.
.
Milner's ring was answered promptly by Mrs Cox, the landlady, who admitted him to the sitting room before disappearing back to her kitchen to deal with a recalcitrant pudding. He fidgeted with his hat, listening to the faint feminine chatter from above-stairs. Sam had long ago told him about her friendship with Lesley, Ruth and Fiona, so the distant sounds of merriment came as no surprise. He did hope she'd hurry, though, as the restaurant was some distance away.
It wasn't long before he heard her voice bidding her friends good-bye and her light step descending the stairs. In another moment she appeared in the doorway. He blinked.
Sam? Was this Sam, this slender, alluring vision, auburn curls rippling unconfined to her bare shoulders? He was used to a girl in severe olive drab and flat service shoes, not this stunning young woman with her high heels and shapely silk-clad legs, waist and bosom outlined and emphasised by clinging lemon-coloured silk. He stared at her for several seconds, dumbstruck. At his expression she hesitated, flushing a little, a shy smile flitting across her face.
It was a smile he had seen a thousand times before, girlish and endearing, utterly without artifice. Suddenly she was Sam again, his friend, recognisable despite her elegant appearance. "Sam," he began awkwardly. "I – you … you look lovely. I wasn't expecting … I'm honoured."
Her colour deepened, but the familiar smile widened, sweet as ever. "Thank you," she said simply. "Shall we be off?"
He groaned inwardly as he held the front door open for her to pass ahead of him, unable to prevent himself from staring. God, he'd never expected Sam to have such an impact on him, but of course she had no way of knowing his weakness for a woman's bare shoulders. It had always been his secret Achilles' heel. Her skin was pale and creamy, with just the tiniest hint of freckling visible; he wondered if it would feel as satiny as it looked … stop it, he told himself firmly. This is Sam, remember. My friend. Mr Foyle's driver … and very definitely out of bounds!
He was distracted from his unruly thoughts when she stumbled a little near the bottom of the steps, catching the handrail to steady herself. "I'm all right," she assured him with a rueful chuckle. "It's these shoes, you see. They're too wide for me. A bit slippy. You'll have to take mercy on me and walk slowly, I'm afraid!"
They covered the distance to the restaurant at a leisurely pace, in deference to the elegant but ill-fitting footwear. Milner didn't mind. He found the going easier once they were out in the street; walking beside her, he didn't have to look directly at her and was able to grapple with his runaway reactions. His heart rate gradually returned to normal as they chatted about people and cases and other everyday things. He noticed several men casting her admiring glances as they passed and stood a little taller, feeling proud that she was stepping out with him. Well, perhaps not stepping out exactly, but still …
Les Bijoux was tucked into the ground floor of a quaint old half-timbered building in Hastings Old Town, nearly a mile from Sam's digs in Priory Lane. They were ushered to a table by the owner, Monsieur Rosenthal. Milner had heard the man's story, though he had never dined here before. A small, balding man with worried dark eyes, Rosenthal and his family had narrowly escaped the Nazi occupation of Paris four years before. While his Catholic wife might have been able to avoid arrest, her husband and their six half-Jewish children would certainly have faced a concentration camp. Smuggled to England on a fishing boat, the family had turned to Madame Rosenthal's formidable culinary skills to support themselves. With a loan from a London refugee organisation, the Rosenthals had worked long and hard to make a success of their small restaurant. The entire family now worked there except for the two eldest sons, away serving with General de Gaulle and his Free French Army.
The table to which the restaurateur led them faced a wide southwestern window which commanded a spectacular view of the sun sinking slowly into the sea. As it was a Thursday night, there were only a few other diners present, none seated nearby.
As one of the Rosenthal daughters carefully poured wine from their allotted half-carafe, Milner watched his companion covertly, admiring the way the sunlight set fire to her copper curls. Once the waitress had moved away, she raised her wineglass to him with another of her open, artless smiles. "To you," she said. "Inspector Milner. I'm so pleased they've finally come round to how brilliant you are."
He couldn't prevent a rather sheepish grin at hearing his new title spoken aloud. "That sounds so strange. I hadn't even expected to make Inspector, certainly not until after the war."
"Well, you certainly look the part. Quite distinguished, in fact. New suit?" He nodded, glad he'd waited until recently to redeem most of his year's clothing points on this crisply-pressed dove grey pinstripe. He'd only worn it once before, to testify in court in an embezzlement case he'd cracked. "You look like a man destined to make Chief Inspector by thirty-five."
