So this was originally supposed to be a short foreword to a Jack/Phryne romance that has been rattling around in my brain. However once started it took on a life of its own. I'm still hoping to find a way to continue the rest as additional chapters, but you'll have to bear with me. Hence it's currently Jack with a hint of Phryne. Hope you enjoy :)

xoxox

1 year. 365 days. On the one hand it felt like only yesterday, on the other, like another lifetime ago.

As it was, he hadn't been in the best of moods that day, and when the Andrews' bathroom door had lazily swung open at his terse insistence, he had been less than impressed to be confronted by this (beautiful) nosy woman who had bamboozled his Constable (not exactly a feat, he had to admit), and was now doing...what exactly?... in his crime scene.

However, it had made for an amusing anecdote to fill the void in conversation when George Sanderson had left his dinner to take an urgent telephone call. Even then, he had wondered if it wouldn't be better for everyone involved if they put a stop to the charade of fortnightly 'family' dinners; it had been quite some time since he and Rosie had lived under the same roof, and with 'shop talk' out of the way they had very little to say to each other, kind or otherwise. Her sister would usually obligingly step in with another story about one or more of her 'little darlings', which only served to make things even worse with Rosie (a more cynical man might have thought that that was the intended effect). The way these dinner conversations set his teeth on edge had him thinking that the experience was rather like being forced to listen to a rake being dragged across a piece of iron sheeting.

Of course they had never planned on not having children. When they had married he had, in his youthful naivety, believed that no two people could love one another as he and Rosie did, and that he would no doubt die a happy elderly man, leaving a wife and children and grandchildren.

Then the war had come. At that stage they could not have forseen the devastating effect it would have on their lives. There had been other wars, and he supposed there would always be another, but they were so far removed from the lives of the people they knew that it seemed it would simply be an inconvience, a mere step off the path of their life together, and not the road in a completely different direction that it had turned out to be.

When the time came for him to board the ship that would take him to exotic foreign shores Rosie had been disappointed that they had not yet conceived. After all, several of her friends were either expecting or had a chiId at the hip, and her sister had made a happy announcement only a few weeks prior. However, they had really not been married all that long, and Jack mused that the making of babies seemed somewhat akin to a raffle - the more you put in the greater your chances; a thought to keep him warm during his deployment...and as the two of them clung to each other on the wharf, they truly believed that within a few years they would be looking back on this setback as doting parents to one or more children.

As the years stretched out they still maintained that their own piece of paradise was waiting just around the corner. Jack knew he had been affected by the terrible things he had seen and done, but he, as did his companions, felt that all that could be somehow put aside when they all returned to their normal lives someday. So his letters to her were filled with descriptions of the people and places he had seen, a kindness bestowed upon him by a stranger, Percy's minor infatuation with a French girl he had glimpsed only twice hanging washing...he would never write to her of the horrors he faced daily; partly because he thought it best that she didn't know, but more because he felt that she couldn't possibly understand.

And he had been right. Upon his return, at first things had been awkward, but they had both expected a little of that after such a long physical separation, and they muddled their way through as best they could. After all, they were by no means the only ones experiencing such readjustment. To make matters worse , when everyone had finally realised how long the war might drag on, the Sandersons had taken their daughter back under their roof rather than leave her alone in the small house Jack had rented (subsidised by George) as a temporary measure until he received a promotion and increase in pay.

Now that he was home, and once again an officer in the Victorian Constabulary, he was absolutely determined to use every penny he had earned and saved during the war to secure a mortgage on a home of their own. However, Rosie's father had risen through the ranks in Jack's absence, and his daughters had wanted for nothing during the wartime downturn. Jack had found Rosie unrealistic in her needs (wants) when it came to her accommodations, and was grudgingly pushed into accepting further financial support from George. However, Jack was nothing if not a hard worker, and such an obstacle to his own peace of mind was worth the luxury of removing himself and his wife from her parents' constant observation. So they had settled in and carried on with life, but the cracks were there, and always growing wider.

