Title: Gauging Matters
First posted on the Nothing-Fancy Foyle's War Discussion Board: FanFic Forum - July 9, 2007
Rating: General
Content: Sam / Foyle, friendship
Disclaimer: The characters in Foyle's War were created by Anthony Horowitz. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
A/N: Written in response to a FanFic Challenge (posted by me IIRC), in which the line, "Have you got something to say, or are you chewing on your lip again?" must be included.
Gauging Matters
When the Wolseley's engine had coughed and spluttered before going silent, Sam had nearly managed to steer it to the side of the road. Nearly – she and Mr. Foyle had had to push it a few yards to get the back end clear of the traffic lane. Of course, that was after Sam had repeatedly and vainly cranked over the starter for a few minutes, unwilling to believe that the car had really let her down; and after the horrifying realisation that the fuel gauge needle had been stuck at three-quarters full for the entire drive to Hythe and back.
Now she and Mr. Foyle were walking along the road towards a farm they had passed some ten minutes ago – when travelling at 45 miles per hour. Sam was carrying the petrol can from the boot, and he was shining the torch onto the road before their feet: the sun had set some half-hour ago and it was now quite dark.
Foyle, keeping his thoughts to himself as usual, was actually enjoying the chance to stretch his legs, get a bit of exercise and breathe the fresh country air – he was debating whether to admit this to Sam, but hesitated because they were still on duty.
Sam, however, was mortified that she hadn't realised the gauge was stuck. As they walked she had offered several explanations for not noticing – including the fact that the car's petrol consumption had improved dramatically after she had recently replaced the air filter – but trudging in the dark beside her Mr. Foyle had responded with monosyllables at best. She knew he must be tired after a long afternoon of Civil Defence meetings – she was tired herself from waiting (all those hours when she could have easily gone and topped up the tank!) – and thought he must be very annoyed with her for this stupid delay in getting home…
He's just holding back out of politeness; I wish he'd say something so that it would be a little easier to apologise.
Finally, teary and unable to bear the, to her, awkward silence, she sniffed and blurted out,
"Well – go ahead, sir!"
"Pardon?"
"Have you got something to say? Or are you chewing on your lip again?"
In the darkness Foyle drew in his chin sharply and raised his brows, then a wry smile spread across his features.
"Actually…"
"What?"
"I was biting my tongue –."
She interrupted him, speaking in a rush,
"I thought so. Look, I don't mind if you – I mean – I deserve whatever it is you're thinking of saying, sir."
Foyle considered for a moment, then abandoned the idea of complicating things by letting her know his true thoughts,
"No… I'm sure it's not necessary to say anything."
"Well, I wish you would, sir. A short, sharp rebuke from you would be far better than – than –."
"-Ah: 'that still, small voice' -?"
"Hardly still or small, sir… More like a haranguing sergeant-major. And I deserve every word of it." She sighed heavily. "I'm really very sorry, sir."
"Well, don't put yourself on the rack over this, Sam. Just… try to learn from it."
"Yes, sir. It'll never happen again, sir."
Then, after their footsteps had crunched along on the roadside a few moments,
"Sir?"
"Humh?"
"…Didn't you look at the fuel gauge at all? You know, just glance at it now and again?"
He turned towards her with a mild frown,
"I wouldn't think of doing your job for you, Sam…"
She winced, knowing this was the closest to a rebuke he was likely to express.
"No, of course not, sir."
They walked on in silence, Sam feeling worse and worse for letting him down, Foyle uncomfortably trying to ignore the sniffs and quiet ragged breaths coming from his companion, when a louder noise asserted itself and drew closer. A car was approaching, a military vehicle from its shape and from the spacing of its shaded headlamps. Foyle raised his arm and shone the torchlight on his hand to signal it to stop. When it pulled alongside he saw that it was one of those American army vehicles they called a jeep.
"Hi there, what can we do for you folks?" the driver spoke from the left-hand seat.
Sam hung back, drying her eyes on the sleeve of her tunic.
"Thanks for stopping, corporal. Our car's run out of petrol – gasoline – and we hoped you might give us a lift to the nearest farm to fill our jerry can…?"
The passenger in the right-hand seat spoke up,
"We can do better than that, mister; we've got a couple of extra gas cans with us. Hop in and we'll fix you right up!"
"Well, that's very kind of you. The car's less than two miles ahead."
Riding along in the back of the rather breezy open car, Foyle held his hat in one hand and grasped the roof strut with the other, a little disconcerted as the driver kept drifting to the right side of the road. Sam had composed herself, but still looked glum and red-eyed.
The higher ranking man turned in his seat in a friendly, chatty way, holding out his hand,
"My name's Dickson; this is Corporal Hanson."
Foyle shook his hand,
"The name's Foyle; this is my driver, Miss Stewart."
"Ran out of gas, huh?" He addressed the comment to Sam, who looked up unhappily.
"Yes, I'm afraid so; the gauge was stuck and… I didn't notice…"
Hearing her subdued tone, the young American driver tried to lighten the mood,
"Well, I've heard of lots of guys trying that trick on a girl, but not the other way around!"
He laughed, but the senior officer reprimanded,
"Hanson! Sorry, Mr. Foyle, Miss Stewart; Hanson's an idiot."
"I didn't mean anything, sir. Sorry, miss. It was just a joke."
Foyle said,
"That's the car up ahead."
As Hanson emptied a large jerry can into the filler of the Wolseley, Dickson drew Foyle aside for a private word,
"Look, I know it's none of my business, Mr. Foyle, but anyone can see the girl's been crying… there's no need to be so hard on her…"
Foyle did his best not to react, listening respectfully.
"Running out of gas… it seems to me it's no big deal in a place like this, where there's rarely even five miles between towns…"
Dickson raised his voice jovially so that Sam would overhear,
"It's a mistake anyone could make. Happens to the best of us, right, Miss Stewart?"
Sam stared with her mouth open,
"Er…"
Foyle made a suitably regretful face,
"Yes, you're quite right, Colonel Dickson; I… shouldn't have lost my temper."
"Good man!" he clapped Foyle on the shoulder, and then leaned in confidentially,
"And it wouldn't hurt to say you're sorry."
Foyle pivoted towards Sam, and only she could see that his tongue was in his cheek,
"I… apologise, Sam. I should've kept an eye on the fuel gauge as well."
Blushing with embarrassment, she stared at her shoes and murmured,
"That's quite all right, sir."
Happily, Corporal Hanson intervened to report,
"She's all set, folks. That'll get you as far as you need to go. Fire her up, Miss Stewart."
Sam got the engine purring again, Foyle expressed their thanks and farewells, and then climbed into his seat.
They drove for some minutes in silence until the jeep had outpaced them and was lost from view.
She saw from the corner of her eye that now he was chewing on his lip.
"Sir…?"
"Sam."
"I'll see to the fuel gauge first thing in the morning."
Foyle casually reached out, tapped the glass cover with his forefinger, and the needle dropped to the one-quarter mark.
"Good idea."
The End.