Mattie, dreams change as we grow. I'm sure you've wondered at mine from time to time though you were mostly to gracious to say so. I know you thought I should hope more, and I know how much you liked the idea of myself and Doctor Blake. But dreams are just dreams, for most of us. I'm alright. I'll adjust. I always do.

Ballarat 1934 - Spring

Once when Jean Mary Randall was ten years old she sneaked out of her bedroom after dark. She saw the moon from her the window over her bed. It didn't so much rise tonight as it did hang, huge and round and yellow in the deep dark of a country night sky. It seemed to beckon her. She lay there, thinking, for a good long while. She thought about how her mother expected her to be a good girl and stay in bed and she thought about how her father would punish her if she disobeyed her mother. She thought about how her brother could catch her as he was often up late reading his textbooks. But none of those thoughts overcame the siren call of the moon's strangely warm glow. What must the fields look like lit up by that strange celestial body? And so she slipped out from under her quilt. Her white cotton nightdress hung up on the sheets and she pulled it back down to her ankles when her feet landed on the hardwood. They barely creaked as she tiptoed from board to board, not bothering about shoes or sweaters or anything practical. It seemed like she floated on dreams all the way down the stairs, she was so silent and purposeful.

As she crept around the corner and their front door towered in front of her it did seem to present her first challenge. It would squeak and it would thud. It was old and the wood had swelled and contracted through so many Ballarat winters it didn't quite fit in the frame anymore. That's what her mother said every time she had to shove it extra hard. So, Jean considered the problem and decided she had three options: 1) Pull it open as carefully as possible and don't quite close it all the way. 2) Yank good and hard and hope she can out run anyone who hears it 3) Give it up and go back upstairs.

She never gave the third option a second thought. She did consider running for it and claming whatever time she could. But, truth be told, Jean was a careful girl, even when plotting a nighttime escapade. And she knew that if she ran, she'd have freedom for a moment, but the fear of the chase wouldn't be exhilarating, rather it would poison the whole trip. She wanted not just the freedom of place that she'd get when she stepped through that door, but the freedom of time as well. She wanted the whole night to belong just to her and the moon.

So, though she might risk not getting out at all, she carefully and quietly unlatched the door. The metal bolt moved with the squeak of rust and slid into place with a weighty thunk. She cringed, but no one came. Next, she twisted the handle with great care and pushed against the wooden door with her shoulder till it gave way and swung open. She eased it back into place and decided it was in her best interest to leave it not fully closed. Her heart beat quickly making her movements jerkier than she'd like but soon she was out in the cool air of a summer night, standing under the waiting moon. She ran now, silent and free as young girls are, her arms spread out to either side as if telling the moon she'd come. She ran until she stood well past the barn, all by herself in the middle of their vast field. She'd done it. She lifted her face up toward the yellow moon, but it seemed no closer than it had in her bedroom. She ran a bit farther. She knew she couldn't catch it, couldn't reach it. But surely she could get a little closer. Surely there was spectacular waiting for her out here.

But no matter how far she ran, nor how fast, the moon ran faster, farther. Until she didn't believe it was her friend at all, but some sort of evil temptress who had lured her out here with unkept promises. The sting of rejection bit her young heart.

Well, that would be the last time she'd believe in anything so foolish.

And then, she stopped looking up, and looked around, and realized she was quite far from home. She hadn't run all the way to the Beazley's – their barn was still just a black smudge in the distance, but she'd run far enough from home it seemed more a shape than a place. And now her young heart beat in her throat, for she felt herself abandoned out here in the midst of the night with no friend, and a host of foes. She knew that snakes hid in the grass and redback spiders lurked, and she knew she'd been a silly girl to think they wouldn't hurt her just because she had answered the moon's call. It wouldn't save her from anything. That run she hadn't planned to take from her house she absolutely took to it.

She made it to her bedroom undetected. But she scolded herself far worse than she would have been by anyone who'd found her.

"It would have served you right to get eaten by a xxx, Jean Mary Randall," she told herself. "That's what you get for believing lies. Especially when they're told by something so pretty."

She climbed back up into that bed and straightened out her nightgown and decided the splinters in her feet were a worthy punishment.

The knowledge that she was pregnant came gradually at first, like the sun setting and the night growing cold. When does it happen? At first you don't even notice, and then, suddenly the sun has sunk beyond the hills and you just know – by the darkness and the chill.

And once she did know, she didn't feel regret. She didn't feel her dreams melting into the huge Ballarat sky around her. She just knew her life would be different. Sometimes there's a steadiness in knowing.

It was the very beginning of spring now, and a yellow robin perched in the willow tree where she was meeting Christopher. She was building a nest, now, getting ready, as confident in her preparations as she was that the air would hold her up as she soared to the branch.

Jean didn't feel sadness, or regret, or grief for the dreams she could no longer hold but she did feel fear. She saw Christopher approaching, walking along the well-worn path between the farms. She saw his shape before she could make out his person, long legs striding confidently her way, and she hoped in the shape of him. He would stand by her, surely. He wouldn't let her crash through the branches. They would sort this out together, she was sure. Almost sure. And that was the most important thing, that they made this right.

Her mother had said she was easy to love, and she already knew this girl – it had to be a girl – she carried would be the hardest thing she'd ever done and the easiest thing she'd ever love.

"Do you love him?"

No

"Do you love him?"

What is love, anyway? Is it so important? Is it better than relief, than gratitude, than reprieve? Is it better than scandal? Is it better than safety?

"Do you love him?"

"Of course, I do, Daddy," Jean said.

Christopher hadn't asked if she loved him. Jean didn't think he really cared. But she told him anyway. "I do love you," she said. "I'd want to do this anyway."

He didn't look like he believed her, so she kissed him. He leaned in and took what she gave, hungrily. She was still so ill. But he needed her, she knew that by now. Need sat right next to love, didn't it?

The telling of it came quickly. Matter-of-factly. Sugar-coating wouldn't make this any easier. She was pregnant.

"I love you, Jean Mary," Christopher told her.

Jean smiled, and nodded.

So, then, it would be alright?

They'd get married right away, he assured her. They could stay at her farm and help her parents till they could buy their own place. Everything would be just fine.

After the relief, and the tears, and the sinking into his embrace, he repeated himself.

"I love you, Jean Mary," he said.

Maybe he did. He was awfully pretty, though.