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This is a re-post of another story I wrote some years ago and posted to another Internet board. It's set during the second Christmas of the war, which has to have been the darkest and most depressing of them all. I got to wondering how our various characters would feel about a holiday based on peace, joy and love during such gloomy and frightening times. Next thing I knew, my Muse had given me this idea.

Part One

Early December 1940

"What's on your mind, Sam?"

DCS Foyle glanced at the young woman sitting next to him in the front seat. For the past twenty minutes, as she guided the Wolseley down quiet country lanes, she had been quiet. Too quiet, he'd realised. In the seven months since she'd appeared at his office door with her salute and her wide-eyed curiosity, he had grown accustomed to her chatter. He'd even grown to enjoy it - within limits, of course. But he had come to learn that with Sam, protracted periods of silence usually meant that something was troubling her.

The girl braked as she manoeuvred the heavy car round a sharp curve. "Actually, sir, there's something I've been meaning to ask you. I was wondering … well, I was wondering if it would be all right if I left work a bit early every now and then over the next few weeks."

Foyle's eyebrows rose. "Why?"

"Christmas carolling."

"Christmas carolling?"

She coloured slightly. "Yes, sir. There's a group of us – some other girls I've come to know - well, we thought it might be nice to go carolling at some of the bases round about Hastings. Doing our bit to cheer up our boys, you know. We've been practising for a few weeks now and we've made arrangements to sing at several places, but they want us to come early, round seven, and I'll have trouble getting there in time if - well - " she trailed off, realising she was babbling. She drew in a deep breath to steady herself, thinking that she hadn't felt so nervous making a request of her boss since the day she'd asked him to intervene with her father. Don't be so nervous, she scolded herself inwardly. He didn't let you down that time, did he?

He didn't let her down this time either. "Shouldn't be a problem," he replied easily, pushing his hat back on his head. "Just let me know which days you'll be wanting to take off early … it's this turn just ahead, Sam, on the left." She drew into a farmyard and parked, barely enough time to stammer her thanks before Foyle had alighted, intent only upon his current investigation.

That afternoon Paul Milner's tall frame appeared in the doorway of the station kitchen. "Any chance of a cup of tea?"

"Of course," Sam replied, pouring him a steaming mug. "And I wanted to tell you - you were right. He said yes."

"Who said yes?" Milner added a careful half-teaspoon of sugar and stirred.

"Mr Foyle. About the carolling. Remember? You were right. Didn't object at all. Good thing, too. We've been rehearsing three nights a week and Gladys would be furious if I wasn't there." She nibbled a ginger biscuit, noticing how preoccupied the sergeant looked. "How's the case coming?"

"Slowly," he said. "I've been going round and round with it but I just can't find the proof I need for an arrest."

"Don't worry, you'll solve it," she said confidently. "Tell you what. Just let me take this to Mr Foyle and then you can tell me about it. Perhaps explaining it all will help you work it out." She flashed him one of her quick smiles and left the room, cup and saucer in hand.

Milner chuckled to himself as he drew out a chair at the scrubbed wooden table, knowing exactly what she was after but unable to resist her quicksilver charm. She was so eager to be a part of everything that went on at the station, and he supposed it didn't do any harm to bring her up to date on the black-market clothing ring he was investigating.

He sipped his steaming tea, looking round the kitchen and thinking what a difference Sam's arrival had made. It had always been a dingy little room but she had done her best to brighten it. As an MTC volunteer seconded to the police solely to serve as driver to a ranking officer, the she had felt rather out of place in the all-male atmosphere of the Hastings police station. She had no other duties and no space to call her own during the long hours she spent sitting around waiting to drive Mr Foyle here and there. While no one dared to object openly, she was aware that many of the policemen regarded her as a feminine interloper.

