen with his wash kit.
"Er ..." he cleared his throat, Jean looked up from preparing vegetables, "would there be enough hot water for me to have a wash?"
"Plenty," she smiled gently, "dinner will be in an hour, so if you want to soak away your travels ..."
"You know, Jean," he hesitated over the name, "I'd really appreciate that."
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He lay in the warm water, eyes closed, sleep threatening to overwhelm him while he considered his options. He had been welcomed home, like the prodigal son, into an oasis of calm. Jean did not seem in the least perturbed about his presence ... was she used to people just turning up and staying? The offer of a bath was not made with the undertone that he smelt, but with genuine thought for his comfort, she had probably put the immersion heater on especially for him. She hadn't pried by opening his suitcase and putting away his clothes or taking the laundry to wash ... laundry, he had some things that needed washing, dare he just drop them in the basket in his room? She was the housekeeper, that was what she did, though she seemed more than that. The four of them, that lived in this house, seemed more of a family that he, his wife and baby daughter had ever seemed and again he was glad he had sent Li here. As to the question his father asked; would he be leaving the army? Darn right he would - he'd had enough of the top brass endlessly offering him undercover work in the Far East because of his mastery of Mandarin and working knowledge of Japanese he had picked up in the camp. He didn't want to do that, to sneak around, eavesdropping on conversations, inveigling himself into situations, just because he was able to do so. He wasn't sure what he wanted but it wasn't that, not now he had seen Li and had even that short talk with his father. Perhaps his R&R here would help him work out what he did want.
He wrapped the soft towel round his waist and wiped the steam off the mirror to study his body. He knew he had lost weight, that he was covered in dreadful scars from the beatings he had endured, now, here, perhaps he could regain his strength, fill out his rangy frame. He took his razor and tidied up his beard, his hair needed cutting but he could leave that until tomorrow when he could go to the barber's shop. He'd see which one his father went to these days, his hair, sparse though it was, was neatly cut. His father - older; the years showing with his cane, his cupping his ear to hear more clearly - still working he assumed, the plaque was on the gate post: a little gentle GP work would be nice, for a change, he thought, and he had to provide for Li.
Satisfied his appearance was better, tidier, he put the robe Jean had left out for him on, and smiled at the softness of it. He did have one in his case, silk, oriental design, but this was what he needed - comfort.
In his room he dropped his laundry into the basket and dressed in a clean white shirt, suit trousers, tie and waistcoat. He was tempted to put the jacket on, but his father had already changed into a cardigan so he hoped he didn't have to dress for dinner. If the shortbread was anything to go by, the meal should be tasty. He tamed his hair with hair-cream, his curls were still wild. Fastening his watch on his wrist and, slipping shoes on, he went in search of the family.
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"No, Jean, the kitchen will be fine," Thomas had smiled when she asked if he wanted to eat in the dining room, with the finer crockery, "it's a family meal."
So, when Lucien reappeared, freshened up from his bath, Li was setting the table in the kitchen and Mary was helping put the meal into serving dishes. He watched them tip peas and carrots into two different dishes, spoon mounds of creamy mashed potato into another, pour thick rich looking gravy into a gravy boat and place them all on the table. Jean was about to carve a roast chicken when he wondered if he ought to play his part.
"Shall I?" he held his hands out for the carving set, "been a while," he smiled.
Jean passed the things over and put the plate in front of his place, "your father is not the best at carving," she whispered, "let's see how you do," she smiled a genuine smile that told him he was welcome to find his place in the family.
"I'll go and get gran'pa, shall I mum?" Mary set a pan to soak in the sink.
"Please, he needs to open the wine," she nodded and looked to see what Lucien made of her daughter referring to his father as 'gran'pa'. He didn't seem to notice, either that or he wasn't bothered.
Lucien, for his part, as he carved the chicken; neatly; wondered if he would get Jean's full story, either from her or his father. She interested him, any man who married her would be a lucky one, he thought, so what had gone wrong with Christopher? Knowing what he knew about him, which was precious little, he could see they were patently unsuited to one another. She was strong, capable - seemed to take things in her stride. Private Beazley was anything but. When she found out he was coming home ... home ... yes, he was home ... anyway she was probably thinking she would have a week, at least, to prepare. But no, he breezes in moments after the telegram was read, and she carries on as if it is nothing unusual.
