"Sir, d'you need any help? Picking something out? Me mum always rushes me, I know it's hard to choose."
Christopher Foyle had demurred when the owner of the shop had made a similar inquiry and he hadn't hesitated to let the rather spare woman with her faded hair scraped back into a bun instead of the more familiar Victory Roll know that he'd be just fine on his own but would be making a purchase in due time. He was invited to tea with the Wainwrights, the second such time since Sam had left work, and it appeared her appetite for all things, but especially sweets, had not been decreased by her pregnancy. He'd considered carefully before the first visit and had managed to bring a full pot of red-currant preserves, though not the fresh-caught fish he would have had they still been in Hastings. He'd not failed to notice how Sam's eyes had widened and the little blissful smile she had not been able to contain as she bit into a limp piece of toast nearly buckling under the sugared fruit. Adam given him a smile of his own, their shared enjoyment of Sam and the recognition among husbands of the pleasure in a wife's satisfaction.
The Wainwrights lived quite frugally; there was nothing luxurious in the house and Sam had admitted they hadn't had room for any of the nicer pieces that he remembered from Hill House. The small watercolor Rosalind had painted that he'd given Sam as a wedding present had place of pride in their sitting room, but otherwise the rooms were spartan and a bit drab, not at all the backdrop for vivid Samantha Wainwright. Besides the lovely watercolor, a bit of river and field, the sky layered with cloud, the one bright note was a bottle of Uncle Aubrey's greengage liquor, which he was unsurprised and obscurely delighted to see that neither Sam nor Adam could bring themselves to drink. Still, it was an emerald note of beauty when the light managed to hit it and a reminder of some pleasant times, the amusement and wry candor of the vicar that had lightened darkness. Foyle had resolved, should he be invited back (which he expected, based on Sam's exuberance and Adam's milder but still sizable appreciation), he'd bring something better than a pot of jam.
So he'd found himself in this shop, perusing the confectionary and wondering what Sam would like best. He couldn't bring himself to buy Jelly Babies, an odd reminder of the end of the first War, or the Rowntree's fruit pastilles that Rosalind had so loved. She'd eaten her weight in them while she carried Andrew and had always said it would give the baby a sweet disposition, a claim that was not borne out by their son's early months of colicky screaming, but he remembered how eager, how greedy his usually restrained wife had been for the candies and how her kisses tasted afterward, of black-currant and lemon, the rime of sugar on her lips his preference. Perhaps Sam would care for Parma Violets or Pontefract cakes; the second he recalled from his own childhood, being scolded for the black ring around his mouth and how it stained his pocket handkerchief. His father kept buying them though, no matter how loud his mother had made her displeasure known on wash day.
At his side was a young boy wearing a drab plaid cap and jacket, his legs bare despite the dank weather. His cheeks were red, chapped a bit, and flushed with the relative warmth of the shop. He didn't look like Andrew, fair and freckled where Foyle's son had been dark-haired, dark-eyed like his mother, but there was something about him, his bold helpfulness, the sound of a boy trying to talk man-to-man, a boy who perhaps had lost his father to the war or the Blitz, and Foyle considered his friends were thin on the ground and that the offer was not one to pass up. Kieffer was back in Massachusetts, theirs a friendship of letters now, and memory, Hilda Pierce dead, Valentine uneasy and sly. Andrew kept quite busy, met up for tea when he said he was able, less than Foyle would have liked, but he didn't like to say it. There was still something in Andrew's eyes when the met and he wished for his son's sake he'd been able to make a woman like Sam Stewart fall in love with him well enough to take him up by the scruff of his neck and set him straight. They'd talk of work, a little, all they could do, and fishing, the most painless memories they could find, and cricket, though neither had ever cared for it much. He thought of Andrew's face if he'd brought his son his sweet ration in bars of Dairy Milk, that shadow that would pass across his face and how they'd each pocket one when the visit ended, a weight in a pocket, a waste. Sam would be thrilled, he knew it and looked forward to seeing her brilliant smile and then at the end, the friendly softness of her thank-you, how she would make the effort to call him Christopher and not sir and smile to be able to do it.
He had Sam Wainwright and her husband, his old deputy Milner who always wrote if he was to be in London, and a professor, incongruously named Caspar Coventry-Smythe, whom he'd met in his visits to the university and with whom he'd struck up a sort of dry companionship over crosswords and Caspar's relative volubility on the situation in the Middle East, archaeological digs he'd been on, the scent of cedar and myrrh in his words. And now, there was a young boy serious about offering up assistance in a shop that held hardly enough sweets to choose from, but which was quite probably paradise to the child.
