Victory Roll

Summary:

May 1942. Five months after the US enters World War II, Foyle is dazzled by a smile at The Royal Victoria Hotel, nearly comes to grief on Castle Hill, and is treated to some good old southern comfort. Where will this leave Sam?

Disclaimer:

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

Author's Notes:

I like the idea of Foyle having friendly relations with our American cousins. He hit it off pretty well with Captain (less so with Major) Kieffer, but we never see him interact with any American women. In the service of variety in the Foyle fiction arena, (a hazel-eyed friend of mine writes 57 different ones for various fandoms), I think the ladies of America deserve a crack at Foyle, and this fic attempts to remedy that sad omission in the TV series.

Quite where this leaves Sam? Hmm.

…

The book '1066 and All That: A Memorable History of England, comprising all the parts you can remember, including 103 Good Things, 5 Bad Kings and 2 Genuine Dates', is a tongue-in-cheek retelling of the history of England. Written by W.C. Sellar and R.J. Yeatman, it was published in 1930, and has been a firm favourite with kids of all ages ever since.

…

This story is for dancesabove.

Chapter 1

Saturday, 16th May 1942

It was a little after two o'clock when Foyle stepped into the foyer of The Royal Victoria Hotel, St Leonards, with Milner close behind. After a quiet word with the concierge, the two men turned towards the stairs and ascended the wide, imposing staircase under the frank gaze of its full-length marble-pillared mirror. Reaching the top, they turned eastwards and strode through the Piano Bar, en route for the Sea Terrace Restaurant.

That day, over luncheon, the restaurant had been the scene of a nasty incident involving a wife, a lover, a jealous husband, a fish-knife, and a bloody nose. The fish-knife had found its way into the husband's grasp and finished up embedded in the lover's thigh. The wife's disgruntlement with these offbeat cutlery arrangements had found handy expression in the form of a crystal salt-cellar, driven point-first up her husband's nose.

Given that there had been no loss of life, Foyle wouldn't normally have involved himself with such a relatively minor fracas, but alas, Hugh Reid was laid up with an ingrown toenail—Christ! he'd moaned, when Foyle had visited him in hospital earlier that day, I wouldn't wish this pain on Hitler! So Hugh was well and truly indisposed, and it somehow didn't seem quite fair to let Milner field this one entirely on his own.

The key players in the lunchtime drama had already been taken aside for questioning-stroke-medical attention, leaving behind a roomful of bemused diners, who, for the most part, seemed to have enjoyed the unscheduled matinee performance. A profusely apologetic management was keeping them well-oiled, and the detained patrons had settled back to enjoy their complimentary drinks until they were approached for questioning.

The May afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall arched windows had a luminescent quality that made the fine cut crystal sparkle, and the crisp white linen glow. The same light illuminated a window table where a lady sat alone.

She was—Foyle assessed her—early forties? Hard to say… but well-preserved without the help of artifice. Gentle brown eyes, and mid-brown hair, cascading in waves to her shoulders, fashionably curled and pinned back in a Victory Roll from a pleasant, open face. She'd dressed it with a single flower above her delicate right ear. Petite, trim figure. Navy floral dress. Demure white gloves. Cream high-heeled court shoes sporting looped-leather pom-poms on the toes. Foyle blinked. Those shoes. Unusually, the well-turned pair of ankles clad in fully-fashioned stockings caught his eye.

"May I take your name, Madam?" Milner licked his pen, and poised it to record the information.

"Jocelyn St Just." The accent was unmistakeably transatlantic, with the cadence, if not quite the melody, of 'well, ahhh declare'. Confederate—for all Foyle supposed it mattered in this modern day and age—perhaps a little north of Scarlett in a crinoline, but never, in a million years, Yankee. Lunching alone, Foyle noted. Where was her Gable?

St Just, then. She pronounced it 'Sain Zhewst', but Foyle knew the spelling well enough, and made a mental note to check that Milner got it right. It was a name of Norman origin he'd seen in documents pertaining to the history of Hastings—and, coincidentally, it matched precisely the cast-iron name-plate attached into the front wall of his house in Steep Lane.