He laughed at that. "I don't know about that, Sam. Don't want to get ahead of myself. Actually, I don't think I've entirely taken it in yet."
"Well, you have a whole fortnight's holiday to accustom yourself to your new glory. When do you leave?"
"First thing tomorrow. Early train to London, then on to Derbyshire. I was supposed to leave Saturday, but Mr Foyle was kind enough to give me an extra day."
"You must be looking forward to it."
He nodded again. "It's nearly three years since I've seen my sister. Jack was only a baby last time we met, and now I have a new niece as well."
"Your sister's going to move down here soon, you said?"
"Yes. Her husband has been posted up there for the past couple of years and she's been staying with her mother-in-law nearby. But now his unit's been sent to France, so she's coming down to Hastings to be nearer, in case he's able to get home unexpectedly."
"Nice for you, to have her close by."
"Yes. Penny's my only family, you know, but we've hardly seen each other since the start of the war. It'll be nice to see something of her for a change."
"Where will she live?"
"I've found her a little house over near St. Leonards. Not too far."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of dinner. First came a rich chicken consommé seasoned with herbs - a real treat, as the demand for eggs had made poultry all but unobtainable during the war. It was followed by Dover sole, grilled to perfection and served with new potatoes and Brussels sprouts in a delicate creamy sauce. It would have been a splendid meal at the best of times, but for two people accustomed to the monotony of rationing it seemed a veritable feast.
"This is marvellous," Sam enthused, gesturing with her fork. "Truly. I almost forgot food could taste this wonderful. It's been so long … Dad loves sole, you know. We used to have it all the time before the war. And leg of lamb. And pork chops. And roast beef and Yorkshire pud every Sunday without fail."
Milner smiled and took a sip of wine. "My mother used to make that. Not too often, though. We'd have ham most Sundays, or perhaps chicken. But I'm afraid my favourite dish was steak-and-kidney pie, with trifle for sweet. Mum could make the best steak-and-kidney pie you ever tasted."
Sam sighed with longing at the memory of such gastronomic riches. "When this war is over," she said, "I'm never going to eat another bite of corned beef. Or cabbage. Or …"
"Woolton pie?" he smiled at her. It was an old joke between them.
"Certainly not!"
"And no more Spam sandwiches," he agreed.
"Not a one."
"And you'll be able to put as much sugar in your tea as you like."
"Oh, yes! And proper tea, too, not what we get on ration. Mother loves Earl Grey."
"And real beer, not watered-down pints of lager."
"And ice cream."
"And bacon and egg for breakfast every day!"
Their laughter was interrupted by a sharp squeal from the restaurant kitchen. Turning to look, Milner caught a glimpse through the swinging door of four or five people clustered around a wireless set. There was a brief burst of static as someone turned up the volume; then the announcer's deep voice was drowned out by several voices crying out at once. He and Sam exchanged glances as the sedate ambience of Les Bijoux was shattered by excited voices, sobbing and the muffled crash of something heavy being dropped to the floor. "What on earth?" she asked, sounding concerned. "D'you think something's wrong?"
It wasn't long before they learned the cause of the disturbance. When their young waitress emerged from the kitchen a minute later, they were relieved to see that she was smiling through her tears. "Oh, pardon, Monsieur, Mademoiselle," she gasped breathlessly, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "Only we have just heard … on le radio … how you say, zee wireless ... Paris est libre! Les Allemands … the Germans … zey are retreating! Zee Allies, zey are all around zee city, ready to enter! Et mes frères sont ici, avec les Forces Françaises – my brothers!"
Behind her the kitchen door swung open and an ebullient Monsieur Rosenthal emerged carrying a large green bottle, followed by his apron-clad wife, still weeping with joy, two more daughters with trays of tall wine glasses and a teenaged boy bearing two more bottles. He held up a hand in a dramatic plea for silence and addressed the handful of remaining diners in a voice husky with emotion.
"Four long years ago my family was forced to flee our home with leetle more than zee clothes on our backs. We came here to England, to Hastings, where we have been allowed to live and to work and even to send our children to school. Plus important, zees country has given us protection from ze murdering Boche and we will be eternally grateful. And now we learn, enfin, that the filthy German pigs are chased out of our beloved Paris at last! I have been saving zis special vintage for zis day, and all of you wonderful English must help us drink to the liberation of our beautiful city!"
