To the reader: Andrew Foyle, Sam Stewart, the Rev. Iain Stewart, the Rev. Aubrey Stewart, Christopher Foyle and Foyle's War in general are the creations of Anthony Horowitz, and I am not attempting to profit from my reuse of them. Everyone else who appears here is my own invention. (Sam's mother, mentioned in canon but never seen or even named, is a borderline case. A few characters who are referred to near the end of this story are borrowed from another television series; to tell you any more than that would spoil the surprise.)
Like all of my stories, this one builds on earlier ones.
LYMINSTER, WEST SUSSEX
FEBRUARY 1943
The coach pulls away and heads north towards the next bend in Lyminster Road, leaving Sam and Andrew by the roadside. As they've drawn closer to Lyminster Sam has grown increasingly quiet, to the point that Andrew is almost surprised to hear her speak without first being spoken to.
'I can -' she begins.
'I know that you can – doesn't mean that you ought to,' he says. 'Unhand that, please,' he continues, reaching with his free hand for her suitcase, which she has already lifted from the ground. 'Why's the vicarage so far from the church?' he wonders as they go over the road.
'Jolly inconvenient, isn't it?' Sam replies absently. 'This way.' She leads Andrew towards the point where the broad, paved road meets a narrow dirt lane that stretches eastwards – 'To the next village,' she explains – and pushes open a broad wooden gate that leads to a gravel drive. 'My mother said that we're to stay on the footpath on our way to the door – the entire front lawn has become a herbal garden, it seems, and she's done winter planting. My mother did this, you understand,' she adds for emphasis. 'That would have been unimaginable before the war.'
The vicarage comes as a surprise. Andrew had imagined a taller house, far older than the rather innocuous one he and Sam are approaching – dark ashlar, he'd supposed, with pointed arches at the windows and a turret for Sam to lean out of; or at least something like the Victorian pile whose red brick cornices and steep roofs he can just see beyond it. This isn't much more than a cottage, really: two storeys of grey cobbles and dull orange brick with a low, hipped roof. Late Georgian at a guess, no older than the Steep Lane terrace.
'Do I look all right?' Sam asks.
'You look quite wonderful, Sam.'
Sam has dressed carefully for this journey. Beneath her coat is the black-and-brown suit and light brown hat she'd worn for Christmas, this time with a high-collared blouse the colour of the inside of a conch shell and her inelegant but practical MTC uniform shoes. On Saturday she'd gone to a hairdresser; Andrew isn't sure that he likes the result – much too elaborate, especially for Sam – but he suspects that it's for her parents' benefit far more than for his. She has left her haversack at home and instead carries a slightly worn-looking black leather handbag in which she now begins rummaging about, finally withdrawing a small key ring.
'What about me, though – am I all right?' Andrew adds. 'Um, is my tie straight?' He is aware, suddenly, of a faint fluttering somewhere in the region of his stomach.
Sam comes to a halt. She turns about and looks Andrew up and down.
'Yes, it is – you look splendid, of course,' she tells him, smiling suddenly. Her smile fades quickly as she resumes her journey up the footpath. Just short of the doorstep she stops again.
'Andrew, will you do me a favour?'
'Yes, of course.'
'I do know how fond you are of my Christian name,' Sam begins with a small smile, 'but please never call me Samantha while we're in Lyminster, even when we're alone. It's just that... it sounds too strongly of the village, I suppose.'
'Very well – I won't, I promise. Not even in front of your parents, though?'
'Especially not in front of my parents!'
'All right. Wait a moment, Sam, please,' Andrew says softly. He has put down the two valises and stands with her on the walk. He puts a hand at the small of her back and kisses her cheek, and she lets go of a tiny sigh. 'Courage,' he whispers. 'It's only for a couple of days, and we're here together, and I love you,' he adds.
'Yes. I know. Thank you.'
Sam returns his kiss full on the mouth and hears him gasp a bit in surprise and delight.
'We might not have another chance to do that while we're here,' she explains. Turning back to the house, she closes her eyes briefly, opens them again, squares her shoulders, knocks on the door, then puts her key into the lock, turns it and pushes the door open.
'Mother? Dad? We're here.'
Wednesday 24 February 1943
10.15pm – To Lyminster with Andrew this morning – or today, actually, as journey took nearly seven hours! By coaches the whole way – had to change at Eastbourne, Brighton & Worthing as well as Littlehampton. Ate lunch in Brighton – Woolworth's café – shoulder lamb w mint sauce & dressed cabbage, not at all bad. Mother & Dad gave us tea – M brought out good tea things! Haven't seen them since the Bishop visited us in 1938! Consider this good sign. M has learned to make rusks. Dinner quite good as well, & very clever – stew, potatoes & more cabbage, each in stone jam jar, all put in big pan w water to steam. (Discovered this while I was in kitchen washing up after tea as M showed Andrew to the spare room. Slightly annoyed by this but really not surprised that M & D don't trust me alone w Andrew upstairs. But didn't take long, nor did blackout, so went upstairs to unpack & saw him there anyway! He put on civilian clothes – awfully attractive, but not accustomed to seeing him that way!)
Vicarage now completely surrounded by kitchen garden! All M's work – says she will show to me tomorrow morning. Still rather astonished by change in her.
Most things I left here gone – clothing to WVS exchange, books to be pulped, etc. Suppose it's only practical, but rather wish they had told me. Does not quite feel like my room.
Andrew gave D & M lovely gift – very small framed watercolour by his mother, size of his hand. View of Hastings Old Town from the East Hill. Said his father found it amongst her things after she died & had it framed & it's been in Andrew's room ever since then. Think they were really pleased. As well, D made stupendous announcement – museums in Littlehampton and Worthing own watercolours by Mrs F! Wonder whether Mr F knows this. All sent off to safe place for duration, of course. Brought my copy of How the R.A.F. Works to give to them, but they have their own copy! Consider that good sign as well.
Lyminster seems very quiet (evacuation, etc.), but saw sailors & Wrens leaving Dragon's Head when coach stopped outside. D says Royal Navy requisitioned Lyminster House, stables, etc., only last week. Men billeted about village, Wrens living at Lyminster Hse itself. M says only proper as they are probably doing the real work! Unknown what their assignment is – D asked but 'was very politely rebuffed' so thinks it must be intelligence. At any event they are holding 'open evening' tomorrow – Andrew & I invited to go. Glad that I brought nice dress.
During dinner D held forth on history of Lyminster – nuns, King Henry V, etc. Must ask him tomorrow to tell Andrew about knucker; really more interesting, and he does tell it awfully well.
Strongly suspect Andrew not fond of my hair this way. Not to worry – won't last long!
Later – Ought to go to bed, but forgot to write that coach from Hastings had to make diversion due to fire at Britannia Rd munitions plant – same works where poor Grace Phillips was killed in December. Looked quite bad. Before dinner Andrew telephoned his father to tell him we'd got here safely, asked if he knew about it. He did, but Andrew told me he didn't have anything to say about it. (D wouldn't let Andrew pay for call. Quite like him really, but still rather chuffed about this.)
At any rate 9.00pm news began w story about wildflowers growing on bomb sites in London. Said that this is due to fires changing what soil is made up of. Happened as well after Great Fire in 1666. Experts especially hoping to see flower called London Rocket – very rare, apparently. Should quite like to go to London to see this! Ought to look at bomb sites in Hastings to see whether happening there as well. However agreed w M who said odd way to begin news bulletin. D said probably meant to take sting out of bad news to come. Very next thing reported was Britannia Rd works fire – no one killed, but police haven't ruled out sabotage!
Still later – Has just occurred to me only previous time Andrew & I slept under same roof was two years ago, almost precisely.
At breakfast the next morning, with very little prompting, Mr Stewart tells the story of the Lyminster knucker, 'one of our most important pieces of local lore,' he notes with enthusiasm.
'Knucker?' Andrew queries.
'Knucker is a Sussex word, referring to a water monster with some dragon-like aspects,' Mr Stewart explains. 'It comes from the Anglo-Saxon nicor – a word, one ought to note, that appears in Beowulf. There are said to have been several of them in the Kingdom of Sussex during Saxon times, but ours is by far the most famous, or infamous if you prefer. It's said to have done a great deal of damage over many years, eating the villagers' livestock and even the villagers themselves.'
'What became of it?'
'That's perhaps the most interesting facet – there are several versions of the Lyminster knucker's demise. In all of them it's killed by a young man, but who he was, and his own fate, changes a good deal. In several variants he's a farmer's son called Jim Pulk,' Mr Stewart replies.
'It seems odd to find someone called Jim in this sort of story,' Andrew observes. 'Rather... informal, I mean, or perhaps rather modern.'
