Chapter 8
A gentle sunlight dappled and swayed in the interior of the private train carriage taking Foyle back to Hastings. His eyelids were heavy, his mind calm under the effects of the sedative, as he gazed out at the passing scenery. All the pressing concerns of his work, the trauma he'd experienced, the tragic death he'd witnessed, and his worries over a particular friendship, seemed suspended, held at bay in this somewhat pleasant, befogged state. Andrew's presence allowed him to relax completely, unconcerned for any inquiries or disruptions, and give way to the exhaustion that overpowered him.
Eventually he was home.
Andrew and his father were greeted by Alice Howard, Andrew's aunt, who had come down to prepare the house for the arrival of the invalid. She had arranged, in her always efficient and effective way, to fill the larder, start the milk delivery and restart the newspapers, and had a cleaning woman go through each room and do up the bedrooms. They were grateful for both her efficiency and her discretion, as she saw them settled and then made her excuses, leaving them with a supper she'd prepared herself simmering on the back of the stove.
Later that first evening they took their accustomed chairs on either side of the hearth, his father's leg stretched out and elevated on an ottoman. Over the years since his mother's death, Andrew had seen his father subside into a deeply thoughtful, occasionally brooding, maddeningly reticent man. So it was an intriguing change to be in his company now, under the influence of the sedative, and find him seemingly unguarded and almost voluble, although his speech was slowed to just short of slurring.
After bringing up the present calamity in their young friend's life, Andrew ventured to turn the conversation to a subject never before broached between them.
"What were my first impressions of Sam? Oh, much like yours..., I'd imagine. Lovely girl..." He half-smiled, "Like a bright, new, copper penny. Breathtaking, really. Keen..., smart. Willing. Never... seen anyone quite like her."
"Did you ever... consider, you know...?"
"No... Stepping out...? No, certainly not. She was your age... Andrew. Aside from the... very prohibitive fact... that I was her boss, I didn't... fancy looking the fool. I'd seen other men... in positions of authority... rob the cradle..."
"Did you ever think she might... be interested?"
"Nnnever...entertained the thought, son."
"...But then, by the end of the War, she was older. She'd matured - into an adult woman."
"Well, it's... funny... how that works, Andrew. I was... older, too."
Andrew smiled, then pressed on,
"Yet... thirty and fifty-four don't seem quite as far apart as twenty-four and forty-eight, do they."
"Hm." And he gave a very small humph of amusement, "But they are, you know."
That was as far as he dared go. He'd have another try the next day.
It was the early afternoon of a bright, temperate day, and Andrew had carried a pair of chairs into the back garden, brought a few cushions, then helped his Dad down the steps. He'd persuaded him to continue the sedatives, reasoning that the physical pain was greater today, and the trauma fresher, than it would be tomorrow. He fetched two glasses of cold ginger beer, alcohol being an unwise choice at the moment. His father sat back, closed his eyes, and lifted his face to the warmth of the September sun.
Andrew did the same, and after a few minutes of companionable silence, asked,
"Did you enjoy traveling in America, Dad?"
"Oh, I wasn't... in the proper frame of mind to 'enjoy' it, Andrew. It... certainly wasn't a pleasure trip. I told you why I went."
"Yes. Senator Paige. You got him to make the application to the patent office. They amended the registration on the synchromesh gear system to include Richard Hunter as the co-inventor. And Paige's company paid out a huge sum to his widow and son."
"That's right."
"Then you went after the murder charge."
"Yess."
"Was that ...necessary?"
"My opinion - absolutely. ...But we really... needn't discuss that now, hmm?"
Foyle brought a fist up to his mouth and gave in to a brief coughing fit. He winced at the jarring strain, rested the hand on his upper chest, and massaged the muscles there. He took a drink from his glass, and settled his head again.
"Oh- no, of course not. Sorry."
He let silence fill a suitable expanse of time.
"Wonder what Sam will do now..."
"She has a job to come back to, when she's ready."
"Working with you again? I'd imagine she must be very glad of that. A sense of security."
"Well I'd be happy to have her. She has remarkable insight, at times."
Then after a pause, Andrew queried,
"Oh, but... you said you wanted to retire. Have you... changed your mind?"
"Er... Perhaps." He adjusted the cushion behind his head, "I'm not thinking very far ahead, just now."
"Hm. You've been remarkably compatible, you and Sam, I take it..."
"We... work well together." He sipped his drink again.
"Have you ever had a falling out?"
"Well, yes. Once. Over you. I was cross with her for not telling me where you were. But I suppose that was your influence."
"Yes, it certainly was. She hated being disloyal to you, Dad, but... I begged her. I was that frightened of flying another mission. Thought my number was up. The two of you... saved my life, I think."
Foyle half opened his eyes and turned his head slowly towards his son,
"Do you? Hadn't thought of it that way."
Andrew met his father's eyes, and said gently,
"I believe Sam... did exactly what Mum would have done. Just... gave me a bit of time, and room, to sort myself out. I'll always love her for that."
Andrew was quiet then, and let his father mull over that sentiment.
The next morning saw the arrival of the 'nurse' - in fact a demobbed Army Medic - hired through the unwitting generosity of the Security Service, and Andrew left his father in the man's care, to go back to his work in London.
Foyle was soon on easy terms with his attendant - the very competent Medic named Frank. He and Frank, together, monitored his daily progress, and found his ankle was recovering, his knee benefited from the support of a cane, his temperature was stable and his cough improved each day.
By the second week he no longer wanted the sedative. Cuts and abrasions healed and faded, and his local doctor removed the stitches on the back of his head. During his convalescence, Andrew traveled down from London to visit each weekend. After a month and a fortnight Foyle could get about without the cane, and Frank felt confident in wishing him well. Outwardly he was himself again.
Inwardly, it was a different matter.
tbc...