Jack was now under no illusion that whilst he had been deeply and profoundly affected by his experiences, and was now an utterly different man, Rosie had changed very little. The inane chatter that he had once found charming now grated on him, the little digs she made about his career had once been an incentive to build upon their life, but he now regarded them as an intrusion into his personal space. He worked damned hard for what they had, but it never seemed to be quite enough for her. She was pleased with every promotion but it was never in the direction that she wanted for him - some politically-motivated position pushing pens like her father. Jack knew that after living cheek-by-jowl in the trenches he needed the light and air to maintain his sanity, so a desk job was out of the question as a long-term proposition. He hadn't been at all surprised by Rosie's outburst when he had accepted a transfer from fraud into homicide.

Then, there was the physical aspect of their relationship. They were both still keen to start a family; Rosie because it was all she ever wanted and expected of her life, and Jack more so now because he hoped it would help him overcome the monumental weight that had settled upon him and refused to budge. Perhaps it might also give them something to talk about for the rest of their lives other than the price of tea, and what type of cake she ought to bake to take to visit his mother tomorrow.

They had both expected that their initial reticence around each other would pass once they were in their own home, but it had only been replaced by a sort of awkward routine. Their intimacy was not what it once was, and where Jack had expected to find not only pleasure, but comfort, he now found he was left frustrated and longing. The only response he seemed able to elicit from Rosie now was one of dutiful willingness. Jack was not a man to force a woman, nor one to receive a pleasure that wasn't shared. Things had not improved when he had moved his bed out of their room and into the sleepout - the nightmares had been getting worse lately and Rosie had pointed out to him that her sleep was already disturbed by his shift work, and she was almost at her wits' end.

Nonetheless, he had firmly believed that if their life together was not all that they had planned, that it could still be one in which they were happy together. He blamed himself almost entirely for their situation, and resolved to make it right. He was well aware that he could be moody and withdrawn at times. Early on, some of the language he had picked up in the trenches had shocked her (as well as his family), and he had been prone to sudden outbursts of anger. And although he would never raise a hand to Rosie, he knew that she was both disturbed and a little afraid when she saw that glazed look in his eyes. But he had worked hard to moderate his behaviour over the years, and if there were times that he wasn't a perfect gentleman, well they were reserved for his 'customers', or the boxing bags in the Police Association clubrooms.

Perhaps he wasn't the coltish larrikin she had married, but that didn't mean that he had to be a husband she might regret. Career choices aside, there was nothing Rosie asked for that wasn't given or done. He thought himself doing very well when he had arrived home unexpectedly one day, and entered via his kitchen door to overhear Rosie extolling his virtues to an old school friend. She was practically gushing - Jack was kind, respectful, generous, took an interest in everything she did; she was lucky to have him. He had quietly seen himself out again happy in the knowledge that things were finally looking up. And when he had pressed an unusually affectionate kiss to her cheek that night, her eyes had told him, perhaps with a little surprise, that she truly believed what he had heard her say. Yes, everything was going to work out...

Until that night. The night he avoided thinking of, and desperately wished he could just forget. The night of the day when two of their widowed friends had announced, to everyone's astonishment, that they were to be married. There had been drinks all round, and a small group had sat and drank and reminisced until well after the long hot day had turned to cool dark night.

The two of them had staggered home, their arms entwined around each other waists, a song from their courting days upon Jack's lips. As they had laughed out loud at a miss-step taken into the guttering they had been transported back to a time when it was nothing short of a joy to be in one another's company. The kissing had started somewhere between the last street corner and their front gate, and they had both been impatient to reach the privacy of their own home; if only one of them could actually manage to get the front door open!

Her hands were on his bare skin, and she had moaned impatiently into his mouth as his clumsy fingers struggled with the tiny buttons at the front of her dress. He had finally made some headway and they had both tumbled breathlessly onto her bed, when the mood had suddenly changed. She had pushed both hands against his chest "Jack, wait..." He had stilled, and not really understanding that there was a problem had tried a gentle kiss to her lips, only to have her turn her face away from his and squirm beneath his weight. "Jack, we can't...I don't..." and finally a pleading "please Jack..." as she had shoved him forcibly off her. He was confused...what had happened?...and more than a little frustrated, but from the way she had drawn the covers over her and turned to face the wall he knew that she would give him no answers that night.

