Foyle expected the Chief Superintendent's speeches about the importance of motor-cars in modern police work to have as much effect on his daily work as promises of reaching Berlin by Christmas had once had on his army life. But it was not even two months after the first one that a pair of closed Austin saloons arrived at the station and orders came down that all the constables and sergeants would be considered for a roster of chauffeurs.
Sergeant Prevett paired off the constables for driving instruction: Foyle's partner was a slightly younger and much taller man called Reid. In deference to Reid's longer legs, Foyle suggested he sit in front to start. They both watched the Sergeant closely as he accelerated, shifted, and signaled along the Parade and up the Rye Road. The autumn day was only mildly warm, but it quickly became close inside the Austin with the sun beating on the black roof. The heat intensified the rich smell of the leather upholstery and the stale echo of Puffins tobacco that always clung to Prevett. Foyle eyed the cranks for lowering the windows in the forward doors, then resolutely turned his gaze back to the sergeant's hand on the gearshift lever.
A mile or so past the turning for London, Prevett turned off onto a level track beside a walled pasture and stopped. Foyle stayed in the back while Reid took the wheel and Prevett settled back in the passenger seat to light a cigarette.
"Check the gearshift, always check that you're starting in neutral. Now turn the key, that's it. Keep her in neutral and just touch the accelerator, so you see how she moves."
The Austin crept forward, pulling hard to the side when Reid turned the wheel and his head at the same time in response to a squawking seagull.
"Look with your eyes, constable, not the car."
Reid grinned nervously. Prevett reached across with his cigarette between his fingers to pull the wheel straight.
"Bit more of the accelerator now."
The cigarette smoke stung Foyle's eyes. He squinted against it and tried to concentrate on what Reid was doing with the pedals. A fresh cigarette should have improved the atmosphere. But it didn't.
'Remember where first gear is? That's right. Don't move the lever yet. Keep your right foot as it is and put your left on the clutch…"
"Got a match, Corporal?"
"Can light you from mine."
"Ta."
"More accelerator, and listen to the engine."
The whine of a shell, the smell of cold mud, the taste of tobacco smoke.
"Hear that? Now's the moment, put the clutch in, not too far."
His heart pounding and the man - what was his name? - whose cigarette he'd just lit lying facedown in the muck.
"And Bob's your uncle."
Reid laughed aloud in satisfaction, then schooled his expression. "Sorry, sir."
Prevett made a theatrical gesture of dismissal. In the back seat Foyle swallowed hard and stretched his neck to ease the sudden stickiness under his collar. The engine, he repeated to himself. Listen to the engine to know when to shift. He imitated the motions Reid made with the gear lever.
After three-quarters of an hour it was Foyle's turn to drive, and Prevett was lighting yet another Puffin from the butt of the last. Foyle took as long as he dared to savor a few lungfuls of fresh air before shutting the door. It was all foolishness. Prevett smoked better stuff than they'd ever had in France. And it was only tobacco smoke, in any case.
"Check the gearshift," Prevett repeated.
The lever was stiffer than Foyle expected, and pushing it out into first while keeping his feet down (but not too far down) on the clutch and the accelerator made his scars pull sharply from his left hip up to his underarm. He tried to breathe through the pain, but the smoke caught in his throat and he had to fight back a cough.
"More accelerator, and ease up on the clutch, now."
He did his best to comply, but while he thought about his feet he pulled too hard on the wheel and Prevett had to reach out, as he had with Reid, to correct the steering. Foyle flinched away from the burning cigarette. The smoke seemed to fill his ears as well as his eyes and his nose: everything was hazy and his ribs were iron and his body was slick with sweat and...
"How do I stop?" His voice creaked.
"You're fine, constable."
"How?"
"Clutch in, back to neutral, and brake, but…"
Foyle didn't put the clutch in right; the gear lever was even harder to move, and made a terrible sound, but he got it shifted. "Beg… sir…" he managed, before hurling himself out of the car. He made it two steps before he doubled over, struggling not to retch, his right hand pressed against the burning pain the spasm set off in his left side.
"Blimey," said the sergeant, not unkindly, as he lumbered up behind Foyle. "What the devil's the matter with you?"
"...S-sor…" His knees went soft as he heaved, but Reid got him by the elbows and, with a skill honed by many nights' patrol outside public houses, tipped him forward and to the side so that, when the worst happened, the remains of Rosalind's good breakfast landed in the ditch and not on anyone's uniform.
"That all?" Reid asked briskly. "No? Right, better out than in. I've got him, sir," he added to Prevett, who withdrew with more tact than Foyle would have expected.
After a painful interval, Foyle managed to straighten up and step out of Reid's supporting grasp. "Thanks," he said. "Appreciate it."
"Sit down a minute. You're still whiter than a trout's belly. Stitch in your side?"
"Not exactly." Foyle let Reid nudge him over to sit on the stone wall. "Caught some shrapnel there, and the… scar pulls a bit."
" 'Pulls a bit'? Looks like the Inquisition'd been at you." Reid drew a packet of Players from his uniform pocket, shook one out, stuck it in his mouth, and offered Foyle the box. "It'll take the taste out of… no?"
Foyle shook his head firmly, unable to suppress a shudder.
Reid studied him for a moment, then put the unlit cigarette away.
"Sorry," Foyle said to the toes of their boots.
"Never mind," Reid replied. "Much better, sir," he added to Prevett as the sergeant approached.
"Stay there," Prevett said, when Foyle started to rise. "You don't look hung over. Eat something off?"
"I don't think so, sir. I think…" Foyle swallowed, trying to choose between the miserable options before him. "There… The fact is, sir, I have a scar here and pushing or pulling to shift gears was… harder than I expected. Hurt more than I expected," he finished, in an undertone. His ears went hot at the half-truth, but it was better than saying and when you smoke it smells like the trenches.
"How'd the medical officer miss that when you came back?"
"He said it'd loosen with time," Foyle answered. That, at least, was true. "I'm very sorry, sir."
"Well. Next time try to speak up before you're at spewing point, constable."
"Sir."
Prevett nodded. "Reid, drive us back to the station, and Foyle, you watch."
"All right if we have the windows down, sir?" Reid asked. "Not a bad day."
"Fresh-air fiend, are you? If you must." The sergeant turned back to the Austin.
"That way," Reid said quietly, "I won't have to smell you."
He'd been braced for polite sympathy, not for friendliness. Gratitude made his eyes sting. "I'm Christopher," he said, by way of thanks.
"Hugh."
NOTES:
Thanks to Giulietta for a timely correction on car-starting procedure!