Title: Mr. Foyle's Party Piece
Disclaimer: Foyle's War was created by Anthony Horowitz. No infringement intended.
A/N: First posted this story on the Nothing-Fancy MK/FW Discussion Board, Fan Fiction Forum, in December 2006
Setting: The Hastings station's very modest staff Christmas party, December 1943.
Paul Milner drummed his fingers impatiently beside the stack of documents on his desk blotter while reading over, for the tenth time, the case notes of his most pressing investigation at the moment. He needed to consult with his chief, but there hadn't been an opportunity to speak to him all afternoon.
Mr. Foyle's office door had opened and closed regularly for three hours with a succession of high-ranking visitors, alone or in pairs, ushered in and announced loudly enough by Sergeant Brooke so that all staff on the floor might hear. There was a hum of curiosity around the station about the unusual number of brass making an appearance, but it was not as strong as the buzz of anticipation for this evening's Christmas party.
Milner just wanted to get his file dealt with; he'd have a look in at the celebration for the sake of morale, down a glass of punch and get out; he had other things to attend to that had nothing to do with being a policeman and rather a lot to do with Miss Edith Ashford. He had hoped to set off a little early, but felt he couldn't just leave this matter unattended for the two days' holiday. He wanted Mr. Foyle's advice on it.
Sam Stewart tapped on his open door and looked around the edge,
"Paul, do you have a minute? Can I have a word?"
"By all means, Sam; come in."
The perky, attractive young driver closed the door, sat in the chair opposite him and leaned forward confidentially,
"Have you spoken with Mr. Foyle?"
"Not since this morning. I've been waiting all afternoon to have a word with him, but he's had one visitor after another and I didn't want to interrupt. I've been wondering what's up – do you know anything?"
"No, but I'm worried."
"Why? What have you heard?"
"Nothing about their meetings, but…" She bent closer, nearly whispering,
"I think there's something the matter with Mr. Foyle."
"Sam, what makes you think that?"
"Well, I just popped my head in to let him know I'd returned, because we were meant to drive over to Hailsham, but he cancelled the journey. He only spoke a few words to me – but, Paul, there was something wrong with his speech. I'm afraid he may be ill. And the unusual number of visitors – I'm beginning to fear it may be serious."
Milner looked suitably concerned,
"He has looked a little tired lately –. Is there someone in his office now?"
"Yes; it seems he's just leaving."
Milner gathered his files and pushed up onto his feet,
"I'll go in, then. No, actually – better come with me, Sam. Two heads are better than one; perhaps we can clear up the mystery."
They were walking towards their boss's door just as it opened; a man in the uniform of a Deputy Chief Constable bid a doubtful wish for a happy Christmas to Foyle, made an obscure parting comment to which their Chief only grunted a reply, and departed.
Foyle spotted the two of them in the hall and cocked an eyebrow inquiringly.
"Sir, have you a minute? I wanted to go over these case notes."
Foyle nodded them in with a tilt of his head and, as he made for his chair behind the desk, seemed to lose his balance and fall into it rather heavily; it was on casters and rolled sideways, so that he was obliged to grasp the edge of the desk and pull himself back to the correct central position.
Sam had only just stopped herself from going to his assistance, and she gave the sergeant an anguished look. However, as Milner took a seat he noted the top filing cabinet drawer was slightly open and that an array of small glasses stood upon it as well as on the table under the window. He gave Sam an indicative glance as she sat in the other chair.
"…I wanted your advice on how to proceed with a few of these details, sir. This matter of the petrol theft – Armstrong still won't name his accomplices–."
"How long's he been held?"
"Since seven last night, sir. I wondered if it might be useful to track down his brother. He's recently been invalided out of the Army, living in Margate, it seems and –."
"Margate? Let me see…" Foyle began tracing an irregular line in the air with his forefinger as though following an imaginary map or chart.
"Fairlight, Winchelsea, Dungeness, Lydd, Dymchurch, Hythe, Folkestone, Capel le Ferne, Dover, Deal – no, hang on: I've missed something. Ah! Dover, Saint Margaret's at Cliffe, Deal, Ramsgate, Broadstairs… and around Foreness Point to Margate!"
