Title: FW 1942: Make Do and Mend

Rating: General

Content: Christopher Foyle and Sam Stewart

Summary: This story follows after the episode "Bad Blood." Foyle takes on a complex, dangerous investigation away from Hastings, and Sam solves a rather more personal mystery as well. It is the autumn of 1942. After Sam has recovered from the Anthrax exposure she returns to work. With regard to the American GI, Joe Farnetti, she has let him down gently and they've parted on friendly terms.

Disclaimer: The characters in Foyle's War were created by Anthony Horowitz. No infringement is intended.

Note: There is a glaring error in the time-frame of this story: In canon, Rosalind's death occurred in February of 1932, not in the autumn as I have written. I beg your indulgence in letting it stand; the story doesn't work with the error corrected.

A/N: This story was originally posted from May to July 2006 on the 'Nothing-Fancy' FWFF Forum. It can also be found on the Quietly Enigmatic Forum in the FWFF section.


Chapter 1

DCS Christopher Foyle watched through a gap in the blackout curtains of his darkened office as the Wolseley motor, headlights hooded, pulled up in front of the station. It was six in the morning and not yet light. Before turning away to gather up his travelling case and briefcase of documents he paused to observe his young driver push open the car door, climb out and make her way into the building. A frown creased his brow as he confirmed what he feared – she had not yet regained her full health – there was not the usual youthful spring with which she generally bounded up the steps.

He was reluctant to make use of her so soon after her illness, yet he also knew that her self-confidence required that she be put to work. If he had insisted that she stay behind while he undertook this case far from Hastings, it would seem to make his words to her in the hospital a lie.

She had recently seen herself at a crossroads – one of those moments in life when an opportunity, a choice, can alter one's entire future – and she had chosen to stay on her present course. He was not privy to her reasons for rejecting the handsome young American. But to make her decision she had needed a reassurance, a commitment, it seemed, from him. And he had readily given it to her, assured her that her work was important, that she was a valuable member of the team.

In fact the word he had used was 'invaluable.' Afterwards, alone at home, he had thought about his choice of that word. Was it mere kindness, reassuring a seriously ill and frightened young girl? Or was the word rather more accurate than he had understood?

Seeing her lying in that hospital bed, in the familiar plain gown of the invalid, had brought sharply back to him painful memories long suppressed. During his wife's last days he had sat with Rosalind, stroked her hair, held her in his arms and given her every reassurance she needed to hear, while he watched helplessly as the bright light of her spirit faded, and then went out. Although he had hidden his feelings regarding Sam's illness behind his accustomed mask of detachment, inside he had been deeply distressed by the returning flood of emotions – fear, anger, profound sadness and guilt.

He had used the anger and acted quickly, decisively to find the cause of her sickness, demand the streptomycin and place it in the hands of her doctor. He thanked god it had worked – if Sam had died… if he had been responsible for her exposure to such danger - for the death of Rev. Iain Stewart's only child - he was quite certain that he truly could not have gone anywhere; that he would have resigned his position, packed up his career and ended it all. But she had lived, had begun to regain strength and vitality, and he was grateful that she had been spared.

Then she had asked him if she was valuable to the team.

While he knew very well that she was young, inexperienced, untrained, and with a personal background that did not predispose her for police work, still he found her occasional insights and observations – not to mention her decisiveness when action was needed – both surprising and helpful. But there was more to it than that – he had come to enjoy her company; she lifted his spirits, lightened his moods, and renewed his energy for his work. In that respect he did not know how to measure her value to him, and he suspected that it was not a question he should allow himself to dwell on.

No, she was a reasonably good driver, easy to talk out his theories with, and useful: like Milner – another pair of hands and eyes. That was the proper estimation of her value to the team and she should be happy with it – after all, there was a war on and none of us were doing quite what we wished to be doing.

And in any case, he needed a driver for this journey. Train travel had become inconvenient if not impossible with all the crowding and disruptions. He had applied for the additional petrol and his requisition had been approved.

With a determined set to his jaw he picked up his hat and his bags and walked out to the corridor where Sam was approaching to fetch him. Before she caught sight of him he noted the small frown on her generally untroubled brow, but when she looked up she smiled and the line faded behind the light in her eyes.

'Probably just forgot to pack something,' he told himself and dismissed it.

"Morning, Sam. All set?" he asked. "Let's get on with it, then; it's a long journey."

As he brushed past her with a purposeful stride his eye fell upon the latest War Office poster dutifully tacked on the wall by Sergeant Brooke.

'Is this trip necessary?'

Foyle ignored the vague discomfort inspired by the question and made his way out to the car, Sam following.

