Disclaimer: I think it's fairly obvious to everyone reading the stories on this website that none of us own or make money from these characters, who all belong to Anthony Horowitz. However, since I re-purposed a large chunk of canon dialogue from "Fifty Ships" at the beginning of this chapter, I feel compelled to humbly state that these characters and this world are not mine, even if they have moved into my head temporarily.
Author's Notes: Obviously, Christopher Foyle is the Atlas on whose shoulders Foyle's War rests. Even so, I was a little surprised by just how many of the stories on this site focus exclusively on him (and usually Sam). There are over 100 stories to date and only six of them give Sergeant Paul Milner a starring role. (The best of these, in my opinion, is "Fool" by BlueCardigan.) My main theory for this discrepancy is that, in canon, Paul eventually gets the whole happily-ever-after package: wife, kid, promotion. And since Foyle never gets a love interest, that fuels a lot of creative speculation and storytelling.
Still, there's so much depth and richness to Paul's character, not to mention the journey he takes to reach his happy ending. So I've been inspired to fill in the gap. I hope you all enjoy.
Finally, a huge shout-out of gratitude and appreciation to GiulliettaC for acting as my Beta. She is amazing (but I think we all knew that already).
Also, thanks to Dancesabove for the really cool picture that is currently gracing this story.
Early September, 1940
Paul and Sam ate their dinner with the wireless playing in the background, chatting companionably about all and sundry: the food (Paul was a terribly good sport about Sam having used the remainder of his bacon ration for the coq au vin); her current housing situation (imagining Mr. Foyle's face if he knew where she was staying made for a good laugh); and the current investigation (Richard Hunter dead on the beach and the looting of the bombed houses – were they connected?).
Then the wireless began to play a different tune, something faster and jazzier – probably something American. Sam began nodding her head in time with the music.
"I love this one," she exclaimed, jumping out of her chair and turning the volume up. Her plate temporarily abandoned, she began shimmying on the spot, then turned to Paul, still seated at the table and watching her with amusement.
"Will you dance with me?" she asked, then gently ordered, "Dance with me."
"No."
"Don't be such a cold fish!" Sam exclaimed, sashaying around the kitchen with her arms poised around an invisible dance partner, "I've been bombed, I've lost my house, just about all of my possessions. And here I am stuck with you."
"Well thank you," he shot back in mock indignation.
"Just one little dance, that's all."
"All right, I'll have a go," Paul said, rising, "But I'm warning you, I never was much of a dancer, even with the leg." He manoeuvered his way around Sam, heading towards the kitchen sink.
"That's just an excuse," Sam retorted.
"No it's true, really," Paul insisted, refilling his glass from the tap.
"I used to love going to dance halls. When I was in training we used to go up to London. Mayfair, the Grosvenoer…" Paul took a sip of water, then set his glass down and held out a hand to Sam.
In the end, they danced for almost twenty minutes, while the wireless obliged them with a programme of fast-paced music. Sam conceded to herself that Paul wasn't about to oust Fred Astaire from his film career, but frankly, she had had worse partners. Paul didn't once tread on her feet and he managed to shuffle about in time to the music quite well, while she executed some of the fancier footwork.
And it felt so absolutely marvellous to be dancing, the music coursing through her blood like quicksilver, making her feel so alive. Because less than 48 hours ago, she had come so close to being…quite the opposite. But the music and its energy helped to push that all away, and Sam's face, looking up at Paul's, reflected her sheer exuberance in rosily flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
When a slow song finally came on, they both let their arms fall to their sides, as though by unspoken agreement. Slightly breathless, Sam sat back down in her chair and attacked her half-filled plate with renewed relish. Paul collected his water glass from the draining board and resumed his seat as well.
"That was marvellous, thank you so much, Paul," Sam beamed.
"I didn't do all that much." Paul's smile was self-effacing.
"Nonsense. I wouldn't be at all ashamed to be seen dancing with you anywhere," Sam told him briskly. "You know, it actually made quite a nice change to dance with someone who's properly taller than I am."
"Oh?"
"Well I'm not a giraffe, of course, but put me in a pair of heels and I'm about eye to eye with most of my dance partners. When I was younger I used to worry it would put fellows off."
"I'm sure it never did that," Paul smiled again, wondering which was more absurd: that Sam's modest height would keep away eager suitors, or the reference to her "youth," given that she was all of twenty two. Although, on reflection, he supposed that the quandaries of a seventeen year old girl might seem distant and misty after the passage of four or five years. Particularly when those years included this bloody war.
They finished their dinner and did the washing up together; Paul rolled up his sleeves to wash the dishes and Sam dried them. Then they repaired to the sitting room and read a little before heading up to their respective rooms to sleep. Paul continued to puzzle over his case notes; Sam found a handsomely bound Complete Works of Shakespeare and began re-reading Richard III.
And that became their routine for the week that Sam stayed at Paul's. One of them threw something together for supper (rationing made the meals slightly hodge-podge – one night all they could come up with was powdered eggs and toast) and they shared the washing up. They went over the progress of the investigations (the issue of the looters was wrapped up quite happily for everyone bar the culprits themselves, but Richard Hunter's murderer had unfortunately slipped through Mr. Foyle's fingers, much to his consternation).
And every night, they danced. Sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes in the sitting room, wherever they happened to be when the right kind of music came on the wireless. Music like Sam, Paul reflected – happy and alive. She would jump up from where she sat and drag him with her. He usually made a brief show of reluctance, but he admitted to himself by the third night that it was really just for show. Paul had never been a particularly talented dancer, but he had enjoyed dancing before the war…before losing his leg.
And now he discovered that, just as he'd been able to re-learn standing, and walking, and running with his new prosthetic limb, he was re-learning dancing too. Over the course of the week he could sense his movements and balance growing surer and more fluid. He couldn't put words around his gratitude towards Sam for helping him reclaim this part of himself, but when the slower music came back on and they would stop dancing, Paul would flash her a smile as genuinely happy as her own.
"I'm going to miss all this," Sam confided to him as they walked to the station after her last night in his spare room. "Staying with you this past week has been such terrific fun."
"It has, hasn't it?" Paul replied, "I'm really glad that I could help out."
"You've been a brick, Paul," Sam declared, "A ton of bricks. Well," she added as they arrived, "I'll be seeing you shortly." And with a jaunty wave, she headed towards the parked Wolseley to go and collect Mr. Foyle.
...
It wasn't until after he had arrived home that evening that the loneliness hit Paul. The rooms seemed cavernous, and the silence unnatural without Sam chattering brightly at his elbow. He switched on the lights, surveyed the pantry, then switched them off again. He wasn't hungry. He turned on the wireless, then turned it off again after a minute.
"I wonder when Jane will be coming home?" thought Paul. It was the first time she had crossed his mind in almost a week.