I've ummed and ahhed about this chapter but I'm going to post it anyway. It's taken a time to write because my free/writing time is limited at this time of year.
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The Christmas preparations continued. The pile of gifts under the tree in the studio grew higher; Jean caught Lucien lifting the odd one and shaking it to see if he could ascertain the contents.
"Really, Lucien," Jean laughed, "you are worse than the children."
"Maman would never let the parcels be put under the tree until I was in bed on Christmas Eve," he pouted.
"I wonder why not?" she rolled her eyes.
"I think she was trying to keep me believing in Father Christmas," he grinned, but there was a hint of sadness behind his eyes.
"As parents, we all do that, try to recapture the magic we knew as children," she smiled, though there had been precious little magic when she was a child. She did get gifts, but they were usually a new dress, made by her mother, or something practical. She would not admit that the one from him to her; oh yes, she had looked at labels; intrigued her.
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The school was due to finish for the year. There was a concert in which the choir would sing and solo musicians perform, the good and the just passable. Mary had not wanted to play, after the debacle with Edward but Li had persuaded her that he should not win.
"You've practised too hard, Mary," she sat with her, turning pages as she played, "why let him spoil it? And think of gran'papa, he loves talking about your playing ... and papa."
"I suppose so," she mused, "and mum has made me a new dress."
Jean had finished the dress, light and pretty, pale blue cotton scattered with tiny white daisies. The neck was boat neck shape but scallop-edged, as were the short sleeves which were 'grown' off the shoulder. The bodice was fitted and the skirt full and 'ballerina' length. The underskirt was net and a satin sash finished off the waist.
Mary thought about all the work Jean had put into the dress, it would be churlish to pull out of the concert after all that effort, and the cost of the satin for the sash and net for the underskirt. She would have been quite shocked to find Lucien had insisted on paying for the fabric after Jean had made a passing remark that she had seen some pretty blue cotton.
"Jean," he muttered to her as they washed up one evening, "I don't know much about dressmaking, or ladies fashion ..."
She looked at him, pausing with a plate in her hand, "I wouldn't expect you to, doctor, you're a man."
".. huh," he huffed at the tease, "I was just going to say that I thought ladies went for something a little more, er, luxurious than cotton, for an evening dress.
"She's playing the piano in the school concert, Lucien," Jean huffed, "not the theatre. And ... I'm a housekeeper, Lucien," she sighed, "not Susan Tyneman."
"You are better than her," he smiled, "by miles, and Mary is better than Edward. What are the other girls wearing? I'll bet some of them will have dresses made in Melbourne, but you're a good seamstress, you make a lot of your own things and Li's clothes, I don't think we could have got nicer if things had been different. More expensive, but not as nice."
She eyed him up and down. He never said anything about the girls' clothes save that he noticed if they wore something new, but that was probably because he had seen the machine in use, now, perhaps he did notice, and appreciated what he saw, though the compliment was clumsy.
So Jean had agreed to add the little extra touches to the dress, and, initially Mary was delighted. Her delight had waned somewhat after the turpentine incident and turned into worry that her mother had gone to so much trouble for nothing, and she didn't know how to tell her, so she didn't.
As Mary continued to play the piece she had chosen Jean had no idea of the inner turmoil in her daughter. She would hum along from the kitchen and praise her playing and say how much she was looking forward to the evening.
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Mary flopped down onto the couch in the studio and sighed. It had gone remarkably well. In spite of a small stumble when she played the first few notes, her performance had been flawless, at least that's what Uncle Lucien and Gran'pa had told her. She felt they were just being kind, she had played it better, but the applause was nice and the congratulations from her friends gave her a nice warm feeling.
"Come on, Miss," Lucien was saying to Li, who was almost asleep on her feet, "bed."
"Can't I stay up a little longer," so tired she slurred like a drunk.