The kitchen had provided the obvious solution. It was out of the way, close to Foyle's office and, by its very nature, indisputably a female province. She'd given the place a through scrubbing, arranged the crockery and biscuit tins attractively on the shelves and splurged on colourful new tea-towels. That accomplished, no one had objected when she'd set herself up a makeshift area in the corner. Her arrangements were modest enough - a nail or two in the wall to hold her coat and cap, an age-spotted looking-glass. A small battered table provided her a place to sit as well as a drawer to store her meagre possessions.

Thus established, Sam introduced a welcome innovation to the Constabulary. Every afternoon she boiled the kettle and brewed a large pot of tea. The overworked policemen soon fell in the habit of dropping by the kitchen at around half-past four, especially when she began setting out a plate of off-ration digestive biscuits or other small treats she'd managed to forage. Later she would remove her jacket, roll up her sleeves and tackle the washing-up, tidying her little demesne. Gradually even the crustiest old sergeant had come to accept her, and she felt it a small but real triumph when the popularity of "Sam's tea-time" necessitated the purchase of a second teapot.

Foyle rubbed one hand wearily over his aching neck muscles as he reached for his cup. He'd been so intent on his case notes that he'd barely acknowledged Sam's delivery, but now that he'd sorted out a complicated bit of evidence he allowed himself a break. His mind returned to what Sam had mentioned in the car this morning: Christmas carolling. He'd been doing his best to ignore the approaching season, but his driver's request had brought it to the fore.

Christmas, he thought. All very well and good to go sing for our boys in uniform, but as far as he was concerned, if there was ever a year to ignore the holiday this had to be it. How could anyone be expected to get into a Yuletide spirit? France had fallen, Holland had fallen, Denmark and Norway and Belgium had fallen and now Britain stood alone against the Nazi juggernaut. Sailors and merchant seamen were dying on the North Atlantic by the thousands as untold tons of shipping were sunk by U-boat patrols. London and other cities suffered unspeakable bombing raids night after night in which thousands more civilians had been killed. The fear of a German invasion had receded slightly, but it still loomed as a terrifying possibility for 1941. God, in short, seemed very far away; it seemed rather too much to ask for people to shelve their worries and celebrate the birth of His Son.

Then there were his own dismal circumstances. Still stuck here in Hastings doing his same job despite his repeated efforts to arrange a transfer to more meaningful war work. Worry about Andrew a constant companion – not just for his survival, but also for his emotional state. Every time he saw the lad he could see the effects of the strain etched more deeply in his son's face. How long, Foyle wondered, before he was pushed to some sort of breaking point? That is, if he wasn't killed first …

The thought that this could be his son's last Christmas made his stomach twist. He would be spending it in a dispersal hut, kitted out and ready to scramble. He remembered the happy Christmases of Andrew's childhood. The smells of mince pies and plum pudding wafting from the kitchen. Boyish laughter in the sitting room. The sparkling of coloured lights on the Christmas tree. Carols on the wireless. Rosalind's sweet smile.

Rosalind. The truth was that Christmas had been empty for him since she had been gone. Nearly nine years now. He had tried his best, of course, for Andrew's sake – the tree, the brightly wrapped gifts, a turkey or perhaps a duck roasting in the oven – but the efforts had been hollow. For him, the true spirit of Christmas seemed to have died with his wife. Each year he had tried to summon some semblance of that inner peace and joy he remembered from bygone times, but it had been elusive. And this year, with the war and all his worries, he couldn't even summon the will to try.

Very well then. He would do his best to ignore the holiday. Shouldn't be too difficult, as Andrew had already told him he wasn't to be granted Christmas leave. With food rationed so strictly, there would be no feasting and only the simplest of gifts even when his son did manage a visit home. He had received several invitations to Christmas dinner, including one from his friend and colleague Hugh Reid, but he'd declined them all. He would spend the day alone, he'd decided. Perhaps he'd tie a new fly. He might even go down to the river and try it out if the weather wasn't too cold.

He looked down and realised he'd finished his tea. Setting the cup neatly back in its saucer, he rolled a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter and resumed his case notes.