Title: Where To, Sir? – Chapter 10
Summary: Foyle and Sam didn't really hit it off on Day One… or did they?
Genre: (Im)pure, (almost) unadulterated Foyle-fluff.
Authors' Notes:
Oxford college servants are known as scouts. In the old days, they used to wait on the young gentleman students hand and foot. In more recent years, however, they have graduated to being more like one's mother and/or one's mate, and would more likely tell you to clean your act up than clean up after you. Voice of not-too-distant experience here.
Previously in "Where to, Sir"?
Christopher directed his eyes up Steep Lane, hands buried in his trouser-pockets as he continued: "And that's not the only thing I'm sorry about. Delighted to see him, of course, but well aware that his arrival meant I had to leave you… um… high and dry."
"High, perhaps. But quite the opposite of dry," Sam reassured him in a low voice. "If you knew half of the enjoyment I got out of doing that. Making you that excited could become addictive, Christopher."
Foyle shifted his stance for greater comfort. "Think you should be off now," he told the road gruffly, with a twitch of the lip.
"Right you are, Sir. But just for the record, we should count our blessings that he didn't walk in on our hearthrug interlude on Monday evening."
"Thanks for that particular reminder," he told her. "Now how am I supposed to walk indoors in this state?"
"Can't help you there," she grinned, and threw the Wolseley into gear. "But from what I've seen of Foyles in general, and Foyle-the-Younger in particular, Scottish womanhood is likely to be fidgeting a long while before Field Marshal Goering."
The lower half of Foyle's face twisted in grim humour as he stepped back from the car to let her pull away.
Chapter 10
The shrill reveille of the alarm clock once again tore Foyle from dreams of Sam in such a brutal fashion that he almost toppled the bedside lamp in flailing to suppress the piercing din. He lay back on the pillow, panting—and not for any pleasant reason. Reaching to his side confirmed this was an empty wakening. No Samantha at his side. No warmth; no yielding softness underneath his touch; no scent of honey hair and pale, sweet flesh. He turned onto his front and pressed his nose into the pillow where her head had lain a day before, and groaned.
At least this time it wasn't as if he'd fallen asleep with her in his arms. This was not the panic of the morning before last, when he'd woken, found her gone and felt a crushing fear that she had changed her mind about their involvement. This was simple misery, the result of denying himself, for the mere sake of appearances, the elemental happiness of waking next to Sam. All nonsense, given their commitment to each other, but in view of narrow-minded attitudes, it couldn't be helped.
Zombie-like, he forced himself into a sitting posture and sank his head into his hands, slowly gathering his wits to make the trek across the landing to the bathroom. Andrew would be still asleep, he knew—the recently developed sleeping habits of a student plastering the young man to his mattress till well after ten some mornings. Foyle couldn't bring himself to rouse his son. That luxury of laziness was, all too soon and dangerously, about to end. He pinched between his eyes, then rose and took himself away to his routine ablutions, stepping round the areas of creaky floorboard as he walked.
He shaved, sizing up his reflection in the mirror, revisiting their conversation of the previous evening. A pang of guilty feeling as he drew the safety blade across his chin caused him to wince and, consequently, nick himself. With a sharp inward breath he scrabbled for a square of toilet roll to staunch the sudden bloom of crimson threading through the layer of soap.
"She's quite a girl. I wish you'd put a word in for me, Dad. She probably won't look at me without your say-so. Seems to be quite serious about her work, and she wouldn't want to rile you by consorting with your son-and-heir. Give her a little nudge in my direction, will you?"
"I asked you to leave it, Andrew," he'd reiterated coolly.
"Has she got a chap already, then?" The young man snagged a cube of sugar from the bowl and dunked it in his now-cold tea.
"Nnnot your business. Leave it. She's my driver."
Andrew grinned and wolfed his sugar cube; and that had been the limit and the end of the exchange. But it had unsettled Foyle profoundly; left him feeling like a cross between a lecher and a hypocrite. Now the face that stared back at him through the bathroom mirror wasn't one whose eyes he felt that he could meet with a good conscience.
Foyle squeezed his eyes shut as he swilled the vestiges of lather from his cheeks and turned away from his reflection in self-disgust to dry his face. Then he attacked the chin-wound with a styptic pencil, allowing it to bite into his flesh long after it had staunched the bleeding.