Thomas entered the room rubbing his hands together, "smells delicious, as always, Jean" he pulled out his chair and sat down, "ah, Lucien, Jean's relinquished control of the carving knife, has she?" he winked at the girls and Li giggled.
"You'd better tell me when I've put enough on your plates," Lucien lifted a slice of meat and put it on the first plate, "father?"
"Ladies first, son," Thomas waved his hand at Jean.
"Absolutely," he nodded and plated up, stopping when each diner indicated there was enough.
The dishes were passed round and each helped themselves to as much as they wanted, or could eat. Jean noticed Lucien's portions were small, but if he had been in a prison camp; and his letters had indicated food was in short supply; perhaps his appetite was a little stunted. She made a mental note to let him know the biscuit tin was always on the side, and she would tempt him with mid morning snacks and tea and biscuits or cake in the afternoon.
They talked about what their days had contained, school for the girls and hospital and patients for Thomas, local chatter from Jean, though not gossip, Lucien noticed.
"Nell Clasby hasn't been this week, Jean," Thomas noted, "can you make an appointment for her?"
"Of course, but I thought she was due today," Jean swallowed a mouthful of dinner.
"She was, skipped again," Thomas grinned then turned to his son, "she's being difficult over her blood pressure, son, any suggestions?"
"Celery," Lucien took a mouthful of wine, "the Chinese swear by it and I found it effective. It only needs to be used in cooking or eaten as a vegetable."
"I shall give it a try," Thomas nodded, "any port in a storm."
"That is the Miss Clasby I knew, isn't it?" Lucien asked, "her and Agnes used to give me sweets."
"They did that to the girls, when they were small," Jean finished her meal, "now I think it is more likely to be magazines or make-up."
"Mum," Mary laughed, "Miss Agnes and Miss Nell give me more sophisticated chocolate, now."
"I get jelly babies," Li laughed, "I love them."
Jean shook her head and Lucien laughed. It was the first proper laugh he had given in years, he thought.
The talk continued over the dessert of custard tart, so light Lucien found himself requesting a second slice. Jean was more than willing to cut a piece for him, glad that he was eating an extra piece, and what was bad about eggs and milk?
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Jean shooed the men out of the kitchen while she and Mary washed up. Li took her father's hand and went with them.
As they passed through the living room, Lucien made to sit down in one of the chairs.
"No, papa," Li tugged gently, "through here, in the evening," and she led him into the studio, which he thought would still be locked.
"Jean persuaded me to open it," Thomas mumbled, almost shyly, "she wanted to see your mother's work ..."
The fire was burning in the grate, there was a decanter of whisky and one of sherry on the table with the required glasses, the gold leaf sparkled in the light from the side lamps and fire and it all smelt of polish and wood-smoke.
Lucien swallowed, it all felt different, but the same, comforting and with his mother's work scattered around the room, it was home. He had spent a lot of time here, while she worked. She would talk to him in French, making him bilingual, explain about the colours, which ones she could mix together to make the secondary and tertiary colours and then float tiny pieces of the gold leaf on the warm thermals from the fire, to the ceiling.
Thomas held up the whisky and he nodded, wondering at the strength and positive nature of the young woman his father had taken on as housekeeper.
"You must tell me more about Jean," he sat down on the couch, "why did you take such a young woman as your housekeeper, I remember Ballarat as being a hotbed of gossip."
"Perhaps she should be the one to tell, Lucien," his father sat in his usual chair by the fire, "otherwise you will turn me into a gossip." He smiled and looked up as Jean entered the room, "what say you, Mrs Beazley? Will you tell my son your story?"
"I'm sure he doesn't want to hear all my troubles," she smiled softly, "anyway it's not that interesting."
"As long as you aren't an axe murderer, Mrs Beazley," he teased, "then I shall be happy to learn about you in your own time."
"Depends on the provocation," she gave as good as she got, he made her feel comfortable in this house that had become her home.
"Don't leave wet towels on the bathroom floor," Li snuggled close to Lucien, "it's mama's pet hate."
"Ah, right," he made to get up, Li tugged him down and laughed.
"I've already checked, papa," she squeezed his hand, "you're safe tonight."
