L'Aimant - Chap 12 (M)
Summary:
(M-rated version of Chapter 12 of "L'Aimant". For the T-rated version of this chapter - and indeed for all other chapters of this fic - go to the story entitled, simply, "L'Aimant".)
A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.
Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.
Sam and Foyle are back from London, and have spent the night at Steep Lane with the Wolseley parked outside.
Now it's early morning, and they have a day at work ahead of them.
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:
For the T-rated version of this chapter, (and indeed for all other chapters of this fic), go to the story entitled, simply, "L'Aimant".
Merivale, Sam's bohemian landlady, belongs to dancesabove.
Constable Davis belongs to TartanLioness.
Huntley & Palmers were, and still are, UK biscuit manufacturers. Ewbank were, and still are, a UK manufacturer of carpet sweepers.
Woodbines were a brand of cigarette popular with servicemen during the war.
In RAF slang, a lost or missing pilot was said to have "gone for a burton". Before the war, the Burton Brewery ran a series of beer advertisements, in which the characters would use the phrase to explain the absence of one of the characters in the advert, implying that they had gone for a pint of Burton's ale.
My thanks to dancesabove, who tweaked this till it squeaked.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
Sam warmed a little. "Those are rather good ideas. I suppose you're not so rotten after all…"
She hugged the arms he'd wrapped around her waist, tracing the sinews in his forearms with deliberate, insistent strokes.
"Pleased you think so," Foyle murmured, and a heavy urge reclaimed him once again. Turning her head a little, he kissed her, begging entry with his tongue.
Sam melted into him over her shoulder, responding eagerly at first, but remnants of fruit salad were still playing on her mind. She pulled her lips away. "Christopher…"
"Mm?" he leaned back, frowning patiently at her along his nose. Something else is wrong?
"Am I a 'stick of rhubarb' now? Before, um, even getting fat?"
"N-nup... You're certainly slender in a rhubarb sort of way. But bits of you lean more towards the Bramley apple. Definitely."
"They do?" She smiled, enjoying the unusual compliment.
"Mm-hmm." His arms around her tightened their embrace and sent his intellect careering into exile.
"Well, that's all right, then." This was Sam, content at last.
"Isn't it just?" he mumbled absently. And any rubbish tumbles from your lips in this enlivened state, Foyle, he thought.
"So what shall we do now?" asked Sam. She grinned, because she felt the answer pressing on her Bramleys from behind.
"Right now?" he said, "I'm going to lean you back into a nice deep-sided oven-dish and make a juicy orchard crumble out of you."
Chapter 12
Tuesday, 12th December 1944
Sam awoke early, and hungry. They had tumbled into bed the previous night in an enthusiasm of passion, and fallen into an exhausted sleep after the fact. The upshot was, they'd gone completely without dinner. In spite of all their playful talk of fruit and crumble, Sam's last mouthful had been the Kunzle cake she'd bought in London and devoured in a lay-by on their way home.
Christopher was still draped across her in a sleepy stupor. The bedroom—not that she could see it in the blackout—was, she knew, a mess of clothes strewn everywhere. Luckily she was now in the habit of keeping a change of blouse and underwear at Steep Lane (her landlady, Mrs Merivale, bohemian by nature, was not the least inclined to pry once Sam explained her work would keep her out occasionally overnight: "This is the Modern Age, my dear. And we must live according to our lights! Just give me a little clue, so I shan't worry if you don't come home.").
So here they were—two lovers less than five days short of marriage, shameless, dishevelled and unfed into the bargain. Sam's rumbling stomach yearned for breakfast, and so she wriggled carefully from under Christopher, with every good intention first of staggering to the bathroom, and then down the stairs to coax some heat into the house. The radium-illuminated Westclox told her it was five o'clock, and her bare foot, poking out from underneath the covers, told her it was perishing cold in the bedroom.
Sam groped across the covers for something—anything—warm to wear. Finding Christopher's wool dressing gown draped over the footboard, she pulled it on around her bare shoulders. Then she rose from bed, took three steps, yawned and stretched, and promptly passed out in a heap.
The leaden thud of body hitting floor shook Foyle abruptly from his state of semi-slumber. He'd felt Sam stirring in that "from-a-distance" sort of way that reaches people when they're half-asleep. But once awareness fully hit him, he was across the bed like lightning, kneeling at her side.
"Sam? Sweetheart? Sam? Samantha!" Christ! He groped back towards the bedside lamp and fumbled for the switch. Sam's knees had clearly buckled, and she'd fallen backwards on her way to reach the door. Luckily her head had made no contact with the furniture.
