Disclaimer: Foyle's War is a copyright product that does not belong to me. Used here for entertainment purposes only, no infringement intended or sought. Lyrics to the song 'You don't know me' were written by Cindy Walker and Eddy Arnold and are used without permission, but again for entertainment purposes only.
Author: hazeleyes57
Title: Unfinished Business.
Rating: U , available for all.
A/N: The song 'You don't know me' was written in 1955 by Eddy Arnold and Cindy Walker. Its most famous cover version was by Ray Charles , who took it into the charts in 1962. For the sake of my fic-lit, I ask you to imagine the song was on the radio in 1946. The rendition I have listened to was by Michael Buble, and it sounds very plausible for the 'forties to my humble ear. After all, what is fan-fic if not a suspension of disbelief?
This fic fits within canon for the show up to 2012.
Unfinished Business
Foyle stiffened in his seat as the all too familiar opening strains of 'You don't know me' filled the room. He wished now that he had thought to turn off the radio before he sat down in his usual armchair.
The wretched piece of music had taken up residence in his head of late and would not leave him alone. It personified many of the thoughts and feelings that had passed through his mind in the last few years and he wasn't comfortable with them being out 'there', where someone else might put two and two together and reveal what he had so far managed to conceal.
Ex-Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle stared into the depths of his whisky glass, which contained a measure of his dwindling supply of Scotch. Since the end of the war it was available again, but its price reflected the difficulty in obtaining it. Given how he was feeling now, he was of the opinion that another bottle would be a worthy investment.
Having already attended Church earlier on this fine Sunday, he was now quietly digesting the remains of his mid-day meal, which, to be honest, could barely qualify as a Sunday Roast. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered cooking just for himself, but it was the one meal of the week that made him think of Rosalind's determination that no matter what his duties as a policeman threw in their path this was the one meal that the family always had together.
Foyle took another sip of his drink before leaning back in his chair to stare unseeing at the ceiling. Rosalind. A small part of him was grateful that she wasn't here to suffer the worry of what might have happened to Andrew in the RAF, but that was small consolation for the loss of her in every other way.
He had always made sure that they had pictures of his late wife in the house – for Andrew, so lost without his mother, and for himself. He too had been devastated by her death, but he had had to cope, work and carry on taking care of Andrew. It had been difficult, but it would have been impossible without the help of Rosalind's brother Charles and his wife, especially during the school's long summer break.
At first Rosalind's picture had been painful to look at for any length of time. To be constantly reminded of what they had lost seemed counter-productive, but Andrew would often use his mother's picture to start a seemingly innocent conversation that would eventually tack around to what ever concern he had at the time, and so the picture remained.
After several years, six or seven perhaps, Foyle was distressed to realise that Rosalind's features didn't spring so easily to mind as they used to. Yet, perversely, he would occasionally get a sudden image of her so clear and strong that it was like a thump to his chest that left him breathless.
He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up his wife's features.
To his dismay the face of another woman formed in his mind without his permission, as sharp and as clear as he had seen her only two days ago.
Samantha.
Foyle wearily rubbed his left hand over his face and opened his eyes, hoping to dispel the image of his driver that lingered when it should not.
Of course, it didn't work. Her strawberry blonde hair, her pale complexion, the dusting of freckles she tried so hard to hide – all stuck in the forefront of his mind like a full colour photograph.
As if that wasn't bad enough, somehow that damned song had become inextricably linked with her in his thoughts.
With no effort at all he was transported back to the day that they met. Buoyantly striding into his office, bringing in with her the fresh and tangy smell of the sea with a delicate under-note of gardenias. Her crisp salute and then that beaming smile. So young, so full of life, so Sam.
You give your hand to me
Well, she saluted.
Then you say 'hello'
Call me Sam, everyone does!
And I can hardly speak
Yep, I stuttered like an idiot.
My heart is beating so
True.
And anyone call tell.
God, I hope not.
You think you know me well
Thank God she doesn't have any idea.
But you don't know me, oh no.
Just as well.
You don't know the one
Who dreams of you at night
And longs to kiss you your lips
Longs to hold you tight
I must wish that it wasn't so...
I'm just a friend,
That's all I've ever been
And that's all I can ever be.
'Cause you don't know me
And I must hope that she never will.
For I never knew the art of making love
Though my heart aches with love for you
Stupid old fool.
Afraid and shy I let my chances go by
The chance that you may love me too
I watched and agonised while simultaneously pushing her in Andrew's path, and before I could even breathe a sigh of relief when that failed, young Farnetti had already appeared on the scene.
You give your hand to me
Then you say goodbye
Then just when I can breathe again...Adam.
I watch you walk away beside the lucky guy
So he succeeds where the others have failed, and she has accepted his proposal.
You'll never know
The one who loves you so
I shall keep my own council and smile for her, and try to be happy for her happiness.
Well, you don't know me
Foyle grimly finished off the last of his Scotch. He scowled at the radio.
Oh I never knew the art of making love
Though my heart aches with love for you
Afraid and shy I let my chances go by
The chance that you may love me too
Afraid? Yes, afraid to take a chance on love's possibilities. Afraid to ruin someone else's happiness.
You give your hand to me
Then you say goodbye
I watch you walk away beside the lucky guy
You'll never know
The one who loves you so
'cause you don't know me,
Oh no, you don't know me
ooh, you don't know me...
The music faded away and Foyle got to his feet, suddenly galvanised into action. He couldn't trust himself to stand idly by and watch while Sam married Wainwright. He wished her all the happiness in the world, but he couldn't bear to see his dreams crumble under the sound of Mendelssohn's March.
He knew just what he had to do.
Howard Paige had avoided paying for his crimes for long enough, it was time to seek justice for Richard Hunter, and for Hunter's widow and son.
As if it was only yesterday, he recalled standing on that windswept airfield unable to prevent his quarry from leaving.
Paige's arrogance had bled into every syllable -
"You sound like a sore loser. You know what the French say? "C'est la guerre."
And his response, so bitingly delivered.
"Precisely, Mr Paige, 'It's the war'. And no war has lasted forever, and neither will this one. A year, maybe ten, but it will end. And when it does, Mr Paige, you will still be a thief, a liar, and a murderer, and I will not have forgotten. And wherever you are, I will find you. You're not escaping justice, merely postponing it. Au revoir."
It had been postponed long enough. It should be a matter of moments to establish Paige's whereabouts. He would return Paige to Britain for justice, or die trying.
Sam would be disappointed that he would not be at the wedding, but she would be happily distracted by wedding preparations, and by the time he returned it would all be over.
Less unhappy now that his mind was made up and he could see the way forward, Foyle picked up the telephone to call his brother-in-law. Charles Howard was still a big player in the Admiralty HQ, he could find out what he needed to know.
As to Sam, well, he would let her know on Monday that he had some unfinished business in America.
Had to be done for the good of all concerned...