Title: FW 1941: Boxing Day
Characters: Foyle & Barbara Hicks
Disclaimer: The characters in [i]Foyle's War[/i] were created by Anthony Horowitz. Just borrowing them. No infringement intended.

For non-Commonwealth readers, Boxing Day is the day after Christmas, December 26th, and is a public or bank holiday. The origin is that servants or tradesmen would receive a present or 'Christmas Box' from their masters or employers on that day.

In 1941 Christmas Eve was a Wednesday.

A/N: I began writing this in November 2006 & posted it on the 'Nothing Fancy' Foyle's War Discussion board in November and December of 2006.

Chapter 1

Christopher Foyle lowered himself carefully into his chair by the hearth, took a large swallow of whisky from his glass, and surveyed the shambles of the usually tidy sitting room. Cushions lay scattered over the carpet, a lamp was knocked on its side on the floor, his waistcoat hung over the back of the sofa; he noted the location of a cuff-link under the opposite chair, and his wristwatch strap protruding from the back edge of its seat. God knew where the other cuff-link had got to. He frowned to himself in disbelief, scratched his head, and slowly broke into a grin.

He was, himself, in a similarly uncharacteristic state of disarray – braces slack under hanging shirt-tails, cuffs and collar open. Taking another swallow of The Glenlivet – a full bottle, still with its red ribbon and bow attached, stood on the wireless cabinet – his eye lit upon the photo frame overturned on the table at his elbow. He chewed his lip a moment, reached a hand out towards it, and paused: not yet.

'What the eye doesn't see the heart won't grieve over.'

It had been one of her pet sayings, purposely ironic for a police detective's wife, and it must stand them in good stead now.

Decisively he set down his glass and rose to begin to put things to rights. He repaired his own habiliments first, then replaced the cushions on the sofa, stood the lamp on its base (not damaged, apparently, thank god; Andrew would have noticed that), retrieved the single cuff-link and his watch and then spied the other link in the base of the potted plant in the corner. He dropped these articles onto the chair's side table, stood with his hands deep in his trouser pockets and took another practiced sweep of the room. Satisfied that the evidence had been erased, he returned to his seat, fitted on his cuff-links, and took up the photograph of his late wife. Her placid, gentle eyes gazed at him uncritically; he smiled a wry, apologetic smile and set the frame upright on the table.

He sipped at his drink. The whisky was excellent and rather welcome just at the moment. He hadn't had any on hand for two months, since he'd shared the dregs of his last bottle on his son's leave; he'd felt he couldn't justify the expense, after the price had shot up again, and had made do with tea in the evening.

While he had never liked the idea of drinking alone, since Andrew had gone – first to Oxford and then into war service – and what with his general dissatisfaction with his work and… It had become one of his few pleasures and he restricted himself to an ounce.

But tonight, well, a new bottle and an absolutely unprecedented set of circumstances to sort out and put into some logical order in his mind.

He shook his head wonderingly: no.

Logic had had nothing to do with it.

It had only been forty-eight hours and now it seemed his life was to be considerably altered – no, changed decidedly for the better… Forty-eight hours since he had opened the door to an unexpected knock and been caught quite off-guard.

Christmas Eve, the season's greetings and the obligatory smiles and handshakes to all and sundry at the station; Milner had left early with Miss Ashford to go to her family; he had also left early, for Sam's sake more than his own, and she had driven him to his door and tried one last time to persuade him to come with her to Lyminster for the holiday.

"But, Christmas, sir…!"

When he'd reminded her, again, that Andrew would be home on leave on Boxing Day, she'd invited him as well, bless her persevering heart. He was quite sure he'd seen a sympathetic tear in her eye as he'd climbed out of the Wolseley, which had been no help to him at all, really; her reliable stiff-upper-lip having deserted her on this occasion, apparently. Thank god they'd exchanged parcels earlier in the day.

His strong desire to quickly end the discomfort and awkwardness of that farewell had not mitigated the inevitable feeling of loneliness that descended on him like a cold draught as soon as he'd shut the door. His house was dim, silent and empty.

In the brief winter daylight he couldn't even open the blackout curtain – it was dark in the morning when he departed for work and dark when he returned.

