Disclaimer: Foyle's War was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle and Samantha Stewart/Wainwright jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement intended. A fan tribute.


UXB Chapter 4

By morning, lying in the bed in his room at the Naval Club, Foyle had gained some calm perspective on the event, and believed Sam would have come to excuse her own actions as much as he did - both hers and his own: she was distraught, lonely, confused, had taken comfort and momentary refuge from her unhappiness - with a friend. ...And he was a man much like any other - it would've been remarkable if he'd not returned her kiss.

But it was certainly a step beyond that mistaken peck on the cheek she'd bestowed upon him last week. This had been intentional, albeit under great emotional upset. Again he had to wonder, did it mean anything? Did she truly harbour some long-suppressed feelings for him? If so, it seemed unlikely they could continue working together in the same way after this. - Could they?

Losing her would inevitably throw into stark relief the emptiness of his own personal life. He really had come to rely on Sam to bring some warmth and humanity into his days, and now he knew he could no longer do that. Her home life had seemingly become a wasteland to her; he could hardly expect her to remain unchanged, to continue to brighten his days while her own were, presently, so bleak.

He'd have to let go of their friendship, for the sake of her marriage, and allow her the time and distance to come to terms..., well, to try to improve things at home.

Frowning from the heavy, dull ache behind his eyes, Foyle brought a hand up to rub across his forehead, and saw that it was clenched into a fist. He admitted to himself that he was more than merely disappointed, more than saddened - he was angry. Angry that the young man who had at last won Samantha's hand in marriage seemed to value her so little.

He sat up on the side of the bed, and wondered what the hell he was doing in London, and why the hell he hadn't yet resigned from the Security Service.

And so, for the first time in years, and for the first time ever without being truly ill or needed elsewhere, he didn't go in to work. He actually had no idea whom, at the office, he should telephone - not Meyerson or Pierce - too senior; not Charlotte - too junior, not the Reception Desk. Finally he settled on Valentine, asking him to monitor the Strasser case for the day.

"Just a little under the weather, nothing serious, Arthur."

"Right, well, do take care, old chap. Get some rest."

'Old chap.' Precisely. He should retire; go home to Hastings.

As solitary a life as he'd led these past fourteen years, he'd always had one or two close friends and a circle of professional colleagues he trusted. But his close friends were in Hastings; and his new colleagues in London were - as Hugh Reid would say - 'a different breed of cat.' He missed his home, the familiarity of the seaside town, the tranquility of the river. There was nothing to keep him in London. He would retire.

Ordinarily, Foyle didn't feel the need of anyone else's counsel, but in this instance, somehow he felt he wanted to hear someone agree with his decision. He would track down his son - see Andrew, and then begin to make the arrangements.


Sam had eventually recovered enough, from the upset of her confession and the shock of what she'd done, to drive Mr. Foyle's car back to the Security Service office. Then she had made her way home by bus, and had arrived with a miserable headache that forced her straight to the bedroom to lie down. When she awoke it was dark, the clock read nine-thirty, she was cold and evidently alone in the house.

She drew a hot bath and lay in it thinking, reviewing their conversation and 'the event.'

Everything Mr. Foyle had said to her had been sensible, comforting, reassuring - everything that a young wife, adjusting to married life, would like to hear from her husband. In contrast, Adam was simply - absent; preoccupied, distracted, unattentive.

But Mr. Foyle perhaps was also correct in saying that the career of an MP was quite different to what she was used to. Adam had been chosen as the candidate, had been elected by the people, not her. Perhaps she was in the wrong. Perhaps she should be content to remain at home, leave this rather dangerous, questionable work she was mixed up in, and become 'domesticated.' Study cookery, learn about gardening, vegetable-growing; it wouldn't be too long before they could afford a sewing machine, and if she relaxed and stopped being so anxious, perhaps she would one day be blessed with...

Her mind wandered away from these proper resolutions, back to that moment.

She had kissed him... and he had kissed her back, there was no mistaking his response. Yet the memory of it was... unreal, difficult to fix her mind on, it had been so fleeting, so shocking really, and so forbidden. It couldn't have actually happened, could it? Yet it must have, or he wouldn't have bolted from the car that way. Oh god.

After her bath she got into bed and tried to sleep again, and when she heard the telltale sounds of Adam tiptoeing in, even later tonight than on previous nights, she pretended she was asleep.

By morning, with a clear head, she knew she must accept her fate, do the right thing and adjust to whatever her marriage would be. As Adam was now receiving his MP's salary and a little more as a Parliamentary Secretary, they didn't really rely on her wages. Perhaps Adam felt she only continued working to amuse herself.

Well, it wasn't amusing any more, was it?

She would go in to work, face Mr. Foyle, properly apologise, and offer her resignation. If he wouldn't accept it, then she would give in her notice.

But when she arrived at the office, Mr. Foyle's car was where she'd left it, and he was not at work. This troubled her deeply as she was convinced she was the cause of his absence. Sitting down at her small desk in the typing pool office, she bit the side of her thumb, and inwardly renewed her commitment to getting back on the right path. Sam decided to visit Adam at his office in the evening; she would bring him that picnic he'd suggested.


That evening Foyle met his son at one of the better public houses near Andrew's place. After shaking hands they looked each other up and down, assessing the other's appearance. Each approved of what he saw.