"Another time, Li, sweetheart," he guided her up the stairs, followed by Jean, "now mama will help you get into bed, term is over, you can perhaps stay up a little later during the holidays." He was prepared to indulge her as only a parent could.
Jean smiled and agreed as she took over the task of putting Li into her pyjamas and then letting Lucien tuck her into bed and kiss her goodnight.
"Thank you, Jean," Lucien whispered as they went back downstairs to join Mary and Thomas.
"What for?" she stopped and turned to look at him.
"For helping her to grow into such a lovely young lady," he smiled, "for everything you do for all of us."
"Pshaw," she laughed softly, "she's as much a daughter to me as Mary is, and your father has been so very kind to me."
He took her hand and kissed it, "I hope I can be as kind."
She smiled, "you can pour me a sherry, for starters."
"Done," he indicated she precede him down the stairs.
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Thomas had gone to bed leaving Mary to get herself a drink of milk from the kitchen.
"You were right," Lucien mused as he handed her her sherry, "the cotton was the best choice."
"Becoming quite the expert now, aren't we, doctor?" she teased.
He reddened, "I just meant she looked lovely," he looked into his glass for the right thing to say, but it wasn't there.
"Thank you for coming to watch her," Jean smiled, hastily trying to lessen his embarrassment, "it means a lot to her, and me."
"Wouldn't have missed it for the world," he raised his glass, "she is a very talented young lady, I wonder where she gets it from?"
"I have no idea, her father couldn't sing in tune, never mind play an instrument, not that either of us got the chance to learn," she sighed. "My mother said it was a waste of money, though she did allow me to sing in the school choir, and dad would whistle about the farm."
"A throw-back, then," he smiled, "one of your antecedents was a virtuoso on the piano, perhaps?"
"I never knew my grandparents," she sipped the sherry, "well, not enough, really. Mum's mother died well before I was born and she grew up looking after their farm and her sister before marrying dad. His parents came to see us occasionally but mum didn't like them telling her how to raise me. I barely remember them."
"I take it ..."
"Aha," she nodded, "they sent me and Christopher a few pounds when we married, but he ... well, it didn't go far."
"Did your father ...?" he stopped, "sorry Jean," he sat down, "I'm prying, you don 't have to tell me anything."
"It's only natural you should know who is in your house, Lucien," she smiled, it had been years since she had thought about her grandparents.
"Mum?" Mary appeared at the door holding a glass of milk.
"Sweetheart," Jean held her hand out to her, "come and sit down for a while, if you want to."
"No, s'ok," Mary smiled, "I just wanted to say goodnight, and thank you both, for coming to the concert."
"It was my ..."
"It was our ..."
"...pleasure," they both finished at the same time.
"You were wonderful, Mary," Jean smiled, "I am so proud of you."
"You should be proud of yourself," Lucien added, "I was most impressed."
"Thank you, Uncle Lucien," she yawned, "it's a nice piece to play."
They watched her drag her tired body towards the stairs, relief obvious.
Jean drew her brows together, worry quite evident to Lucien.
"I suppose it's been quite a term for her," he mused, "the break will do her good."
"Yes," she leant back on the couch, "I don't think she wanted to take part, after that, really ..."
"She did it for you," he noted, "she would never want to disappoint you."
"She never has," Jean huffed, "I couldn't have wished for better daughters. Better than I ever was."
"I've a feeling you didn't want to be caged, to be trapped in the world you grew up in, I understand, I never wanted that, not after ..." he stared into space for a few moments, "... but life deals us the hand it does, and we have to make the best of it. Perhaps one day you can spread your wings, but don't fly off too soon, Jean."
"While I would have liked to see more of the world, I am settled here, this is my home, dreams are not for the likes of me, Lucien."
He would have liked to tell her he would take her round the world anytime she wanted, but felt it was not what she wanted to hear, not yet, but one day ... one day he would take her where ever she wanted to go.