"Phew!" he blew out in mock relief. "So," he changed the subject, "who was playing the piano, earlier?"
"Erm," Mary looked down, "that was me, Major."
"You play well, my dear," he smiled, "and, let's go for Uncle Lucien, shall we, this isn't an army camp; if your mother doesn't mind." He looked to see what Jean's reaction was.
"That's very kind of you, Lucien," Jean nodded, "Mary has been learning since she was eight, your father kindly teaches her."
"She's also a very good artist," Thomas added his praise.
"And you, Li, sweetheart?" Lucien looked at his daughter, "do you play or paint?"
"I'm afraid I'm not a good artist papa," she stuck her lower lip out, "gran'papa has offered to teach me the piano ..."
"Your father plays, or he did," Thomas smiled at her, "though I had trouble getting him to practise."
"Li is an excellent seamstress," Jean pointed out, "and anything that requires precision we go to her."
"Ah, mathematics and science, then," Lucien winked at her.
"I'd like to be a doctor, like gran'papa and you," she whispered, "do you think I can be, even though I'm a girl."
"Absolutely, my child," Lucien hugged her, "you can be anything you want to be, if you set your mind to it. Anyway," he drew his brows together, "what's being a girl got to do with it?"
"The boys at school, they say doctors are men," she pouted.
"I've met quite a few rather good women doctors, darling," Lucien kissed the top of her head.
"That's what Jean and I keep telling her," Thomas sipped his whisky.
"Miss Craven says we girls have to learn to cook and sew so we can be good wives to our husbands."
"I thought that kind of thinking went out with the ark," Lucien huffed as he thought back to his time in the school where he knew Esther Craven. Always so prim and proper, tight lipped, perfect plaits with perfectly tied ribbons, never a hole in her stockings. He and Matthew used to take delight in dipping her plaits into the inkwells while she sat, her back ramrod straight, in front of one or the other of them in class. So much for being able to cook and sew to be a good wife, if she was still unmarried.
"Anyway, time to chat more tomorrow, and the day after ..." Thomas sighed, "...and the day after that?" Li asked eagerly.
"...time for bed, Miss Li," Thomas looked at Lucien, "you have school tomorrow."
"Can't I stay up a little longer?" she tipped her head and batted her eyelashes at her grandfather.
"Li," Lucien smiled, "if grandpapa says it's bedtime ... don't think that because I don't know, you can get away with it."
"Ok, papa," she wrapped her arms round him, "I'm so glad you came home."
"So am I," he buried his face in her hair to hide the tears, happy though they were, "but we have so much time to catch up, and we will, I promise."
"Good night, Li," Jean smiled as she walked as slowly as she could out of the studio, "sleep well."
"Goodnight, mama," Li heaved a heavy sigh, "and gran'papa."
"Goodnight, sweetheart," Thomas nodded.
"I think I'll head up too," Mary stood up, "I have a history test tomorrow." She bent down and hugged her mother then went over to Thomas and did the same to him, "goodnight, gran'pa," she hummed.
"Goodnight, Mary," Lucien smiled at her, "sleep well."
"You too ... Uncle Lucien," she hesitated.
He beamed at the use of the title, it gave him a warm glow.
"'night love," Jean smiled and squeezed her hand as she passed.
"G'night, mum."
The adults sat quietly, listening to the noises of the young girls, a thought seemed to flit across Lucien's face.
"D'ye think Li's too old to be read to, a bedtime story?" he swilled the remains of his whisky round his glass.
"No, I don't think so," Jean replied softly, "I think she'd like that. They share a room, always have done, so Mary will be listening too, if that's alright."
"I suppose so," he shifted and put the glass down, "I suppose she has a book she's reading?"
"By her bed. She usually reads for ten minutes or so, before she turns out the light," Jean agreed.
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Li looked up from her book and smiled, "papa?"
"I, er ... I know you're nine, Li," he sat on the edge of the bed, "but I never had chance to read to you, bedtime stories ... may I?" he held his hand out for the book.
Li passed him the book and shuffled down into the bed. As Lucien found the place she had stopped at he began to read and soon lost himself in the story, his expressive tones brought the story to life and Mary stopped reading her own book in favour of listening to Uncle Lucien. He finished the chapter and closed the book, watching for a reaction. Two faces, eyes wide with wonder looked at him.