He switched on the hall light, hung up his woollen scarf, hat and coat, beaded with shining wet droplets from the light snow that had just begun to fall, and laid his gloves on the table; he carried Sam's little parcel into the sitting room and set it under the small ornamental tree on the wireless cabinet with the collection of other small parcels that had arrived by post or otherwise come into his possession over the past weeks. A few for him, more than a few for Andrew. He was glad he'd done the tree, though he'd put very little spirit into the decorating of it – Andrew would like it and it seemed to show, somehow, that he hadn't degenerated into a completely misanthropic hermit.

Now the long evening lay ahead of him and he knew he'd best get busy and keep busy or he'd not be fit company when Andrew did come the day after tomorrow. He lit the fire, put the wireless on low for its companionable murmur of music and news, set his box of fly-tying gear ready on the dining table – he had his book to read later – and then went upstairs, switching off the hall light as he passed.

He hung his suit jacket in the wardrobe and walked into the bathroom to wash the day's grime away. He had intended merely a quick splash at the basin; instead he decided to indulge in a hot bath – it would pass a half-hour or so and he was feeling a bit stiff and chapped – his office was bloody cold these days owing to the coal rationing.

Afterwards he felt much better and was just getting a fresh if well-worn shirt on when he thought he heard a metallic rattle at the front door.

He listened and then shook his head – couldn't be; Andrew was definite he couldn't get home for Christmas. Foyle hauled up his braces and selected a warm knitted waistcoat to button over the soft, comfortable shirt; he turned up the sleeves, and pushed his feet into his slippers. He was finishing towelling off his damp hair when he heard the knock. Definitely a knock.

All the way down the stairs he was frowning in irritation, and, after switching on the light, had to take a moment to compose his features into a neutral expression before opening the door. At first he saw no one there, but when he looked further out beyond the foot of the steps he saw a shadowy figure just walking away, following the inadequate light of a masked torch directed at the sloping pavement. A woman's figure, well-bundled up against the weather, but unmistakably a woman. He hesitated to call out but opened the door wider, then she glanced back over her shoulder, saw the light spilling out and him standing there in near silhouette, and halted.

Unlike himself, she had not had a moment to arrange her expression, and her features at that instant, illuminated in contrast to the surrounding gloom, revealed her feelings clearly: she was irritated, just as she'd been the first time he'd laid eyes upon her. And, he noted with a lift in his heart and a quickening pulse, just as attractive. She was also frustrated and disappointed, he observed. Though the twinge of disappointment left her eyes instantly she was apparently unable to banish the irritation as readily. She turned in place and glared up at him, perhaps to cover a slight embarrassment at being caught unprepared. Her first words were almost an accusation.

"Your house is in complete darkness!"

Foyle leaned out to look exaggeratedly up and down the pitch black street.

"Well, it's the law."

She stared as though he were being deliberately obtuse, which, of course, he was.

"I looked through the post flap – there was no lamp on at all."

"Then… I admire your persistence." he answered pleasantly, though he really felt he shouldn't have to defend his actions within the privacy of his own house.

"Well, I could hear the wireless…" she said to justify her actions.

He waited, thinking he'd give her an opportunity to start again.

"Why didn't you answer? I've been knocking for–."

This wasn't going well, whatever it was. He scratched his temple and interrupted,

"Look, er, would you care to come in? We can continue this just as well indoors, and… I won't get nicked for breaking the blackout."

She seemed to see the reason in his suggestion, and gave a conciliatory if wry smile at his use of the word 'nicked.' As she made her way into the brighter light at the foot of the steps he saw that she carried some shopping as well as a travel case and so, despite being shod only in his slippers, he went down to help her: the snow was beginning to cover the ground and the pavement was treacherous. As he put out his hand to take her travel case, she slid, lost her footing and nearly went backwards. She let out a startled cry and the torch went flying, but he caught her and steadied her.

"Whoa... You all right?"

Now at close range, scanning her face with mild concern, he saw the snow glistening on her lashes and blonde curls, her green-flecked blue eyes wide from the little fright and her high cheeks rosy from the cold, and confirmed to himself that she was, indeed, nearly the loveliest woman he'd ever seen. There had only been one lovelier.

"Oh, god, thanks; it would've been a disaster if I'd dropped this!" She seemed to indicate the shopping. He smiled and stooped to retrieve her torch.

"Well, let's get you inside, then."