'I agree entirely,' Mr Stewart says, smiling broadly and glancing at Sam, who purses her lips and looks at her plate, 'but there it is. In any event, he's said to have killed the knucker by feeding it a poisoned pie, or in some variants a dish of poisoned porridge. Then he went to our local public house to celebrate his victory. The Grey Line coach stops just outside that establishment, as you will have seen, Flight Lieutenant, and you may have observed that it's called the Dragon's Head. And there he himself died, having failed to wash his hands – which still had the poison on them, you see – before wiping his mouth after drinking a pint of ale, thus providing us with a valuable lesson in hygiene, and perhaps also one about the dangers of using liquor as a celebratory instrument. In another version of the tale,' he continues, clearly enjoying himself, 'the King of Sussex offered his daughter's hand to whomever could kill the knucker. A knight-errant answered the call, slew the beast, married the princess and settled down here in Lyminster, or so it would appear. The dragon-slayer is said to be buried in our churchyard, although no one seems to know precisely where.'
'No headstone, then?' Andrew asks.
'There is one,' Mr Stewart explains, 'but it was brought into the church at some point, centuries ago – in order to preserve it, you see. There's no name on it, but it is marked with an image of a sword.'
Mrs Stewart makes an impatient noise.
'What my husband is omitting to say, Flight Lieutenant,' she interjects, 'is that it some have suggested that this entire story is a hoax, put forward at the time of the Norman Conquest by the Augustinian nuns who made their home here in those days – this village, as you know, having begun its existence as a priory. The convent was connected to St Stephen's by a tunnel, and the nuns invented the water dragon to keep the Norman soldiers away from that tunnel.'
Sam, who has heard this conversation before, catches Andrew's eye and gives him a wry smile.
'Emma, why on Earth would hearing about the knucker keep William the Conqueror's troops away from the tunnel?' Mr Stewart asks impatiently. 'In no variant of the story that I have ever heard or read is there even the slightest association between the knucker and that or any other tunnel. There's absolutely no physical evidence, moreover, of there ever having been a tunnel leading away from St Stephen's. We don't have so much as a crypt.'
'What physical evidence, as you say, is there that this monster ever existed?' his wife demands.
'The knucker hole,' Sam's father replies, calm but implacable, 'is still there.'
'I'm sorry – the what?' Andrew asks.
'Knuckers were said to live in small ponds known as knucker holes. They are reputedly bottomless and remain cold all summer yet never freeze in winter. On frigid days steam rises from them. I've seen that with my own eyes – as have you, Samantha.'
'That's true – I have seen that,' Sam remarks.
'These creatures are said to have been rather common in Sussex long ago, as I mentioned, but to my knowledge the only other knucker hole remaining is the one at Worthing. Ours is on a farm a short walk from the church. Samantha,' Mr Stewart adds, turning back to his daughter, 'you really ought to take Flight Lieutenant Foyle to see our knucker hole this morning. I'm sure that Mr Thompsett will be pleased to see you.'
'That's precisely what I was going to suggest,' says Sam. 'St Stephen's as well, and... well, the village, generally.' Not that there's much to show anyone, she thinks, but at least we'll be out of the house for a bit.
'Oh, dear,' Mrs Stewart says. 'I was going to show you the garden this morning, Samantha. At this time of year the light is best now. I suppose that you could go out after lunch.'
This having been settled, Sam dutifully asks after various neighbors; she and Andrew offer equally dutiful, carefully-worded answers to questions from Sam's father about work.
'Please do stop, Iain,' her mother interjects with a sigh. 'Haven't I said before this that these two are likely to know a great deal about the war effort that they're simply not free to divulge? Not even to each other, I would imagine. It must be a dreadful burden.'
'Sam isn't meant to discuss police matters with me, that's true,' Andrew says. 'My father doesn't either, by and large. He's a great one for leaving his work at work as much as he can. Of course, every so often something gets into the newspapers in a big way, and then I suppose the drawbridge is lowered a bit, out of necessity.'
'That dreadful incident at the munitions works, and its aftermath, for example,' Mr Stewart notes, adding, 'And now it seems that they've been struck by an arsonist.'
Oh, bloody hell, Andrew thinks, but Sam speaks up before he can say anything.
'Yes, Dad, that's quite a good example,' she says, sounding very cheerful. 'Did you see in the Sussex Express last month, that the assizes are set for next week?'
'I did,' her father replies, with poorly concealed displeasure.
'So we'll all be going to Lewes,' Sam continues, 'possibly for two days or so. Mr Foyle and I will both have to testify, and probably Sergeant Milner as well. I'll telephone from there if I can,' she adds.
'I have to say that I fail to see the need for your testimony, Samantha,' says her mother.
'Well, after all, I was the one who – who saw Osborne behave rather oddly at Grace Philips' funeral. That was the first sign, really, that he was... up to no good, I suppose.'
'But if that's all that you saw -'
It's more than enough, Andrew decides.
'The Crown will want to make the strongest possible case against Osborne, of course, and in this instance that will mean hearing testimony against him from as many people as possible,' he says aloud, with as much authority as he can summon given that his knowledge of criminal law is entirely academic. 'The problem is that Osborne is utterly mad, to judge from – um, from what I've been given to understand, and the defence will undoubtedly argue for a verdict of guilty but insane – assuming Osborne has an attorney.'
'He does,' Sam announces. 'We were told – that is, Mr Foyle learned that some relations emerged from the woodwork after he was charged and are paying his fees.'
Mr Stewart still has a sour look and appears to Andrew to be on the verge of voicing some objection.
'As a good general rule,' Andrew goes on quickly, 'prosecuting attorneys will consider it their responsibility to protect their witnesses, not only from unnecessary public scrutiny but from the lawyers for the defence as well. So there's really no need to be concerned that Sam will be in some way... harmed by testifying in a court of assize.' His voice has taken on an edge of severity, even sarcasm, to his alarm.
'I suppose that that's of some comfort,' Mr Stewart allows.
'I might add that, in my experience, with regard to Sam my father and his sergeant have made that a very high priority as well,' Andrew adds, trying to adopt a more conciliatory tone. Sam has begun blushing; he decides to change the subject. 'Mrs Stewart, thank you so much for breakfast, and thank you again for supper last night,' he says. 'Will you let me wash the dishes?'
'That's very kind of you, Flight Lieutenant, but it's hardly -'
Sam cuts her mother off.
'I'll help you, Andrew,' she announces, standing up and hoping that her voice and manner will brook no objections.
'Did I lay it on a bit too thick in there, d'you think?' Andrew asks.
'About the trial, do you mean? No, not at all,' Sam assures him. 'It's just the sort of thing that they've been worried all along would happen to me!' Well, that and... certain other things, Sam thinks, before going on aloud, 'Is it true, by the way, what you said?'
'About prosecutors? Oh, yes – at least according to everything I've ever read or been told about it. For what it's worth, defence attorneys are likely to feel the same obligation to their witnesses, although my guess would be that there'll be none in this case – defence witnesses, that is. Or... did you mean about Dad and Sergeant Milner?'
'No, I already know about them!' Sam replies, and they both laugh. 'What's been worrying me is that the assizes are at the middle of the week,' she goes on seriously, 'so my father wouldn't absolutely have to be here, and he might take it into his head to attend, so that he would be on hand to... remove me if needed!'
'But Sam, he can't do any such thing!'
'Of course he can't, but I do think that there's a part of him that still thinks that way. And I've only told my parents bits and pieces of what happened, you see.'
'Not about... your visit to Johnson's Garage, then.'
'No, certainly not! Nor that Milner was already walking out with Edie while his wife was still alive! It would all be the absolute limit.'
'What are they going to do now? Where ought I to put these, by the way?'
'On the bottom shelf of the cupboard just behind you. If you mean, are Milner and Edie going to be married – I don't know! I've wondered about that, but neither of them has said anything to me and I've not been able to work up the nerve to ask. They might want to wait a decent interval, I suppose.'
'Or feel that they must.'
'Yes, that as well. I'm very glad that I asked my father to tell you about the knucker,' she goes on. 'He's really immensely fond of that story.'
'I can't recall hearing anything remotely like that when I was growing up,' Andrew remarks. 'Not about something of that sort going on in Hastings, I mean.'
'Dragons are rural, I think, by and large – Hastings would be too large a town for them.'
Andrew laughs.
'What must it have been like, though, to have that sort of legend floating about when you were a child?' he asks. 'I'd have been frightened out of my wits!'