"Oh papa," Li breathed "that was wonderful, will you read to us again, tomorrow?"
"Yes, please do," Mary nodded, enthusiastically. "You read very well, it brought the story alive."
"Well, thank you, both of you," he smiled and reddened, "and yes, I will, as long as I have no other engagements."
"Papa," she batted his arm, "you are silly."
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Silly, was he? He almost skipped down the stairs. Well, if his daughter thought he was silly; in the nicest possible way; he would be silly, for her.
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But his dreams weren't silly.
He was the last to go to bed. Jean went first, feeling she should leave father and son to talk a little more, and she had an early start, as always. He did talk to his father, but more about Li than himself, how was she when she arrived? how did she settle in? Things that any father would want to know. Thomas told him all he could, all about her not liking the monkey toy, but settling with one of Mary's old toys, how Mary had played with her, helped toilet train her, supported her when people said unkind things about her and now - how she was just an everyday citizen of Ballarat.
"That's good," Lucien sighed, "to know she is accepted, and that her close family will always be there for her."
And so, his father had yawned and excused himself to retire for the night.
Left on his own, Lucien sat with his drink and let his eyes roam around the room. The pictures he had watched his mother paint looked down on him with her love in every brush stroke. He supposed he should head to bed, as well, though sleep never came easily for him, or well. He took his glass to the kitchen and rinsed it out before leaving it to drain on the side, then, seeing no sign of his father or Jean's glasses he dried it and took it back to the tray in the studio.
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Jean woke with a start. Someone was calling out, begging for something to stop - surely one of the girls wasn't having a bad dream? She shook her head and blinked, and listened again, no, it was a man's voice. She slipped from under the covers and took her robe from the back of the door, before heading onto the landing. Neither of the girls seemed to have been disturbed, thankfully, so she tiptoed down the stairs and followed the sound. It wasn't coming from Thomas' room but further along, from his son's.
She stood outside the door wondering how to handle this. Nobody had bad nightmares, though the girls had had the odd bad dream after reading something in a book or the newspaper, during the war, but nothing as bad as this, this was pure terror. She knocked - nothing, the noise continued. She knocked again, harder, but whatever he was dreaming about stopped him hearing her. She thought, for a moment, then drew herself up, took a deep breath and pushed the door open just enough to peer in. She had only ever gone into Thomas' room when he was ill, apart from cleaning it and making the bed, putting away the laundry - but never when he was in bed in the normal course of things.
Lucien had thrashed about so much he was wound in the sheet, had practically trapped himself in the bed. The eiderdown was on the floor as was a pillow, and he was still trying to free himself.
"Lucien," she spoke quietly, but with some authority, "Lucien, it's Jean, wake up, please."
He grunted and shouted something unintelligible.
She stepped towards the bed and laid her hand gently on his shoulder. He froze and turned his face towards her, eyes open but unseeing.
"It's alright, Lucien," she whispered, "nothing here will hurt you." She pulled gently at the sheet round him, "let's undo this, shall we."
He wriggled again, less furiously and as she spoke her voice seemed to calm him.
"You have got yourself all tangled up here, haven't you?" she continued, "now, if I pull this bit, ah, yes ..." she kept her eyes on the bedding, rather than the rather handsome, if somewhat dishevelled man in the bed, as she tugged and unwound him.
In his befuddled state he tried to focus on the gentle voice and soft touch of someone he could just about remember - not Mei Lin, the last woman he had touched, but his father's young housekeeper, the practical and very pretty Jean Beazley. The combination of her sweet voice and the gentle breeze through the open window started to bring him round, and back to where he was, in the sanctity of his old room, in his home in Ballarat - not the tin box in the Japanese camp or the unstable bunk in the hut.
"Ugh!", he freed an arm and looked at her, finally able to focus, "Jean, oh hell," he muttered, "I woke you."
"I'm a light sleeper," she stood back.
"Still, I woke you, I'm sorry," he looked saddened, disappointed at his weakness, as he perceived it.
"Don't worry about it," she smiled, "can I get you something, some tea?"
"Don't bother on my behalf," he shrugged, though it would be nice, to share a cup of tea with her.