As he carried her bag and guided her up the steps with a hand under her elbow he was keenly aware that they had not properly begun with each other, not gone through the usual, polite enquiries, and yet – what on earth was she doing here at his house? He was undeniably delighted to see her, but… he couldn't entirely put aside his moral compunction at the idea of an unescorted, unmarried woman, to whom he was not related, alone in the house with him, for however brief a visit. And then there was the shopping and her travel bag…

He ushered her mutely into the passage, shut the door and set down her case; she placed the net bag of parcels on the hall table, removed her beret and unfastened her coat. He took the articles from her, silently, a sense of awkwardness growing between them.

Finally he turned to her,

"Em, Mrs. Hicks; how are you?"

"Much better now – the train was delayed, there wasn't a taxi to be had at the station, and the bus was nowhere to be found–." She pretended to be distracted with smoothing her dress and running her fingers through her hair,

"I walked to an hotel first but they hadn't a vacant room, and so I've had to foot it all the way up this damned hill of yours with–. Well, it doesn't matter; I'm here." She finished on an almost breezy note.

"Y-yes. So you are."

He smiled, vainly trying to keep an air of puzzlement out of his manner. She smiled back a moment, then casually placing a hand on his sleeve for balance, bent to remove her shoes.

"Those have got wet – I seem to be standing on two blocks of ice!" She said with a little nervous laugh.

"Oh, forgive me; do come in – s-sit by the fire."

Gesturing her through, switching on a lamp, he marvelled at his self-restraint: he, who made his living and spent his days asking questions, winkeling out the what, when and why of everyone's actions, followed her in, seated her in Andrew's chair at the hearth, moved his own chair closer and… didn't ask. Somehow he didn't want to risk breaking whatever charm or spell or inexplicable whim had brought her to his door.

He remained standing, his hands on the chair back; she smiled uncertainly up at him, and said with rather more feeling than was warranted between slight acquaintances,

"It's good to see you."

"…And you, Mrs. Hicks."

"Please, call me Barbara."

Foyle tested the name,

"Barbara."

He came round to sit in his chair, leaned forward with hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees, and offered,

"Christopher."

Her reaction to that small invitation was subtle but revelatory – something inside her broke open, like a green shoot cracking through late ice – he saw it in her eyes and in a slight quiver of her mouth as she repeated,

"Christopher."

She covered her emotion with a torrent of words,

"You must be wondering why I'm here! You see, I had no word on the length of my leave until just the other day and, when I was told to take the week off I thought I'd get away somewhere – I've always been very fond of the South Downs and, since I had nowhere I had to be I thought, why not Hastings…"

He thought, 'Of course, she has no family; but surely…?'

Out loud he said,

"Oh, you've a week's holiday; that's very good."

"Yes, I've been working steadily with very little time off for ages– well, since April, when I left this area, in fact, and– don't pass this on, but we're running short of suitable trees in the south. I'll probably be moved north in the New Year, and, er..."

She left the thought unfinished.

"You're still pole-selecting, then?"

"Oh, yes." At his question her features transformed with a smile that lit her eyes,

"And you're still… detecting?"

He smiled slightly and scratched the side of his head again,

"Yes. Can't seem to get out of it."

"Oh? You'd prefer to be doing something else?"

"Well, something more vital to the war effort, you know. I've… made dozens of requests for transfer, called in favours, even bothered well-connected relatives, but, er– just seem to have made a nuisance of myself, really."

As he finished Foyle wondered at himself for revealing so much, but then, she had, in a way, offered confidential information first – the news about her move to the north. It felt as if they were trading state secrets.

She looked at him earnestly,

"I can understand your frustration, yet, you're doing important work, Christopher; I've seen that; they'd be sorry to lose you. The people who work under you, Mr. Milner and Miss Stewart, they– well, it was obvious to me they greatly respect and admire you."

He smiled uncomfortably and thought of a diversion,

"Can I offer you something, Barbara? Tea? Or… something stronger?"

"Well," she glanced at the clock on the mantel, "You haven't eaten, Christopher, have you?"

"Er, no; no."

"Good, because I've brought a few things; I thought we might, em… I-I'm always being fed very well at one billet or another and, frankly, I'm paid very well, too. Anyway, I'd managed to save up rather a lot of ration coupons and, though there's not much in the shops, I have found a few choice items. All quite legal, I assure you."

As she talked she had risen and gone into the hall to retrieve the bag of shopping. Foyle stood politely and watched her and wrestled inwardly with his uneasiness with the circumstances. Clearly her appearance here was no whim, but the result of deliberate, if hasty, planning. Over the years he'd encountered women, very nice women, too, who had, in varying ways, set their cap at him, yet, somehow, he had never been interested.