'Oh, not at all! It was great fun! When I was at infant school we would always play at being Jim Pulk and the knucker, and we were quite pleased with ourselves because children in other villages couldn't do that, or not in the same way that we did, at least, because there'd never been a knucker where they were!'
Sam's voice takes on a confiding tone, a sound that never fails to give Andrew a small flush of pride and excitement; he wonders from time to time whether he might know more about Sam than anyone else.
To be honest, though,' she goes on, 'I've always liked the story with the knight and the princess best. That must make me sound like the most horrid snob, I know, but the thing of it is, at least there's a girl somewhere in that version, even if all that she does is simply to wait for the knight to slay the dragon and claim her hand.'
When Mrs Stewart begins to usher Sam out to see the garden Andrew stands up as well, poised to go with them if asked, but no such invitation is forthcoming. Mr Stewart appears in the doorway between the sitting room and his study.
'Ah, Flight Lieutenant,' he begins. 'My wife and I thought that you might be interested in seeing this.' He holds a large photograph in a leather frame which he proffers to Andrew. 'We had this made on Samantha's eighteenth birthday – the last occasion, as it has turned out, that our entire family has been together. It seems a long time ago now,' he adds in a wistful voice.
The picture shows more than a dozen people gathered on the lawn in front of the vicarage; family resemblances weave in and out of the group. Sam, flanked by her parents, is seated at the center, smiling into the camera but also, it strikes Andrew, looking slightly abstracted. Her father, he notes, is one of four men in clerical collars. Andrew recognises one of them, Sam's Uncle Aubrey, whom he has not met as such, other than to have attended Matins at his church one Sunday morning a year ago, when he was holed up at Hill House, miserable and anxious for a change of scene.
'My older brother, Aubrey,' Mr Stewart explains. 'His parish is in Hampshire.'
'Sam has told me a great deal about him.' Which is true, of course, Andrew thinks.
On the other side of Sam and her parents sits her Aunt Amy, looking as formidable as Andrew remembers her.
'I met Mrs Braithwaite when she visited Hastings last year – only very briefly,' Andrew offers. Sam's parents view her aunt as some sort of a rabble-rouser, he's gathered, and he knows that at the beginning of the war she organized the campaign to persuade Mr and Mrs Stewart to allow their daughter to leave home and join the MTC. I'll always be in her debt, he considers adding, but thinks better of it.
•
'... the herbal beds in the front, you see,' Sam's mother says, 'and the courgettes and peas as well, because they bear flowers before they are ready to be harvested, as do some of the herbs, which gives callers something to look at as they come up the walk, for a small part of the year, at least.'
'Courgette blossoms can be eaten, I've been told,' Sam puts in, 'though I don't know how they're meant to be cooked.'
Her mother's only reply is an incredulous look, though whether her surprise comes from the notion of an edible flower or simply from the fact of Sam's interjection is impossible to say.
'The rest of the crops are here in the back,' she goes on. 'We haven't entirely got rid of ornamentals. You see there are still penstemon here next to the house, and the hydrangea in front, and you'll have noticed that we still have the rose bush by the gate, though your father tells me that it's approaching the end of its lifespan – but annual flowers have been banished for the duration, I'm afraid.'
'This really is quite splendid, Mother!' Sam replies. Her enthusiasm is genuine. 'I always think that it's a terrible thing that it's the war that's helped everyone to discover all of these new talents, but it's a wonderful thing at the same time.'
'Oh, this is hardly new to me, Samantha,' Mother tells her. 'Your grandmother and your aunt and I used to do quite a bit of kitchen gardening in Cambridge.'
'I can't recall you ever working in the garden here.' Sam hopes that she doesn't sound too bewildered.
'True enough. I always seemed to have other things that needed to be attended to.'
'I suppose I was quite a handful.'
'That was only part of it, dear heart.'
Well, yes, Sam thinks. Ill so much of the time. And the duties of a vicar's wife on top of that. Her face grows warm. She had meant only to joke about having been a nuisance, not to make everything circle round her.
'This winter has been so very mild,' Mother adds, 'that we're being told to expect a tremendous harvest. I don't quite know how I'll bring all of it in... without assistance.'
'The Women's Institute can help you, I'd imagine, or the W.V.S.' I can't. No.
Sam and her mother stand next to the vicarage's Anderson shelter, at the edge of a patch of flagstones outside the door that opens to her father's study. There had been a wrought iron bench here when she had left home in 1939; it must have gone for salvage. There's a pane of glass in the uppermost part of the door; through it Sam can see Dad's and Andrew's shadows on the wall of the study.
•
To Mrs Braithwaite's left sits a man of about her own age, in civilian dress but with an unmistakable military bearing.
'My brother-in-law,' Mr Stewart explains, 'and behind them you see his daughter by his earlier marriage. This must be one of the last photographs taken of her in civilian garb – she had been teaching at a girls' public school in Brighton, but only a week or so after this occasion she resigned her position and joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service, and hers was one of the companies that formed the Women's Auxiliary Air Force in 1939.'
'Yes, Sam has often mentioned her.'
'My sister and brother-in-law were widow and widower before their marriage. Those two are my nephews, Alexander and Theodore Buchanan, my sister's children from her first marriage.'
Sam's father points at two slightly beefy-looking young men. They aren't identically dressed, and one holds an infant in his arms – that must be the family man Alex, from what Andrew remembers Sam telling him; Teddy is a bachelor – but except for those things they are as alike as two new pins. A woman of about the same age sits in front of the twin with the infant. A boy of two or three sits on the grass at her feet.
'And that must be Mrs Buchanan – Valerie, I think Sam said? – and Peter and Iona,' Andrew offers.
'Yes, precisely. My nephews' father, like my present brother-in-law, was a Scots Guards officer,' Mr Stewart says. 'My nephews are both solicitors – only since the war began have they felt compelled to follow in his footsteps. They're in the Mediterranean at present, so far as we know. That reminds me, Flight Lieutenant,' he goes on abruptly, 'that Samantha mentioned to us that you've been expecting to receive new instructions at this time.'
'Um, well, yes. Indeed I have.' Andrew glances at Mr Stewart, whose look of anticipation clearly means that he is expected to continue. 'I'm not being sent away from Hastings,' he says, 'at least not for the time being, which is a great relief to all concerned, of course, myself included. I am being reassigned, though. Using R.A.F. Hastings as a training base was something of an experiment, which has ended. To say anything more than that would be indiscreet, I'm afraid.'
'Of course – I understand completely. Early in the war many of us in the Church, myself amongst them, found ourselves being put quite firmly in place after uttering prayers for a parishioner and mentioning that he was bound for a posting in this or that location, or doing so in the parish magazine. I take it, though, that you will be flying once again.'
'Yes – I'm a fighter pilot,' Andrew allows after a moment's hesitation.
•
'I believe that you told us that your young man was expecting to receive a new assignment at about this time,' Mother remarks.
'Yes,' says Sam.
'And has he?'
'Yes,' Sam repeats, adding, 'He's told me only what he's allowed to tell anyone – you do understand that, don't you, Mother?'
'Oh, yes, yes, of course.'
'Well – he'll be flying again. He's not being transferred to anywhere, at least not for now, and of course we're both very happy about that! And certainly Mr Foyle is as well, of course!'
Sam is about to remark that referring to Andrew as your young man each time Mother or Dad speaks of him seems awfully cumbersome when it occurs to her that Flight Lieutenant Foyle is arguably even worse. Her parents are not the sort of people to call him Andrew, not... not until he's a relation, she thinks suddenly.
Mother breaks in on her reverie.
'I take it that Flight Lieutenant Foyle hasn't yet spoken.'
Sam looks up, too startled at first to say anything in reply.
'You would have informed us, surely, if he had,' Mother goes on. 'Possibly, he would have communicated with us himself.'
'Spoken?' Sam's voice sounds oddly high-pitched, startling her yet again.
'Your father and I have the impression that you've made no plans,' Mother offers, sounding as though this ought to clarify matters.
'Mother, are you asking whether Andrew and I are engaged to be married?'
'Yes.'
'No. We're not.'
'Ah.'
'When I introduced Andrew to you in November you and Dad both advised me to... wait and see!'
Sam turns her face away slightly, wondering if the burst of anger she feels shows there. That really is just like her, she thinks, to tell me one thing, and then precisely the opposite, practically in her next breath!
'Quite right,' her mother responds, unperturbed. 'It has been some time, however, since I – or your father, I'm inclined to say – has actually expected that you would follow our advice.'
'The subject hasn't come up,' Sam tells her after digesting this for a second or two. 'I suppose that it isn't a very good time to... plan out one's life. With the war, I mean.'