When he returned the pencil to its normal shelf inside the bathroom cupboard, his after-shave stared back at him, and in that instant, his thoughts were heady once again with Sam. He reached out for the bottle, splashing an amount into his palm, and carefully applied the astringent liquid to his face. It smarted on his injury, but this was one day when he wasn't going to lose his edge against potential competition.
He leant, head bowed, one hand upon the empty basin, rubbing at the back of his neck. What have you come to, man? In competition with your son, for Christ's sake.
Noises of activity drifted through the wall to interrupt his brooding, and told him Andrew was awake. Sure enough, en route back to his bedroom, he glimpsed the door to Andrew's room ajar, and creaking open to reveal the younger Foyle, open-chested in carelessly buttoned pyjamas.
"Early bird?" he asked his patently still-sleepy son.
"Morning, Dad." The salutation came out through a yawn. "Yeah, didn't want to miss your... Thought I might just see you off this morning."
Foyle absorbed his offspring's tousled and unshaven aspect. Even early-morning Andrew was extremely easy on the eye of the beholder. Rosalind's good looks had won through in adversity, he reflected. He felt a sudden wave of tenderness for his son, in spite of all the young man's pushiness around his lover.
"Before you leave Saturday we should go down to the river," suggested Foyle in a sudden flux of paternal affection. No sooner had the invitation crossed his lips, than a nagging voice started up inside his head. What are you doing? That was going to be your day with Sam…
Andrew smirked. "With you and… what? A box of Iron Blue Duns?"
"Absolutely!" Foyle's eyes widened with pleasure at Andrew's nod to his fly-tying expertise. He'd explain Sam's presence later. Maybe.
"I'd like it."
"Wull. You're a bloody liar, but you can come, anyway."
Andrew snorted, ran a hand through his luxuriant dark waves, and struck out for the bathroom.
"Breakfast in a quarter of an hour, then," Foyle called after him. "And there's an egg left. If you can make it downstairs by the time I've boiled it, then it's all yours."
"Dad—" Andrew lingered at the bathroom door, and waited for his father to turn back. "Good to see you," he said quietly.
"Yeah." Foyle ducked his head awkwardly, suppressing a wistful smile, and continued to his room. There he dressed with customary care, and then put in a little extra effort training the brush over his pate to ensure that no bits of hair were sticking up on top.
Andrew got the egg. He would've got it anyway, since his father deliberately delayed the boiling of it until he heard his son's footfalls on the stairs. But while Foyle was perfectly prepared to feed his son his rations, his paternal sacrificial instinct couldn't stretch to Sam; and it was therefore with some annoyance that, when her knock came at the normal time, he witnessed Andrew bounding to the door to let her in. Foyle hovered just inside the kitchen at the far end of the hallway, and eavesdropped on proceedings.
"Ah. Morning." He heard Sam's slightly disconcerted voice on the doorstep. "Is Mr Foyle—ah—ready?"
"Step inside; he's washing up the breakfast dishes."
Foyle's jaw stiffened. He most certainly was not. He'd cooked the breakfast; Andrew could wash up.
"How are you this morning, Sam?" oozed the fruit of his loins.
Foyle rolled his eyes at Andrew's tone, and whereas it normally amused him to see his son in operation around young women, this time he didn't like it one small bit. Even as he heard Sam's non-committal "Lovely, thank you," which elicited the lightning-fast predictable rejoinder, "I should say you are", Foyle was hurrying down the hallway, chin and eyebrows raised to interrupt.
"Sam. Here you are," he stated, ushering her along the hall before him, and smoothly blocking Andrew's attempt to follow by interposing himself. Sam was shown into the sitting room.
"Sit down for a minute, if you like. I'll be right with you. Andrew?" He turned and gestured to his son to follow. "If you wouldn't mind…"
Once in the privacy of the kitchen, Foyle tossed him a tea-towel. "If you think," he stretched his eyes, "I'm going to feed you and wash up as well, you've got another think coming. This is Hastings, matey, not Balliol bloody College. I am not your scout."
…
"I dropped the letter off at Dr Collier's on the way home last night," Sam offered conversationally, once they had pulled onto the less easily observable East Parade, and Foyle's hand had crept across to rest on her knee.
"Missed you last night," he told her quietly.
"Gosh, I know. It was the most excruciating torture," Sam agreed. "…but it must be nice to have him home, at least," she added.