"I shall have one, now I'm up," she waved her hand over the rumpled bed covers, "and this bed needs re-making."
"I'll do this," he pushed himself up, now free of the tightly wound sheet, "then, yes, if you are having a cuppa ..."
"I shall be in the kitchen," she nodded and left the room, tightening the tie on her robe as she did so.
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Years later she would smile to herself in quiet moments at the start of their story, but now ...
They sat opposite each other in the kitchen, sipping the tea which he had told her he preferred black and without sugar, while he noticed she drank hers quite the opposite.
They studied each other; he saw her tousled curls and sleepy blue-green eyes, she saw unruly blonde hair, temporarily freed from the confines of the product he used to keep it neat, and it needed cutting. His eyes were blue, searching her face for clues as to who she really was.
"Does this happen often?" she ventured.
"I'm afraid so, perhaps I'd better sleep in the out-building, so as not to disturb you," he suggested.
"You will do no such thing," she huffed, "anyway, the motor of the freezer would keep you awake."
"Freezer? That's a bit modern, for dad, isn't it?"
"He had it brought in when Mary was born," she blushed, remembering the kindness of her employer at that low time in her life, "and a washing machine. He has been very kind to me, Lucien, a good friend and generous employer."
"You seem to be good for him, too," he replied, "I remember a rather taciturn father, heavily involved in his work with little time for me, especially after mother passed away."
"Her death hit him harder than he would have anyone believe, I think," she blushed at her forward comment.
"Hm," he mused, "wonder why he didn't wake? How bad is his hearing?"
"It's not good," Jean sighed, "not that he will admit it, or that his patients raise their voices to make themselves heard. They are reluctant to go somewhere else, they know him and he knows them. The police get a bit frustrated when he is dealing with a suspicious death. It's easiest if Matthew Lawson or Bill Hobart are on hand, they know how to handle him without upsetting him."
"Matthew Lawson?" his eyebrows shot up at the mention of his old friend. "He's in the police now?"
"Yes, senior sergeant, though he is taking his Inspector exams, soon."
He whistled and smiled, "must catch up with him."
"He will be here for lunch on Sunday," Jean put her empty cup down, "he often is."
"Right," he pursed his lips.
"Only when he's not on duty," she laughed, "the girls call him Uncle Matthew, he's a good friend, to all of us."
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Lucien spent the next few days getting used to living with people who weren't about to send him out onto a parade ground or into a military hospital. He found his father's barber was also Jean and teased her that she would put the local ones out of business, after she had cut his hair to just longer than regulation length, by just a smidge, she thought, leaving a tiny curl at the back. he approved.
She could sense he needed to be occupied with some physical task so, after she had had just about enough of him watching her in the kitchen she suggested the grass needed cutting and some wood for the fire needed chopping, if he fancied helping her out.
"Right, yes, of course," he stuttered, amazed she would send him out to work on something she probably had a man come in and do.
"Bill Hobart often does it," she put that idea right out of his head, "but ..." she thought the exercise would do him good.
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He came in, red faced and rather sweaty, but strangely relaxed. "It's stacked up with the rest," he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, "I need a shower."
"There's hot water," she quickly turned away. He had stripped down to his singlet and although he had lost quite a lot of weight she could see it wouldn't take long for him to bulk out again, if he kept doing some exercise. There were the remnants of a strong, muscular man there.
"Thanks," he grinned and headed off to clean up.
Jean gripped the counter and took a deep breath. She hadn't felt like this about a man in her entire life. Christopher had never had her heart beat quite this fast, or give her such a strange tug in her belly.
"Pull yourself together, girl," she admonished herself, "you're the hired help, for goodness sake," though 'goodness' had no part in her thoughts.
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"Jean," Thomas hurried, as best he could, "the station have just phoned, I'm needed down at the park."
She turned from her task, writing a shopping list, "shall I drive you?" she smiled, "I can drop you there and go shopping."
While Thomas hated that she drove him so much these days, he had to admit he found driving tiring, it made his leg ache with the arthritis he refused to admit he suffered from.
Lucien heard from his seat in the living room, where he was reading the newspaper. He hadn't ventured into town since arriving back home, a little unsure as to how he would be greeted, though his father's patients had been cordial enough. The Misses Clasby had been delighted to see him and spent an hour taking tea with him, though they were gentle in their questioning of him, and he gave little away.