'The war doesn't appear to have stopped a great many other couples,' Mother observes. 'There have been, if I recall correctly, sixteen or seventeen weddings in St Stephen's since the war began, and it seems to me that all but one of the bridegrooms was in the forces.'
There's no denying this: the number of marriages taking place does seem to have gone up during the war. Nor is there any denying that Sam has in fact spent countless hours thinking about being Andrew's wife. I love him more than I ever thought it possible to love anyone, she thinks now, with a tiny shiver that she hopes that Mother doesn't notice. The truth is, however, that she doesn't know what she would say if Andrew wanted them to marry now.
Mrs Hardcastle looks after me and the other girls and the R.A.F. looks after Andrew, but if we were married we'd have to look after each other. Of course we do that now, after a fashion, but being married would be altogether different. And clearly I'd have to leave the police. I might be called up and sent into a munitions works. I shouldn't like that at all.
And being married to Andrew – being married, full stop, Sam points out to herself – would mean no longer merely anticipating, but actually doing, something that she thinks about rather often – far more than Dad and Mother would like, she suspects – even as she feels at a loss to imagine it.
•
'Does Samantha know what your duties will be in future?'
There is genuine concern in Mr Stewart's voice. Andrew is surprised by this at first and then slightly ashamed of being so.
'I've told her everything that I'm permitted to tell to anyone, sir.'
Mr Stewart nods curtly, possibly dissatisfied but accepting that he will learn no more about this. He turns back to the photograph.
'At any rate, those are my younger brothers, Desmond and Timothy,' he says, pointing to the two clergymen standing behind Sam and her parents. They look to Andrew like younger versions of her father. 'Afterthoughts in the family – particularly Timothy, who in fact is closer to Samantha's age than to my sister's. Our family's origins are in Scotland, Flight Lieutenant, as you may gather from our name, although we came over the border at the beginning of the last century. I myself grew up in Northumberland. My younger brothers have remained in the North. Timothy is vicar of a parish in the North Riding of Yorkshire. Desmond was for many years residentiary canon at Manchester Cathedral – he's now an Army chaplain. He is the only one of us to have served in the last war, though he was an infantryman then.'
'Where is his posting?'
'He's in the Holy Land – or that was the case when any of us last heard from him, about a month ago.'
It occurs to Andrew that Mrs Stewart's family isn't represented in the gathering, and that Sam's father seems to be the only one of the Stewart brothers to have married and had a child, but asking about either of these things seems as risky as opening Pandora's box. I really ought to say something about all this, though, he thinks.
'Sam's very fortunate to have grown up in such a large extended family,' he ventures at last, although he doesn't know whether he actually believes this to be true. 'My own is very small.'
'Yes, I remember that you said so when we met in November. To be sure, it isn't always a blessing,' Sam's father observes. 'My generation of the family has tended to be somewhat quarrelsome, I fear. We do not hold identical or even entirely harmonious theological views, which inevitably spills into other areas of life, and Samantha's aunt is... quite the black sheep. But we always seem to patch things up, and when there is sorrow or some other burden to be borne, it is indeed quite a comfort – as well as when there's good news, of course. I dare say, Flight Lieutenant,' Mr Stewart goes on, 'that you and Samantha have not yet... reached any sort of understanding. About the future,' he adds helpfully when Andrew, startled, doesn't reply at once.
'Let's go and visit the knucker hole first, and then I'll show you St Stephen's,' Sam suggests as they leave the vicarage after lunch.
They go into Church Lane, a much narrower street than Lyminster Road and just as deserted, although it's lined on its south side by a row of cottages. To the north there's a brick-and-cobble wall that shields a mansion from view.
'Is that where we're going this evening?' he asks Sam. She nods.
'Mm – Lyminster House.'
'Is it very grand?'
'Oh, not extremely so. My mother always calls the largest houses here "our stately homes, such as they are." Well, not always – not in front of people in the parish.'
As they approach the church they veer off to their right, passing by the churchyard and its headstones. They walk for several more yards until they come to a fence, on the other side of which is a large open field. Sam pushes open a gate and motions for Andrew to follow her. A footpath of packed earth stretches away before them.
'A right-of-way!' Andrew exclaims delightedly. Sam looks a bit bemused by this. 'I don't think I've ever actually seen one before,' he explains. 'Only read about them in law books. Is it very old?'
'Golly, I don't know! I certainly can't recall it not being here. They're rather common in the country, really. This is the farm where the knucker hole is,' she explains. 'I'm sure that Mr Thompsett won't mind us having a look, but I suppose that we ought to ask first.'
She has the same look and sound of steeling herself that she had when they'd arrived in Lyminster yesterday, Andrew notes.
The right-of-way takes them to a slightly tumbledown wattle-and-daub house, larger than the vicarage and a good deal older. Sam knocks at the door, which after a minute and a half is answered by a white-haired man – truly ancient-looking, it strikes Andrew – leaning on a heavily-carved stick. Seeing Sam, a look of almost childlike glee comes into his face.
'Why, 'tes th'vicar's Samantha, come back t'us at last!'
'Hello, Mr Thompsett,' Sam replies. 'How are you? I'm only here for a couple of days – then I shall have to return to my posting in Hastings.'
'Oh, but 'twill do yer parents a world of good to see you.'
'They seem to be managing remarkably well without me, actually!' Sam says more brightly. 'Mr Thompsett, this is Flight Lieutenant Andrew Foyle – he's stationed in Hastings as well. He's a law graduate, and he told me just now that before this he's only ever read about rights-of-way.'
'How do you do, Mr Thompsett?' Andrew greets the church's neighbour, who doesn't offer his hand to shake. 'Has that footpath been here for very long?'
Mr Thompsett doesn't answer at once, pausing to look the stranger up and down with what Andrew reads as a mixture of curiosity and, unmistakably, suspicion. Then he glances back at Sam, looking not at her face but perhaps, it occurs to Andrew, at her ringless left hand.
'Since the farm were here, no doubt,' the older man replies at last, sounding as though it were pointless and even daft to ask such a question.
'We don't want to trouble you at all, Mr Thompsett,' Sam continues. 'Would you mind if I showed Andrew the knucker hole?'
'What? Aye, suit yerself. Mind ye don't fall in – 'tes bottomless.'
There isn't even a hint of a twinkle in his eye.
'D'you think he actually believes that?' Andrew whispers as he and Sam make their way further into the farm.
'He might, actually. He's the oldest person in the parish – quite a bit past ninety, I believe – and I really do think that he's never been farther away from here than Angmering.'
When Andrew sees the knucker hole he actually does make a sound rather like a gasp. It isn't circular as he had imagined, but rather precisely the shape of an egg, perhaps seventy-five feet long. The sun has come out, and like the much larger reservoir nearby the little pond vividly reflects the blue of the sky. Quite unlike the reservoir, however, the knucker hole's surface is perfectly smooth and still, unruffled by the remnants of the breeze coming off of the Channel two miles away. The air is too mild today for steam but when Andrew cautiously goes to the hole's edge, bends down and dips his fingers into the water, it is warmer than he'd expected.
•
St Stephen's strikes Andrew as a smaller, less elaborate, possibly older version of St Clement's at home. 'The nuns worshipped in the chancel – as it is now – and the villagers in the nave,' Sam explains after she shows him the dragon slayer's grave marker, which has been mounted on a wall next to the font.
In the churchyard she explains that the stone was brought into the church so long ago that no one remembers now where the man is buried. Some of the headstones here are very old indeed, but as they make their way along the path – which would benefit from some attention, Andrew notices; evacuation and the call-up have left few people in the parish to look after the church and its grounds – Sam comes to a halt by three newer, tiny ones.
George Walter Stewart
19th - 30th January 1914
Philip Aubrey Stewart
19th January - 23rd April 1914
Nathanael Duff Timothy Stewart
10th May - 21st June 1917
'Oh, Sam, I'm so terribly sorry,' says Andrew, almost whispering. He takes her hand before going on, hesitantly, 'Have you seen, um, the others?'
'Fiona, the eldest – we used to visit her grave when we went to see my grandparents in Cambridge. Nicholas and Catherine – I have seen where they're buried but only once, and I was quite young then. They're in Brighton, and I think that my parents didn't really like Brighton in the first place, you know. It doesn't matter,' she goes on, and then corrects herself. 'Whatever am I saying? Of course it matters a great deal! What I mean is that there's nothing anyone can do about it – it's just the way it is. Let's go.'
She doesn't want you to feel sorry for her for having grown up with that hanging over her, and in a place like this on top of it all, Andrew tells himself.
East of the church and its grounds there is a grassy triangle in the middle of the road with an ash tree growing at its centre; surrounding the tree is a six-sided wooden bench that has miraculously escaped the drive for salvage.
