With Mairi gone and an investigation to run, Phryne needed to make some sort of arrangement for Anthony's care during the day. Dot had stepped into the role, but it left her unable to execute some of her duties on the investigating side of things; a nanny was not practical for such a short period of time—Phryne was certain she would find Betty Dixon or another family member quickly—and there was nobody in her circle that was free and willing. Dot's mother took on the Collins children, but could not add to the commitment; Phryne quite disliked the woman anyway. The answer came on the Sunday which marked the beginning of the third week; Anthony woke up screaming—not for the first time, but this was by far the worst—and even Phryne had been roused from her bed.
She slipped downstairs to find Jack in the nursery muttering words of comfort to Anthony, who was sobbing on his lap. The light from the half moon illuminated the room just enough for Phryne to watch silently from the doorway, neither of them aware she was there.
"Anthony," he said quietly stroking the boy's arm. "Anthony, can you find Cleopatra? And I cannot believe I just said that. Miss Fisher has quite a bit to answer for, doesn't she? Funny Miss Fisher."
The boy nodded, his wayward curls glowing in the moonlight. He found the dog tangled in the sheets and pulled her close, the sobs abating. Jack continued to hold him, rocking gently. His platitudes had morphed into a song, some sort of lullaby that Phryne did not recognise.
O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee.
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
When the song was over, Jack shifted to resettle the boy beneath the covers.
"There we are, Ant," he said quietly.
Phryne blinked back tears at the tenderness and the nickname, slipped so easily from his lips. It was not a surprise; Jack had always had an aura of gentleness about him when dealing with children, a mix of pragmatism and understanding that they might not be good children, but they were still children. Still people, worthy of kindness and respect. But to see it in their house, to know that he might have found himself a woman who relished the idea of parenthood instead of rejecting it…it was unexpected. It was unsettling.
She headed back upstairs and slid between the sheets, curled on her side and facing away from Jack's half of the bed. A few minutes later she heard his footsteps, solid and slow, as he came into the room and lay beside her. His hand rested on her hip for a moment, and she moved closer.
"Nightmare?" she asked, as if she had not seen it for herself.
"Mmm," replied Jack in a whisper. "He's lost everything familiar to him. Do you remember that? Coming home and finding that none of it was as it had been?"
She rolled over, examined Jack's profile.
"Yes," she said simply. "And it never was again. But there were moments. Landmarks."
"That's why you bought the dog?" Jack asked, and Phryne loved him for understanding.
"I think, perhaps, a familiar face would help. I'll speak to Emily Bowen in the morning. The neighbour? See if she would be interested in minding him while her girls are at school. I know she needed the money."
Jack nodded.
"In the morning. For now, let's get some sleep."
—
Forty, Jack decided, was officially too old to be getting up in the middle of the night to deal with weeping children. He had spent the better part of the last two decades with unusual sleep patterns, between shift work and war (and the memories of war afterwards) and burning the candle at both ends to get his job done, but none of it was as exhausting as the moment his slumber was interrupted by the first wail coming through the floorboards. Mr. Butler had met him at the nursery door the first time, but Jack had sent him back to bed—the man might be part of the family and go above and beyond his obligations, but there were limits—and dealt with it himself.
It was not every night, thankfully, and usually Jack managed to stumbled downstairs, soothe Anthony and be back in his own bed without waking properly, but by the end of the second week he was tired. Phryne appeared to sleep through it all, a fact that left him slightly irritable and slightly amused. This whole thing had been her idea—in the middle of the night he conveniently neglected to remember that he had agreed and that she could not have predicted the length of his stay—but that was clearly not enough to rouse her.
He had sung more lullabies than he even realised he knew, old Scots songs he'd learnt on his mother's knee mostly, and nursery rhymes where he made up half the lines when he realised he'd forgotten. It was more suitable than the other recitations to come to mind; somehow he did not think that a two year old would appreciate the existential crisis of Hamlet or the themes in John Donne's works. Still, there were moments when peace fell again and the only sounds were the soft snuffling of a sleeping child, the rustle of blankets, the noise found only in silence, and in those moments he allowed it to feel familiar. Transitive moments, gone before he could capture them; it was for the best, that he could not memorise the sensations and return to them once they had passed. It was an idle daydream, and it would not do to dwell.
Phryne's plan to seek out Mrs. Bowen was helpful; it was arranged that she would arrive at eight and leave at two, driven by Cec and Bert to account for her own children's schedule, and from there they could cobble together care from other sources. It was not ideal, but it would suffice for the short term. And it seemed to bring Phryne some relief; while Jack had happily taken on much of the care, having had more experience and less dislike, he had fallen into the assumption that Phryne would be the one to make arrangements.
At work, Jack was investigating a series of burglaries; he had hit another wall and usually would have asked Phryne to go over the case with him—even if she was not officially investigating it was sometimes useful to bounce ideas off of her—but she was caught up in her queries about Anthony's family. He knew there was something he had overlooked, and wondered whether his disturbed sleep was the reason he had done so. He sighed loudly, deciding that as much as he would like to go home when his shift was over he really had to make headway, and placed a telephone call.
Phryne was the one who answered, chipper as always. He explained the situation and she clucked sympathetically.
"No, of course, darling. That absolutely has to take precedence."
"Thank you," he said.
"What's there to thank, Jack? You have a job, I don't expect that to come crashing to a halt because I rather naively assumed that it couldn't possibly be that hard to track down a person we had a name and address for."
"Another good day then?" he asked, smiling slightly at her frustrated tone.
"Well, I know now all there is to know about Muriel Hamilton and her descendents. None of whom are related to Helen Fox, but I suppose it might be useful information some day."