There was a loud pop! and a small shower of foam as he began pouring the bubbling golden liquid into the tall flutes. When everyone present had a glass, he held his own high, cried, "Paris est libre! Vivé la France!", took a reverential sip and burst into tears.
Sam's eyes were glowing at the emotional scene. "Do you know," she said, raising her glass, "I've never had champagne before."
"Never?"
"No. Well, no chance of tasting it at home, was there? And after I joined up there wasn't any more to be had. It's quite nice, isn't it?" She sipped again, savouring the flavour and the queer bubbly sensation on her tongue.
Sam would always remember that evening at Les Bijoux as a surreal, almost magical blur of plaintive accordion music, rapid French chatter, the fizz of champagne and a peculiar warm feeling in the pit of her stomach, a sensation which grew stronger every time she felt her companion's eyes upon her. Milner had often looked at her with unmistakable fondness, but this expression was somehow different. More … admiring. As though she were someone special in his eyes. Perhaps she was imagining it, or perhaps it was the merely the champagne, but she found she quite liked the feeling.
She knew she was getting tipsy but she didn't care. "Better go slowly; this stuff's stronger than you think," Milner had cautioned her when Monsieur Rosenthal rushed over to refill her glass for the second time. But she had merely wrinkled her nose playfully at him and she noticed that he, too, drained his third glass.
It had grown very late by the time they left the restaurant, leaving the Rosenthal family singing French folk songs along with the accordion. Even with Double Summer Time, it was fully dark and blackout curtains had been drawn. The summer night was warm and quiet, the moon drifting lazily in and out of the clouds. They set off toward Priory Lane at a leisurely pace, Milner lighting their way with his small pocket torch. He, too, felt pleasantly giddy, and was in no hurry to see the evening end.
Beside him, Sam drew in a deep breath of salt-tinged air and released it in a sigh. "Do you think it'll be like that here when we finally win the war?" she asked. "Like the Rosenthals, I mean? People laughing and crying and dancing with strangers?"
"I don't know. It's hard to imagine, isn't it?"
"It is, rather. But then, it's hard to imagine the war actually ending. It's gone on for so long now … everything will be so different. Different to before, I mean."
He was a little surprised by her words. As a rule, people didn't talk much about the end of the war. The struggle had been so long and so deadly that to speak of victory seemed almost to tempt fate. "What do you mean?"
"Just that … so much has happened. People's lives have changed so much. How can we just go back to the way we were?"
He thought about his life before the war: still finding his way as a detective sergeant, newly married to Jane, looking forward to starting a family. And, of course, with both legs intact. No, there would be no going back to that life. "Well, I suppose people will have to start over. Rebuild their lives."
"I suppose so." They emerged into a cobbled square bathed in moonlight. Sam wobbled a bit on the uneven surface, catching at his arm for balance.
"Whoa, careful there! Told you to mind the champagne," he said lightly, trying to ignore the thrill shooting up his arm.
"It's not the champagne, it's these shoes!" she protested, releasing him and tossing her head in mock indignation as she laughed. He chuckled too, but rather hollowly, disconcerted by his body's reaction to the contact. My God, what's the matter with me? Must be tipsier than I thought. He gave himself a very hard mental pinch, glad it was too dark for her to make out his expression.
They continued on their way and after a moment she returned to their previous conversation. "It's just … I've been thinking about it a lot lately. The end of the war, I mean."
"Have you?"
"Yes. We've been talking about it at home, you see. Lesley and Fiona and Ruth and I. We all know we'll be demobbed sooner or later, once it's all over, but what then?"
Milner glanced at her in the faint light. "You wouldn't just go home?"
"To Lyminster? Hardly. Oh, it'd be nice to go home for a jolly long visit, a fortnight or so, but I'd die of boredom in a month. Mr Foyle won't need me any more, once the war's over, so what shall I do with myself?"
Milner opened his mouth to tell her she was wrong, that of course Mr Foyle would keep her on as his driver as long as she wished, but the words stuck in his throat. She was right, he knew; the assistant commissioner was not likely to permit even a ranking officer to employ an outside driver – especially a woman – once the force was back to full strength. There would be plenty of young constables and sergeants available to chauffeur a chief superintendent about.
He cleared his throat. "What would you like to do?"
"I'm not sure. I'd like to go on being a driver, but how many jobs like that are there likely to be? I'm a non-starter at typing and shorthand, so I don't expect I'd be much use in an office. I suppose I could be a shop-girl, though I don't much fancy that. But I was thinking about trying my luck up in London."
