1) 1920
DC Foyle stepped through the door his smile growing at the voices he could hear from the kitchen. Hanging up his hat and coat he stepped into the doorway, pausing to watch his wife and 10-month-old son converse.
"Ga ba Mama!" Andrew exclaimed eagerly
"I see" Rosalind replied seriously, smiling down at him before looking back at the saucepan she was stirring.
"Dada!" Andrew crowed a moment later, waving his arms enthusiastically from his perch on Rosalind's hip.
Rosalind looked up with a smile, "Christopher, I didn't hear you come in"
Foyle smiled as he crossed to them, taking Andrew and dropping a kiss on the top of his head before leaning into kiss Rosalind tenderly, "Well you and Andrew were clearly discussing something quite important."
Rosalind laughed, "Well there is actually something we wanted to tell you, isn't that right Andrew?"
Foyle smiled and looked down at Andrew, "Is that so son? Have you and Mummy been keeping secrets?"
"Mama! Dada! Ba ta An!" Andrew's reply made both of his parents laugh and he beamed happily at them.
Rosalind turned the heat down under the saucepan and then kissed Andrew's forehead, "I love you, darling boy"
"Love oo"
Foyle blinked in surprise, "He couldn't say that yesterday could he?"
Rosalind shook her head, smiling proudly, "No, he just started today, when I was putting him down for his nap."
Foyle beamed, "Well done Andrew" There was an unexpected catch in his voice and he cleared his throat before kissing his son's forehead, "I love you son."
"Love oo Dada!"
The words left Foyle speechless and he blinked and then swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. The look on his face spoke eloquently to his wife though and Rosalind squeezed his free hand, murmuring, "I know Christopher I love you too" as she leaned up to kiss him.
2) 1930
Christopher Foyle took another sip of tea, watching his son surreptitiously over the rim of the cup, wondering what sort of questions were brewing this time. Last week it had been; 'What made cement hard? Could you use cheesecloth to take the salt out of seawater? And, could he have a puppy?'
The last question at least had been unsurprising; Andrew had been petitioning for a puppy since Christmas and most recently had taken to slipping the request in at unexpected moments in the hopes of catching them off guard.
It was becoming something of a habit, unexpectedly serious questions from his son when they took tea together on Saturday afternoons while Rosalind was painting; either in her garret studio or out somewhere. When he'd mentioned it to Rose she had smiled and told him that Andrew often did the same thing when she went to tuck him in.
They were glad that Andrew felt comfortable coming to either of them with his questions and Rosalind had insisted that Saturday tea should remain a boys only activity at least for the time being. Andrew would always be her 'darling boy' but as he grew she knew he would have more and more questions that only Christopher could answer for him.
"Dad?"
Foyle set down his tea cup and turned his full attention on his son, rather concerned by the worried look in Andrew's eyes, "Yes, Andrew?"
"Are you…I mean you and Mum…are you going to send me to boarding school?"
Foyle blinked, completely blindsided by the question. He and Rose had dismissed the idea long before Andrew was school age, deciding it was better to put the money aside for university if Andrew proved to be scholastically inclined. Besides even if they could afford it he knew it would break Rose's heart to send Andrew away.
He chewed on his cheek as he formulated his response, watching Andrew fidget with his napkin, before taking a deep breath, "We hadn't thought so. Do you want to go Andrew?"
Andrew shook his head fervently, "No! I mean I'd like to see Rex everyday like I used to but…I'd miss Thomas and Peter and all the other lads and you and Mum of course. Rex says they have some jolly good larks but…" Andrew shrugged and let his voice trail off
Foyle frowned, "But?"
Andrew hesitated, biting his lip and then looked up and said in a rush, "But I don't think he actually likes it, he says he can't say anything to his parents though or they might send him somewhere farther away."