Foyle bought the first round.

"Retire? Are you all right, Dad? Any health problems?"

"Why would you think that?"

"No, you look very well. You've got a bit of colour - been enjoying the warm weather? But, well, you know... I'd always thought you'd die in harness." He grinned, and took a mouthful of ale.

"Thanks." Foyle rolled his eyes, "No, I feel it's... time. I'm not overly pleased with this work, or living in London..." He swallowed half the contents of his small glass.

"What would you do with yourself? Travel?"

"Well, I'm persona non grata in America. Perhaps Canada, or Australia, some day. But, er, first I'd finish writing that book I started. You could find me a publisher."

"Yes, I could. Be your agent? Ten percent?"

"Make it twenty - you might get a pint out of it." He smiled, beginning to feel relieved at having a real plan in place.

"What does Sam say?"

Andrew saw his father's face instantly get that closed off look.

"No opinion." Foyle downed the other half of his scotch and signaled the barman for the same again.

"You've... told her of your plans?"

"Why would you think I'd discuss it with Sam?"

"C'mon, Dad. She's virtually your closest friend. After all these years?" He finished his beer as the next round arrived.

Foyle shook his head, but avoided his son's eyes,
"No. No. She's married, Andrew; she's living an entirely different life now, compared to wartime. Very little to do with me."

Andrew twitched his lips to one side, exactly the way his father would, interviewing a recalcitrant suspect,
"I can't believe she wouldn't have an opinion. She's always had your best interests at heart."

He answered mildly,
"Well, now she has other interests at heart, I'd imagine - and so should you." And sipped his second whisky.

Andrew asked with a warm smile,
"Is she happy?" expecting a quick affirmative.

But his father winced uncomfortably and turned away.

He dropped the smile,
"Isn't she? Dad?"

"It's... really not for us to discuss, is it?"

Andrew took a contemplative pull on his ale,
"Gosh. Sam? How could any man, lucky enough to get her, not do everything in his power to make her happy?"

"You're one to talk." Foyle muttered behind his glass.

"It was the War, Dad. I was... well, you know."

"Yes, I do. Sorry, that was uncalled for."

Andrew paused in raising his glass, surprised at the apology.

After another swallow of his scotch, Foyle suggested,
"...Why don't you, er...?"

"Me? Visit Sam? How could that help?"

"Be her friend? I'm her boss, it's just not on, you know."

"I see." He gave his father a look, "You asked her to cheer me up, and now you want me to-. You know how well that turned out, Dad."

Foyle reconsidered, biting the inside of his lower lip,
"No, you're right. We should just leave it."

In the lull, they both drained their glasses.

"Another?" Foyle cocked an eyebrow at his son, then went to the bar and brought back two glasses of The Glenlivet.

Andrew tilted his glass to salute his father, but again saw the preoccupied worry in his eyes.

"You're concerned about her, aren't you?"

Foyle winced again, with a slight nod.

"Any idea what the problem is?"

"Er... Overwork, it would seem. Late nights, rarely home."

"Hm. And not yet married a year...?" He raised an eyebrow in disbelief, and the two men inadvertently exchanged a speculative look that turned awkward.

Andrew changed tack,
"...As I recall, Mum could always time supper to within a minute of you walking in the door, you were that reliable."

"It was important. For both of you."

Andrew grinned at a childhood memory,
"I remember... some days, you'd bring home a paper full of ha'pennies - you'd tell me there were exactly fifty - and you'd scatter them across the back garden for me to hunt. Took me ages to find them all, counting out loud so you'd hear in the house - but then you'd always discover the last one in your pocket!"

As he smiled at his Dad, he suddenly realized the purpose of the game - to give his parents an hour's privacy - and his jaw fell open.

"Oh."

"Wondered when the ha'penny would drop." Foyle murmured, with a side-long glance.

Andrew shook his head slowly in admiration and smiled down into his glass. The two men nursed their drinks, ruminating on distant memories, until the senior Foyle's thoughts returned to his present concerns.

"...You really don't think you could, er...?"

Andrew, surprised, asked gently,
"Dad? ...Is that what this - retirement - is all about? You can't bear to see Sam unhappy; you feel you can't help, so you want to remove yourself from the scene?"

Foyle, a little self-conscious, tilted his head.

"You really care for her." Then, seeing his father's uncomfortable reaction, he conceded, "...Well, of course you do, it's only natural. You were together for six years."

He took a swallow of his whisky, set it down on the table, and became unexpectedly businesslike.
"You know, most chaps are clueless about what their wives are thinking, present company excepted. Perhaps a word in the ear is all that's needed. Clearly Sam's not the problem: let's go see Adam Wainwright and set him straight."

"Erm..., I don't think I could do that, but you go ahead." He said, with rising apprehension.

"Nunno, this is a two-man job. You see, if it was just me, I'd be challenging his honour, and we'd have to fight. With two of us, it's, er... It's marital counselling."

"And we're qualified for that, are we?" Foyle squinted, his voice broke nervously on the last words, and he swallowed his remaining scotch.

Andrew held up his drink,
"One more of these and I'm eminently qualified."

He signaled for the next round.

"For Sam!" He pledged, saluting her in spirit.

His father, despite definite misgivings on this impulse to chivalry, somehow couldn't formulate a clear objection.

tbc...