Foyle bit his lip and nodded. "In one sense, I wish he'd never leave. Too much of an idea of what he's letting himself in for. In another sense... a selfish one..."
"You wish he'd sling his hook?" supplied Sam brightly, beaming at the windscreen.
"Nnnot the way I'd put it, quite..."
"Oh," she smiled, "I thought you might appreciate the fishing reference."
"I think you'll find," he told her levelly, "that it's a nautical expression for 'weigh anchor'."
"Ah, well, there you have it," observed Sam, with a note of triumph. "Andrew should weigh anchor and sail happily away to a safe port somewhere. So you can have your evil way with me inside your house."
"Succinctly put, Miss Stewart," he conceded with a quirk of his mouth, bending his gaze out to sea.
...
"Ah, Sir, a call's come in from the AC," said Sergeant Rivers by way of greeting, when the DCS walked back into the station after lunch. "Local missing person case. He wants you to look into it, so could you call him back?"
Foyle scratched his ear and took the note from Rivers' outstretched hand. The DCS's hooded lids gave every indication he was not impressed at being sent out on an errand that would normally be allocated to a constable in uniform.
One conversation with AC Summers later, Foyle and Sam were in the Wolseley, heading for the Beaumont country estate, tasked with looking into the disappearance of the owner's wife. Events moved quickly, for while Foyle was still engaged in questioning the missing woman's family, the news arrived that Greta Beaumont had been found dead. Three hours later, Foyle having called in uniforms to cordon off and comb the scene, the pair of them were bound for home, a grisly murder on their books.
"You got your wish," remarked Christopher wryly. "Couldn't get much grislier than this."
"Ugh, yes!" Sam shuddered in revulsion. "To think she was... decapitated. And being a Jerry, too. I s'pose that's going to complicate things, isn't it?" she cast him an expectant look. "Means anybody could've done it. Absolutely anybody. You can't arrest the whole of the Home Counties, I suppose," she added almost hopefully.
Foyle's tongue peeped out between his lips. He shouldn't be enjoying this conversation, he knew, but somehow every word she uttered made him want to cover her with kisses. "Nup," he admitted. "Can't do that in all good conscience."
"Oh well." There was a pause, and Sam's attention moved to other things. "I love this part of Sussex," she enthused, and lowered her head to peer and get a better view around them as she drove. "Such lovely woodland in the High Weald. Aren't they lucky, living here? Not to mention all the valleys and the winding lanes. I could explore all day, if not for petrol rationing..."
"Well, Greta Beaumont wasn't very lucky." He leant against the passenger door, his body angled in to face her. "But I see your point."
The late afternoon sun caught her hair, highlighting glints of reddish gold, and took his breath away. Foyle swallowed and blinked slowly. Then he dropped his voice and sent her an undisguised look. "Sam?"
The alteration in his tone caused her to turn her head and try to gauge his mood. "Hmm?" she asked speculatively. The look that she encountered left her in little doubt of where his words would take them next.
"We could pull over for a short while, if you see a nice spot. Won't be dark yet for a couple of hours."
Sam smiled elvishly. "You're surely not suggesting... ?"
"Aren't I?" His eyes danced with mischief, but there was also an intensity there that made her shiver with delight.
Sam sighed. "You know I'll miss you awfully while Andrew's here, my darling, but... should we? There's still the other matter to consider... our short wait until the doctor..." She frowned in frustration. "Though it will seem like an age."
"Perhaps if we go only so far," he murmured, his expression already otherworldly as he contemplated having her again.
Sam bit her lip. "All right, you win." Spotting a widening of the verge beside the road, she pulled the Wolseley over so that they could take their so-called woodland stroll.
Christopher unlocked the boot and fished out the army blanket always kept there for emergencies. "Insurance against ants," he joked, eyes a-twinkle, sucking in his cheeks. The grey wool material was soon rolled into a wad and slotted under his left arm. His right arm he extended to Samantha, gathering her against him as they took a gentle stroll into the trees.
It was a beautiful and breezy day, and the rustle of the light wind through sun-dappled leaves gave the canopy above them a magical aura. Feeling Samantha match his gait with perfect ease, Foyle would have been a man truly blessed, were it not for the persistent, gnawing doubts and apprehensions that stemmed from age, and the habit of expecting personal unhappiness.
"So," he began, casting her a shy glance. "How does my son strike you? Good-looking?"