'Let's stop here for a bit,' Sam suggests.
They sit facing northeast: looking at neither St Stephen's nor the vicarage, but more or less towards Hastings.
'What did my father talk to you about while I was touring the garden?' Sam asks. 'Oh, he showed you that photograph, didn't he?'
'Yes, he introduced your entire family! I could hardly get a word in edgeways at times – if Dad ever complains that you're too talkative for his liking, you ought to tell him that it's hereditary! One thing I did notice though – there was no-one from your mother's side – other than your mother herself, I mean.'
'Yes. I have one aunt on her side, older than she is, but I've never met her. She became a nun before I was born, you see. She lives at an abbey in Norfolk – she does write to us on occasion. You look rather shocked,' Sam remarks.
'Well, no – no, of course I'm not shocked! It's just... '
He trails off. Not shocked, just horrified, he thinks.
'I suppose that that's where I got the idea – that I would become a nun, I mean,' Sam continues. 'It seemed rather romantic at the time.'
Andrew can only shake his head. He tries to imagine Sam here before the war – making a parish visit with her father, or on an errand to the shops in Wick, the larger village just south of Lyminster. Either way, a part of the village, her own corner of Sussex unfolding about her.
It's impossible.
At first glance the village seems to consist of only two streets: Lyminster Road, which winds its way from the seashore at Littlehampton north to Arundel, past fields and the occasional house, and Church Lane, which runs briefly from east to west. Of course this isn't really the case, Andrew knows: there are byways that lead to fields and farms, with a few small houses scattered along them. Some of the houses seem all but abandoned: children evacuated, men in the forces, mothers in munitions work. Before the war there might have been a bit more bustle.
'I can't imagine anyone living in a village like this,' he blurts out. At once he feels his face grow hot. 'I'm sorry, Sam. What an idiotic thing to say! It's just that I'm so terribly glad that you left this place and came to Hastings.'
'There's absolutely no need for any apology, Andrew – I was desperate to leave! It almost wouldn't have mattered to me where I went,' Sam reflects, 'but I agree, Hastings has turned out awfully well.'
She smiles and begins to lean towards Andrew as though to kiss him, but stops abruptly – the place acting on her. And indeed, they're being watched. There are two elegantly-formed gaps in the wall in front of Lyminster House, one to admit visitors and the other for tradesmen; each is guarded by a sailor armed with a rifle, and Andrew, wearing civilian clothes as permitted while on leave, is aware that the men have been eyeing him with disapproval.
'Glad I have my uniform,' he says. 'For this evening, I mean.'
'I rather wish that I'd brought mine. Did my father try to get you to tell him about your new assignment?' Sam asks. 'My mother asked me about that.'
'Yes, he did. I only told him what I'm permitted to, of course – that I'll be operational again, that I'm not being transferred, not much more than that.'
'That's what I told my mother.'
'I was actually rather touched – he sounded a bit... worried about me, really.'
'More about me than about you, I should imagine.' At once Sam feels herself recoil inside. 'What a horrid, self-regarding thing to say!' she exclaims.
'It is. You sound rather like me, in fact. I'm a terrible influence on you, Sam,' Andrew teases. He takes her hand in his, public place be damned.
'There's no reason in the world why my father wouldn't be concerned about you,' Sam goes on, though she smiles at Andrew's joke.
'I think your parents – both of them – are probably worried about both of us together. They'd absolutely hate seeing you... going into mourning, I'm sure.'
'Golly, I'd never thought of that. I suppose that you're right.' Families worry that their sons in the forces will be killed, Sam considers, but girls' families aren't spared – they worry that their daughters will be bereaved. Is that why Mother warned me not to... become too attached? Is that why she asked whether we're engaged?
They have fallen into a companionable silence.
I wouldn't dare to ask her here, Andrew reflects. It'd be an even bigger bloody disaster than it would be at home if she said no. And I've no ring to give her, though I don't suppose that'll make much of a difference one way or the other in the end.
'None of your uncles is married,' he remarks after a few more seconds.
'My Uncle Desmond was married at one time, in fact,' Sam tells him. 'During the last war he met a girl who was in the Red Cross, and after the Armistice they were married, but she had bovine tuberculosis – I think that that was it. In any event she died not too long after. Her name was Lettice. I don't remember her at all – I can't have been much more than a year old.'
'Oh, Sam, that's awful.'
The Stewart family, it seems to Andrew, has seen more than its share of sadness.
'And my Uncle Tim – I remember that when I was seven we went to visit him at Boston Spa when he was a curate there, and we were introduced to a girl, Miss Bagnall, and he seemed to be awfully fond of her, but after that I heard my father telling my mother that she'd jilted him. I really don't think that he's had... a sweetheart, I suppose, since then.'
'Once bitten, twice shy.'
'Or even three times, perhaps,' Sam agrees. 'The family never talk about any of this. My Uncle Aubrey's a bachelor as well – never even walked out with anyone, so far as I've ever known,' she goes on, and then adds, sounding a bit puzzled, 'No one ever talks about that, either.'
It seems perhaps slightly too early to set out, so Andrew and Sam sit on the sofa, holding hands as discreetly as they can while waiting for a few more minutes to pass. Sam has put on the one good dress that she brought with her just in case.
'Do I look alright?' Sam asks Andrew, just as her mother comes into the room. Andrew, back in uniform, rises politely to his feet, and Sam follows suit.
'Yes, quite appropriate,' Mrs Stewart replies before Andrew can speak. 'I suppose that it's only an open evening – a reception,' she adds.
'That's what the invitation said,' Sam agrees. 'Why... ?'
'No dancing, that is to say. I was only wondering what ever became of your good blue frock.'
'Oh! I've still got it, but I haven't worn it since 1940, I think. It's a bit too... young for me now, really – and rather démodé as well. I was thinking of taking it to a make-do-and-mend class, actually.'
'I believe that one needs to be able to sew reasonably well before that sort of thing becomes useful,' her mother points out.
'Well... I might learn a bit if I did.'
For the first time during this visit she feels as she has anticipated doing from the beginning: not particularly competent at anything and far too young and foolish to be taken seriously. And I was never really taught to sew, was I? she adds to herself.
Mrs Stewart turns to Andrew in an inspecting manner, her eyes resting for a brief moment on his Flight Lieutenant's rings, but she says nothing. Andrew observes Sam watching her mother unhappily.
'We probably ought to be on our way,' he announces. 'I know it isn't far, but the blackout's begun and we'll need to go carefully, I imagine.'
'Indeed you shall,' Mr Stewart puts in, having appeared in the doorway. 'I placed a torch in the spare room, Flight Lieutenant – do you have that with you?'
'Thank you, Mr Stewart, I have my own. It's here in my kit bag.'
'We'll see you later on, then. Do enjoy yourselves,' Mr Stewart adds, sounding a bit as though this were an afterthought.
'Did you see my mother just now... lamenting to herself that you're only a lowly Flight Lieutenant?' Sam asks with disgust as she and Andrew make their way carefully along the road. 'She can be such a dreadful snob at times! I tell people that I had to leave school at fourteen because I was needed at home, and of course that is part of the truth, but another part is that my parents – both of them – didn't like me going to school with the village children! Although I do think that it's completely unfair that you haven't been promoted when the others have,' she adds.
Their stint in Training Command over, Andrew's friend Robert Chatto is a Squadron Leader in Bomber Command now, while their former superior Augustus Palgrave has been kicked upstairs to a Wing Commander's desk job at Adastral House (amidst whispers, at least according to the ever well-informed Chatto, that he's got a titled WAAF officer into difficulties). Only Andrew's rank remains unchanged.
'Well... that's very kind of you to say – and just like you, my darling – but it's hardly surprising, really,' Andrew replies. 'There are only so many spots to move up into at any given time, I suppose, and Robert's far more qualified than I am.' Any other possibility is nothing but a rumour, he decides, and nothing I need to trouble Sam with.
'I certainly don't see why.'
'Joined up years before I did, got his wings before I got mine, commissioned before I was,' Andrew notes. 'Two years older, for that matter. I'll have to address him as "sir" now, at least in public, which annoying, but other than that it hardly matters. Now then,' he continues, 'am I going to meet the local gentry at this function?'
'The Blanchards? Not unless they've travelled rather a long way to get here, from what I understand. Sir David is in the Army, I'm not sure where but I do know that he's been sent overseas, and Lady Blanchard and their children – there are four of them – have been in Canada since 1940. Most of their staff have been called up, I think.'
'The house was requisitioned in their absence, then?' Andrew frowns a bit into the darkness. 'That doesn't seem quite fair, really, though I suppose it is legal to do.'