He smiled happily at his feat of memory, while Sam looked on, puzzled and somewhat disconcerted. Foyle returned his focus to Milner, and spoke in the tone of an indulgent uncle to a young nephew,
"D'you want to go to Margate? It's a long drive – use a lot of petrol…"
"Er, …no sir, I thought I'd telephone to the Margate Police and ask them to inform the man of his brother's arrest, and question him; find out if he knows anything that might give us a lead – names of friends and associates..."
"Thas's a good plan."
He raised an instructive finger,
"And you let Armstrong know you're contacting his brother; it might loosen his tongue."
"Yes, sir. Having just been invalided, I'm sure he won't look favourably on his younger brother's involvement in –."
As if he hadn't been listening, Foyle suddenly slapped a hand on the desktop to emphasize his next point,
"And tell Armstrong if he won't cooperate with us then we have no option but to turn him over to the milit'ry. They'll hang him! And he'll have to live with the consequences of that."
Foyle concluded his assessment of the situation with an attempt at a piercing look, but it was evident to his sergeant that his eyes wavered. Milner raised his brows but kept a straight face, thinking his boss would re-phrase his remark, but Foyle seemed completely unaware of the gaffe.
The sergeant glanced discreetly at Sam to confirm that he had heard properly and saw that she was frowning fixedly at her shoes, lips pressed together. Foyle continued,
"Now, then, Milner, the only other matter on hand at the moment is this business with…with, er…."
"Buckingham, sir; the series of break-ins reported at the carpentry shop."
Foyle made a dismissive noise and a grimace,
"Pfffh – obviously staged, don't you agree? Done it himself to cover some ssecondary… raw materials… barter sscheme. You agree, Sam?"
She looked up, surprised; Milner could see that she had now also deduced what was ailing the chief.
"Oh, yes, sir. The new tyres on his lorry were a dead give-away."
"You concur, Milner?"
"Quite likely, sir, but we still have to prove it."
"Yeah… but not over Christmas, eh?"
Milner smiled,
"No, sir, I suppose not."
Just then Sergeant Brooke knocked on the door and announced another visitor,
"Detective Chief Superintendent Fielding to see you, sir."
Brooke bustled in with clean glasses and carried the used ones away on a tray he had brought for the purpose. Sam and Milner rose, thanked Foyle for his time, and nodded a greeting to the dour Chief from Hythe, who pushed his way past carrying an ill-concealed bottle under his coat.
Before the office door shut they overheard,
"Brought my own this year, Foyle. Happy bloody Christmas; get out the glasses."
Milner caught up with Brooke and asked,
"What's going on, Brooke? Why all the brass dropping in so steadily today?"
The Cockney answered readily,
"Oh, it's a combination of events, Sergeant Milner: the Assistant Commissioner's been conducting confidential interviews with all the South Coast chiefs in a suite at the Royal Vic Hotel. Mr. Foyle met with him first thing this morning – they sent a car for him – and since then, it seems each Chief has come round to compare notes with Mr. Foyle. And, coincidentally at the same time, to wish him the compliments of the season, as it were."
Brooke leaned in conspiratorially,
"When Mr. Foyle saw what was likely to transpire today, he sent me to fetch another bottle. Now, I'd best get all these glasses washed; they may be needed again."
Back in his office, Milner and Sam conferred quietly.
"Good lord, Paul, if there are very many more callers Mr. Foyle won't be able to stand up!"
"We had best keep an eye on him for the remainder of the day, Sam. You monitor his visitors and I'll have Sergeant Brooke put his calls through to my office."
"Right."
A few hours later, in the basement room where the evening's celebration was to be held, staff were beginning to set out their contributions to the refreshment table and a gramophone was brought in. A punch bowl appeared and, for those who were off-duty, other beverages were discreetly provided. Wives, family members and children arrived; officers and constables who were on-duty came and went as the demands of law enforcement permitted, and soon there was a large friendly crowd chatting, joking and laughing.