Had been attached, he mentally corrected, until the National Salvage Drive required him to 'donate' it to the war effort. 'St Just'—the name-plate—had duly disappeared the way of many tons of Hastings decorative ironwork. These days, Foyle and the postman had to settle simply for the number 31. A stay of execution, though, was granted to his iron railings—in recognition of the very real risk that their removal would result in broken necks. Without them, careless passers-by could fall into the hole outside Foyle's basement window. But Foyle was under no illusion: if things had got too desperate— which, at the end of '41, they nearly had—the men with hacksaws would undoubtedly have taken them, and hang the consequences.

Except America, God bless her, had then stepped in and saved his ironwork by entering the war.

Back in the Sea Terrace Restaurant, the brown-eyed lady with the ankles smiled inquiringly at both her gentlemen callers. A row of perfect white teeth flashed their dazzling advertisement for American dentistry. Foyle wagered quietly that if ever this one smiled while outdoors during blackout, she'd attract a 'Put that bloody light out' admonition from the ARP.

Remembering his manners, which were never far away in any of his dealings, professional or private, Foyle tipped his hat and nodded warmly back at her. "Good afternoon, Madam. DCS Foyle. This is my sergeant, Mr Milner."

"Dee Cee Ess." She raised an eyebrow. "Darned if I know what that means. But sergeant… You're... dee-tectives?" Jocelyn looked Milner up and down from under sooty lashes. "Am Ah under arrest?" Her dark eyes flashed in open mischief.

A flirt. Foyle pursed his lips and cast his eyes sideways towards Milner, whose cheeks had taken on a heightened colour.

"Not at all, Madam," Milner stared at her, clearly unnerved. "We do need to take the names of all witnesses, however."

Foyle took pity on his sergeant. "What brings you here to Hastings, Miss, er, St Just? If you don't mind my asking?" he inquired pleasantly.

"Mrs." Jocelyn—also a dee-tective—identified and answered his real question first, then moved on to address the ballast of his inquiry. "But not at all, DCS Foyle. I have a little leave. From the American Red Cross…and was seduced"—she said Amurrican and sedooced—"by the incredible façade of this amazing building. I just had to come explore the inside of this place."

Foyle rocked on his heels and gestured sardonically around him. "So, um, wha'd'you think so far?" There was a certain amount of blood on a nearby tablecloth.

"Guess Ah'm lucky. Came in for lunch. Got dinner and a show." Her eyes sought his and sparkled in amusement.

Foyle found himself sedooced by humour so akin to his own, and managed a lopsided grin. "We, um, aim to please." His eyebrows lifted, handing her the witticism as a personal gift. Thoughts moved in, unbidden, to crowd his mind, beginning with 'She's married, then?' and ending with 'So what the devil business would that be of yours, in any case?'

As if on cue, Jocelyn obligingly made it his business. "Mah late husband always loved live entertainment with his food. I guess he woulda rated this show pretty high..."

Inexplicably, Foyle found he had a healthy appetite for Jocelyn St Just's voice. So when she then went on to relate in exhaustive detail precisely what she'd seen, he listened to her account with keen enjoyment. Jocelyn, he noted, had a rare gift for observation.

With sombre dedication, Milner noted down her memories of the incident, before thanking her politely and moving on. Feeling that Milner had been a little cool with such a helpful witness, Foyle was moved to append his own approval. "I appreciate your telling us all that," he said, casting her a grateful smile. "Thank you for taking the trouble."

Her accent broadened into pure, soft, southern comfort. "Why you're vurry welcome, Dee Cee Ess Foyle." Again, the thousand-watt beam lit her features, and Foyle developed an unusual urge to linger.

He fumbled for a reason so to do. "But your, um, luncheon was disrupted. I trust, er, that we haven't given you a bad impression of British table-manners?" His face spelt genuine regret with just a tinge of mischief.

Jocelyn's eyes lit up at the chivalrous apology, reading into it precisely what lay underneath the surface. "Jury was out for a little while," she began beguilingly, glancing up at him from under her lashes. "Then, you walked in, and I guess you tipped the balance back in England's favour."