The house seems very large to Andrew, but not vast: not quite the sort of place that would have had a score or more of servants behind the green baize door before things began to change, courtesy of the last war. In the rapidly fading light he can make out stucco walls; a hipped roof, steeper than the one at the vicarage; a double-doored entry; and, to one side, a conservatory, thoroughly blacked out like all of the mansion's windows. To his and Sam's right he sees an outbuilding of some sort, guarded by two sentries.
'That's the coach house, or it was,' Sam whispers. 'I suppose that that's where they... do their work.'
'Your father's right, I suspect – it must be intelligence.' Andrew shudders slightly, last year's brush with spies and their shadowy world much too fresh in his memory.
A sailor stationed at the door salutes and locates Andrew's and Sam's names on a list. They find themselves in a large hall. A Wren takes their wraps and Andrew's cap and kit bag.
Sam looks about for someone she can introduce to Andrew, but sees no-one whom she recognises. Worse, there seem to be no other girls out of uniform: the Women's Land Army are here in their jumpers and britches, a contingent of WAAFs (come all the way from Tangmere, it will emerge later, with a handful of their R.A.F. counterparts in tow), but Sam is the only one in civilian clothing. At last she sees a lady of a certain age – in a very good dress, she notes – chatting with some of the land girls alongside a Navy commander.
'That must be the commanding officer and his wife,' she speculates. 'We ought to introduce ourselves.'
• • •
Sam has hard work not to cringe when Commander Armitage responds with 'Ah, yes, the parson's daughter,' as Andrew introduces her. But Armitage knows Andrew's Uncle Charles, and Mrs Armitage turns out to be a distant relation of a Hastings acquaintance of Sam's, the wife of an old comrade-at-arms of her Uncle Michael's who's a great friend of his and Aunt Amy's (even if Aunt Amy never has taken to Lady Muriel herself). They are discussing how much Sam remembers about the plan of Lyminster House when an excited Third Officer comes up to Commander Armitage.
'We've got it working again, sir!' she announces a bit breathlessly.
'What's that? Oh, jolly good!' he replies, turning to his wife. 'Time for us to trip the light fantastic, old girl.'
'Some of the girls found an old gramophone in a cupboard, and some records as well,' Mrs Armitage explains. 'It didn't seem to be in very good condition, and I'm not at all sure of how reliable it is, but with luck there'll be dancing in the billiards room. There's some food laid out in the conservatory, as well, though of course it isn't terribly much,' she adds ruefully.
The spread is both modest and not particularly appetizing: soggy-looking Cornish pasties filled with pilchards and some sort of pulses and cut into slices, some rather wan iced biscuits and the inevitable lemon squash. Even Sam looks to be wavering before taking anything to eat.
Andrew wonders whether he ought to suggest that they go and dance instead and then eat something later – Where? At the vicarage? This is meant to be supper, we oughtn't to take anything out of Sam's parents' rations...
'Is it? It is!' says a man's booming voice behind him. 'Heaven help us, Andrew Foyle is here!'
Andrew knows that voice – and knows that it isn't entirely welcome – even as he can't quite put a name or a face to it at once. It is only when the side of a man's hand strikes his right shoulder blade and, simultaneously, he hears a braying laugh that he realises flinching inwardly, who must be speaking. He starts to reply, but already it's too late.
'Be on your guard, ladies,' the newcomer continues, a bit more loudly now if that were possible. 'This chap's broken more hearts than Don Juan himself – the Casanova of the south coast is here!'
Every last one of the three dozen or so people standing about in the conservatory are now staring at them, or perhaps only at Andrew. He wants desperately to glance at Sam for sympathy but can't bring himself to do so.
'Um, hello, Phil. Fancy meeting you here,' he responds. 'I hadn't heard you were in the Navy.'
'Yes, since '39. The pupillage can wait, eh?'
'No choice, I suppose.'
'You at Tangmere, then, or Ford?'
'Neither.' Now Andrew sees a chance to gain some footing in the conversation. 'Hastings at present – I've been terribly lucky, really.' He briefly recounts his R.A.F. career – the parts of it he's free to mention, at least – and then explains, 'I'm here on leave for a few days.'
This has the desired effect, at least for now. A puzzled look crosses the other man's face; Lyminster, whatever its charms may be, has never been a destination for holidaymakers. Now, at last, Andrew turns towards Sam; her face is set but it is Phil, not him, at whom she looks with faint distaste.
'This is Phillip Wilton,' he tells her. 'We were at school together. This is Miss Stewart, Phil.' You could introduce Sam as your fiancée if you weren't such a bloody coward, he tells himself.
Sam smiles, politely if nothing else.
'Sam Stewart,' she announces, offering her hand to shake. 'Welcome to Lyminster, Ensign.'
'Oh!' Phil exclaims, his face resuming its earlier impudent smirk. 'You're local, then!' He turns back to Andrew. 'You always did work fast, chum!'
'Andrew and I are visiting my parents here,' Sam continues, her voice only very faintly cooler than before. 'I'm in the Mechanised Transport Corps – posted to Hastings.' She decides against explaining who her parents are. Doing so might only make things worse. She knows too well how some people think about children of the clergy.
Phil's obvious confusion – reaching the point of visiting a young lady's parents more than fifty miles from home is not something that he'd imagined Andrew to be capable of, Sam can see – is now joined by something resembling alarm.
'Splendid!' he says abruptly. 'I'll see you two lovebirds on the dance floor, what?'
And with that he makes his departure.
Sam picks up a piece of pasty, takes a bite out of it, chews and swallows.
'These really aren't too bad,' she says.
It's not only the gramophone but also the records that are rather old, as things turn out. Andrew and Sam dance to The Very Thought of You and Give Me a Heart to Sing To, I'd Rather Be Blue and Always. By now they are hot and thirsty.
'Why don't we go and see about something more to drink?' Andrew suggests.
'I'll join you there after I powder my nose,' says Sam.
'Just at the top of the staircase, Miss,' an Ordinary Wren standing in the hall offers.
'Thank you,' Sam replies cheerfully, omitting to add that she already knows this. She still remembers this house quite well, even if she hasn't seen a soul here whom she's met before this evening.
There is a queue for the WC which Sam joins at the back behind another Third Officer – older than herself, perhaps thirty. Sam introduces herself.
'Ah, yes, of course, I remember seeing your name,' the Wren enthuses. 'My name's Sarah Menzies, I'm the scribe – I wrote out all the invitations, I mean. Let me see, you're in the Mechanical Transport Corps, aren't you?'
Whether she realises it or not, Third Officer Menzies' manner has now become faintly dismissive. Some people, as Sam has been aware for quite some time, simply don't take the MTC seriously as a war service organisation. 'What is your, ah, assignment there?' the Wren goes on.
'It's called the Mechanised Transport Corps, actually -'
'Oh, is it? Sooo sorry.'
'- and I'm seconded to the Hastings Police.'
'My goodness,' is apparently the best that Third Officer Menzies can manage in response to this. Her eyes flick to just behind Sam, where a Second Officer has joined the queue.
'Ma'am,' Third Officer Menzies says to the new arrival, 'this is Miss Samantha Stewart, one of our guests this evening. Miss Stewart, this is -'
'Betty Blake,' the Second Officer says firmly, with a smile and a faint air of habitual noblesse oblige, as she proffers her hand to shake.
Betty Blake is a stunner: slim, taller than Sam, perhaps a year or two older, with an absolutely flawless complexion, beautifully modeled features and almond-shaped brown eyes set in an almost perfectly oval face, broken only by a slightly angular jaw. Her dark hair has been expensively cut and set – she'll have to go at least as far as Littlehampton to keep that up, Sam thinks – and what there is of her make-up is applied with an expert hand. Her posture is perfect and she wears, quite beautifully, what is clearly a bespoke specimen of the Wrens' uniform. Her smile, which is genuine if a trifle practiced, is of the sort that Sam can imagine turning brittle and cold in an instant.
She looks, really, to be precisely the sort of girl who Sam still worries, once in a great while, could easily take Andrew away from...
All that I do by being so ridiculous is to make myself miserable, she scolds herself. And Second Officer Blake wears a wedding band, she notices, along with a really most impressive engagement ring.
'Welcome to Lyminster,' Sam offers.
'Thank you,' Betty Blake replies with real warmth. 'I've only just got here – truly, it's been five hours, if even that long – but I have to say that I feel privileged to be serving amongst real people fighting the real war! I'm only sorry not to be billeted in the village somewhere!' she goes on, glancing about Lyminster House's comfortable upper story with an air of slight distaste.