Sam dipped her head, sensing the insecurity behind the question. She felt some sympathy for Christopher, but really! Hadn't she reassured him enough? A spark of devilment crept into her answer.
"Mmm, yes. He's devastatingly handsome."
She halted there, eyes drifting sideways. Christopher had started chewing on his cheek, and his hold upon her tensed ever so slightly. "Exactly like his father," she continued, smiling inwardly, "but alas he knows it just a bit too well. I've always had a soft spot for a different type—the gorgeous but modest sort of man."
Foyle froze, holding her to him. "GORGEOUS?"
Sam shot him an indulgent look, although her tone of voice reflected some impatience. "I told you before, all the ways I find you the most attractive man I've ever met."
Foyle tried not-too-successfully to suppress one of his upside-down smiles, to say nothing of the other familiar physical reaction to the young woman by his side.
"Sam," he began haltingly, "you know that, with a man my age, you might be disappointed sometimes."
"What disappoints me most about you, Christopher," came the reply, "is your refusal to believe me when I tell you it's of no importance to me. Whatever you can give me, that is what I want. No more, no less. And certainly I want nobody else. It means so much to me, you know, the way you listen to and even value what I have to say, as you did when we were talking about the case earlier."
"Well, um, that's very..." he rubbed his nose, disarmed by his own pleasure at her words.
"...and the other thing that disappoints me about you," went on Sam, "is that you haven't already shoved me hard against a tree and kissed me senseless."
In the next second, Sam found herself pinned fast to a convenient sycamore, the rolled-up blanket cushioning her head. Her lover's kiss was ardent, demanding, perhaps a little over-possessive... yet she didn't mind one little bit. She clutched his back and gave as passionately as she got, combining a moan with a breathless laugh at the speed with which he had responded to her challenge.
Her head was holding the cushioning blanket in place, and he raised his hands to cradle it, his fingers threading through her hair. And in that moment, Sam knew with certainty that Christopher Foyle was not to be counted among those men of a certain age liable to disappoint. The amused thought lingered in her mind as she revelled in the firm hardness pressed against her abdomen.
"This," she breathed between their duelling lips, "needs to come off." She ran a hand up through the soft hair curling underneath his trilby, and pushed her nail-tips underneath, dislodging the hat so that it toppled from his head into the undergrowth.
"No respect," he mumbled into her mouth, grinning through the kiss. "Do I need to teach you who's boss?"
"I like to learn," she whispered, "but in case you've quite forgotten, since I joined your outfit, Christopher, I've caught one criminal, and you've caught none."
The rumble of his chuckles accompanied their slide all the way down the tree trunk onto the bed of leaves beneath. Separating from her for a moment, Foyle spread the blanket on the ground, then drew her down onto her knees next to him. She gazed into his eyes, her expression full of trust.
"How shall we go about this, Christopher?" she asked him earnestly, clinging to his hands.
Christopher apparently had some firm ideas, and dressed them up in terms along the lines of "trust me, I know what I'm doing". In the next minute Sam was lying on the blanket minus her uniform skirt, her tunic laid wide open, with his jacket folded underneath her head. Christopher had discarded his waistcoat, and his braces hung down at his sides, allowing him to free himself of the joint barriers of trousers and shorts, now pushed below his hips where they could offer no encumbrance.
"We'd better hope," Sam giggled, "there are no gamekeepers in this wood, or else I might find myself picking lead shot out of awkward bits of you."
"Thanks for that helpful image, Sam," he answered, deadpan.
"You know," she philosophised, hands tucked behind her head as she gazed up through the awning of leaves, "I think the mood's worn off, with all this 'what we can and can't do', hiding in the woodland and such like..."
Foyle blinked and tilted his chin sideways. Had he heard her right?
"No? Seriously, Sam?" He looked down at the concrete cause of his distress—'reinforced concrete' being the operative term, he reflected ruefully. His brows contracted in the manner of a punished puppy as he tugged down on his shirt-tails to veil the painful evidence.
"Hmm," Sam went on blithely, squinting at the sky. "Perhaps we should just lie here, watch the clouds go by, and not worry about other things."
"Rrright." He lowered himself awkwardly beside her and attempted to forget the rampantly embarrassed state in which he found himself.