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Newly come to Ballarat and with a daughter in the same class as Mary, Gloria Hammond thought herself above the people of a town not in the same league as Sydney. No matter she had left because her husband had been found guilty of fraud and embezzled funds from his factory and was now in prison, she was better than all of them, particularly a divorced housekeeper and her daughter.
When Sylvia had come home and told her all about the girls, and boys, at her new school she had had made it her business to find out all she could. Sylvia had been particularly taken with a Mary Beazley, who had shown her round, where things were and was a fellow pianist. Sylvia wasn't quite as good as Mary but she had played well at the concert and Mary had been the first to congratulate her.
Mrs Hammond looked to the Tynemans and those of the same social level to ingratiate herself into Ballarat society, but her airs and graces had grated on even Susan Tyneman, and she found she was not invited to the gatherings she thought were her right.
Jean was just getting a few last minute items in town, and had been stopped by Sheila's mother. Mrs Grange had wanted to tell her how much she enjoyed Mary's piano playing at the concert and to ask if she would accompany Sheila next time, as she felt more comfortable singing with a friend rather than her rather stiff music teacher.
"You must be so proud of her," Mrs Grange smiled, genuinely happy for her, "Mary and Shelia have been friends for such a long time, partners in crime I say," she laughed, "I hope it continues."
"So do I," Jean agreed, "Sheila was so helpful after the incident. It helped Mary regain her confidence."
"I hear the Tyneman boy is going to school in Melbourne, next year," Mrs Grange noted, "perhaps a good boarding school will knock some sense into him."
"We can only hope," Jean agreed.
Mrs Hammond had seen and heard everything and didn't like the way Sheila's mother had spoken to a housekeeper, as an equal. Housekeepers should know their place. She watched Jean head off into the newsagent's and decided when she came out she would have a word with her, about girls from the wrong side of the tracks trying to put themselves above her daughter; who in every way, in her opinion, was far above Mary Beazley; who wore a cotton dress too.
"I want your daughter to stay away from mine," she fell into step with Jean when she came out of the shop.
Jean stopped and turned, "sorry?"
"My daughter doesn't need to associate with the likes of you," she tossed her head and sniffed.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Jean was completely nonplussed that a stranger should approach her in such a manner.
"Gloria Hammond, and no, you don't know me, we move in different circles."
Jean mentally went through conversations with Mary, about new pupils, and could only come up with Sylvia.
"Sylvia, your daughter is Sylvia," Jean smiled, "Mary told me she was showing her around, and that they practiced the piano together." She frowned in thought, "ah, yes, the McDowell, To a Wild Rose? such a pretty piece."
"Huh! Like you would know," she sneered.
"Actually, I do," Jean took a deep breath, "my employer, Dr Blake, is a talented musician himself, and we listen to music all the time."
"You should keep to your station, Mrs Beazley," she poked her thin finger into Jean's shoulder, "classical music is not for the likes of you."
"Dr Blake says classical music is for everybody," Jean winced.
"Keep your little, bastard daughter away from my Sylvia," the woman hissed.
"Jean! Jean!" Dr Harvey called over, for once seeing something wasn't right, "I was wondering ..." what she wasn't sure, but she felt she should do something.
Mrs Hammond turned sharply away, catching her thin finger in Jean's silver cross that she habitually wore, and tore it from her throat sending it flying through the air into the back of a passing ute.
"No!" Jean put her hand to her throat as if she could hold it in place, but she was too late, the cross was gone.
Gloria Hammond strode off, a smirk on her face while Alice went to her new, and really only, female friend.
"What was all that about?" she asked, "who is she?"
"One of the mothers from the Grammar School," Jean gasped, "her daughter is Mary's friend."
"Oh," Dr Harvey hummed, confused, "are you alright?"
"My cross," she put her hand to her throat again, "I've had it all my life, dad gave it to me ... my baptism," she sniffed, holding back the tears.
"Did you drive down," Alice murmured, "I can drive you back, if you like?"