'Is your husband in the Navy as well?' Sam asks.
'He is – a desk job at a land establishment at his age, thank God! I married a bit of an older chap,' she explains. 'Quite a bit older, I suppose. He served in the last war, in fact – went to sea then, on a destroyer. Well, when this war began, it really felt to us like more of the same – another war for empire, not at all a war against Fascism, you know. But of course one thinks – one has no choice but to think – in accordance with the concrete situation that exists, and when Germany did invade Russia it became our war.'
Sam becomes aware that her nose has begun to itch.
'And so my husband volunteered,' Second Officer Blake goes on. 'I really do think that he thought he'd be turned away – on account of his age, you see. That's certainly what I thought, but they did find a place for him. And they sent him all the way to Fife! I must admit that at times I do wonder what the point of it all is. How Russia suffers – and one still must ask whether the Churchill government doesn't see Russia as the real enemy. At any rate, the women's call-up was in the air by then. I suppose that it wouldn't have touched me, being married, but I thought I'd try my luck with the Wrens – and here I am. But really, I'm talking far too much about myself!' She looks Sam up and down, evidently taking in her lack of a uniform, a wedding band or work-worn hands. Then she asks tentatively, 'Are you... in munitions work? I don't recall being told of a works in this area.'
'Oh – no. Lyminster is my... home village – my parents are here.'
'Ah, I see! Smallholders, are they?' Betty responds with enthusiasm.
'No, my father is vicar of St Stephen's, at the far end of the lane,' Sam explains, and watches with very little surprise as a hint of coolness begins to creep into Betty's face. 'At any rate I'm stationed in Hastings – I'm on leave this week. I've started to wish that I'd brought my uniform, really,' she confides. 'I'm in the Mechanised Transport Corps.'
The Second Officer's smile fades quickly into confusion, or perhaps consternation is the proper word, Sam thinks.
'I thought that... outfit was abolished when the call-up began!' she exclaims. 'I thought that they all went into the A.T.S. – where they could do something useful!'
'Only the ones who were found to be mobile,' says Sam, as evenly as she can. 'I suppose that I might well have been, but the gentleman I work for wrote to the Labour Ministry and told them that my knowledge and skills made me essential to the district we serve.'
Betty seems to consider this for a moment. She still looks puzzled, but a bit less as though she has just encountered a nasty smell.
'You drive an ambulance, I suppose?' she asks, sounding very much as though she were searching earnestly for something to find praiseworthy. 'Or a fire engine?'
'No, I'm seconded to the Hastings Police, as a driver,' Sam explains. 'I am sometimes called upon to administer first aid – that part of my training has proven very useful.'
Clearly, Betty Blake is far too well bred to lose her temper entirely; just as clearly, this is the limit.
'Where've you been all this time, Sam?' Andrew asks, adding, 'The only thing left to drink is barley water.'
'I'm so sorry – there was a queue, and someone buttonholed me as well. You won't credit the conversation I've just had,' Sam continues. 'A very smart Wren Second Officer called Betty Blake – in a bespoke uniform and wearing on her finger the largest diamond I've ever seen – introduced herself, decided that I was the salt of the earth, then changed her mind at once when I mentioned who my father is, or rather what he is, and when I told her what I do she proceeded to give me the Daily Mirror's line on the MTC! She was about to air her views on the police, I think, when my turn came for the WC.'
'Cripes! Look here, Sam, why don't we make our excuses and go back after we've drunk up? I'd call this evening a mixed success, on the whole.'
'Yes, I think that that's rather a good idea, really. The odd thing is that she looked awfully familiar,' Sam continues, puzzled. 'I'm quite certain that I've seen her somewhere before. And on top of everything else, as I was coming down the stairs just now I heard someone introduce her as Second Officer Lady Blake! Can you imagine?'
Andrew laughs quietly.
'I can, in fact, quite easily,' he tells her. 'She sounds just like the crowd I got mixed up with for a bit at Oxford. D'you remember me telling you about that?'
Sam nods. She drains her glass, then looks at Andrew just in time to see his gaze shift to somewhere behind her. His smile fades; he may not have been shocked this afternoon to learn that Aunt Eleanor became a nun, but he is clearly shocked now. Ashen is the word Sam would use, she thinks, to describe his face at the moment.
'Andrew,' she hears a woman's voice, not unfamiliar, say before she can turn around to see who or what is there. 'What a surprise.'
'Hullo, Elizabeth,' Andrew says dully.
And there is Betty Blake, standing behind Sam and looking very surprised indeed. But it strikes Sam as a mean, pleased-with-itself sort of surprise. There is suddenly a hard gleam in Lady Blake's eyes. Another word occurs to Sam: predatory.
'Sam, this is -' Andrew begins.
'We've met,' both women reply in unison.
'We – we were up at Oxford, um, at the same time,' Andrew explains to Sam.
'Oh, I see,' she says. Decisive action of some sort is needed, she knows. 'Small world, isn't it? Andrew and I were just going, unfortunately. We must return to Hastings tomorrow and shall have to rise quite early.'
'Thank you for that, Sam,' Andrew says as they make their way back through the blackout.
'Not at all – I could see that you didn't want to chat to her, and after all it was only the truth,' Sam replies. 'I do wish that I could remember where I've seen her before – I'm certain that that I have!'
'She must really have rattled you, if you can't remember that!' Andrew replies, trying to sound less uneasy than he feels. 'I ought to explain... who she is, though. Do you remember me telling you,' he goes on, lowering his voice, 'why I joined the Communist Party in the first place?'
'Spain,' Sam offers.
'Well... yes, that's true to some degree.'
'And there was a girl whom you wanted to impress, you said – Elizabeth Racine-Puttock.' Sam recounts this quite matter-of-factly, to Andrew's relief.
'Precisely. And that was her.'
'Who was?'
'Your new acquaintance – Second Officer Lady Blake. She didn't call herself Betty when we were up at Oxford.'
'Oh! Golly!'
Sam is silent for a few seconds. Her surprise gives way to an awareness that she isn't unnerved, and then to being rather pleased with herself: I'm not falling to bits, she thinks. It doesn't trouble me, knowing that she used to be on Andrew's arm – if she ever really was. Of course, I didn't know who she was when she was chatting to me...
'How did you happen to meet her?' she asks.
'She was reading law. Not at St George's, obviously, but she sat in on some lectures there, on property law.'
'She was reading law?'
'Oh – well, yes. Not that unusual, I suppose. Some people would say it's a waste of effort – a girl can hardly expect to do a pupillage, after all, let alone practice – but if she's going to take a degree then law's really as good a subject as any.'
Sam had assumed that girls who went to university read English or modern languages, or science like her step-cousin Laura, with an eye to teaching school.
'Sam... there's something you ought to know,' Andrew announces quietly, breaking in on her thoughts. 'I didn't quite tell you the whole truth before – about why I wasn't promoted, I mean.'
They have reached the spot where Church Lane meets Lyminster Road. There is only one small cottage here (with a To Let sign in front, Andrew had noticed this afternoon), and the vicarage is still a thousand feet in the distance. Andrew has been letting Sam lead him through the darkness in these unfamiliar country lanes; now he stops, bringing her to a standstill with him.
'Well – why, then?' Sam asks.
'WingCo made some enquiries, apparently, after the promotions list came through. He thinks it's because of my Party membership.'
'But you ditched them!'
'It doesn't seem to matter – it's still in my service record. I'm tarnished goods, Sam.'
'You are nothing of the kind!' Sam tells him, quietly but with great vehemence. 'Listen to me, Andrew. I'd have been very proud if you'd been promoted, and I will be when you are, but it doesn't matter. I know how brave you are, and I know as well as anyone can who's not actually in the R.A.F. what it's been like for you, and everyone knows how brilliantly you've done and how important your service is! I don't know anything at all about politics, but I do know that I was most awfully annoyed when that girl started chattering about how Russia has been suffering. She didn't seem at all concerned about how Britain has been suffering! In the end it's a question of national loyalty, isn't it, really?'
'Well... yes, point taken. You're right, really – people at those meetings were always rabbiting on about what the Party in Russia was telling the Party here to do.'
'The point is, though, that I don't see that anyone with any sense could possibly question where your loyalties are!'
'I hope not, Sam.'
The blackout here is darker than an R.A.F. base on a moonless night; Andrew can barely see Sam's outline. But he can hear the force and ardency in her voice, and when finds her hand with his own and draws as close to her as he can, he can feel her heart pounding in her chest. When he kisses her – her brow, her temple, her lips – she sighs and relaxes a bit.
'Sam,' he asks, 'are you certain the princess didn't slay the knucker herself? I think that might be the sort of thing that happens here.'