Milner was satisfied to leave his case file after having made contact with the Margate police and securing their help to interview Anderson's brother. He and Sam had seen to it that their Chief was left with only his visitors to deal with all afternoon, and were conspiring in the corridor on a plan to get him safely and unobtrusively into the Wolseley, when Mr. Foyle came out of his office door wearing his hat and carrying his coat. He approached them with an even, steady gait, to all appearances the same as ever, except that he broke into a happy grin as if he hadn't seen either of them for a long time,
"Sam! Milner – still here? You must have somewhere you'd rather be this evening? Come on, let's…" He stopped as he heard the distant chatter and music.
"Oh, what's this?"
"The Christmas party, sir; downstairs."
"You're not there, Sam? Missing all the fun?"
"Oh, it's all right; I'm just waiting to drive you home, sir."
To their surprise he said,
"No, let's have a look in. Just for a moment, eh, Milner? Put in an appearance for the sake of morale, 'sprit de corps…"
"Certainly, sir."
He gave Sam a 'what can we do?' look behind his Chief's back and they made their way down to the celebration. Entering the room, they took up a position to one side of the crowd; Milner got Sam and himself a glass of punch, though Mr. Foyle declined.
As they looked on, one brave soul, a corporal with a reputation for having a fine tenor voice, took a front and central position; attention was called by means of ringing a glass with a spoon, and the appreciative audience was treated to an admirable rendition of an old beloved carol. After another solo he was joined by two ladies and they sang a stirring ballad.
The space became an impromptu stage, children seated themselves in a half-circle on the floor to watch and listen, and chairs were brought for some of the ladies and older guests.
Others volunteered or were cajoled into performing their "party pieces;" some played on various musical instruments, an accordionist sat before them on a stool to render several lively tunes, a recorder and a guitar appeared, and a young constable's heretofore hidden talents as a tap dancer were demonstrated to everyone's delight.
One of the higher-ranking and more gregarious members of the uniformed branch performed an air, and then challenged the detective branch to step up. A bold Inspector, fortified with refreshment from his pocket flask, spotted Foyle leaning against the wall and asked loudly if he had a song or something for them. Milner desperately tried to think of something he could perform but, coming up blank, looked helplessly at Sam and then worriedly at his boss, hoping he could demur without loss of honour.
To their great surprise Mr. Foyle raised his head, smiled at the challenge, and handed his coat and hat to Sam. Smoothing his hair contemplatively, he walked slowly towards the front. The hushed crowd parted to allow him through; he dragged the 'performance stool' to centre stage, declaring that he wouldn't spoil everyone's Christmas by attempting a song, but that he would tell them a tale.
After an initial buzz of speculation, the audience went quiet and waited, politely attentive, unsure what to expect from the usually very reserved Chief Superintendent.
He propped himself on the stool, one foot up on the cross bar, smiled benignly at the children seated on the floor, and announced the title of the narrative poem: "The Yarn of the Nancy Bell," by W.S. Gilbert.
He began quietly, in a conversational tone, but by the third stanza individuals at the back of the room were dashing out to call absent colleagues in to listen.
'Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone on a piece of stone
An elderly naval man.
: : : : :
His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:
Sam stared open-mouthed as her boss squinted an eye at the crowd and she heard him switch to the raspy twang of an old sailor,
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy's brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
Foyle resumed the tale in his own voice, and addressed himself to the children, who giggled at his actions accompanying the appropriate lines.
And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:
: : : : :
"O, elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
But I'll eat my hand if I understand
How ever you can be
"At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy's brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
: : : : :
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid,
(Foyle mimed the action of spitting out a great wad of chewing tobacco)
He spun - this painful - yarn:
Just at that moment a tall, quiet figure came to stand beside her, and Sam turned and saw that Andrew had arrived. He was gazing, surprised and transfixed, at his father perched on the stool at the front of the room; he swallowed, and Milner tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a friendly wink. After an astonished glance at Sam, Andrew watched with wonder his father's performance, whispering to her,
"I came to fetch him in case he was working late – I can't believe it: I haven't heard Dad recite this since I was ten…"
Sam put her mouth to his ear and explained the circumstances involving the many friendly visitors during the afternoon.
