Milner let his prosthetic leg fall to the floor with a sigh. The fresh air and exercise had tired him out so he'd decided to make an early night of it. He settled himself in bed, thinking back over the day with satisfaction.
It really had been delightful, he thought. He hadn't felt so carefree and light-hearted for a very, very long time – probably not since before the war. The prospect of a day free from the usual cares and responsibilities had put him in something of a holiday mood, and he'd done his best to show Sam a bit of fun as well. Quite a girl, that Sam. He had expected her dejection of the previous evening to linger for a time, but she'd come down to breakfast that morning with her chin tilted up at an angle that hinted at some inner resolve. In the two years he'd known her, Milner had become quite adept at reading her moods. Plucky little thing, he'd thought admiringly. I have to hand it to her; it was a nasty blow, but she's determined not to let it get her down. Remembering how often she'd tried to cheer him from his own melancholy moods, he had resolved to do his best to take her mind off her troubles.
When they got back from Dartmoor they'd parked the car near their modest lodgings and strolled off toward the Promenade, a broad street lined with grand hotels facing Plymouth Sound. They could see scattered evidence of bomb damage - the pleasure pier had been destroyed, as had a tea pavilion - but most of the area seemed intact. Up on the Hoe, a broad park-like area that commanded a splendid view of the harbour, they'd sat on a bench in the weak winter sunshine and picnicked happily on fish and chips eaten out of paper cones.
Afterwards they'd wandered contentedly about, past the Bowling Green, the Plymouth Naval Memorial, the Mayflower Steps, the Armada Memorial, the statue of Sir Francis Drake and other historic monuments. There were few other sightseers other than an assortment of sailors – British Navy, merchant marine, Canadian Navy and even a handful of Americans. Sam had coaxed a grizzled Home Guard sentry into letting them ascend Smeaton's Tower, the towering lighthouse that dominated the Hoe. The 93 steps to the top had left them panting, but they proved well worth the climb. The vista was stunning – the harbour, the Royal Citadel, the dockyards, the RAAF base at Mount Batten across the Sound and to the northwest the graceful twin arches of Saltash Bridge stretching away to Cornwall.
The view of the nearby city centre, however, was more sobering – an enormous heap of blackened rubble, crushed beyond recognition by the Luftwaffe. Sam caught her breath. "I hadn't realised it had been quite this bad here," Milner had murmured, staring down at the gutted shells that had once been buildings.
"Nor had I. We've had nothing like this in Hastings, thank God. Why so much damage here, do you suppose?"
"Plymouth's a major naval port, Sam. Natural target for Jerry." Glancing over at her solemn face, he'd given her shoulder a comforting pat. This won't do, he thought, I'm meant to be cheering her up! "Seen enough? We should go down now. And slower, if you don't mind – I've only got one good leg, you know!" She'd flashed him one of her lightning smiles as she turned toward the spiral stair.
Next they'd spent a contented hour or two exploring the Barbican, a maze of narrow streets and alleys lined with centuries-old half-timbered buildings. Milner, who enjoyed Graham Greene, splurged on a second-hand copy of England Made Me while Sam was thrilled to find a quaint little shop that stocked rose water, a scarce commodity. Pleased with their purchases, they'd finally emerged onto a high street called the Royal Parade. Here, as the late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across their path, they found themselves surrounded by the devastation they had observed from the lighthouse.
They picked their way carefully past heaps of charred rubble that had once been shops, offices and terraced houses. Much of the damage, Milner noted, had been caused by incendiary fire rather than by explosives. Neither spoke until they reached the burnt-out, roofless shell of a church. A stone pillar at the edge of the churchyard identified it at St. Andrews, circa 1264. A wooden board bearing a single scrawled word leaned across the doorway. "Resurgam," Sam had whispered. " 'I shall rise again'. Oh, Milner, do you think it will?"
"Someday, I expect," he'd murmured. "When this is all over." After a moment they'd moved on, his hand on her back gently guiding her away from the destruction.
In time they'd turned a corner and found a relatively undamaged street. "Look, Milner, a cinema!" said Sam, turning eagerly to him. "And they're showing The Philadelphia Story! I've never seen it, have you?"