Sam laughs.
'If she did, people would say it isn't proper for a girl, I suspect. Oh – I remember now!' she exclaims. 'Where I saw Betty Blake, I mean. I didn't see her – I saw her picture. When I went to have my hair done,' she starts to explain, but then breaks off suddenly. 'You don't care for it, do you?'
'Well... '
'It's for my parents, really – I don't want them to think that I haven't been looking after myself.'
'No, of course not.'
'It'll be back to normal soon enough, you know. But I had to wait a bit at the hairdresser's, and she had last week's issue of The Sketch, and her photograph was in it – Betty Blake's, I mean, not the hairdresser's. That's what I saw! Andrew – there's something that I don't understand.'
'That seems questionable -'
'Do stop.'
'- but what is it?'
'If a girl owns a law degree, then why can't she do a pupillage and practice?'
THE FOLLOWING DAY
The Brighton to Eastbourne coach is crowded; Andrew and Sam settle into the only pair of seats available. It's also none too tidy. Sam finds an abandoned copy of The Sketch on her seat.
It's last week's issue, the same one she'd seen at the hairdresser's. As the coach pulls away she begins turning the pages until she finds the photograph that she remembers.
It isn't of Lady Blake after all.
'Look at this, Andrew, here it is. The photograph that I saw on Saturday, I mean. I was wrong, though, it isn't of her. This woman must be a good bit older – it says here that her son flies Spitfires! Though I must say she hardly looks it.'
'She doesn't look as though her son flies Spits?'
'She doesn't look nearly as old as she must be, is what I meant.'
'Oh. Well-preserved.'
'Yes, look. And quite a resemblance!'
'Yes, I see. So there is.'
'I wonder if they're related.'
'The apple's fallen pretty far from the tree if they are!' Andrew exclaims.
This publication has tended to fight shy of shining a spotlight onto Lady Mary Talbot (née Crawley), sister of Lady Hexham, our longtime publisher, but Lady Mary's recent accomplishments supersede any possible concerns over nepotism. In addition to chairing the section of the W.V.S. serving Ripon, Thirsk and Downton, N. Yorks, she has served as liaison to the Army Medical Services in the requisitioning and fitting of Downton Abbey, her family's seat, for use as an Army convalescent hospital (a role it filled during the last war as well). Lady Mary's son, Flt Lt Lord Grantham, is a Spitfire pilot currently serving in the Mediterranean, whilst her husband, Mr Henry Talbot, is president of Talbot & Branson Motors, one of Yorkshire's leading automobile dealers, which has been commissioned to procure and refurbish unneeded civilian cars for use by the Forces.
Andrew feels Sam lean lightly against him, and as discretely as he can he takes her hand. Outside the coach's windows the familiar Sussex landscape goes past. He is about to point out the Firle Beacon and the Long Barrow when he hears Sam's sharp intake of breath.
Sam has continued turning the pages of The Sketch with her free hand, reaching a page farther along than she had on Saturday. Here – how odd! Sam thinks – there is a photograph of Betty Blake, with her husband, both in uniform.
Cdr Sir Charles Blake, Bt, and 2/O Lady Blake attended a performance of the Russian cinematic masterpiece 'Alexander Nevsky' at the Tatler, Charing Cross Road, to benefit the London Anglo-Soviet Friendship Committee.
It's unmistakably she, but what rivets Sam's attention is Sir Charles, at whose image she finds herself looking hard and long.
'What have you got there, Sam?' she hears Andrew ask. She covers the photograph with her hand.
'Life,' she begins, 'is really awfully strange sometimes, isn't it?'
FINIS
Author's notes:
It is a great pleasure, as always, to express my gratitude to those who have lent support and filled in the gaps in my knowledge: Bella Duveen79, Mercury Gray, montmartre-parapluie, oldshrewsburyian, OxfordKivrin, peonymoss (Paeonia) and rosalindfan. Some of my appeals for information or feedback were in support of sections that haven't made it into the finished piece (which has been through a long, tortuous evolution), but their input was essential nonetheless. Thank you also to everyone who responded to the excerpts that I posted on Tumblr. I owe a particular debt to eyesforfiction, whose timely and ingenious suggestion about how to proceed saved this entire story from landing in the discards pile.
Lyminster, West Sussex, is a real place, with an estimated population of 360 when World War II began, and I have tried to describe it and its history as accurately as possible while remaining in compliance with Foyle's War canon (the parish church is St. Mary Magdalene in real life, not St. Stephen's) and serving my own needs as a storyteller. (I have changed the name of the nearest pub and moved it slightly north into Lyminster itself. It's actually in Wick – which, just to confuse matters, at some point after World War II ceased to be a village and became a neighborhood in Littlehampton!) My information comes from a wide variety of sources: satellite and Google Streetview images; the Lyminster pages at the website A Vision of Britain Through Time; the Ordnance Survey map of the area; two property websites, Right Move and House Registry; another historical website, Monastic Matrix; George Cooper, And Hitler Stopped Play: Cricket and War at Lyminster House, West Sussex (1931-1946) (Cambridge: Vanguard Books, 2001); and Rosemary Anne Sisson, Rosemary for Remembrance (London: The Radcliffe Press, 1995).
The fuel saving single-burner meal that Sam describes in her diary is based on one suggested in Food Facts No. 15, issued by the Ministry of Food and published in British newspapers in late 1940.
How the R.A.F Works, by A.H. Narracott, was published in 1941 (London: Frederick Muller) and reprinted at least three times before the end of 1942. The book is a propagandistic exercise in morale-building, but it's also a valuable eyewitness account of the R.A.F.'s day-to-day operations during the early years of World War II. Narracott, a terrific prose stylist, was the "air correspondent" for The Times. A scan of How the R.A.F. Works is available for downloading at the Internet Archive.
Artistic license: although the Littlehampton Museum and the Worthing Museum both do exist, the former apparently doesn't collect works on paper such as watercolors.
The phenomenon of certain wildflowers growing in profusion on bomb sites is common to any location that has been affected by fire, which increases nitrate levels in the remaining soil. In the context of the Blitz and its aftermath it was reported in The Times on February 20th, 1943, and the Daily Mail three days later. Alas, London rocket (Sysimbrium irio) never appeared.
Various versions of the tale of the Lyminster Knucker can be found in Folklore of Sussex, revised edition, by Jacqueline Simpson (Stroud, Gloucestershire: The History Press, 2009), portions of which can be read on Google Books, as well as at the website Information Britain and that of St Mary Magdelene, Lyminster, and other places on the World Wide Web. At the time of writing, the location of the Lyminster knucker hole was clearly marked on Google Maps.
Norman Longmate mentions the efforts to curb the transmission of sensitive information from churches to their parishioners in How We Lived Then: A History of Everyday Life During the Second World War (London: Hutchinson, 1971; reprint, London, Pimlico, 2002).
There were approximately 409,000 weddings in the United Kingdom in 1938. For the war years, the numbers are as follows:
1939 – 495,000
1940 – 534,000
1941 – 449,000
1942 – 429,000
1943 – 345,000
1944 – 349,000
1945 – 457,000
Source: Longmate, How We Lived Then.
Adastral House (from the Royal Air Force's motto Per ardua ad astra, "Through adversity to the stars") was the name traditionally given to the R.A.F.'s headquarters. During most of World War II this was in a building at Aldwych and Kingsway, London, that was badly damaged by a V-1 rocket attack on June 30th, 1944. The name is apparently no longer in use.
Always (words and music by Irving Berlin) and I'd Rather Be Blue (music by Fred Fischer, words by Billy Rose) were introduced in 1926 and 1929, respectively; The Very Thought of You (Ray Noble) and Give Me a Heart to Sing To (Victor Young, Ned Washington, and Maxson F. Judell) both date from 1934.
The phrase "in accordance with the concrete situation that exists" is quoted directly from a letter sent by the Communist Party of Great Britain to its members shortly after Germany invaded the Soviet Union on June 22nd, 1941, detailing changes in Party policy regarding the war.
After a Daily Mirror journalist had a frustrating encounter with the MTC's founder in 1939, the paper rarely lost an opportunity to show the organization in a negative light and called more than once for it to be disbanded.
It should be noted that The Sketch was an actual magazine, published weekly from 1893 until 1959. It had a more artistic bent than its rivals, but like them it also covered society figures.
The Tatler Cinema, 105-107 Charing Cross Road, opened in 1911 as Pyke's Cambridge Circus Cinematograph Theatre and was known by several different names during its history; it became the Tatler in 1931. From 1941 until 1947 it programmed Soviet films exclusively. More information can be found at the Cinema Treasures website.