He moved his knees behind her head, and hauled her, head-and-shoulders, up into his lap, pushing tousled curls aside, and rubbing briskly at her hands to stimulate some circulation. "Come back, now, Sweetheart… that's my girl—I'm here… come back…"
She stirred slowly, letting out a groan. "Wha—? Uuuh… I feel so sick."
Foyle gently turned her head to one side, then reached up and dragged the eiderdown across them both. He groped back up again and snagged two pillows to replace his knees beneath Sam's head. Room's so cold… The change in temperature… Getting up too quickly… Low blood-sugar… Body changes from the baby… Get a move on, Foyle!
He swiftly lit the gas-fire in the room, then he bent back over her, to check her position. She was lying on her side. "Sweetheart? I'm going down to get some milk and biscuits. Lie still. Shan't be long."
Foyle pelted down the stairs in twos and threes, careering round the newel at the bottom to propel himself towards the kitchen. Sixty short seconds later he was back beside Samantha, with a glass of milk in one hand and a fistful of Huntley & Palmer's Standards in the other.
Sam made to turn and push herself up on her elbows, but Foyle stopped her, dropping the biscuits hurriedly on the bedside rug, and placing a restraining hand. "Not so fast. You might go down again." He set the cup of milk down on the tiles of the hearth, and gathered her head back into his lap. Handing her the cup, he began to feed her biscuits straight from where he'd thrown them on the rug.
Still woozy, Sam ate quietly and obediently. She stopped just once to pull a longish piece of fluff from between her lips, looking first at it, then up at Christopher, a little fazed. He shrugged apologetically. "Haven't run the Ewbank over, lately."
Head nestling in his lap, she spoke through a mouthful of milky biscuit, "Christopher, you do realise that you're completely naked?"
His mouth twitched. "Funny you should mention that. Try not to let it put you off your food."
"Doing my level best," she grinned. "I suppose I shouldn't be skipping meals now."
"Events would appear to indicate as much," said Foyle. Then he added, "Not that it's ever been a habit of yours."
He arranged the eiderdown around them, and they stayed like that for twenty minutes, gazing blankly into the gas-burners. Sam made a solemn task of chewing on her biscuits, and Christopher caressed her hair.
The bedroom grew quite cosy in that time, and inevitably, so did the displaced couple. Their steady embraces ground the fluff on the bedside rug invisibly into the pile, and the long-suffering eiderdown narrowly escaped being set alight a second time.
Foyle, now propped on his elbows above Sam, interrupted an intense kiss to gaze down at her. "Thought you'd gone for a burton back there," he fretted. "You had me seriously worried."
"I never felt a thing—just went out like a light," she said. "In fact, I didn't hurt myself at all. Miracle, really."
"But you still worried me," Foyle insisted gently, resuming the kiss, and nipping at her lower lip. After a little while, he paused and turned to squint at the illuminated Westclox on the far side of the bed. "You know, it isn't even six o'clock yet." He settled back between her thighs. "We don't have to move for—um—at least an hour," he told her, meaningfully.
"What—not even a muscle?" Sam teased. "I'm sure I felt something move just then, though."
"You're imagining things."
"No, I don't think so, Christopher. About an hour, you said?"
"Hmm-mmm. The bed's still up there." He inclined his head.
"Safer down here, though. Not so far to fall."
"Safer? Really, Sam? You think?" Foyle moved the merest inch to find his target, and proved her wrong.
"Relatively SPEAK—ing," she gasped, adjusting to his length inside her now, and clung on to the muscles of his buttocks, head thrown hard back against the pillows on the floor.
Foyle burrowed his face into the crook of her neck and breathed the natural, warm fragrance of her skin with its overtones of L'Aimant. "Aaah—Sam," he whispered raggedly, "I thought I'd done my dash last night. You're killing me." He started slowly, ebbing, flowing, building up a rhythm.
"I'm—killing you—by—passing out?" Sam's sentence faltered round his gently building cadence.
"You faint—I get—upset," he ground out, in between exertions.
"Just how—upset—is that?" Sam squirmed provocatively underneath him.
"Severely!" Foyle pulled his arm down, snaking it beneath her hips to keep her steady, and plunged into her with a solid fierceness of purpose, planting hungry kisses on her neck and shoulder.
Her breath escaped in gentle sobs. "Ahh! Yes—poor Darling—Yes! I know. It's fi— it's fine."
