Words required:

although though thought patriotic enough plough bough thorough marooned fought dough rough borough though cough.

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Jean gave the bread dough a thorough pounding. It helped her work out her anger and she was angry. She had passed Evelyn Toohey and Dorothy Turner in town and they were talking about the coming ANZAC parade. Jean usually marched wearing Christopher's medals, in his honour and memory, and Lucien had encouraged her to do so this year, even though she was now his wife. She had been passing the time of day pleasantly with her friends when a stranger stopped and spoke to Evelyn.

Evelyn introduced the woman as Nollie Myers, newly arrived in Ballarat with her husband and son. Mr Myers had served in North Africa and met his wife out there. She was a nurse and they had met when he had been treated for a bullet to the arm. They had married towards the end of the war and moved back to Australia as soon as he was demobbed, she informed the ensemble with some pride.

'Where does the ANZAC parade go?' Nollie asked, and she was told it went from Lydiard Street, up Sturt Street to the Cenotaph. 'Good,' she smiled, 'we like to march. I expect you do too?'

'You do, don't you Jean?' Evelyn remarked. 'Will the doctor march this year?'

'I don't think he will, Evelyn.' Jean said quietly, 'he prefers to remember quietly.'

'Of course.'

'I think it's only right and proper we march.' Mrs Myers replied huffily. 'Did he serve?'

'My husband served in the Far East.' Jean informed her.

'And he doesn't march? Not very patriotic.' Mrs Myers looked at the ladies, Jean's face had darkened. 'We should show our gratitude.' Mrs Myers continued intent on ignoring Jean's obvious displeasure.

'I'd better be off, Evelyn,' Jean turned, 'I need to get ready for surgery.'

'Right, Jean,' Evelyn touched her friend's arm, understandingly, 'I'll see you at the sewing circle, will I?'

'Perhaps.' Jean walked away. How dare a perfect stranger imply that Lucien was not patriotic, she didn't know him. Lucien had fought so hard to survive during the war, and still fought his demons, probably always would, she knew that, so it didn't need some self righteous new comer to say who was or wasn't patriotic. Not every ex-soldier in the borough would march, some would remember their fallen comrades in their own way.

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There was no surgery, it was just an excuse to leave before she said something she would regret. She was seriously considering not marching this year, not now. Perhaps they could have a quiet day to themselves and remember together. Meanwhile, a good bread making session would help her work out her annoyance at this woman's remarks.

Lucien heard the thumping as he crossed the threshold, after a morning filling in mortuary reports for the Superintendant.

'Er, Jean.' He hesitated before entering the kitchen, 'what has that dough done to you that you should give it such rough treatment?'

She looked up and he smiled. She had, at some point, wiped her hand across her brow and had a stripe of flour across her forehead and a spot on the end of her nose. He could see she was upset and went over to her, wrapping his arms round her and kissing the floury make up away.

'Someone's annoyed you, though for once I don't think it's me.' He murmured as she leant into him.

'Sorry, Lucien,' She looked up at him, her hands still covered with flour and bits of bread dough, 'a stranger in town today, passed some foolish remark about those who don't march on ANZAC day.'

'Oh, I take it I was in the firing line, again.' He tightened his hold on her.

'Not everyone marches, darling.' She whispered, 'some prefer solitude. I think I'll stay with you, if you don't mind, this time.'

'It's entirely up to you, Jean, and I'd like to be with you.' He thought it would be quite nice to spend the day with her, just the two of them with their individual losses making them one, together. 'So, has beating up that dough helped?'

'Yes,' she laughed, 'it should be a nice light loaf.'

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Lucien hadn't poured Jean a sherry while she finished putting the dishes away and he was surprised to see her enter the living room.

'I thought you were going to the sewing circle tonight.' He looked up from his paper.

'I think I'll give it a miss, tonight,' she smiled, there's enough mending to keep me occupied here.' It was true, she had some buttons to put on one of Lucien's shirts and there was a tear in Charlie's spare uniform jacket after a tussle with a drunk one night.

'Is the new lady in the sewing circle?' Lucien passed her, her drink, as she wasn't going out.