Jean had soon realised that personal interactions were not easy for Dr Harvey, she sometimes seemed closed off from the idea of family, though she had, eventually, agreed to join them for Christmas day. Jean was under no illusion that Matthew had gently persuaded her.
"Thank you, doctor," she whispered, "I did walk, Lucien has the car."
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Lucien drew onto the drive and was surprised to see Dr Harvey's little old Austin Seven parked neatly in front of the garage and a police car next to it.
He dashed in, concerned that something had happened to his odd little family.
"Jean! Dad!" he shouted down the hall, "what ..?" he pulled up short at the sight of Jean and Alice Harvey sitting at the table in the kitchen, drinking tea with Matthew and Thomas. Jean had the remnants of tears on her face and the first aid kit was in front of Alice.
"It's nothing, Lucien," Jean inhaled, "a petty argument, that's all. I'm fine."
"A woman attacked Jean," Alice interrupted, "she ... well, I suppose she did, she caught the chain round Jean's neck, it broke and flew into a ute, um ... oh, she scratched Jean's chest, but it's alright, just a bit sore." She exhaled, rarely did Alice Harvey say too much, just the basics, the facts.
Lucien stepped round the table to look but Jean pulled her blouse closed to hide the angry red mark. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a look that told him he was not to worry, just now, perhaps later, when she had recovered her composure.
"Who?" he asked, his voice softening, "who would do this?" He couldn't imagine Jean upsetting anyone to the extent they would attack her, in the street.
"Mrs Hammond, she's new to Ballarat, her daughter is a friend of Mary's," Jean lowered her voice in case her daughter was listening.
"Well, if Mary is friends with her daughter," Lucien was confused and ran his hand over his head, "why would she attack you?"
"I think it has something to do with the concert," Jean had had time to think about the encounter, "that Mary is ... well not of the appropriate social class." Jean slumped.
"Snob ..." Lucien huffed and sat next to her.
"What?"
"Snob, thinks she's above everyone else, superior," he smiled and touched her hand, she withdrew it quickly and looked towards Matthew who hadn't noticed.
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Jean was able to ignore the loss of her cross over dinner, everyone chipped in to help, even Alice ... well, she laid the table. Everybody sensed Jean didn't want to talk about the incident, but Lucien couldn't help but focus on the lack of the tiny silver cross her was so used to seeing around her neck. He knew she was closer to her father than her mother and the cross had been the last link to him and while she tried to put a brave face on it, she was clearly upset. Now she was so busy eating and talking at the table he could see the angry red mark just under her left collar bone, where Mrs Hammond had poked and scratched her. What on earth had provoked her to do such a thing, to someone she didn't know? Even Susan Tyneman and her circle were polite to Jean. He wondered how she would feel if he bought her a new cross for Christmas, something small and relatively simple in design. He decided to look in the jeweller's window the following day.
Mary wondered if she should stay away from Sylvia, when they returned to school and asked her mother this very question at the table.
"No, Mary," Jean smiled, "she is your friend, and I think you are both able to make your own minds up. Besides, it might upset Sylvia and I'm not having her mother pin that on you."
"Where did they come from?" Lucien asked, "are they local?"
"No, Sydney," Mary smiled, "Sylvia says her father disappeared, he'd had some bother at work," she continued, "Sylvia doesn't know where he is."
Matthew looked at Lucien and nodded, just enough to let him know he would look into it. After all, he could easily report the issue Jean had had and say he was looking into whether or not Mrs Gloria Hammond was known for such behaviour.
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"Alice cleaned it up, Lucien," Jean sighed at his constant attention, "there's no need to bother."
"Just want to make sure," he sat opposite her in the studio, "it looked quite red at dinner."
Jean flushed at the thought he was staring at her breast over the meal and frowned.
"Sorry," he held his hands up, "I didn't mean to stare, I was just concerned. She must have long nails, to leave that much of a mark."