Foyle's frown deepened; Mr. and Mrs. Talbot could be kindly described as distant parents but more accurately simply seemed disinterested in the day-to-day responsibilities of raising their son. When Rex was younger he'd been under the care of a nanny and then the housekeeper and now they had sent him away to boarding school.
"Is Rex having any trouble at school Andrew?"
Andrew shook his head, "No Sir, everyone likes Rex and he's awfully smart. It's more that…well he says he doesn't think his parents really love him but that can't be right. Parents always love their children, even when they're naughty or bad at lessons. Mum said so!"
As he studied his son's flashing eyes Foyle felt an overwhelming surge of love and gratitude at the knowledge that Andrew's heart was still untarnished by the cynical world, and he wished it were possible to keep it that way.
He took a deep breath, "Mum's right, parents do, or at least should, love their children unconditionally."
Andrew's brow furrowed, "But some don't do they?"
Foyle sighed, "No, some people don't seem to like being parents but that's not the case for most people Andrew and certainly not the case for Mum and I. We are so glad we're your parents"
Andrew smiled, "I'm glad you're my parents too" he hesitated for a minute, "But does that mean Rex is right? About Mr. and Mrs. Talbot not loving him?"
Foyle sighed again, "I can't speak for them Andrew but I don't think that's the case. I think they do love Rex, and that's part of the reason they've sent him away to school because they think it's what's best for him. Sometimes part of loving someone is doing what's best for them even if it's hard for everyone."
Andrew nodded slowly and Foyle took another drink of tea, watching his son's brow furrow as he thought that over. "You mean like how you and Mum always make me do my maths review even when I really don't want to?"
"Yes, exactly like that"
Andrew nodded again and then looked nervously at his father, "But you aren't going to send me away to boarding school?"
Foyle shook his head, "Not unless you want to go Andrew"
"I don't Dad, I really don't it's just…" he looked down, fidgeting with his napkin again.
"Just?" Foyle asked leadingly when the silence continued, wanting to discover what or who had suggested the idea to Andrew in the first place.
"Mr. Talbot heard Rex and me…"
"Rex and I" Foyle corrected automatically
"Rex and I talking about his school and he said…he said that all men who go onto important positions go away to school, like MPs and barristers and people like that and that everyone with ambition ought to go away to school. I want to do important things and make you and Mum proud but I don't want to go away to school Dad!"
Andrew's voice rose pleadingly at the last sentence and Foyle had to bite down hard on his cheek to stop himself from saying some rather unsavory things about Mr. Talbot. He took a deep calming breath and then reached across and laid a hand on Andrew's shoulder.
"You don't have to go away Andrew, you never have to go away unless you want to. Mum and I are already proud of you son and we'll be proud of you whether you go on to be a bricklayer or a Prime Minister just as long as you're also a good man and I have every confidence you will be."
Andrew's shoulders relaxed under his hand and Foyle again suppressed the urge to find Mr. Talbot and set him straight on several counts, not least of which being that Rex deserved far better in terms of a father.
"But why did Mr. Talbot say that then Dad?"
Foyle sighed, "Well some people believe, as Mr. Talbot does, that boarding schools provide a better education and that children who attend them will get into better universities. I'm not sure if it's true but some people think that"
"But lots of people don't go to university at all! You and Uncle Charles didn't and neither did Mr. Davis or Mr. Ferguson and you all do important things!"
Foyle smiled at Andrew's indignation, "That's right, you don't need a university education for most jobs and lots of people aren't able to attend university even if they want to."
Andrew frowned, "That's not fair! Did you want to go to university Dad?"
"No, I wanted to be a policeman, don't need to go to university for that" Andrew smiled, clearly relieved and Foyle smiled back, "But if you want to go to university when you're older I promise that we'll find a way Andrew"
"What if I want to be a professional footballer?"
Foyle chuckled, "Then you can buy me a new fishing rod when you sign with United"
Andrew nodded, "Deal. Dad?"
"Yes, Andrew?"
"Can…I mean may I have a puppy?"