Foyle twisted his lips. Was she flirting with him? With Milner, he could understand... He had lingered perhaps too long at her table, and his sergeant was casting questioning glances back in his direction. His nerve failed him. "Thank you," he said simply, lifting his hat once more. "I should, um, probably…" he gestured towards Milner.

"Duty calls," she supplied obligingly, with the slightest undercurrent of a tease. Then she sighed. "But I have high hopes of dinner…"

Foyle shot her a startled look. "I don't quite...?" Was she angling for an invitation?

"Dinner. Here." Jocelyn gave a bell-like laugh. "I just loved this place so much, I booked a room. I'm stayin' here. So at dinner tonight, I'm hopin' that they'll hold the sideshow."

"Hold… a sideshow…?" Foyle's eyebrows climbed. She expected an exhibition, or a circus act?

Jocelyn smiled at his difficulty. "Hold it. Cut it out. No more 'dramma'. I wanna dine in peace."

Understanding (and relief) was vouchsafed to Foyle.

"I seee! Indeed, then I wish you a peaceful evening, Mrs St Just."

"Thank you, DCS Foyle."

As he made to move off, the steady hum of conversation in the restaurant almost masked her words.

"Wouldn't care to join me, I suppose? Scare off the bad criminals? Keep… the peace?"

He halted, wondering if he'd misheard. "Would I…?"

"For dinner. Join me for dinner." The earlier amusement had left her eyes. Jocelyn's expression was serious, bordering on the anxious, he could see.

"Um, I don't think…"

"Have I shocked you?"

"Not at… um…"

"Sure I have. The States are short on men and long on widows. We don't beat around the bush. No wedding ring, I see." She placed her index finger in her mouth, then lowered it to point at his left hand.

"I, um. It's not usual here for men to wear… I lost my wife ten years ago."

"My husband died of meningitis in the fall of 'thirty-six. So. Wanna eat with me tonight?" This time the eyes above the smile contained a plea.

Foyle blinked at her. Did he wanna eat, or continue to starve? He reviewed his appetite in the new light of Jocelyn St Just, and nodded once. "Provided you'll allow that dinner is my treat."

"You're very kind, Dee Cee Ess Foyle." This time the formal mode of address was stressed too pointedly to ignore.

"Christopher, by the way. My, um, name."

"Well, my! Mah middle name is Christine. Two Chrisses crossin' paths. I wonder just what else we have in common." Jocelyn's pleasure at the similarity in their names was childlike.

"Looking forward to finding out." Foyle hesitated, half-dazed at what the blazes he was playing at. Once again he indicated Milner. "I really should, um…"

Jocelyn beamed, and nodded to release him. Foyle turned to go, then raised a finger to his temple, remembering there was unfinished business. He spun on one toe, overcoat swinging round his legs like a dance-skirt. "Quarter-to-seven suit? In the Piano Bar?"

Jocelyn nodded gravely, this time suppressing a smile. "Suits me just fine, Christopher."

"Um. Splendid." Foyle tipped his hat one final time and moved away to join Milner. As he walked off, he made a mental list of topics he might broach that evening, starting with the name Jocelyn shared with his house, and ending… how? In some strange way, because she'd lost a husband, he could actually imagine discussing Rosalind. And loneliness.

…

That evening, as Sam deposited him outside 31 Steep Lane, Foyle almost asked her to wait for him while he changed, then drive him to The Royal V. It wouldn't take him more than half an hour to wash, change and shave, but something about the idea of Sam delivering him to this particular engagement didn't feel quite comfortable.

When it came to the crunch, he simply thanked her, and sent her off with a "See you in the morning, Sam. Usual time."

As soon as Sam had pulled away, he let himself into the house and disappeared upstairs to pick out fresh clothes, settling on a royal blue silk tie and navy braces with a dark grey flannel suit and matching waistcoat. He took extra care with his ablutions, patting his face with gentlemen's cologne; then ran a comb across his pate to tame the increasingly sparse wisps of hair. Jocelyn St Just, he reflected, hadn't seen him properly yet without a hat. He wondered if she had any opinions on men with thinning hair.