"Not the kind of hands that do a lot of washing up," Jean shrugged, "long and painted bright red."
"Your hands are soft, for someone who does a lot of household chores," he took one and held it softly, "and you paint your nails."
"But mine aren't as long as hers," Jean didn't remove her hand from his, "they break before I can get them there."
"Talons then?" he grinned.
"A good description," she agreed.
"The cross, Jean ..."
"Dad gave it to me, when I was baptised," she bit her lip, "I've worn it all my life. I only took it off at night, or to clean it. I shall miss it."
"I'm sorry, Jean," he reached over to stroke her cheek, "if there was anything I could do ..."
"Not even you, Lucien, though it is sweet of you to think so."
His hand was warm as it lay against her cheek and she leant very slightly into it, still standing on the precipice, not daring to let herself fall, to give in to what her heart told her was possible - to love and be loved by him.
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He watched her head up the stairs holding back the urge to run up and take her in his arms and tell her everything would be fine, that he would find a way to make everything alright - that he was falling in love with her - had fallen in love with her. A different love to that he had for Mei Lin, slower to take the space in his heart and fill it so full sometimes he thought it would burst. She was more independent, stronger, yet vulnerable, easy to talk to, clever, very clever, gave as good as she got, when he teased her she teased him back. There was an ease in their relationship that for all the social conventions should not be there.
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Matthew put down the phone and grunted. His contact in Sydney had done the digging he had asked for and come up with the reason for Daniel Hammond to be missing. That Gloria Hammond should think herself above Jean Beazley was completely unacceptable. Jean had never, to his knowledge, broken the law, stolen money from Thomas, or fiddled the accounts. She didn't run from the shame of becoming pregnant outside the bonds of marriage or the stigma of being a divorcee, no, Jean was better than Mrs Hammond and he was going to let her know he knew the truth and he was going to tell Jean. He might even tell Alice, she was known to have a pithy put down on occasion and could deploy what was known as the 'Death Stare', at times - Lucien had been on the receiving end frequently!
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"Really?" Alice's eyebrows hit her hairline when Matthew caught her down in the morgue and passed on the information, "well, what a damn cheek! If it was me I'd have kept myself pretty much to myself."
"Yes, well," Matthew smiled, thinking she had done that since she had come to Ballarat, "it would seem that she has profited from her husband's ill gotten gains. She lives in a nice little house, drives a newish car and employs someone to come in and clean for her."
"Matthew," Alice stopped working on the body on the table, "do you think her money is what her husband embezzled? Only if he is in prison there is no income, surely - unless she is independently wealthy."
"It's finding out though," he slumped onto a stool and folded his arms. "It's quite obvious the woman has never done a stroke of work in her life, or if she did she married up ..."
"Factory girl, marries the boss?"
"Were you Sherlock Holmes in a previous life?" he teased.
"Off you go, Watson," she grinned, "go and do your job, and I'll do mine."
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Alice, it would appear, had hit the nail on the head, Gloria Simpson had fluttered her eyelashes at Daniel Hammond when she took him his tea each day. She quickly learned how he liked his morning cuppa and which were his favourite biscuits. He had fallen for her charms, her pretty blue eyes and peroxide blonde hair, and, reader, he married her.
Gloria soon persuaded her husband to push for promotion, and they had eventually set up home in one of the smarter areas of Sydney. She enjoyed the status that came with being married to a senior accountant, but wanted more. She had extravagant habits, shopping at the most exclusive dress designers, insisting their daughter, when she was born, had a nanny, a wet nurse, and was signed up for the best school in the city. These habits cost Daniel and he struggled to keep up with the bills. He was bemoaning the fact one evening, and had brought work home with him, which Gloria took an unnatural interest in. A gifted mathematician, she soon found a way to do some creative accounting. Small amounts syphoned off into an apparent company account, whose signatories were herself and Daniel.
