1934 Ballarat
Jean sat on her bed in her white cotton nightgown with her knees drawn up to her chest. She had been in much the same position since the early morning hour she came home. But though she had not moved, the sun had still risen, gradually lightening the sky. And the house had risen as well. Her mother was downstairs, starting breakfast without her. She knew by the scent of coffee wafting up the stairwell. She had always loved the smell of coffee in the morning, even as a very young girl. She used to ask her mother for a taste, every morning, and every morning her mother would tell her she was too young, she wasn't ready for it yet. Until one morning, her mother must have been tired of her asking and just poured her a cup and set it in front of her. The steam rose up in swirls and young Jean sat in awe watching it twirl and dance as it dissipated into the cool morning air.
"Well don't just stare at it, take a drink if you want it so much," her mother said while she readied the eggs.
So, Jean did. She lifted the cup gingerly to her mouth and took a careful first sip, ready to be ushered into this adult world of coffee drinking and who knew what else came with it. But as she drank, her face contorted against her will. She tried to recover herself, but her mother had seen.
"Don't care for it do you?"
Her mother bent down and whisked the cup away, replacing it with a glass of milk, and a plate of eggs.
"Why doesn't it taste like it smells?"
"It does. Coffee tastes exactly like it smells when you're ready to appreciate it. But you have to be a good girl and not greedy about it," her mother gestured at her with a fork, "like I've been telling you."
Her father winked at her and said, "Just needs a bit of cream and sugar. You'll get there, dear. But your mum's right. Give it a year or two."
She smiled gratefully at her father, but couldn't help feeling like a bit of a failure. Why hadn't she been able to taste the coffee the way everyone else did? Her mother loved it so much. And it smelled so good. There must be something wrong with her.
Christopher had not proposed to her. He hadn't even really set up anything all that wonderful in the barn. It hadn't quite been candles and a beautiful picnic, but there had been blankets and a lantern, and a few things to eat he'd taken from their kitchen. She felt bad feeling disappointed. She hadn't wanted him to notice. He looked so hopeful as he pulled her into him, as he kissed her and ran his finger down her arm. He loved how strong her arms were, he said, and she'd blushed, thankful the lantern didn't throw much light. She'd been glad. They had all night, he said, and she didn't say no. She wanted an adventure and wasn't this going to be it? She liked the way he touched her and she liked the words he said and she liked feeling like he saw her.
Everything all felt so good until it just didn't. Was something wrong with her? What had she done wrong?
"Jean, you're going to be late!" her mother shouted up the stairs. It was Tuesday and she cleaned Mrs. Stevenson's house on Tuesdays. And she was usually downstairs hours ago helping her mother. She dragged herself off the bed and pulled on her clothes. She didn't bother checking her hair, or washing her face. She was cleaning house today anyway.
"Jean, are you alright?" her mother asked as she poured herself a cup of coffee.
"Just a little tired today."
"Don't forget you have…"
"The Stevenson's, yes, I know." Jean kept her eyes on her coffee cup. She couldn't look at her mother.
"Do you want some breakfast?"
"No, I don't feel that well."
Jean took a long sip of coffee, then took the pan from her mother and finished cleaning it without making eye contact. "You eat. I'll finish up," Jean said.
But a knock came at the door, and her mother left the plate to go answer. Jean felt a twinge of worry but pushed it aside. It was probably just… No. She heard his voice.
"Well, Christopher Beazley, what a lovely surprise this morning," Jean's mother said.
Jean stopped scrubbing the pan. She set it carefully in the sink. She picked her cup of coffee back up and took another long, deep sip, then refilled the cup.
"Jean, look who's here!"
Jean sighed, she went to the part of the kitchen that looked into their parlor with a view of the front door. "Morning, Christopher," she said with a simple smile.
"Good morning, Jean," he said, nodding his head. She felt like it was a knowing look and she didn't like it, but she was probably reading in.
"Would you like some breakfast, Christopher? We have extra," her mother said, meaning what Jean didn't eat, she assumed.
"Oh, thank you," he said, coming all the way into the kitchen.
Jean watched him walk toward her. She let her eyes travel along his long, thin legs. She raised her eyes to his lean torso that she'd recently noted had a patches of dark hair that didn't fully meet on his chest. And the she met his eyes, deep brown, and set under thick black brows. Had his brows always been so dark?
"Well, get him a plate, Jean," her mother said, with a nudge.
Jean smiled quickly and handed him what had been meant for her.
"Would you like a drink?" her mother asked.
"Sure, I'll have some coffee if it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble at all," her mother said, widening her eyes at Jean to prompt movement.
Mechanically, Jean poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of Christopher.