He could not deny his interest now. It was rather a new feeling for him. And, running his fingers along his jaw, he rather wished he'd shaved…

"That is– I'm sorry– unless you had other plans?"

Holding the parcel in her arms, she hesitated in the doorway.

Foyle absently thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and then drew it out again.

"Oh, er, no; I haven't any… other plans."

He felt odd saying that, winced and ducked to scratch the back of his head.

"Good. The kitchen's this way, yes?" She smiled and charmingly tilted her head to the right.

"...Allow me."

Foyle led the way through, flicked the lightswitch and looked on from the doorway as she unpacked smaller parcels at the table. He chewed his lip and considered that, aside from his natural appreciation of her physical attractions, he was more intrigued by her character. When he'd encountered her last spring, the sarcasm she'd inflicted on him had been so unexpected and, he felt, so unwarranted, that he had really wanted to know what was behind it. Now he understood that she had suffered through a bad marriage and the recent loss of her only child to the war; yet she had not only endured but had thrown herself into war work. He was further intrigued by her choice of occupation – assuming she had been given a choice – not moiling in a crowded factory or labouring on the land, instead she had taken on a remarkably independent, responsible kind of work requiring special knowledge, intelligence and self-direction. He was, indeed, interested, and now… here she was… apparently interested in him.

Still he could not bring himself to ask her any pertinent questions, but then, the longer he delayed asking the less need there was to ask, it seemed…

He noticed that she had paused in unwrapping the parcels, her head bowed. He came forward and hovered beside her,

"Can I help? What do you need?"

"Just, er, this…"

She turned to him and stood very close and he noted, with some disquiet, that she was trembling. She put her hands on his shoulders, then around his back and waited for him to embrace her, which… he did. The sensation of her warmth, the living motion of her breathing within his arms and against his chest was intoxicating. She raised her head to bring her lips close to his mouth and waited for him to kiss her, which, after a slight hesitation, and to his astonishment and unanticipated pleasure, he also did.

"There," she murmured, tasting him on her lower lip, and giving a little half-shrug, "now it won't be quite so… awkward… to share a meal together, will it?"

A fleeting smile crossed his features, but he was rather stunned by these sudden developments.

Resting her cheek on his shoulder, she confessed,

"Christopher. I've thought about you every day since I left."

Foyle understood he was expected to make some sort of reply.

"I… thought I'd never see you again, after reading your note, so I've tried not to…"

"And managed quite well, no doubt?"

"No, not very well." As he spoke the words he realised they were true.

"Have you thought of me, Christopher?"

She lifted her eyes to search his face. He took in a breath before meeting her gaze.

"Oh, yes." His voice had come out in a rather lower register than he'd expected.

Though she smiled, he fancied he saw a tremor of her bottom lip as she laid her head on his shoulder again. He allowed his fingers to stray though the soft curls of her hair.

"I was beastly to you."

He smiled to himself,

"Only at first; but then… you couldn't resist the Foyle charm."

He felt her shaking and happily realised that she was laughing.

"Works every time, I suppose?"

"Well… it's a reserved, tactical weapon, you know. Only resorted to in dire circumstances."

"Well, it was certainly called for in my case."

"It seemed to be, yes; but, er, as I say, it's tactical – strictly for significant targets. It's not been used often."

She sighed,

"I know; for completely opposite reasons, it seems we'd both been spoiled for anyone else, anyone since."

Foyle inhaled deeply and she drew back with a pained look.

"I'm sorry, that was presumptuous of me."

She began to pull away but he caressed the back of her neck,

"I… think…" His voice lifted towards the interrogative, "we need to take time to get to know each other, hmm?"

"Time… it's so difficult now. I expect to be moved on…"

"Then, shall we make a start?"

"Yes, I'd like that very much."

She turned her face up to him and her eyes closed in blissful anticipation. Foyle felt a sudden disconcerting mix of alarm, desire and triumph; he took her chin between his thumb and index finger, and she opened her eyes in surprise.

Looking intently into her face, he asked,

"Shall we share the cooking duties, or are you the sort who rules the kitchen in splendid isolation?"

With an embarrassed chuckle she turned to the table,

"I've done so little cooking these past few years that… I hardly remember."

"Well, I've done a lot, though it's been nothing to boast of, so perhaps if we both contribute…" He picked up a small bunch of hothouse carrots, admiring their freshness,

"What would you like done with these?"

tbc...