Disclaimer: Foyle's War was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement intended.
UXB Chapter 9
Over the weeks of his recovery, in quiet moments alone, while Frank was busy writing his notes or was out of the house, Foyle's thoughts had continually turned to Sam. Resting in his chair by the hearth with a neglected journal or book on his lap, or, when the discomfort of his injuries had tired him, lying on his bed, it was Samantha, and the choices he'd made over the last year, that he brooded over.
His decision to go to America had been taken, not only for the cause pulling him there, but also for the post-war events pushing him away from Hastings. While he was glad to be free of the frustrations of his police career, he had no doubt that he might be drafted back into the work at any time - and he really didn't want that. As well, with the end of his formal authority over Sam, though he hoped their friendship would continue, he felt he had to allow her space to find herself in civilian life - and how better than to leave the country?
He had not been straight with Andrew on that point - he had 'entertained the thought' that she seemed more than a little devoted to him. And he was more than fond of her. At the end of the War he had considered, in his most optimistic introspections, that he might, after a proper period of separation and transition, approach Sam in a different role, as a potential suitor, in the unlikely event that she were still unattached.
But fate conspired against him, first in the form of the accidental killing of her employer, Sir Leonard Spencer-Jones, and the connected case of the Russian House, which brought them together again too soon. And finally in the form of Adam Wainwright, an apparently perfectly eligible, pleasant young man. He could not object to her choice, and Sam seemed content to make the best of things with him.
Foyle could only withdraw from the field and wish her well.
Then, in the few days before his departure, the events surrounding James Devereaux had taken all his attention, bringing with them the resurfacing of a deeply troubling period from his youth. In fact, those old events, reconsidered, rather convinced him that passion was best left to the young, who had the strength to weather its storms and heartbreak. And in truth he was long used to denying himself a more complete life, since Rosalind's death; it was far easier, steadier, to continue that habit of solitude, than to reach out and take a chance on a new experience.
And yet, he now had to acknowledge what Sam, through no fault of her own and completely unpredictably, had endured in the past several months - the hurt of a neglectful spouse, a shocking betrayal, and a senseless tragic death. He might have spared her all of that, had he, a year ago, admitted to himself the strength of his feelings, investigated hers, and acted on that knowledge.
While they were driving up to London to find the Russian House, Sam had all but asked him to take her to America with him. But he had never examined that request, or what might have motivated her to ask, so convinced was he that she needed time apart from him to discover herself, freed from the constrictions of wartime duty. To his shame, he had never thought of her feelings when he simply didn't respond.
And at the same time, he had known without a doubt, and should have considered for Sam's sake, that his own youthful period of richest growth, and becoming his true self, had been, not his bachelor days, but the years of his close, loving partnership within his very happy marriage.
###
Andrew Foyle had never much cared for angling, finding it an unexciting, solitary, and too subtle pursuit for his own gregarious nature. He had tried, in his younger years, in moments when he wasn't entirely self-absorbed, to appreciate the science and art of the hobby his father loved.
One of his favourite childhood memories was of his Dad in waders and sportsman's waistcoat, paying out line, reeling in and casting out in that rather elegant undulating gesture, just touching the fly to the surface of the water to attract, and lure in, the curious or hungry creatures below. As much as he had tried, this was one of their shared activities that his father had never succeeded in establishing or sustaining his interest in. But Andrew had learned enough to understand the technique, even if he had never seriously practiced it.
Well, now he was going to give it a try in earnest, at least figuratively.
###
It was his son's second weekend visit during the time of his recovery from the bomb incident, and Foyle was growing concerned over his failure to mention a word about how Sam was coping - in fact he'd hardly mentioned her at all since arranging the rather luxurious style of his return to Hastings.
"Andrew, you're not still bunking with your friend, are you?"
"No, I'm back at my flat."
"Then... Sam's not there?"
"No."
"Where is she staying, Andrew?"
"She's found a place in Knightsbridge. You know how resourceful Sam is."
"Has she... returned to work?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then... how is she -? Are you... helping her out?"
"Er... she may have been assisted by that Glenvil Harris chap, through the Labour Party. I don't really know."
"But she's all right? You're looking in on her?"
"Yes. When I can."
At that point, Andrew had changed the subject. Foyle had let it go, but he was far from satisfied with the scant information his son had given. And, Knightsbridge? She must be sharing a flat with several other girls.
On his next visit, Andrew was even less forthcoming. Amidst their weekend's worth of conversation, this was all he'd offered by way of news,
"No, I haven't seen her. Knightsbridge didn't work out. I think she said she was to be somewhere in Earl's Court."
"When did she tell you that?"
"Erm... Not sure. Sometime last week. Over the 'phone. She did sound a little... lost... Not sure how to describe it."
Foyle frowned at that remark,
"Well, do keep an eye on her, Andrew. She's not back at the office?"
"I don't recall that she mentioned it, Dad, one way or the other. Why is that important?"
"Oh, w-. Work. A routine..., best antidote to grief...and, er... disappointment."
"Would you like me to ask her?"
"No. No. Just, em... wondered."
The following weekend, as they sat having tea at the kitchen table, Andrew had this puzzling news,
"Oh, by the way, I saw Sam in Bloomsbury. She's not yet returned to work, I did ask."
Foyle feigned a mild interest,
"I suppose she must have received some sort of... widow's pension... through the Labour Party."
"Well, I don't know, Dad. She said something about having to return home to her parents in Lyminster."
"Oh." He scratched his temple in frustration.
"She asked how you were."
Foyle looked up, on the alert.
"Of course, I hadn't given her too many details of your injuries."
"Nno. Why would you. What did you say to her?"
"I said you were fine."
"R-right..."
Andrew noted he seemed quite dissatisfied with that remark.
"How was she? Did she seem, er... recovered from...?"
"She was fine, Dad." He answered blithely, drinking his tea.
Foyle chewed the inside of his lip, irritated,
"'Fine?' - that's very descriptive, Andrew, coming from a published poet. Can you not, er..."
Andrew assumed an air of nonchalance, sitting back in his chair,
"You could always go visit her, in London, if you're worried about her."
"Well, she seems rather difficult to 'home in on,' from what you've been telling me."
"Invite her down here, then. She can have my room. ...Again."
His father's eyes snapped fully open at that remark. 'How did he...?'
"Dad, I'll be happy to give her the message..."
"Well..., erm..."
"She has been bombed out of her house - for the second time in her life."
"I'm well aware of that, Andrew."
"...Still thousands of people waiting for new housing... Could be a long while before she's got anything, I suppose."
"Very true... Em..."
Eyebrows raised expectantly, Andrew watched his father patiently, unhurried, waiting...
"...Y-yes, do."
'Got you, you beauty!' He planted an elbow on the table and raised his cup of tea to hide a satisfied sportsman's smile.
"Erm... Let me know when you've spoken with her, Andrew."
"Sure, Dad."
Now it was up to Sam to reel him in.
tbc...