'Not unless she's been invited by Evelyn on wormed her way in.' Jean threaded her needle, she didn't know why she should care so much, but she did, and she didn't want to get into a conversation about what their respective spouses had done in the war.

'I suppose her husband served, then.' Lucien went to sit next to her, he knew she found this day difficult, maybe he should be the one to make the change and march with her.

'North Africa, apparently.' Jean stopped sewing, 'they met when she was a nurse and he was being treated for a bullet wound.'

'Matthew served in North Africa.'

'I know, and like you he doesn't go on about it.' Jean mused.

'It was hell.' Lucien noted.

'It was all hell, darling.' Jean leaned her head on his shoulder. 'But we don't need people like Nollie Myers to remind us all the time. Those of use that lost loved ones have a constant reminder, even if we have managed to find a new love.'

'True.' Lucien kissed the top of her head and put his arm round her shoulders, holding her tight.

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Although Jean had made the decision not to march Lucien knew she wanted too, deep down. And deep down he knew he was at fault. He should march with her, put on his medals. He sat in his study looking at them, he knew he'd earned them but like Jean had said, he didn't go on about it. His thoughts were wandering when a polite cough brought him back to the present.

'Jean,' he smiled, 'what can I do for you?' She had obviously been in the garden, she was pink with exertion and was still wearing her gardening gloves.

'Could you come into the garden. There's a bough on the apple tree that has grown into the middle.' She tipped her head to one side, 'don't suppose you could come and saw it off for me, dearest.' She stood there with her wide-eyed innocent look that always got what she wanted.

'I'd be delighted.' He lied, but for her...

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ANZAC Day dawned bright and clear. Jean sighed as she stood looking in the mirror in the hall, her sober suit with Christopher's medals pinned to it was smart and appropriate. Lucien had told her she was to march, to honour Christopher as she always did and not let some mealy mouthed new comer stop her.

'Very smart.' Lucien came up behind her and kissed the top of her head. She turned and her chin dropped.

'Lucien,' she gasped, he stood there in his suit as usual with his medals pinned to his chest.

'Thought I'd march with you, if that's alright with you?' He looked at her and lifted her chin with his finger, leaning down to lightly kiss her lips.

'Of course, but...' she was worried it would upset him, bring all his dreadful memories to the forefront of his mind.

'We'll be late.' He ignored the implication and opened the door for her.

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They joined the parade and marched side by side, Jean occasionally looked at her husband. His face had a bland expression, she couldn't read him but hoped that all he was doing was concentrating on keeping control. His hand brushed hers and it felt cold and clammy as if he was afraid.

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Lucien was determined to do this for Jean, but as the parade moved towards the Cenotaph he felt marooned in a sea of nightmares. His feet began to feel heavy, he had to plough through something unknown, deep enough to drown in.

Jean noticed, she had to get him out of the parade, quietly, gently. She was on the outside of the line and took his hand as they passed the club, pulling him gently inside.

She took him to a corner, out of view of the bar and sat him down. He was pale and shaking.

'Stay here.' She urged, 'don't go anywhere.'

She hurried to the bar and ordered him a whisky, quickly paying for it and taking it to him. She put both his hands round the glass and guided it to his lips.

'Drink,' she whispered.

He downed the drink in one go and coughed as it hit the back of his throat. He looked at Jean, seeing her at last, bringing him back to the present, to Ballarat and away from the camp.

'Sorry,' he gulped.

'Don't be,' she leant over and kissed his cheek, 'we'll remember quietly next year. No need to make a show of it.'

'I thought I could handle it.' He sniffed, 'I've been in town at this time before.'

'But you never march.' Jean was gentle, holding his hand, 'when you're ready, we'll go home and sit in the garden.'

They sat for a little while longer and then, unnoticed, slipped out of the club and wandered slowly home, hand in hand.

The garden was peaceful, bright and a world away from his troubled thoughts, he could relax now. Jean smiled at him as she took the tray of tea out to him, it had been brave of him to march with her, but his demons were always there, just out of sight, just under control, and that was how it would always be, she had come to know that.

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Can't remember if Matthew served but Seven Dragons wrote a timeline story in which he served at Tobruk, so thanks to Seven Dragons for that.