Nor at any other time apparently. He had tried to gently broach the issue at breakfast, but had been rather coldly rebuffed. He thought perhaps she just needed a little time, so he didn't push the issue. For a few days she had avoided him as thoroughly as a woman could avoid the man she shared a house with; then came the revelation, couched in a conversation about the stir his new superior was causing down at the station. Perhaps they ought to put off any thoughts of starting a family until the dust had settled? Jack would be needed at the station...the long days and nights were already a drain on him...and it never hurts to impress a senior officer...they had plenty of time...

So. She was lucky to have him as a husband, but she had decided that she no longer wanted to have his children? She didn't say as much, but somehow he knew that the subject would never be raised under his roof again. It was a terrible blow that had shocked him to his core, and not just because of his hopes regarding offspring. He may have returned from the trenches feeling as old as the hills, but he still considered himself a youngish man, and the prospect of spending the remaining nights of his life in a cold bed had filled him with a kind of despair. For he was not the type to be unfaithful to his wife, no matter their circumstances, and both his morals and profession (as far as he was concerned anyway) barred him from those establishments on Little Lonsdale that usually catered to such needs - and besides, just the thought turned his stomach.

The entire episode had left him feeling hurt and angry...this was not the type of thing that a man could confide to a mate, and so for a long time the feelings had festered within him; another wound to add to his battered soul.

Back then he had wondered how he would manage to pass the long years ahead without a woman's touch, but to his surprise, in time he found that he had simply lost interest. He sometimes wondered how Rosie explained their empty nest to her family, friends, even strangers. But then he supposed that she probably gave the impression that he was one of those men that was becoming increasingly talked of - wounded not in the body, but in the mind - unable to reproduce nonetheless. As he couldn't say for certain that it wasn't true, he found he didn't care.

Days, months, years passed unremarkably. She had reconciled herself to a life without the patter of tiny feet, and took his arm graciously at the Police Ball. He had contented himself that she would never come to appreciate his Shakespeare, and he was always there to greet her at the tram stop. And this is how they had lived on in their perfectly civilised bubble of resentment. Somewhere along the line she had gone alone on holiday with her sister and her family. When her mother had died she had gone to stay with George for a few weeks while he processed her mother's absence from his life - perfectly understandable. And he had still come home to find his shirts neatly pressed and a prepared meal waiting covered in his kitchen. Truth be told it was a relief to both of them to have the time apart.

When her sister's fourth child had arrived he had not even blinked when she suggested that she might spend some time supporting her; far fewer meals for Jack and he would have to send out his laundry; a few weeks at most...which became a few months...which became indefinite. And he was indifferent. For the most part anyway.

Divorce had, of course, flickered through his consciousness, only to be dismissed as nonsense - he doubted that Rosie would accept such a thing, and even if she did, how would it reflect on each of them, his career, their families and friends. Marriage was a bond to be broken not by a judge, but by death.

Jack was not a man to wallow in misery, or to even contemplate something like suicide. But sometimes as he nursed a warm whiskey in his unlit parlour, in his empty-feeling house, dark thoughts would play on his mind. He was an utter failure as a man, as a husband, and in Rosie's eyes at least, also as a policeman. And as a son. Because it was not just Rosie who had lost Jack the almost-boy and received a shell of a man in return. He sometimes turned to find his father gazing at him in a sad and knowing way; they would each give the slightest nod of their heads in acknowledgement, and the moment would pass. But he did feel that he was depriving his family of the real Jack, who had been lost somewhere out there on the Somme, as surely as his mates Harry and Cyril and Tom and Eddie whose bodies would forever remain in those foreign fields.

366 days ago he had sat in his darkness and been struck by how much less complicated everyone's life would have been if he had never returned.

365 days ago she had appeared out of nowhere and let in a chink of light, and although it had taken him some time to become accustomed to it, soon enough it was all he could do to stop himself craving her sunshine on his face.

xoxox

Hopefully tbc :)