Foyle laughed and reached over to ruffle his son's hair, "No, but if you finish up and help me with the dishes I'll walk you over to Mr. Gates' farm, they've just had a fresh litter of kittens"
"Wizard!" Andrew applied himself to the remainder of his tea with gusto while Foyle sipped his tea and thought over their earlier conversation, resolving to speak to Rose about putting together some sort of package for Rex. They couldn't do anything about the lad's parents but at least they could make sure he knew there were people who cared about him.
3) 1932
"Dad?"
Andrew's hesitant voice sounded loud in the hush that had settled over the table and Foyle blinked, and tried to drag himself back to the present. He looked instinctively at Rosalind's chair and then took a long drink of his now lukewarm tea in a vain attempt to ease the pain in his chest. It felt as if he'd swallowed a jagged piece of glass.
"Yes, Andrew?" His voice came out gruff and he tried to smile to soften it but his lips seemed to have forgotten how.
"Did…" there was such a long pause that Foyle thought for a minute that Andrew wasn't going to say anything further but his son took a deep breath and blurted out, "Did Mum want me to be an artist too?"
His voice cracked and wavered but Andrew's voice had begun to break, to the disappointment of the choirmaster, so Foyle couldn't be sure if that was emotion or not. He risked a glance at his son and the sight of his own grief reflected in his boy's face felt like a punch to the gut and it took him a long minute to remember how to breathe.
He was surprised by Andrew's question; he had never shown any inclination towards art. Rosalind had tried to teach him how to draw but he could rarely sit still long enough and she'd given it up fairly quickly.
He licked his lips and looked at his son, who was rubbing at his knee as he always did when he was nervous, "No she didn't expect it, don't think she'd have minded if you liked it too but…only because it made her happy…"
He closed his eyes as images rose unbidden; Rose standing at her easel eyes narrowed in concentration as her brush moved delicately over the paper. Rose sitting sketching by the river, laughing and telling him to focus on catching their supper when she caught him watching her as opposed to his lure for the fifth time in as many minutes; Rose smiling shyly as she showed him a finished piece and then blushing prettily at his praise.
"Sometimes I wish I had…liked it I mean"
Foyle once again dragged his mind back to the present and looked questioningly at his son, "Oh?"
Andrew nodded, rubbing at his knee once more, "Maybe if…" his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, "Maybe if Mum and I had painted together…it would be like…like she was still here somehow…" his voice broke again and he wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
For the second time in the conversation Andrew had caught him off guard and Foyle blinked hard against his own tears, wishing for the millionth time that he knew how best to help his son. Never had he felt more ill equipped for any situation than the daunting prospect of raising their son without Rosalind at his side.
He swallowed hard, searching desperately for the right words, "Andrew, your Mum is with you, with us…always…" He laid a hand on Andrew's shoulder and squeezed gently, "She's part of you son; nothing can change that…nothing can change how much she loved you…"
Andrew nodded and swiped at his eyes again, "It hurts so much Dad"
Foyle tightened his grip on Andrew's shoulder, "I know Andrew…one day…it won't hurt this badly." It was the best he could offer, although it seemed impossible that the searing pain in his heart would ever ease, he hoped that, for Andrew at least, time would make it easier to bear.
They finished their tea in silence, Andrew offering him a weak smile as he rose and started gathering the dishes without being prompted. Foyle could picture the proud smile Rose would have given Andrew for that and though smiling was beyond him he made a point of patting Andrew's shoulder as he started towards the kitchen. Nothing would ever be the same again but maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to muddle through it all.
4) 1936
Foyle watched Andrew fiddle with one of the pawns that had been an early casualty of their chess match and wondered how long it would take his son to bring up whatever was on his mind. When he was younger, before Rose died, Andrew had been more forthcoming when something was troubling him.