Daniel began to get greedy. Not content with fuelling his wife's extravagant lifestyle he had developed a liking for horse-racing. The trouble was, he wasn't much good at picking a winner and soon he was syphoning much larger amounts than Gloria expected him to. She knew just how much they could get away with and the larger amounts began to be noticed. In time, he was caught, but ever the loyal, or as Alice termed it, the stupidly in love, husband, he didn't implicate his wife in any of the embezzlement.
And so, after seeing him sent to prison, Gloria had sold their rather opulent home, sacked the housekeeper for some minor misdemeanour and headed for a smaller town, in another state where she could re-invent herself as a deserted wife.
But she still had grand ideas. If she had retreated to a quieter life, sent her daughter to school and contented herself with a couple of charitable works, she would have got away with it, but she didn't. She strove to set herself up as a well to do, well connected lady and it was her downfall.
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Somehow Family Welfare got hold of the information and deemed her an unfit mother. They had managed, with a certain newly appointed Police Inspector's help, to find the sacked housekeeper, who had told them of Mrs Hammond's treatment of her daughter. That she rapped her knuckles with a ruler if she played a wrong note on the piano, tied her plaits far too tight and drilled her in maths and French verbs. She attended elocution and deportment lessons and was dressed in the finest clothes that she wasn't allowed to get dirty or creased.
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The investigation dug deeper; between the Ballarat force and Darlinghurst they uncovered the truth of Gloria's wealth, that she was living off the fraudulently gained money and she was summoned to the station to be questioned. The Darlinghurst force had been unable to find the money because as soon as Daniel had been arrested she had emptied the account and put it elsewhere together with the profit from selling the house.
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Sylvia sat at home and waited. The cleaner came in and did what she was employed to do, but on seeing the child alone had stayed a little longer and made her a meal to tide her over. Family Welfare came over, at the request of the police, and told her she would be taken to a place of safety for the night.
"Can I just speak to my friend?" she hesitated, "only we are supposed to be meeting tomorrow ..." she and Mary had vowed to meet up in spite of Mrs Hammond's express insistence that she distance herself from Mary.
"Five minutes," the Welfare officer snipped.
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"What? No!" Mary gasped, "can't you come here?"
"Oh, I don't think so," Sylvia sighed, "I'm to go to a place of safety, whatever that is. I've no idea where mother is, except she was taken by the police this morning. Oh Mary ..." she burst into tears, "what's going on?"
"Hang on, I'll get mum," Mary put the receiver down and went to find Jean, who was in the sunroom tending her begonias.
"I don't know, mum," she shook her head when Jean asked her what was going on, "only Sylvia is upset. Can't she come here, at least for the night? Gran'pa and Uncle Lucien are respected members of the community, that's what you keep telling us."
Jean picked the receiver up, asked Sylvia to put the Officer on and shooed Mary out of the kitchen while she spoke. She knew that Sylvia would be taken to Mount Clair, the orphanage there, that was run by nuns. It wasn't unpleasant, just a bit cold, emotionally lacking.
"Well," she hummed, "it's so close to Christmas, I expect they are rather busy there, we would be only too happy to have her stay with us. She and Mary are such good friends."
"Right, well," the officer huffed, "I suppose, with Dr Blake being a police surgeon ..." the paperwork would be easier. The sister who ran the orphanage was old and crabby, read each line of the agreement at least twice, if not more, and asked too many questions.
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"Mary," Jean went to find her daughter, which was not hard, she was sitting in the living room, trying not to listen, "go and make up the bed in the little bedroom, Sylvia can sleep in there."
Mary leapt up and flung her arms round Jean, "Mum!" she cried, "thank you, it will be so much nicer than any children's home."
"Hm," Jean huffed with a smile, "I'll go and fetch her, I need to sign some papers, I expect."