He would have found it impossible to refuse her coaxing smile even if he hadn't been in such a good mood, so they watched the picture, a witty American comedy about the tangled marital arrangements of a lady millionaire. Milner couldn't remember the last time he'd been to the cinema; he and Jane had once gone regularly, but since her departure he'd had little inclination to go alone. He enjoyed the film immensely, as did his companion. "Oh, that was marvellous!" she beamed as the last strains of "God Save the King" died away.
"Yes," he agreed, smiling back. "It was. Hungry?"
"Of course! Famished. And you?"
"I'm a bit peckish myself. Shall we see if we can find some dinner?"
"Rather!"
"I'm sure we can find a restaurant that's serving Woolton pie," he'd teased.
They'd dined on ham and macaroni cheese, a vast improvement on Woolton pie, to the melody of "A Foggy Day In London Town" playing on an invisible gramophone. The carefree sense of camaraderie lasted throughout the meal. Afterward they made their way back to the hotel through the blackout, his pocket torch lighting the way. "Thank you, Milner," she said softly. "It's been such a lovely day, every bit of it. I promised myself when I woke up this morning that I wouldn't mope about - one day of that was quite enough. But I really wasn't sure I could stick to it. You made it easy, though. I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much."
"Quite all right," he replied easily, but the niggling worry he'd been suppressing all day finally forced itself to the surface of his thoughts. Best tell her, he thought. "There's something I ought to tell you, though. I'm afraid I have a confession to make."
"A confession?"
"Yes. I hope you won't be too angry with me. The thing is … I know about you and Andrew Foyle."
She halted with a gasp and stared up at him in the faint light. "You know … how on earth did you … did Mr Foyle tell you?"
"No, no."
"Then how …"
"Now, Sam, I'm a better detective than that, you know," he said lightly. "All it took was a little brain power, a bit of deductive reasoning … and seeing the two of you holding hands outside the Ritz one evening."
"Oh," she said quietly. "Oh, I see. When was this?" She looked disconcerted.
"Last summer."
"You never mentioned it."
"No. I figured if you'd wanted me to know you'd have told me yourself. I can understand why you'd want to keep it quiet round the station."
"You haven't told anyone, have you?" she asked anxiously.
"Of course not! Not a soul. Look, I ought to have mentioned it last night, I know, but you were upset enough and I didn't want to make things worse. Am I forgiven?" He cocked his head pleadingly.
After the briefest of pauses, she nodded. "Yes, all right." She started walking again and he fell into step beside her.
"Well, that's a relief," he said, pleased she'd taken it so well. "It's been on my mind all day. I almost told you up in the lighthouse, you know, but I was a bit worried you'd chuck me out a window ... "
She laughed, elbowing him playfully in the ribs.
He drifted toward sleep, remembering. Yes, it had been a marvellous day. Like an unexpected gift. He felt more relaxed and contented than he had in ages. Of course, Sam was always good company, but today had been different somehow. Special. They hadn't spoken about work once, he realised, and yet they'd never run out of things to talk about. He smiled drowsily in the darkness, wondering if Sam ever ran out of things to talk about. At any rate, she'd seemed to enjoy herself as much as he.
Milner suddenly realised with a jolt that he hadn't once thought about Jane all day. Her absence had been his constant companion through the past lonely year. Not a day had gone by when he hadn't missed her presence, her touch, the sound of her voice, mourning the lost happiness of that first halcyon year of marriage before the war had changed everything. Until today. He felt a pang of shock and something queerly akin to guilt. Does this mean I'm starting to get over her? he wondered, before the old longing rushed back over him like a wave and he knew he couldn't be. Jane was his wife. He'd married her for love, fully expecting her to remain by his side for life. Much as he wanted to shield himself from the pain of loving a woman who'd deserted him, shutting off his feelings had proved impossible. Without meaning to he found himself reaching out to the empty place next to him in bed, the place where she should have been. He sighed deeply, then rolled over, turning his back on his absent wife and seeking the oblivion of sleep.
Far away in Yorkshire Christopher Foyle sat in his darkened room peeking through the blackout curtains, watching the runway lights flick on and off across the moor. It was nearly midnight now and he'd heard nothing from Andrew since he'd stormed out of the house this afternoon. Did he find an opportunity to speak to Millie before he'd had to go back on duty? he wondered. Has she agreed to go with him to see a doctor? Is the wedding still on for the morning? Or – his stomach twisted – is Andrew now so angry with me that he no longer wants me to come?