Uncharacteristically, he opened the rear door, climbed in, laid his briefcase and overcoat on the seat beside him and tossed his bag onto the floor. Sam got into the driver's seat without comment, started up the motor and pulled out into the road. Once underway, Foyle saw her eyes dart to the rear-view mirror several times, but she held off asking him the obvious question. He knew he was not being considerate, but it irritated him to think he should explain – why should he have to explain his choice?

As they passed the town limits and headed out into the countryside a cold, pale sunrise provided enough light to begin his work. He opened his briefcase, pulled out the top file and began to read the documents that had been sent to him by Chief Constable Cecil James of Birmingham.

The case was of a type he found particularly absorbing – the homicide of a police constable in connection with suspected corruption in one of the northern police forces. Chief James had wanted a London investigator, but as the central department was over-taxed just now, the Assistant Commissioner had suggested Foyle as an alternative. James had agreed, and he had accepted the assignment.

However, he had another reason for accepting it so readily, a personal reason: it would take him away from Hastings for a week or more, and at the present time he badly wanted to be away. The tenth anniversary of his wife's death was nearing; he knew Andrew was unlikely to get leave, and he feared he was quite capable, this year, of sinking below mere depression into something contemptible – of drinking too much and wallowing in his loss. Sam's illness had had the effect of opening the old wound afresh and he did not think he could bear up in the familiar surroundings. Far better to get away and immerse himself in a challenging investigation: the date would pass and he would carry on afterwards as he always had done.

For the next few hours he read and made notes on the case, glancing out the windows now and then to check on their progress. He was relieved that Sam had taken the cue and not tried to engage him in conversation; he was also relieved she had not started on those inconsequential remarks upon any little passing thing that happened to catch her eye.

Very professional; he might commend her on it when they stopped for lunch.


That morning Sam Stewart had woken groggy and tired five minutes before the bedside alarm clock was set to ring. She had slept badly, disturbed by racing doubts about her decision to turn down Joe Farnetti's proposal. She knew she had made the right decision, she knew she couldn't possibly commit herself to someone she had only just met and shared a few laughs with – but these were strange times, and who could tell what the future might hold? The war had taken away all the normal expectations for a girl in England.

The boys she would have known had gone away to fight and, many of them, to die. Instead there were all these new chances to meet strange and interesting men from far away – Canadians, Americans, Poles, Australians – each one of which offered potentially a very different life in a new and interesting place. Times were so unsettled, at times so bleak, and so unpredictable, it seemed foolish to turn down any chance of happiness – and yet, no, she simply wasn't that impulsive a person. It didn't feel right in her heart and somehow - call it cowardice or a lack of adventurousness - somehow she felt sure she wanted to remain in Hastings and do the work that she'd been given to do.

So she had finally fallen back to sleep, mostly content, but with a niggling sense of self- reproach in the back of her mind.

Now her head felt heavy on the pillow, but it was only when the alarm jangled and she moved to silence it that she recognized the familiar pulsing throb of a migraine coming on. It had been a long time since she'd woken with a headache – years it seemed. Well, it must be an after-effect of the Anthrax exposure. Surely it will fade after she sets to work, she told herself. There was the long drive north today, possibly several days' work around the West Midlands, and she couldn't miss it. Besides, she recalled with a little glow of happiness, Mr. Foyle had said she was 'invaluable' to the team, and she wouldn't let him down for the world.

As she washed and dressed and put the last few items into her travel case she thought about how important Mr. Foyle had become to her, what he represented in her life. He wasn't a father figure – her own father still filled that role, and was likely to continue in it for many years to come, thank-you very much – and he wasn't just a boss or a superior because he really seemed to value her opinion on things, to encourage her to learn and to think.

But beyond that he had come to occupy a very central place in her world; with his calm, deeply thoughtful manner and his unassailable integrity, he was an anchor that held her safe in turbulent seas; he made it possible for this war-torn life to make some sense. She puzzled over this realisation as she stood in front of the mirror pinning up her hair. She also had learned a lot from Mr. Foyle about police work and investigation, and he seemed pleased with her interest and her efforts. Perhaps she might think of herself as a sort of apprentice, then. The idea made her smile.

However, she admitted to her reflection, he could be a little short-tempered when her enthusiasm carried her away. And she knew as well, from a conversation with Andrew, that autumn was a difficult season for him because his wife had died at this time of the year.

Settling the regulation MTC cap firmly on her head and tucking a few wayward strands under, she resolved that she would try to be more professional, less talkative, and watch for his cues as to when her comments might be welcome.

If only this tiresome headache hadn't started.

TBC...