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Sylvia had packed a suitcase, as instructed by the Welfare officer, and was sitting in the living room patiently waiting for Jean. Mary had told her much about her life and living with the doctors and Li, growing up without a father but with someone who was better than any father she could have wished for. She thought she was looking forward to staying with ordinary people. Her parents had bickered, music was a chore, clothes were a bore - she wanted to wear simple skirts and blouses lovingly made by her mother, like Mary did. She had changed into the least expensive outfit she could find, a tailored skirt and blouse. She had packed her pretty cotton pyjamas, plainest dresses and cardigans, underwear and socks. It was not because she didn't want to embarrass Mrs Beazley, more because she felt uncomfortable in them.
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"Everything will be alright," Jean soothed as they pulled away from the house, "things have a way of working out."
"I just don't understand," Sylvia sniffed, "they said father is in prison, and with the police taking mother away ... what's going on, Mrs Beazley?"
"I'm not really sure, Sylvia," Jean mused, "but don't think too badly of her, she only wanted what she thought was best for you."
"She didn't really, Mrs Beazley," Sylvia was openly crying now, "she wanted what was best for her. She showed me off, with my piano playing, and I'm not that good, dragging me to the theatre for some clever play that she didn't understand but all her toffee-nosed friends talked about. I preferred the movies or a book."
"Well," Jean hummed, "we have the radio on and Dr Blake plays his records, and we read ... we make our own entertainment. I hope that's alright for you."
"It sounds perfect."
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She sat on the bed and looked around the small room. It was painted cream, with flowered curtains at the window, and a rag rug by the bed. There was a green eiderdown on the bed with a figured pattern of roses and two clean, but plain, white towels on the end of it.
"There's hangers in the wardrobe," Mary was saying, "and plenty of room in the drawers. You can put your toothbrush in the bathroom, there's a mug, and me and Li are just down the hall."
"It's lovely," Sylvia whispered, "so cosy."
"It's nothing special, just the guest room," Mary shrugged.
"All the same, it is lovely."
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"I haven't told her anything," Jean sat with Lucien and Thomas in the study, "but I have dragged a temporary fostering order out of Family Welfare. That is alright, isn't it?"
"She needs to be safe, and comfortable," Thomas smiled, "and she will be here. I don't mind, do you, son?"
"Absolutely not," Lucien huffed, "I would never have thought of it, but a family home is going to be better for her. She's going to need help getting through the next few days, and who wants to spend Christmas in an Orphanage? Gloria is going to be kept in custody, Matthew is worried she will do a runner."
"So, Sylvia is here for Christmas, then." Jean stood up, "I've dinner to get on, why don't you two go and make her welcome. She's with our girls in the garden."
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Sylvia was embarrassed, touched and apologetic in that order when Lucien and Thomas welcomed her. Lucien praised her piano playing; she blushed; saying she was nowhere as good as Mary. Thomas said it was lovely to have the house so full of young people and told her she must treat the place as her home.
Jean called them in for dinner. She noticed Sylvia seemed more relaxed now, though she hung back until everybody else had entered the kitchen. The kitchen, not where she usually ate, she and her mother always ate off the best china in the small dining room, this felt more like family, warmer.
"It's a cold meat and salad meal," Jean smiled, "too warm for a roast or a stew."
"It looks lovely, Mrs Beazley," Sylvia dried her hands, "nice and fresh."
"Thank you, dear," Jean smiled back then turned to Lucien who was pinching a piece of freshly made bread. "I'll thank you to wait until we are all seated, doctor," she hummed, with a wicked twinkle in her eye. It was enough to have Sylvia smile and realise that adults were not always too concerned about the social classes as her mother was.
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The meal was eaten, much talk about the day's work, though passing over Sylvia's mother, which wasn't easy. In fact it was Sylvia who broached the subject in that she wasn't certain where she would spend Christmas.
"Well," Lucien looked round the table. Jean widened her eyes, Mary and Li looked hopeful, Thomas smiled, knowing what his son was about to say, Sylvia just looked as if she was about to burst into tears. "I think, if you would like to, perhaps could spend it with us, you would be most welcome, wouldn't she, father, Jean?"