Foyle couldn't tell if his reluctance to do so now was a natural result of growing up or if, deprived of Rose's ability to navigate emotional conversations with ease, Andrew had adopted his own reticence. He hoped it was the former, if only for his own peace of mind.
He took a sip of scotch and then raised an eyebrow as Andrew made a move that left his castle exposed. "You sure you want to do that?"
"Hmm? Oh, drat." Andrew retracted the move and moved his bishop to guard his king instead. There was silence for a few minutes while Foyle contemplated his next move, "Dad?"
"Yes?"
There was a pause and Foyle took a deep breath and settled back in his chair waiting for Andrew to gather his thoughts. "Were you good at maths? In your upper years I mean"
Foyle blinked at the unexpected question, he made an ambivalent motion with his head, "I was decent I suppose." Andrew nodded and looked back at the chessboard. "Why do you ask?"
Andrew hesitated, rubbing at his right knee, "Well Mr. Carney…I mean…" He took a deep breath and started again, "Mr. Carney says I have a decent shot at a scholarship, for Oxford, but…" he looked down, shoulders slumping, "They look at everything, my other marks are good enough but maths…"
He trailed off but Foyle didn't need any further explanation; Andrew had always struggled in maths. For all that he was very smart, there was just something about the subject that didn't click for him and it had been a struggle since primary school to get him to do his maths revision.
Foyle looked down, fiddling absent-mindedly with one of the buttons on his open waistcoat as he considered what Andrew had said. They had discussed the possibility of Andrew studying at Oxford a few times now and it was clear to him that it was something his son was interested in pursuing. He had been putting money aside since Andrew was small to be prepared for this eventuality but a scholarship would certainly help.
"I see"
"I think I can do better Dad, and I have done better on my last few assignments, not as well as Thomas but better" Foyle nodded, Thomas had a natural head for figures and given that he was expected to take over the shop from Michael one day it was a good thing he did.
"I thought…I mean I hoped…" Andrew took a deep breath, "Would you mind going over my maths revision with me some nights Dad?"
Foyle shook his head, surprised and rather touched by the question; Andrew hadn't asked for help with his schoolwork in several years and truth be told Foyle hadn't thought he ever would again.
He glanced up and saw that Andrew was watching him anxiously, "Happy too. Can't promise anything though, been a long time"
Andrew grinned, "That's alright, I'll have my textbook if we really get stuck." He shifted in his chair and then looked up again his brown eyes shining with sincerity, "Thanks Dad, really. Mr. Carney said as long as I improve my maths and keep my other grades up I've got a really good shot at the scholarship."
Foyle nodded, "Well that's good to hear; but Andrew, you know I'll help pay for school…"
Andrew nodded, "I know Dad and I appreciate that, truly I do. But I'm the one who's going and I want to pay for as much as I can myself, it's only fair."
He spoke so sincerely that Foyle could only nod as pride warmed his chest. Some days, usually just after he'd tripped over Andrew's rugby cleats, he wondered if his son would ever grow up, but recently he'd caught more and more glimpses, like this one, of the man Andrew would one day be.
It had been far from easy but with the help of the strong foundation Rosalind had laid for them both they had made it through the darkest days and appeared to be headed for 'fair winds and following seas' as Charles would say. Foyle glanced at Rosalind's picture, a sad smile on his lips, before turning back to the chessboard to make his next move.
5) 1940
The fire was crackling cheerfully in the grate but it could not dispel the cloud of emotion that had settled over the room; it was the last night of Andrew's incredibly short leave, by 6am tomorrow he would be on his way to rejoin his squadron and God only knew when he would be home next.
'If he makes it back at all…' Foyle took a sip of scotch, trying to swallow down the sickening fear of this being the last evening he would spend with his son along with the single malt. Thoughts like that wouldn't help anything and while he was a very realistic man Foyle refused to contemplate a future that did not include Andrew, alive and well and still complaining about the state of his father's larder.