Jack chuckled.
"I'll try not to be too late," he said. And then, because the freedom to do so never grew old, added, "I love you."
"I love you too. I'll have Mr. Bu—Anthony, get off of those stairs! I'll see you tonight, Jack," she said, and the line went dead.
An hour later, Jack had the linked cases spread across his desk and was standing, hands on the desk, as he reread the information once again. From outside the office there was a commotion, then his door swung open and Phryne and Anthony both came through. Phryne was carrying a picnic basket, and Anthony once again had Cleopatra. Jack rarely saw him without it, but if it helped the boy cope with his world being completely upended, it was worth it.
"Miss Fisher!"
Phryne dropped the basket on one of the visitor's chairs, then came around the desk to give him a small peck hello.
"Mr. Butler heard that you were staying late and insisted on preparing a basket. So Anthony and I decided to bring it by," she said brightly, her attention shifting to his desk. "Is this the case?"
Before Jack could nod in agreement she was reading the files.
"You may as well eat, darling, and then I can bring the basket home with me," she said without looking up.
Rather than argue, Jack retrieved the food and settled in one of the visitor's chair. He patted the second and Anthony climbed up.
"Are you hungry, Ant? Shall we see what Mr. Butler has packed?"
The boy nodded, and Jack quickly unpacked the basket. Cold meats and cheeses, some asparagus spears, and two slices of apple tart.
"Are you eating?" he asked Phryne.
"No, thank you," she said, moving some of the files around. "There's something here."
"I've been at it for a week. I can't see it."
She moved another file, then moved it back. Jack offered Anthony food, not quite willing to trust a toddler with a china plate. Halfway through the meal she pointed victoriously at one of the files.
"I know him. Gregory Wilkes. He's a friend of Aunt P's and he hired me last month for an adultery investigation. I couldn't find anything, and I wouldn't have blamed the wife if she had—don't give me that look, darling—but what are the chances that the wife's wedding set would disappear mere weeks later?"
"Not impossible, but unlikely," Jack agreed.
"That's not the only thing, but I can't put my finger on it."
"It's aggravating."
"Were all these cases your station?" she asked. "Could there be wrong information somewhere along the line?"
"I've already ruled it out."
Phryne picked up a file again, flipped through it, then tossed it back on the desk.
"Today has not been a good day," she said. "Betty Dixon doesn't appear to exist except we know she does, I can't see the pattern even though it's staring me in the face…."
"You don't have to solve everything," Jack said, packing the food back in the basket. "And now I have a reason to re-interview Mr. Wilkes, which is more than I had twenty minutes ago. Why don't we go home? The cases will be there tomorrow."
She nodded. quickly gathering the paperwork and locking it into his desk.
"I don't suppose you have plans for improving my day?" she asked when it was done, back to her usual flirtatiousness.
"One or two, Miss Fisher. One or two."
—
Thursday evening, with Mr. Butler at his weekly card game and Jane attending yet another study session at a friend's house, Jack and Phryne brought Anthony into the smaller parlour after an early dinner. At the revelation that a recent case of Phryne's had intersected with Jack's ongoing investigation, they were comparing notes. Well, they were attempting to compare notes.
Anthony had warmed up to the household considerably, which was both objectively good—it meant that he was doing well with the arrangement—and practically bad, because it meant that his silent compliance had begun to fade. He was still, strictly speaking, well-behaved; he was quiet, followed directions reasonably well provided they were simple enough, and was not rambunctious enough to be truly obnoxious. In essence, there were worse children to share her home with. He was also single-mindedly determined to scale every tall surface in the entire house.
"I swear, you must be part squirrel," Phryne said, removing him from a shelf for the umpteenth time since she had gotten home. "In fact, next time I find you climbing who-knows-where I'll start calling you one."
Jack looked up, and damn him for looking far too amused by her proclamation. Honestly! A little help would not be remiss—she may have been the one to volunteer, and she was hardly going to let the child break his neck under her care, but he was the one making stupidly soft eyes at the boy from time to time.
Jack chuckled and closed the file, then stood up.
"Come along then, Ant. Let's leave Miss Fisher to her own devices and get you ready for bed. Are you choosing the story tonight?"
The boy nodded enthusiastically, wriggling out of Phryne's arms to head towards the door.
"Ah!" Jack corrected, a few steps behind and a stickler for manners. "Please say good night to Miss Fisher."
Anthony paused and turned, then waved at Phryne. "Bed Mims! Bed!"
Phryne could only assume it was his best effort.
"Good night, squirrel child," she said, surprised to realise she was smiling slightly.
When Jack returned to the parlour twenty minutes later, he stood at the doorway and watched her with an amused smirk. She crossed her arms defiantly and waited for his comment; he poured himself a drink first, then reopened the file he had been reading before meeting her eyes.
"A squirrel, Phryne? Really? Surely a monkey would be the logical choice? Or a possum?"
Phryne shook her head.
"Between the bushy hair and the whole 'nuisance introduced to an unfamiliar environment for dubious reasons' aspect, I am definitely siding with squirrels here."
"Fair enough," Jack said, and took another sip of his whiskey. "Now, about this case…."
Squirrels are not native to Australia. There was, however, an introduced grey squirrel population in Melbourne. I've found one source that states the population did not become extinct until the 1940s: "American Eastern Grey Squirrels were introduced about 1870 to the Ripponlea area, spreading as far as Kew but becoming extinct in the 1940s." So, oddly enough the timing and location makes Anthony and squirrel connections a perfectly feasible thing. Not what I expected when it was first joked that "Squirrel" should become his nickname instead of just my nickname for the fic, but a lovely bit of serendipity.