"Well, guess I could use some help. I'm trying to choose something to bring to tea, for a friend," he began and was interrupted right away.
"You're bringing your sweet ration? All of it? My, he must be an awfully good friend!"
"She is, rather, and I'd very much like to get her something she wants, a… jolly good treat, but I've not very much experience with what's available. Perhaps, you," he gestured to the boy who piped up "Timothy Lane, from up the street, sir!" "You, Timothy, could help me choose something."
"I'd be ever so glad. Now then, does your friend like chocolate?" Timothy was right down to business, his little brow furrowed, reminding him a little of Milner's interrogation style.
"I suppose yes, I think she does." He couldn't think of a food Sam had ever turned her nose up at, only that she had once been overwhelmed at the American base by the largesse and hadn't been able to even take a bite before they'd had to go. He'd always hoped her young American had made that up to her but he'd never asked.
"Ladies generally like things a bit fancy. She might, I think a Blue Riband or look! Mrs. Carson's got Caramel Wafers, just a few, and they're something special. Or there's Fry's Turkish Delight, I don't care for it much, but a lady might," Timothy wound down, having made his explanation with one lungful of air.
Foyle caught sight of the clock on the wall. He'd best choose something and then make his way over. It wouldn't do to be late and he admitted to himself he'd looked forward to the visit all week, Sam's pending review of Busman's Honeymoon and her stories of her expeditions in the neighborhood as the MP's wife, Adam's occasional offerings about some political machination or constituent visit that amused or puzzled him, the fresh cup of tea Sam would not allow him to drink cold or stewed; he used every ounce of his carefully cultivated Detective Chief Inspector's impassive expression when she fussed over the cup, at her most matronly, to keep from chuckling. She'd like any sweet, he couldn't go too far wrong.
"Let's have Mrs. Carson ring up, all three then, and I think I must give you a commission for your service. Say, a Crunchie? Would that do, d'you think?"
"Oh yes! If your friend wants more sweets, next time you come round, just tell Mrs. Carson to send for me, I'm generally around here and I'd be happy to help again," young Mr. Lane offered, scuttling off with the precious chocolate bar he'd pocketed tenderly, sweeter than any billet-doux.
"Good of you, sir. Just him and his mam left, father gone in the War and his older brothers in the Blitz," Mrs. Carson said in a low voice as he pushed the coins across to her. The paper bag was limp but would do the job, now full to burst with the confectionary, an afternoon's delight yet to be had.
"Thought it might be something like that. He seems a good lad," he said.
"Oh, so he is. I wouldn't let him hang about here if he was no better than he should be. That's all, then, good day to you." She'd looked rather pursed and sour but he saw now the kindliness in her eyes as she talked about the boy, wondered whom she had lost. They were a country of mourners still, but some handled it better than others.
"Thank you."
Sam was even more pleased than he'd imagined, burst into tears she brushed away with annoyance, muttering "Don't mind me, a regular water-works these days. What a treat! Oh! Let me just get the tea things and I'll save these for the afters. I'm glad I made a Welsh rabbit—it'll balance all this lovely sugar." She'd been very lively and Adam had been proudly amused with her, fetching the milk jug she'd left behind in the kitchen in her haste. It was all a great success, capped off by the tentative kiss on the cheek she offered in farewell, a little worried shadow in her eyes at her presumption which faded when he'd smiled back.
"You needn't bring all these sweets next time, but we'll expect you in any weather, Christopher!" Sam had called from the door, blushing as she said his name bold as brass, as Adam slipped a hand round her disappearing waist to bring her back inside.
Foyle thought he'd have to make sure he found a way to bring her at least a bar of Dairy Milk next time with what was left of his ration, though what she'd liked best had been the Turkish Delight; he'd known from the silence as she ate, her closed eyes, the way she'd licked her lips. She'd had an unfocused haze when she looked at him after the last bite, an expression he hadn't seen on the face of a woman he cared for in years. He'd felt Adam's eyes on his and he'd known it was just the memory of Rosalind, of happy marriage, and he'd asked her to tell him what she truly thought of Harriet Vane, once she'd become Lady Peter, and the moment had passed like the ephemeral scent of rosewater.