Sam sighed contentedly, and launched into a reminisce of her tomboy childhood around Lyminster: her expertise with acorns and a slingshot; building bracken shelters; cracking hazelnuts between two twigs; the seven types of tit she could identify—and precisely how the plumage differed; her love of foraging for mushrooms...
"...and with the puffball, when you squeeze the bulbous, spongy head, the tiny spores come shooting through the little hole and float away like clouds of fairy dust..."
Christopher, who had been trying to contain himself sufficiently to listen, screwed his eyelids tight at that, and sure enough, his eyes began to water. "Um, Sam… Sweetheart," he interrupted gently, "I'm, um..." He propped himself up on one elbow and reached under her head to free one hand, which he then guided to his problem.
"Ohhh," she gasped, wide-eyed, in genuine regret. "I'm so, so sorry, Darling. See, I just assumed that if we stopped, you'd, well... reduce again."
He grimaced. "Nnnot this time, apparently." Nor any time in recent memory, he amended to himself. "So if you wouldn't mind..."
Sam turned to face him, mirroring his posture. She stroked at his hair in concern, and nudged apologetic kisses to his cheek and lips. "Poor Christopher. I've been an inconsiderate and beastly girl... Well, now you have my full permission to be beastly back."
He didn't need more invitation. Wrapping one arm tightly round Sam's hips to lock her legs together, he drew her fast against him and pushed himself between the flesh of her constricted thighs. Then he emitted an intense sigh of relief.
"Thank Christ," he gritted out, his breath against her ear. "I thought I'd burst for want of you." Sam gave a little cry of pleasure, for fortunately the angle of his access had caught her at a tender spot, and two or three quite powerful thrusts later she was gasping, supine on the blanket, gazing up at Christopher, her eyes clouded with awakened desire.
"So this... is it..." she moaned in ecstasy. "The plan... for staying safe... ?"
"Mmm. Going... to avoid coming in..." he answered, grabbing shallow breaths between his thrusts. One hand was free now, and he slid it in between them to ensure Sam's satisfaction with a gentle stroking of his thumb. Sam writhed under his diligent attentions, trying gamely to keep her thighs locked together, so as to give him the friction that he needed for his own pleasure. But try as she might, distracted by her physical enjoyment of the stroking, plus his weight upon her, she was letting her legs gradually fan apart, and the resistance offered earlier by the soft flesh of her inner thighs was lost.
Sam heard his small gulp of frustration, felt his lips locked desperately to her neck, the rapid thudding of his heartbeat up against her chest, and these melted all her resolution. She whispered, "Christopher, this isn't working. Come inside. It doesn't matter. Just come into me. Please, Darling. Do it. Now."
Barely a beat passed before Christopher sank gratefully into her. "God," he hissed, "I've got no willpower round you. No control at all."
He slid his arm under her back and crushed her to him, revelling in the soft sensation of her semi-naked breasts that pressed against the thin material of his shirt. But soon it wasn't enough. He lifted himself back from her and tore apart his buttons, pulling up his vest and delving past her flimsy underthings to free her breasts entirely, so he could feel them flesh-on-flesh.
Sam's breathing quickened at the vision of his lightly-muscled torso, and arched up, hungry for the feel of the sparse, wiry tufts of hair around his darkened nipples. "My love," she gasped, and sought his mouth, tongue duelling with his in a slow, cyclic rhythm of invasion. Christopher was locked to her with every ounce of physical and emotional energy.
To Sam, it felt like loss and gain at once—a loss of self, against absorption of another. To Christopher, it was a driven, primitive compulsion to give and cherish, to possess and conquer. And they soared together, undulating on the soft bed of the forest floor, physically, emotionally, and temporally one, removed and separate from their surroundings.
Sam cried out first, half sob, and half a wanton scream of unrestrained delirium, and Christopher could feel the strong cascade of throbs around him as he surged inside her, finally erupting in a cannonade of thrusting fury, catching at his breath convulsively and groaning through the spasms of completion.
They lay exhausted in each other's arms, and, as the rushing in their ears subsided, listened to the gentle woodland sounds.
Sam was the first to find her voice. "We cast fate to the winds a little there, I think," she lamented.
"I don't believe in fate, in any case," he answered. "Anyone who does might just as well throw in the towel." He kissed her tenderly and stroked her hair. "But destiny's a different matter."
"Oh, very deep," Sam scoffed. "Considering it's coming from a caveman."