He felt a sudden hollow sensation in his stomach, rather like the free-fall swoop he remembered from boyhood rides on the amusements at Brighton Pier. "London?"
"Yes. Well, it will be quite exciting, don't you think, once the war's over? There'll be all sorts of rebuilding going on. Lots of opportunities. More chance of doing something interesting."
His tongue felt thick. He tried to imagine the Hastings police station without Sam, but it was impossible. She had been there for so long, was such a fixture … it was almost unthinkable. He swallowed hard and fumbled for a reply. "You … you wouldn't prefer to stay in Hastings?"
"I wouldn't mind staying here, I suppose. But it won't be the same, will it? Everyone's bound to scatter to the four winds. Fiona and Ruth will be married, of course. Fiona's got her Australian air gunner and Ruth will go to Cornwall with that cavalryman of hers. And Lesley's smitten with a Canadian Navy lieutenant out in Ceylon or someplace, though she doesn't talk about him much. So they'll all be gone."
"What about you? You wouldn't want to get married?"
"Me? To whom? Anyway, I don't feel ready to settle down just yet. It would be nice to have a bit of adventure first."
"I see," he managed, shocked as much by the strength of his own dismay as by the thought of losing her. He wanted to protest, but once again no words would come.
It seemed no time at all before they were turning the corner into Priory Lane. A few yards from her door, Sam's shoe came down on a loose paving stone and skidded, plunging her forward. Milner lunged and caught her round the waist, pulling her close against him to break her fall. She clutched at his coat sleeves, gasping with surprise as she recovered her footing.
They stayed quite still for a moment, catching their breath. He had dropped his torch so it was very dark, too dark for him to make out her face, but he knew it was only inches from his own. He knew he should release her but couldn't bring himself to do so, acutely aware of all the alluring details he'd been trying all evening to ignore. He could feel her waist, slim and supple, beneath his hands, feel her breasts pressing against his chest, smell the perfume on her skin. Flowers, he thought vaguely. Not roses, not violets … lilac, perhaps? Honeysuckle? He had been catching faint whiffs of it all evening without consciously realising it, but whatever it was, it was more intoxicating to him than the champagne. He breathed in the scent, revelling in the feel of her in his arms, aching to kiss her.
The moment lengthened. She stood as motionless as he, still clinging to his sleeves, so close he could feel her warm breath on his chin. And then the temptation was more than he could stand; almost of its own volition, his head dipped and found her mouth.
Her lips were almost unbearably soft under his. Instinctively he kissed her slowly, gently, not wishing to startle her, wanting to prolong the aching sweetness. She made a tiny whimpering sound in the back of her throat and seemed to melt against him, her lips parting to welcome a deeper kiss. He tasted champagne on her lips and knew he was lost, overwhelmed by desire crashing over him like a wave.
Her hands relaxed their grip on his sleeves and slid up to his shoulders, caressing in sensual circles. He pulled her still closer, his hands spreading wide across her back, and had to suppress a groan of pleasure when his fingers brushed her bare skin. Oh, God, so warm, so soft… he thought, his senses reeling with her touch, her scent, her taste.
Suddenly a blinding light flashed nearby, blazing brightly in the blackout darkness. Instinctively they broke apart, both breathing hard. Shocked and disoriented, it took him a moment to realise that a door in front of them had been thrown open, allowing electric light to pour out. It felt as though a floodlight had been turned upon them, exposing his folly, his perfidy. Good God, what had possessed him?
"Oi!" came an angry shout from up the street. "Put that light out, you!" Milner heard pounding footsteps approaching from behind. In the open doorway a silhouetted figure reeled, clutching a bottle; it slurred an oath and slammed the door, plunging them back into darkness. The furious warden pushed past him and began to beat on the door, shouting threats at the drunken inhabitant.
Milner's heart was pounding. He was desperate to read Sam's expression, to see if she was upset or offended, but the sudden light had temporarily destroyed his night vision. He could barely discern her outline in the deep shadows. "Sam," he stammered. "Sam, I'm – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to – to … "
"No, no, it's all right," she replied, her voice high and shaky. "Really, it's … never mind. I should be … it's late. Thank you for … it was … lovely. Everything. Good night ..." And before he could say another word, she had slipped in her own front door and shut it quietly behind her.