Foyle's rhythm picked up pace. His lips migrated to Sam's breast, applying languid suction to her nipple. Without letting up, he dragged a pillow from behind her head and eased it underneath her hips to raise her pelvis, freeing up a hand to slide his thumb between their bodies.
He found her skilfully, nestled like a pearl inside an oyster, and stroked her with a steady rhythm. "Samantha! This—for you—I want—to feel you—coming round me—Sam!"
He felt her twist beneath him, moving to engage with both the stroking and the penetration. And she was beautiful. Her eyes were wide, mouth panting tiny frantic gasps that primed her body for release.
Foyle kept the pace, both thrusts and stroking, gazing at her features, frozen on the brink of ecstasy, then felt her stiffen, grip him and dissolve into an aftershock of powerful throbs that dragged him beyond control.
Her body tore his climax from him. Greedily, he locked his lips on hers and sobbed out his completion. The spasms from them both subsided, and Sam's soothing hand caressed along Christopher's back until he calmed.
"You see?" she purred a moment later in his ear. "I'm perfectly all right—you've felt the evidence. Surely you don't feel worried now?"
"Only terrified," he teased contrarily, then groaned, "Think my legs have definitely gone. You'll have to wheel me round the station in a Bath chair."
They snuffled in contented waves of laughter at the overwrought image.
Foyle rolled onto one elbow, ran his thumb across Sam's cheek and continued earnestly, "Not worried, no. But from now on, consider yourself on the clock. You eat at three-hour intervals, regardless. You keep a tin of biscuits or some fruit in the car at all times, and you drive me nowhere until I've seen you make a thermos jug of sugared tea to carry with you. Is that understood?"
Sam licked his nose. "Oh, absolutely, Sir."
At seven forty-five, they descended the front steps of 31 Steep Lane to climb into the Wolseley. Foyle broke with the normal conventions of Sam's job and walked around to hold the driver's door open for her. For good measure, he doffed his hat and made a show of handing her in. Then he returned to the passenger side and climbed inside the car. "That should bring the neighbour-woman's eyes right out on stalks," he remarked to Sam, as he saw the curtains twitch chez Mrs Evans.
At eight o'clock, Foyle swept into the station, pointedly ignoring Davis. "Mr Brooke? My office. Fifteen minutes. Thank you."
"Sir!" Brooke leant back and watched Foyle disappear along the corridor. He suddenly recalled an item nagging him from earlier that morning: "Davis! There's some dog-dirt on the station steps. Get busy with the shovel and a broom."
Foyle removed his hat and leant against the the door-jamb of Superintendent Hugh Reid's office. He trailed a finger across his forehead. "Got some news."
"Yeah. Thought you might have." Reid was grinning.
"You can wipe that look off your face." Foyle stepped inside and shut the door. "What are you doing Saturday?" he asked.
"I thought I might go fishing. Want to come? Or maybe you've already landed one for breakfast…?" The Super's eyebrows waggled.
"Oh, so bloody smug… Right. Well. On Saturday, you're coming to a wedding. I'm the lucky man, Samantha, as you've worked out, is the woman daft enough to take me on. I need two witnesses. You up for being one of 'em? Saves me a handsome five bob on the day if I don't have to pay a witness."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Oh, and bring Elaine. Need someone there to keep you civilised. There's going to be a meal at The Royal V, provided I can fix it in the time available, otherwise we're going to the pub."
"Sounds fine to me."
"Me, too. Register Office, eleven o'clock. Don't be late. Thangyouverymuch." Foyle reached across and briskly shook the Super's hand.
"My pleasure." Reid replied, then couldn't resist: "And yours too, I imagine."
Foyle mulled that over, pursed his lips and nodded slowly, absorbing the jibe. "Rrright. Just do me a favour—don't forget to bring Elaine on Saturday. Oh, and… shut it, Hugh." He turned to leave.
"Christopher—"
"Yup?"
"I'd give my eye teeth to have someone look at me the way she looks at you."
Foyle halted, without turning, and inclined his head. "'preciate it."
Along the corridor, Sam swung chirpily in through Paul's open door, keeping a handhold on the doorframe.
"Morning, Paul!"
"Hello Sam! How are you?" Milner glanced up and met her cheery greeting with a smile.
"Just wonderful. The wedding's fixed for Saturday at the Register Office. Would you join us? You and Edie? Eleven o'clock?"
"We'd love to," Paul beamed. "Edie will be delighted."
"Oh marvellous! Paul, do you think Edie would agree to be a witness? Christopher is asking Superintendent Reid to be one, and though we felt that you might like to be the other, I said that we should have a lady, to be fair—and so I thought of Edie, because, anyway, you'd be there with her, so it all comes out the same."