He glanced at his son; Andrew was staring into his tumbler of scotch, the firelight only serving to enhance the shadows under his eyes and the disturbing thinness of his face. Foyle took another swallow of scotch, trying to ease the lump in his throat.
"Dad, you umm don't know any Rabbis do you?"
Foyle blinked sure that he had misheard the question, "Sorry?"
Andrew ran a hand through his hair, "Rabbis, you haven't, I don't know had one as a witness or anything have you?"
"Mmm not that I can recall, why do you ask?"
Andrew stared unseeingly into the fire for several long minutes and when he spoke his voice was low and a little rough. "There was a lad in the squadron, Aaron, went down a few weeks ago. Dog fight over the Channel on a night op."
He paused and took a fortifying gulp of scotch, shifting the tumbler to his left hand and running his right index finger around the rim of the glass as he continued. "His kit was sent back to his parents of course but then a week ago one of the lads found this."
He withdrew something from his pocket and held it out so Foyle could see the delicate Star of David, hanging from the thin gold chain. "It has to be Aaron's, he was the only Jewish lad in the squadron."
Foyle nodded, "And you want to get it back to his family? Surely your CO has his parents' address?"
Andrew shook his head, "That's the thing Dad, just before Aaron went down he had a letter from them, saying they were going to go and stay with his sister, probably for the duration. They lived in London and Aaron was so relieved that they were getting out of the city…two nights later…he went down"
He threw back the rest of his scotch and stared into the fire again, oblivious, Foyle hoped, to the way his words had affected his father. Foyle had felt the blood drain from his face as he gripped his glass so tightly that his knuckles were going white. He forced himself to take a deep breath, letting it out slowly before repeating the process and taking a sip of scotch.
"So you don't know how to contact them, is that it Andrew?"
Andrew nodded, "Yes, I don't know his sister's surname; she's married so it won't be the same as Aaron's. I don't even know where she lives, just that it's in the country somewhere and she's on her own with two little boys since her husband joined up."
He paused again, a ghost of smile on his lips, "Aaron loved to talk about his nephews…little rascals by the sounds of it"
"And you weren't?"
Andrew laughed but it was a forced, hollow laugh that made Foyle's chest ache. "Anyway, I thought Aaron's family might want the necklace back and that maybe if I could get in touch with their Rabbi he might know how to reach Mr. and Mrs. Glassman."
Foyle nodded, "Don't suppose you know which synagogue they attended?"
Andrew shook his head, "No but they did go regularly. Aaron used to keep it up as best he could but it was difficult with ops. We all learned to hush up if we happened to be on the ground at sunset on Fridays. He used to take himself off to the barracks at first, not because he was ashamed; I don't think I've ever met anyone who was as proud of, or committed to, their religion as Aaron. He just didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable but we were able to convince him that we didn't mind."
Andrew paused a far away look in his eyes, "There was a holiday he told us about, Tisha b'Av I think he called it. It commemorated the Temple in Jerusalem being destroyed and the way he told it, the passages that he recited…it was like we could see it. I suppose it was easier to picture with the Luftwaffe bombing London …" He trailed off blinking hard as he stared into the fire.
Foyle nodded again, "Would you like me to look into it Andrew? See if I can find an address for Mr. and Mrs. Glassman?"
Andrew looked up, "Could you? I mean I know you're very busy and short of men…"
"Be happy too"
"Thanks Dad" Andrew's voice was earnest, his smile genuine and something in Foyle's chest eased as he caught a glimpse of the carefree young man his son had been before the war.
He nodded, "I'll send you the address once I find it"
Unexpectedly Andrew shook his head, his expression once again grave, "I think you should keep the necklace and send it on Dad, I'll write a note to go along with it but I think it would be best."
There was a moment of perfect, agonizing silence and then Andrew forced a smile, "You know how careless I am Dad, I might lose it"
Foyle nodded and got to his feet, turning towards his desk and away from Andrew as he fought down the fear that had risen up yet again at the implication of Andrew's words. Once he could be confident that his hands and voice would be steady he turned back to Andrew and held out an envelope. "Best put it in here then, you can add your note once you've written it."
