Based on a headcanon from FoyledAgain, and in response to a Tumblr request!
As a side-note: I feel almost certain that Sam would have more likely planted a victory garden than a rose garden, but still, flowers seem like something Sam needs more of in her life.
Also, I know this story progresses a bit faster than my usual work does, so hopefully you guys won't mind. I wanted to get this written and on the web, so it's not quite how I'm used to writing. Anyway, enjoy!
Spring 1946
Post-war life had become dull. One wouldn't necessarily suggest there should be more murders to keep life in Hastings interesting for Sam and DCS Foyle, but as far as Sam was concerned, they could certainly do with more excitement. Really, she was lucky Mr. Foyle had agreed to let her help him write his memoirs. Other employers would have waved off her off post-haste once she was no longer necessary, but that was not the case for Sam.
Her driving was obviously an added appeal, she rationalized, but, still!
Lately, Sam had also come to miss her morning routine: Quick breakfast at the billet, then off to the station in her kettle-steamed uniform – always at 6:00, on the dot. The work itself was not always routine (even Mr. Foyle couldn't predict when and where a murder would take place), but on the whole she usually had a place to be, with set things to do. Now, she felt aimless, flitting in and out of Mr. Foyle's house at different hours on different days, running the occasional errand… it was so mind-bogglingly dull.
About two months after the Germans had surrendered to the Allied Forces, Sam came to the realization that her work was going to change. If Mr. Foyle really retired, which all signs seemed to suggest he would, she would have to find a hobby. Something rather healthier than running after deranged killers and drug lords…
… or playing bloody cards.
She soon decided she'd try something new: gardening. Her uncle Aubrey was rather good at it, and the possibility that green thumbs ran in her family gave Sam some hope of success.
While victory gardens had taken off all over England during, and even before, the war, Sam wanted her garden to be not only practical, but beautiful. She was not a frivolous person – quite the contrary, in fact – but the memory of Uncle Aubrey's rose garden in Lyminster filled her with happy memories of her childhood Easter and summer holidays at the vicarage.
So, roses it was! Sam had no bloody idea how to tend roses, and she'd always heard they were temperamental. But, she was nothing if not willing to learn, and she'd certainly have something to do with her time!
Sam phoned her uncle that following weekend, bombarding him question questions – were there any nurseries still around? Surely the war had finished off all those small businesses in the area, and anything not started from seeds would be extraordinarily expensive. So, where would she find them? What should she do?
Aubrey suggested she visit him, and offered to give her some of his "starts," as they were apparently called. He had propagated roses for years, using cuttings from established bushes and reproducing them in the small potting shed in his back garden. Consequently, he hadn't purchased new roses since before the war.
Her uncle gave her four small shrubs – so small they were hardly even bushes – and, despite her protestations, made her stay for a few days and learn the basics: pruning, watering times, propagation, and pest control.
Still, Sam soon learned that gardening was not quite as straightforward as she had originally thought. Water use was still restricted, so she was forced to start collecting rainwater. But rain was often light, and no matter how hopeful she was after each drizzle, a glance in the collection bucket showed very little improvement.
Not only that, but upon learning of Sam's intended garden, Milner, Brookie, and several others at the station started donating their own small potted plants to the cause.
In only a month she'd obtained:
- A tomato plant from Milner ("Thought you might enjoy something fresh every once in a while. Make a change!")
- Rosemary from Brookie ("I never much cared for the stuff myself. Tastes like soap, if you ask me.")
- A rather poorly-looking primrose from one of the chief constables ("My wife's sick of looking at this, so you're in luck!")
- Several purple thrifts from the night watchman, and
- A magnificent foxglove from Milner's wife, Edith, who'd recently started a small garden of her own.
As the plants started to look sadder, Sam had to resort to recycling bathwater, running the collection pail up and down the stairs several times a week to keep the flowers from wilting. Had the spring been any harsher, Sam was certain all the plants would have died.
The roses were growing at a steady clip. However, they soon became even more trouble.
Roses, like many ornamental flowers, were susceptible to disease and insects, she learned. They were growing swiftly and almost reached her waist, yet the leaves kept blemishing, the leaves curling and turning brown within a few days. Sam had to stop by the library every other day to research treatments for dark spot, mildew, aphids, and spider mites.
On top of all this, she couldn't afford proper tools. While she had a trowel, shovel and hand rake – all thanks to her landlady's predisposition to never dispose of anything – but she had no gardening sheers, no potting soil, no gloves…
The latter proved the most difficult obstacle to overcome. Sam's hands and arms were becoming increasingly more unseemly, with bloody gashed streaked along her forearms and palms.
Foyle knew about Sam's project – she'd practically burst with excitement when she first discussed her plans with him over tea the previous year. One afternoon, as he patiently waited for her to finish typing a particularly lengthy paragraph, he cut her short with a surprised inquiry.
'That looks nasty,' he said, gesturing toward her raked hand resting on the table. (He'd yet to find a way of subtly suggesting she speed up her process by typing with two hands instead of one.) "Roses coming along?'
'Sorry?' she started, before catching his meaning. 'Oh, yes-' she said, glancing at an unpleasant gash along her left wrist before resuming her typing.
'You wouldn't think it to look at me, though. Afraid I don't have any gardening gloves. I thought about using oven mitts, but I'm not sure my landlady would approve.'
He nodded silently, considering the image and just barely masking the amusement it afforded.
'Wull, just be careful, Sam,' he said, returning to his tea. She smiled briefly at him, and pulled the page from the typewriter.