"I have my caveman moments," he conceded with a twisted grin.
...
Friday was very much absorbed by further investigations of the German woman's murder, and Foyle found himself wading through the usual mire of family animosities and people being less than frank with him. To say nothing of the 'old boy network' in full force, and going a long way towards explaining Mrs Beaumont's spurious 'Category C Alien' designation.
It all amounted to a powerful whiff of rat as far as Foyle was concerned, and he was going to burrow to the bottom of the nest. Turner, Beaumont's daughter's lurking suitor, was an interesting item, he decided. And it soon appeared he'd been having a liaison with young Tracey at The Bell, with the itchy-palmed co-operation of its sleazy landlord, Judd.
Foyle finished up the day with a long phone call to Whitehall, calling in a favour from a friend to dig out information based on Mrs Beaumont's maiden name of Greta Anna Hauptmann. Finally, he set about the typing of his case notes, while Sam took pity on his weight of work, deliberately staying out of his attraction zone. Instead, she cooled her heels around the station, chatting to the constables and Sergeant Rivers.
She drove him home just after six, and dropped him at the door with no attempt to linger. Christopher did not invite her in. They had agreed as much, and done their lingering behind his closed office door at the station as they said their overnight goodbyes. There was at least the prospect of their weekend fishing trip to cheer Foyle through his pricking conscience as he watched the Wolseley disappear uphill.
That evening, as he tied flies on the dining table under Andrew's perhaps-unusual-for-him scrutiny, his mind continually drifted off to Sam. Had she arrived home safely? Did she feel a hostage to their circumstances?
When he didn't think of Sam, he thought of Andrew, going off to train to risk his young life "in the service of his country". The state of things in general oppressed Foyle, and his fingers bled from lack of concentration. In the end he had to give it up, and wandered to the kitchen, where his son discovered him half-leaning on the sink, one hand massaging at his nape in clear frustration.
"You okay, Dad?" Andrew's voice evinced concern. They didn't touch a lot, his son and he, but on this occasion Andrew's hand came to rest upon his shoulder, and the gesture nearly broke him. Foyle steeled his jaw and, raising his chin, fought back tears.
"Yep, um, just a little wound up."
"Can I help? Is work getting on top of you?"
Foyle snorted. "Never got the better of me yet. The work, I mean. The politics might irritate, occasionally… But in this case, no. Not the work."
"You ill, then? Have to say, you're looking in good nick to me..."
"Nup." Foyle shook his head, and sent his son a wry, lopsided smile. "Rude health."
Andrew stood back and leant against the draining-board, where a sudden interest in the thumbnail of his left hand seemed to kick in. "You know, Dad," he nibbled at the cuticle, "if it's this RAF thing worrying you, you should know that I'm no idiot with machines. My washing-up might stink, but I'm quite the whizz behind the wheel—you taught me well; and when I get up in the air, the plane feels like a second skin. Those bastards aren't going to have the foggiest idea what's hit them…"
Foyle smiled in spite of himself. "Flyboy talk. This is your father you're speaking to."
"Well, all right," Andrew grinned. "I might be flannelling just a bit. But they need pilots, Dad. It's something I can do that others can't. If I don't do it, somebody less competent will."
His father recognised the sentiment. "There's sense in what you say."
"All I'm saying is," said Andrew, "not to worry about me unduly. You could say I'm in my element. Which I always thought you were, but watching you these last two days…" He hesitated. "Dad, are you lonely? I could understand it, if you were. It's been a long time since Mum."
"Can't say it crosses my mind much," Foyle hedged.
"Fishing isn't very sociable," reflected Andrew.
"So I should do what… join a choir?" quipped Foyle. Andrew scowled, and his father relented. "Look. Fishing gives me quiet time to think."
"Tomorrow's trip is going to be more like choir practice, what with me and Sam in tow… The fish will think that Jerry has invaded.
"Anyway, since when do women fish?" Andrew added jokingly after a moment.
"Her father used to take her."
"Oh, well, thanks for asking her along. You're not all bad. I thought there for a moment that you hadn't heard my plea. Or wouldn't."
"Your plea?"
"To put in a good word for me."
Foyle pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed and he handed his son the dish brush. "See if you can catch a dish or two with this."
…tbc
Running Total: 11
Authors' Endnote:
If anybody wants to argue the toss about the difference between fate and destiny, PM us separately o)