Andrew nodded, took the envelope and, after one last lingering look, carefully placed the necklace inside before handing it back; "Thanks Dad, I really appreciate this"
Foyle nodded and placed the envelope carefully on his desk before moving to put another piece of wood on the fire. "You want another?" He asked, nodding to Andrew's empty tumbler but Andrew shook his head.
"Can't, I'll probably be in the air as soon as I get back"
He rested his head against the back of his chair, suddenly looking utterly exhausted and Foyle frowned worriedly. "Tea then?" Andrew nodded and Foyle squeezed his shoulder lightly as he passed.
It had taken far more work than he'd ever admit to Andrew to track down Mr. and Mrs. Glassman but the letters he received, from them and Andrew, made every awkward conversation he'd had trying to convince understandably wary Rabbis that he wasn't looking to do anything untoward more than worth it.
+1) 1945
"I didn't know you still wrote"
Dad's voice broke the silence that had settled over them as they sat drinking their tea in the lounge and Andrew blinked, "Sorry?"
"Poetry" Dad clarified fiddling with one of the buttons on his open waistcoat and in the ensuing silence Andrew swore he could hear Mum chiding Dad fondly as she reinforced the buttons on his favourite waistcoat.
He took a gulp of tea, shaking his head slightly trying to chase away the memories; it had been happening a lot since he got home, shadows of his childhood emerging unexpectedly. "Umm yeah, I do, write I mean, from time to time"
"As often as you write letters then"
"Dad I was…" There was a pause as Andrew considered and discarded several explanations, some too blunt and others too pompous, before settling on "busy."
Dad nodded and the look on his face made Andrew feel like he'd heard all the answers he hadn't given in that single word and he took a long drink of tea trying to dislodge the lump that had suddenly taken up residence in his throat.
"How did you…?"
It was Dad's turn to look down, "Saw your notebook on the table, you'd left it open…"
"Oh" Andrew frowned trying to remember why he would have left a notebook lying out.
"Sorry"
Dad had clearly misinterpreted his frown and Andrew shook his head, "Don't be, it's not a secret, most of them are dreadful though…" He shrugged and took another drink of tea.
"Not sure I agree with that" Dad said mildly, his head cocked to one side and Andrew felt a blush creep up his neck.
"Oh come on Dad, you can't be serious. I don't see anyone wanting to read a washed up pilot's views of the war"
Dad frowned, his lips pressed into a thin line, "Not how I see it and I suspect not why you wrote them anyway."
Andrew sighed and ran a hand over his face, "No" he agreed after a minute, "It…it helped somehow to put it into words, some of it anyway…" He trailed off but Dad didn't press him so they simply drank their tea in silence as the minutes ticked by.
"Some days it felt like I was the only person in the world even when I was surrounded by the other lads, like no one else was seeing or feeling what I was…" Andrew swallowed thickly, "Writing it down made…I suppose it made me feel less alone, less like I was going mad…"
It was more than he'd intended to say but when he glanced at Dad he didn't appear surprised or upset merely thoughtful. "I'd say they more than served their purpose then, regardless of what you do with them now."
Dad's voice was as measured as ever but there was the slightest burr of emotion, his eyes filled with understanding and warmth and something in Andrew's chest began to loosen for what felt like the first time in 5 years.
"Yeah" his voice was rough and he had to blink hard for a minute before he could muster a smile. Dad smiled back, lips pulling down slightly at the corners, and the air between them suddenly felt lighter, the silence more like the many ones they had shared before the war. Andrew closed his eyes he let himself relax into it; here he didn't have to be a squadron leader or even a veteran, he could simply be his father's son.
A/N: A huge thanks to OxfordKivrin for all of her help with Aaron's traditions and practices.