With an expression of high amusement he asked,
"You mean he's…?"
"Just a little."
: : : : :
In the old sailor's voice Foyle recited the remaining stanzas,
"'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed the Indian sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.
: : : : :
"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven o' soul),
Foyle emoted in a tragic tone,
And only ten of the Nancy's men
Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.
: : : : :
"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy's brig
And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig.
: : : : :
"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel,
So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.
Here he laid a hand over his heart with a pained expression, raising guffaws all around. By now nearly every member of the station who could attend had crept into the room to witness the performance by their Chief, and they were listening with rapt attention.
"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.
: : : : :
"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig,
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.
: : : : :
"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, 'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose
And we argued it out as sich.
: : : : :
"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
And the cook he worshipped me;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed
In the other chap's hold, you see.
Wiping at imaginary tears with the back of his hand, Foyle performed the Cook in a sentimental Cockney accent, not unlike that of their young desk sergeant.
"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom,
'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,' -
'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I,
And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.
: : : : :
"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,
For don't you see that you can't cook me,
While I can - and will - cook you!'
He delivered the line to the children with a dark and menacing look, provoking squeals of delight.
"So he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions true
(Which he never forgot) and some chopped shallot
And some sage and parsley too.
: : : : :
"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell,
' 'Twill soothing be if I let you see,
How exceedingly nice you'll smell.'
Foyle delivered the next stanzas with suitable actions,
"And he stirred it round and round and round,
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.
: : : : :
"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And - as I eating be
The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see!
He spoke in an awe-struck tone, raising a hand over his eyes and peering towards the back of the room, and after a dramatic pause continued, lowering his hand to his breast.
"And I never grin, and I never smile,
And I never larf nor play,
But I sit and croak, and a single joke
I have - which is to say:
: : : : :
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy's brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!"
Foyle finished with a wild, mad glare around the room, dropped his gaze to grin at the children, and gave a modest bow to all the listeners.
There was a brief astonished silence, and then the room erupted in cheers and loud applause, the children jumping up in their excited appreciation. Before Foyle could rise from the stool, he was surrounded by a forward surge of the uniformed brass who had issued the challenge, cheered and congratulated and declared the victor.
Around the Station the performance instantly became a legend, the dramatic details recounted frequently and with awe by the witnesses to each other and to those unfortunate members who were absent that night; though never in front of their Chief.
Like a tide ebbing from the shore the throng dispersed and at last Sam, Milner and Andrew were able to make their way to his side, smiling broadly. As Foyle looked up and saw his son, however, his grin wavered and dissolved; he blinked back real tears and it became apparent to the trio that the Chief should immediately be taken home…
With a protective, affectionate arm around his father, Andrew led him out of the room to a further round of applause, as someone struck up a sailors' hornpipe on the accordion. The music faded as they moved down the corridor and out back to where the Wolseley was parked.
Milner, smiling, followed with Sam, who carried her boss's coat and hat, and turned her head discreetly to brush a sentimental tear from her eye.
THE END.
: : : : :
And Happy Christmas!
Historical Note: The Yarn of the Nancy Bell by W. S. Gilbert, one of his 'Bab Ballads,' first appeared in the magazine Fun on 3 March, 1866. I haven't been able to determine if it was inspired by any particular contemporary incident connected to an actual shipwreck, however there were often rumours and stories connected to mysterious and far off maritime calamities in those days. One possible candidate could be the eventual reports of the wreck of the Invercauld off Auckland on May 10, 1864, in which only 3 of the 19 survivors of the shipwreck then survived their year-long stay as castaways on the shore.
There was also an 1884 (or '85) novel, The Wreck of the Nancy Bell, Or Cast Away on Kerguelen Land, by John Conroy Hutcheson. It would seem the author of the novel was unaware of the ballad, or he would probably have chosen a different name for the ship. A review of the novel in The Spectator, dated 22 November, 1884, stated, "...there is everything that is most desirable in a tale, and most undesirable in reality." Cannibalism apparently does not figure in the novel. The Kerguelen Islands are in the southern Indian Ocean, just outside the Antarctic Circle.