By twenty to seven, he was striding downhill to East Parade, and quickly found a taxi for the short ride along the seafront to St. Leonards. Five minutes later he walked into the piano bar of The Royal V, and spotted Jocelyn sitting in the window with a book and what looked very like a G&T.

Foyle raised his hat. "You, um, started without me?" he teased her lightly.

"Don't grudge a girl a little Dutch courage!" she countered. "Have a seat, why don'tcha?" Foyle removed his hat and settled himself into the chair next to hers. Jocelyn signalled to the barman. "What's your tipple, Christopher?"

"Um, single malt, or failing that, I'll have a pint. You're on—what?—vodka? gin?"

"Uh-huh. You've guessed it: gin. I only drink clear alcoholic liquids. So it's this stuff," she waved her glass, "or champagne."

"Oh. Well… I could always ask..." Foyle planted both hands on his knees and made to rise.

"No! No need!" Jocelyn placed a restraining hand on his right knee. "It's a treat to have, but I can live without it. Gives me somethin' to look forward to for celebrations. Save it for better times?"

They fell into easy conversation, starting with the meaning of DCS, and the attendant frustrations of police work in wartime.

In due course, it was Jocelyn's turn. "My husband's death left me very comfortably off," she sighed, "…but very bored. After Pearl Harbor, I felt I had to do something useful, and I already had some experience of First Aid, so it seemed sensible to join the Red Cross. Always loved the idea, too, of visiting England—excuse me! I should say Britain. Tell me you're not Welsh or Scottish. Don't wanna send your hackles risin'!"

Foyle smiled warmly. "Nnup. In fact, Foyle is a French name. Very likely Norman. Like, um, St Just?"

Jocelyn grinned. "I guess that background would've tickled Greg. But I can't lay personal claim to the heritage. My folks are Norrises!"

Foyle prepared to amaze her. "Even better. Norris is also a good Norman name. It comes from the old French word 'norrice', meaning 'tender of the sick'. Quite apposite, considering your current occupation, I'd say."

"How d'ya know all this stuff?" she looked at him incredulously.

"I read," he told her modestly. "In Hastings, it's impossible to avoid the local history. 1066 and All That."

"Come again?" Jocelyn meant to say she didn't understand.

Foyle summarised. "The Normans—French invaders—wrested England from the Saxons here. It happened in 1066. Pretty much changed the landscape of the country."

1066 and All That. Foyle's mind drifted back to Andrew's schooldays. His young son had come home from school brandishing a 'wizard read', lent to him by one of his friends. "It's a hoot, Dad. Have a shufti at this!" Together they'd devoured the book, huddled together on the settee. They'd read out passages to Rosalind in the kitchen. He could still hear her, chortling heartily at the book's subversive wit. Less than one month later, his wife was dead. There hadn't been much laughter after that. Pretty much changed the landscape of his life. And Andrew's.

He wrenched himself away from the poignant memory. "No doubt you've noticed there's a castle…?"

"Oh sure! The ruins. Only from a distance. I was curious, but your military fellas have it pretty much locked down. Lotsa 'Restricted Area' signs and barbed wire. I guess it's not a good time for tourin' Merrie England right around now." She gave a little laugh. Jocelyn's was a light bell. Rosalind's a low, rich chuckle. "But I adore the view of the ocean from up there, castle or no castle."

Not 'sea', but 'ocean', noted Foyle. Americans perceived things on a grander scale.

After dinner, they took a stroll along the esplanade. The evening had turned cool and Foyle shrugged off his jacket and made to place it around Jocelyn's shoulders to keep out the worst of the sea breeze.

"No," she protested mildly. "You'll be cold."

"I'm perfectly fine," he shrugged, hands in pockets—a vision in his crisp shirt, waistcoat, tie and braces. "Police work toughens you up."

Jocelyn turned to face him. "No need for tough with me." She ran her hands briskly up and down his cotton-clad arms, as if to warm him, carefully keeping her eyes below the level of his broad shoulders. God forgive me! He has muscles under there, and I'm just beggin' for his arms around me.