"She most certainly would," they agreed.
"Oh, goodness," she sniffed, "why are you so kind to me, after what my mother did to you, Mrs Beazley?"
"You didn't do it, though," Jean smiled and reached across the table to touch her hand, "you are not your mother, Sylvia, we would love to have you stay for Christmas."
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Of course it meant they had to persuade Family Welfare, who, while happy to let a child stay with friends for one night, had to be convinced that for a longer stay it was the right thing to do.
Lucien checked the progress of Mrs Hammond's case. Matthew informed him that she would not be released before Christmas, and even if she was Family Welfare had indicated they did not think a convicted fraudster was a suitable person to be a parent.
"She will be put up for fostering," Matthew told him, "sent to live with some family she doesn't know, for however long she, or they, can stand it."
"We were wondering," Lucien sat down in the chair opposite Matthew's desk, adorned with its newly inscribed wooden name plate, 'Inspector Matthew Lawson', "if we could make a case for Sylvia staying with us. I know, we are not a 'family' in the usual sense of the word, but, Jean will see she is properly fed and clothed, Dad and I are both doctors so her health and wellbeing will be well tended to ..." he tailed off.
"Bloody hell," Matthew whistled, "are you sure? What does Jean think, she's the one who does all the work."
"She agrees, and it was a family discussion," Lucien leant forward, "Matthew, Sylvia is a child, she needs the stability of a family home, as do all children. Jean has experience of looking after children who are adrift, she's raised my own daughter, as well as her own, however long Sylvia is allowed to stay with us, she will be loved, nurtured, made to feel part of a home."
"Hmm ..." Matthew scowled, "I suppose ..."
"You know Jean, better than I do," Lucien pressed on, "who else is better prepared? ... she seems to have this bubble around her, a safe place where no one can be hurt, it's like ... oh I don't know ... like absorbing ... drinking in love." He ran his hand through his hair, "Matthew ..."
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Family Welfare arrived, unannounced, to find Jean, Mary, Sylvia and Li making star shaped biscuits. They were adorned in flour and giggling like toddlers. As Jean mused later, it was what they should see, nothing special put on just for them.
"Right, you three wash up," Jean instructed, "I'll just be in the living room. Don't touch the oven." This last was just for the woman observing, Mary and Li were used to baking and Jean had taught them to use the oven and stove safely.
Jean showed Mrs Harrison around, where Sylvia slept, the bathroom and studio. "The surgery is off limits," she told her, "though they can find me in the waiting room if they need me."
"I'll extend the arrangement," Mrs Harrison nodded, watching her remove the now baked biscuits from the oven, "it's not easy to place children at this time of year, and, I have to admit, you have made her welcome and it all seems very safe and homely."
"If you leave the paperwork I'll have Dr Blake sign it, then, shall I?"
"Please, then drop it in at the office." They shook hand and Jean showed her out, breathing a sigh of relief.
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Another stocking appeared on the mantel of the studio fireplace, with Sylvia's name appliquéd on it. This was something Jean had done ever since Mary's first Christmas, everybody had one, Jean filled all of them, Thomas filled hers. Just little things, an orange was always pushed into the toe, then small and sometimes rather silly things were added.
"Lucien," Thomas pulled him aside while Jean was in the garden, "will you fill Jean's stocking this year, I have all the things for it?"
Er, yes I suppose so," he scratched his head, "what goes in them?"
"Oh just little things," his father smiled, "Jean will do all the others, she always has done. It also might be an idea if you could go and get a small gift for Sylvia from us. I know Jean has done something, I think the cardigan she was knitting for Mary is going to her instead."
"Right, so ..." he thought for a moment, "a book, perhaps ... nothing too learned."
"Quite," Thomas agreed, "Mary will know what's best."