Paul smiled, more pleased than he could say by their plans to involve his wife. "Yes, I'm sure she'd love to. Thank you, Sam. Look forward to it."
"Tickety-boo!" Sam swung out again. Then back in again. "Oh! And there'll be food laid on afterwards. Probably at The Royal Victoria, but I'll keep you posted! Bye for now!"
Paul fixed his wide eyes on the open doorway, and wondered quietly, with just the slightest tinge of trepidation, how things would feel at work this time next week.
Fifteen minutes had elapsed, and Brookie checked his watch just to be sure. He knocked politely on Foyle's office door, smoothing down his uniform jacket.
Since transferring from Deptford Green almost three years before, Brooke had come to rather like his posting "out in the sticks". There had been some small adventures, plenty of laughs, and now there was his landlady's daughter, Florrie, to keep him amused as well. Deptford Green no longer seemed quite so attractive, and yet he had the feeling that, depending on the outcome of this interview, he might well be heading back there, or, even worse, to Eastbourne, or to bloody Bognor. He knew that the boss had been called to London the previous day, and he had a fair idea of why.
"Come in!" Foyle's voice reached Brooke through the door.
Brooke stepped into the Boss's office and stood to attention.
"Sir!"
"Close the door, Brooke."
Brookie turned and did as he was bidden, feeling as though he were closing the door on a chapter in his life. Ah well, you've 'ad a decent innings, mate. Stand up and take your medicine.
"Sergeant," Foyle began, "as you're well aware, my personal life has been the subject of much speculation just of late. Not least of all from persons based at this constabulary, one of whom is standing in this very room."
"Um, yes, Sir. That would be correct."
"Mm-hmm. And though I wouldn't say I'm wild about my private life, much less Miss Stewart's, serving as the butt of gossip, I'm a reasonable man—"
"You are, Sir!"
"Haven't finished. A reasonable man, and can't in honesty pretend to be surprised that we've provoked such interest."
"You can't, Sir?"
"Brooke. You're sounding like an echo."
"Yes, Sir! An echo, Sir."
"Brooke. Be quiet." Foyle ran a hand across his brow. "I need a driver—Miss Stewart needs a driver for this Saturday. Collect her in the Wolseley from her home address at a time that suits her, and deliver her to the Hastings Register Office no later than ten-fifty. Best dress-uniform."
"And a rose between me teeth, Sir?" Brooke was beaming. Things were suddenly "on the up" and climbing.
Foyle ignored the quip, though his lip gave a reflexive twitch. "Your ladyfriend—her name?"
"Florence, Sir. Miss Watson."
"Should she wish to join us at the wedding party, there will be a celebration following the ceremony at around midday, venue to be announced."
"Join 'us', Sir?"
"Yes, Brooke, 'us', unless you've something better to be doing Saturday lunchtime?"
"Not a thing, Sir. Thank you, Sir!"
"Dismissed. Don't let me down."
"No fear, Sir! May I tell the men, Sir?"
"Yes, you may."
"Oi! Davis?"
"Sarge?" Davis's voice drifted indoors from the front steps of the station.
"Put that shovel down, Constable. I've got a present for ya." Brookie slammed an Ovaltine tin down on the front desk.
Davis wandered over from the station doors, sizing up his 'present'. "Ovaltine, Sarge? Kind of ya, but it ain't bedtime yet. And anyway, me muvver always makes me 'Orlicks. 'Orlicks is me favourite."
Brooke resisted the temptation to pick up the tin and bang it sharply against Davis' skull. "Open the lid, you berk."
Davis prised the lid off and peered inside. The tin was crammed tight with Woodbines. "Bloody 'ell, Sarge! Did I win the jackpot?"
"In a way, you did, yeah. 'Cos you bet two fags on 'Overnight at 'is place'—40 to 1, remember?"
Davis nodded mutely, wondering if there was going to be More Trouble. But Brooke continued evenly, "Well, on Saturday, they're gettin' married, see? So, if they 'aven't yet, by Monday morning they will 'ave done for certain. Now go an' smoke yerself to death, you jammy beggar. And stay off the blower to Eastbourne—they've got gobs on 'em the size of Goering's backside over there."
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
Like Sam, I once passed out after yawning and stretching. Felt like a right fool, and bashed my head into the bargain. Did me a lot of good, though. When I came to, I was a genius. Wibble.
Sadly, no Foyle to pick me up.
More soon…
GiuC