Gently, Foyle extricated himself and caught her hands, bringing them both up to his lips. Jocelyn barely dared to meet his eyes, but when she did, she couldn't tear her own away, for they were scintillating azure pools, and crinkled with a poignant kindness she remembered from her early days of marriage to her husband. Still holding her hands between his own, he guided her so that her back leant against the rail along the esplanade, and brought his lips down softly onto hers.

For the second time that day, Foyle felt like lingering. The kiss was soft and, though only mildly exploratory, it was enough to tell him that it could become much more. Jocelyn began to shiver under his embrace, and Foyle's arm slid around her back, supporting her.

"Still feeling the chill?" he hummed into her lips.

"Can't blame the climate for this one. I haven't kissed like this in oh-so-long, Christopher."

"Well, that makes two of us, then." His left thumb stroked her cheek, and he leaned into her. There was no mistaking how the kiss affected him. The insistent pressure of his covered flesh against her navel, coupled with the long-absent flutter in her abdomen. Not a shadow of doubt where this would lead if they let it. Their breathing quickened as the kiss deepened—neither could have said who was responsible for that.

"Take it inside, will ya, Guv'nor? Jerry's gettin' the signal loud and clear across the bleedin' Channel in Dieppe." It was a cheery enough admonition from the ARP warden on patrol along the seafront. He'd managed to approach them with a total lack of stealth, so absorbed were they in each other.

Foyle straightened sharply. The situation was already embarrassing enough, but things were about to get worse.

"Mister Foyle? Is that you, Sir?"

Drawing back from Jocelyn, Foyle took a deep breath, stretched his eyes and turned. "Indeed it is, Mr Enderby. All quiet on the, er, St Leonard's front?"

"Will be in a minute, Sir. Don't linger now." Enderby saluted him with a smirk, tipped his tin hat to Jocelyn, and carried on along the esplanade.

Jocelyn brought her hand up to her mouth. "I'm so sorry."

Foyle shrugged. "Can't be helped. My own fault. Behaving like a schoolboy." He kicked himself. "Um, not that I wouldn't… er… wish for an encore… sometime. Soon, even."

"Stay. For a nightcap."

"I'd… um… that would be…" Foyle desperately reviewed his commitments for the morrow. Sam would be on his doorstep at half-past-seven for a trip to Rye. He exhaled irritably, shifting a leg to ease the rampant discomfort. "Better not. Early start, tomorrow…"

Jocelyn looked aside, in clear disappointment, and bit her lip. Foyle fancied that her eyes were glistening.

He reached for her hand. "I, um. Jocelyn? Would you… let me…? How soon can we see each other again?"

She turned to him, and he could see the welling tears clearly now. "My leave of absence ends tomorrow. They're movin' me on on Monday afternoon. Not even sure where to, yet."

Foyle's eyes were glazed with weariness and want. He pinched between his eyes. "Look. I've got police business which will take up most of tomorrow morning, maybe into early afternoon. But we could meet for dinner here again…" There was the faintest pleading, verging on desperation, in his eyes. "Tomorrow, I could come in for that nightcap…"

"Sure." She smiled sadly. "We should do that." Her response felt to him a little absent. She let out a pensive sigh. "Christopher… mebbe I shoulda let you be. This is even harder, now that I know you better." Her shoulders slumped under his hands, making her look tiny and deflated.

"I agree." He grimaced, looking out to sea. "I mean, I agree that it's hard. Glad you didn't 'let me be', though. Tremendously glad."

"I like England," supplied Jocelyn, enigmatically, gazing out to sea. "I like the English."

Foyle persisted. "Dinner tomorrow, then? With one Englishman?"

Jocelyn stroked his cheek. "Sure, Christopher. I wouldn't have it any other way." She sent him her most radiant smile yet.

Put that bloody light out, thought Foyle, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

****** TBC ******

More Author's Notes:

Rumour has it that many hundreds of tons of scrap iron and ornamental railings snaffled for The War Effort were actually dumped in the Thames Estuary because Britain had no structure in place for processing this ironwork into weapons of war.

Fortunately, 'St Just' is still safely screwed to the outside of "Foyle's house" in Hastings. I have it on authority from hazeleyes57 that the name is masked with stone-coloured paper whenever Foyle's War scenes are being filmed there.

…

More soon.

GiuC