"I really do need to move along," Jean said to no one in particular. Then, looking at Christopher, "I have work this morning."
"Right, the Stevenson's. I'll drive you."
"No don't. I enjoy the walk and you've just started your breakfast."
Jean headed for the door, not waiting for a reply.
"Really, it's no problem," Christopher said, "It's why I came by."
"That's so nice of you!" Jean's mother said. But Jean was firm in her refusal and took herself out the front door. She stopped on the front porch having closed the door behind her. She took a breath. Then another. And when the door opened she regretted that she hadn't quickened her step instead and gone a good ways down the country road.
"Jean," her mother said harshly, "you were very rude to Christopher in there. You should at least give him a nice smile for coming to see about you."
Jean sighed in relief. Her mother she could handle.
"Trust me. I've given Christopher plenty. He'll be fine." And she started down that road.
Jean was very competent at cleaning. She had been trained young and worked hard. But it took her a bit longer today. Usually her mind was on efficiency. It made her happy to find ways to do things just a little bit better and just a little bit faster. But today she moved slowly. Her thoughts were elsewhere. They kept slipping out of Ballarat entirely.
She had read about all sorts of places in school. As she rubbed polish into the banister here she wondered if banister's in London looked significantly different. Would they be made out of different wood? Would one clean them differently? What did eggs taste like in Spain or coffee in Paris? How could she possibly have thought she would find adventure here? Coffee didn't taste any different after being with Christopher. It was just Ballarat coffee, and it tasted a bit burnt this morning.
She would have to go to her priest, she knew it. She'd have to confess but oh she didn't want to. She didn't want to confess even to herself what she'd done. She had known better – that was the hard part. It's just that kissing him had felt so good and she thought maybe she deserved this good thing. But the rest… hadn't felt like kissing. Maybe she just wasn't ready. Maybe this was what sin felt like. She'd been greedy after all.
Jean was just gathering up the last of her supplies when Mrs. Stevenson came home with her shopping.
"Still here, Jean?"
"Yes, sorry, just getting out of your way."
"Oh that's just fine. It looks beautiful as always. Can I take you home?"
"Thank you, but I was going to stop by the school today before going home. I thought I'd just walk to the tram stop."
"I'm going that way to pick up Lily. Let me take you, and here, have a bite to eat, you look faint."
And so Mrs. Stevenson with her kind grey eyes fixed Jean a sandwich and bundled her into the car. Jean had been starving but hadn't realized it till she took the first bite. Or maybe it was when she'd first settled on her plan. She listened to Mrs. Stevenson discuss some of the more interesting town gossip with less interest than usual. She found it hard not to sympathize with those who had made a misstep. Well, except for Patrick Tyneman. Jean hadn't sunk that low. She thanked Mrs. Stevenson when they reached the school and exited the car, feeling bolstered by the food and her own decision. But she paused on the sidewalk.
The school stood in front of her, and the church behind her.
"What is it you need to do at school, dear? I thought you'd finished?" Mrs. Stevenson called out the window.
"Oh, I've graduated," Jean said, "But I haven't finished."
At that, Jean strode confidently toward the double doors of the secondary school. She flipped the collar of her jacket and held her head high as the other girls looked at her. Why was she here? She could feel them thinking, but no matter. She knew what she as about. It was lunch time and class would be out. This wouldn't take long.
Mr. Thomas's classroom was down the first hallway and to the right. She hesitated for just one more moment with her hand on the knob, then pushed her way in. It was strange being back in this room. It was so familiar, and still so foreign. It had become a place she didn't belong, just like Ballarat.
"Miss Randall, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Mr. Thomas stood just inside the door with his glasses perched on his small nose and his sweater vest snug on his thin frame.
"You'd mentioned helping me find a way to take classes," she said. It tumbled out, quick and direct. She was afraid she wouldn't say it at all if she took time for pleasantries.
"Yes, but I thought. Forgive me, I thought you weren't interested. Was I wrong?"
"I...," she paused, thinking about how to put it. She was always interested. "I just needed a little time to be ready," Jean said at last.
He nodded, his thinned hair slicked flat against his head, but his eyes danced with possibilities for his favorite student, and she felt hers do the same. "We all need time now and again to take hold of what life has for us, Miss Randall. I'm glad you see what might be. Were you still thinking of classes at the tertiary here in Ballarat?"
Jean slowly shook her head. "No, I was hoping to go, well, I don't know. There's just so much to see."
"There is indeed," he said. "Come, and let's plan your future adventure."
Forgive me, Father. She followed Mr. Thomas to his desk to talk about what dreams may be. Forgive me, Mother. She would go to the church next, to speak of the past. For now, she wanted to speak of the future.