Well, it would appear year 6 are being given a picture or other prompt o write a story of not less than five paragraphs each week. The first picture is of a rook on top of an old clock, with a key on a chain in its beak. This the story I got from that.

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"Honestly! There it was," she wrapped her hands round the tea cup a trying to reassure herself she wasn't dreaming, "on top of the old clock. You remember the one, it stopped and couldn't be got going again."

"But what's it doing in the attic?" Lucien poured himself another cup of tea, "I mean, surely it should have been thrown out. And how did the bird get in there?"

"Heaven knows, maybe you thought you would have a use for it, though goodness knows what. As for the bird, I have no idea, unless a slate came loose in last week's storm." She sighed and drained her cup. "Anyway, I've left Matthew to get someone in to deal with it, but it could explain the scratching noises we could hear."

"Indeed," he mused, "but how did it get there?" he drifted off into his own thoughts.

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Earlier that day:

"Matthew, is that you?" she called down, hearing the door go and his familiar tread accompanied by the thud of his walking stick. "I'm in the attic!"

Her voice was accompanied by the thump of a small suitcase hitting the landing floor, "I do wish Lucien would let me store these in the back bedroom, nobody uses it. Oh!"

In the attic, Jean jumped back, eyes wide in astonishment. There, perched on an old clock, the one from the studio that had stopped; never to go again; shortly after Lucien had returned to Ballarat, was a bird. It looked like a rook, and in its beak it had a small gold key on a chain.

Jean rarely backed away from any task that needed doing, but rounding up a stray rook that had somehow got into the attic was one task she felt she was not up to. Of course that might have something to do with the fact she had a train to catch, if she was going to meet her husband in time to get to the theatre in Melbourne.

"Jean?" Matthew's voice floated up through the loft hatch, "you ok?"

"Yes, there's a bird up here, with a little gold key in its beak," her head appeared at the top of the ladder, "I've no idea how it got in, or how long it's been here."

"Odd," Matthew scratched his head, "what are you going to do?"

"Me?" she climbed down the ladder, stopping to pull the hatch cover over it. "I'm off to Melbourne, remember, Lucien has tickets to a concert. I need to get going or I'll miss the train. It must have been here all week, that's how long we've been able to hear a strange scratching sound."

"Ri i ight," he muttered, "want me to get someone in?"

"Oh, Matthew, would you?" she smiled sweetly, "I'd be grateful. When we come back I'll get Lucien to help me sort the attic out, there'll be droppings over all the things there."

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The concert, a set of Strauss waltzes and polkas was, in Jean's words 'divine'.

"I do love a waltz, Lucien," she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm as they left the theatre and headed to their hotel.

"Do you? Well then..." he turned her round and proceeded to waltz her down the street, giggling and shrieking, embarrassed, as people pursed their lips and shook their heads at this overt display of romance by two people who were old enough to know better.

"Thank goodness," she gasped as they reached the front of the Windsor, "thank goodness we're not at home." But her eyes were shining with happiness and love.

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There was a note on the kitchen table, from Matthew.

"Bird gone, loose slate repaired. M."

"Oh, must've come loose in the storm last week," Jean mused as she put the kettle on; railway tea got worse, she thought.

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"Tell you what, Jean," Lucien slid the last of the cases down the ladder, "put 'em in the garage; we might need the room, if we get any more lodgers, or Mattie comes home."

"Right, well at least they'll be easier to get at, there," she piled the cases to the side ready to be taken down and climbed the ladder to help him sort out the rest of the things that both he and his father had stored up there, just in case!

"There's the clock, " she pointed, "pass it over, it can go in the bin."

Lucien cautiously stepped over to the clock, unsure as to whether the floor would hold his weight. He laughed,

"I remember this old thing," he turned it round in his hands, "it used to chime the quarter hours, damn thing was a nightmare." He passed it back to her. She gingerly held it by the foot, avoiding touching the bird droppings that adorned it, and put it to one side to take out when they had finished.

"There's a lot of mother's things here," his voice took on a sadder tone, "hey, what' this? Bloody hell," he breathed, "the music box." He looked around, "now, where's the key?"

He passed the pretty box back to his wife and continued to look for the key. Jean looked over the article in her hands. It needed a good clean but appeared to be black with painted panels; on the lid and on each side. They depicted, what she thought were, eighteenth century scenes of lovers and families. The pie crust edge was gilded, or had been, it was rather badly scraped and much of the gold was missing. Perhaps it could be re-gilded.

Lucien, meanwhile was scrabbling about in the dust, trying to find the key. He shook out a sheet, that covered one of his mother's paintings of his father, unfinished, he noted. Something clattered onto the floor, he looked round, there it was, the key, still on its chain. He picked it up and polished it on his cardigan, Jean rolled her eyes.

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Music box, unfinished paintings and a very sad old teddy bear aside, everything else was deemed rubbish and to be taken out to the bins. The paintings would remain in the attic, the box and bear would be taken downstairs to be cleaned and repaired. Jean held the bear by its ear and hoped it would clean, and that she had a couple of buttons to replace the missing eyes.

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Lucien sat in the study, tinkering with the music box while Jean prepared the evening meal. It would just be the two of them tonight, Matthew was, apparently, working on a case. They both knew the 'case' was a certain lady pathology registrar he was rather smitten with.

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"I think I've got it working," he mumbled through a mouthful of rabbit stew, "mum used to run it and dance with me in her arms, when I was a babe," his eyes filled with tears.

Jean reached over and touched his arm, "I'd love to hear it," she whispered, tenderly, "perhaps, after dinner..?"

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Dishes washed and dried, sherry and whisky poured, Lucien brought the music box out into the living room and sat it on the sideboard. He wound it up and lifted the lid. The strains of the waltz from Lehar's 'The Merry Widow' tinkled though the room and he held out his hand to his wife...