"Er, Jean, dad," he strolled as nonchalantly as he could into the kitchen, "d'ye mind if I tag along, 'bout time I showed my face in town." He looked a little sheepish.
"Not at all, son," Thomas nodded, "the more the merrier."
Jean grimaced, he was about to go and look at a dead body and he spoke about 'merrier', she worried about him, sometimes.
Lucien had noticed odd things too, overhearing him change Nell Clasby's blood pressure medication for something he thought was not quite right. Perhaps familiarity was not always the right thing.
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"Doc," Matthew pushed his cap back, then stared, "Lucien?" he stepped forward, "bloody hell ... sorry Jean," he gasped, "Lucien Blake, when did you get back into town?"
"A few days ago, Matthew," Lucien extended his hand to his old friend, "how are you?"
"Well, thanks ..."
"You have work to do," Lucien stopped him before they got into a long reminisce, "I believe you are having lunch with us on Sunday?"
Matthew nodded.
"Good, we'll catch up then," he turned and watched his father limp towards the covered body on the path and pulled his brows together. His father was getting too old for this.
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Jean knew that being seen in town with a strange, and handsome, man was likely to cause gossip but she couldn't really tell Lucien to leave her alone. He was her employer's son and if it was his wish that he accompany her on her trip to the butchers, bakers and grocers then she would have to put up with it. The trouble was, Jean didn't 'put up with it', she liked it. She liked that he would carry her basket for her; even if she told him she could manage; that he held doors open for her though she drew the line at taking his arm when he offered it.
"You know how they talk round here, Lucien," she hissed, "it's hard enough being a divorced mother ..." she dropped her shoulders, "sorry, you are very kind, I'm just not used to ..." she waved her hand vaguely in the air. He understood immediately. He was used to treating every woman with respect and it was the first he heard about her being divorced. He was even more intrigued.
As they walked he nodded politely to people he vaguely recognised, shook hands with those who spoke to Jean and she introduced him to and had a few cheeky words for Miss Nell when they found her in the Post Office.
"Good to see you showing your face in town, at last," Nell smiled, "I thought you were going to be holed up at the house forever."
"I had no reason to come into town, Miss Clasby," he laughed, "one should have a reason for doing anything, don't you think?"
"Your reason today?" Nell raised an eyebrow, "surely not just to help Jean with the shopping?"
"Father was called out to the park and Mrs Beazley was driving down, I invited myself to join them," he nodded, giving Jean her more formal title to, hopefully, banish any of the gossip Jean seemed afraid of.
Further conversation was halted by a shout from outside the Post Office and the subsequent wails of a small child. Lucien stepped outside and saw the owner of the cries was a little boy who appeared to have fallen over and cut his chin. His mother was trying to dab the blood up with her handkerchief but he wouldn't hold still and the onlookers, of which there was a small crowd, were doing nothing of any value.
"Do you have a First Aid kit?" he called back into the shop, "some gauze and water please." His voice was commanding and his needs were quickly met. Jean took the supplies to him, where he was now kneeling down on one knee in front of the child.
"Now young man," he held his shoulder, gently, "I'm Dr Lucien Blake, how about you let me have a look at that chin, eh?"
His tone, Jean noted, was calm and gentle, soothing yet firm.
"Would you hold him steady for me?" he looked up at the child's mother, "perhaps sit on this seat here." There was a chair outside the shop, that had a small notice board propped up on it. Jean stepped forward and lifted it off.
The woman sat with her boy facing Lucien, and as he cleaned the wound, the boy's screams turned to intermittent sobs. He covered the wound with a neat dressing and collected the bloody gauze.
"There you go," he smiled and stood up, fishing in his pocket for something. "Ah, here we are," he held up a penny," perhaps a penny sweet will take the sting out of it." He pressed the coin into the boy's hand and tipped his hat to the ladies around him.
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With no more small children requiring his attention and the shopping done, Dr Lucien Blake and his father's housekeeper headed back home, where she would await a call to go and collect Thomas or for him to be brought home by Matthew or Bill.
Jean smiled to herself as she prepared the next meal, perhaps Lucien had just found his place in Ballarat.