Chapter 13

August 1945

Entering his house, Foyle slumped against the door as it shut, feeling suddenly weary. He was therefore not prepared for an unexpected onslaught.

"Where the blazes have you been?"

Foyle looked up quickly. "Andrew?"

To his surprise, Andrew came right up to him, and the entry hall with its hat stand, side table, and Rosalind's watercolours felt all at once cramped.

"Sam goes out to meet you for lunch and comes back even more worried and anxious than she left. And not just that, but I come home yesterday to find her upset and she won't even tell me what's been going on. I mean, really, Dad—"

"Let me stop you right there," Foyle said sharply, holding up a hand.

He felt slightly put out that his son was interrogating him about how he was treating his wife, but perhaps Andrew had a right to be annoyed. Moreover, perhaps he had a point.

"I can explain, er, if you give me half a chance."

Andrew glowered for a moment and then shrugged, and Foyle bit back a smile. If only he knew how he looks like his twelve year old self when he does that…

Foyle loosened his tie and led Andrew into the lounge. "Sit down." He closed the door behind him and waved to their customary chairs by the fireplace.

"Where are the girls?"

Andrew softened, "Bath time."

Smiling, Foyle nodded and sat down heavily in his chair. Andrew eyed him expectantly and somewhat impatiently.

Chewing his lip thoughtfully, Foyle began. "Do you remember when you asked me about the first war?"

Andrew frowned, thinking. "When I was about to be shipped off to my unit, wasn't it? Over breakfast? Just before Sam—" he broke off and coloured, remembering his conceited pass at his father's driver which had been so coolly rebuked.

"You said that I never spoke about it, and I said something like, 'not if I can help it.' You then asked me if I had ever killed anyone…"

"But what's that got to do with—"

Foyle held up his hand again, "Andrew, hear me out." He took a deep breath. "Perhaps I should have talked about it with you — you were going off to war, after all, and yet I couldn't bring myself to tell you. It is different now; you've been through a war yourself."

Picking at a loose thread on his waistcoat, Foyle paused. He looked up, catching his son's eye. "It's time you heard the, er, full story."

The intensity in Foyle's blue eyes made Andrew swallow hard and lean forward on his knees. There was a frightened eagerness in his face, as if he both wanted to hear what his father had to say, but wasn't sure what it might bring to light.

Foyle sat back, crossing his legs, angling himself comfortably to the side of the chair. Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, he took a quick breath, steeling himself.

"I was injured in 1917, just after Arras. I was sent home to a hospital in Brighton, and there I met a volunteer nurse…"

Once the words began they came thick and fast, following each other without pause. All the things Foyle had held back came pouring out in a flood of words, very nearly overwhelming his son. Andrew's face went white, his eyes wide, and remained that way as he heard about the passionate love affair; about the deaths of Richard Walsh and the boy, Bat Balcomb; he watched his father struggle to explain the presence of another child, an older brother that had just been saved that day from the hangman's noose. He looked away as Foyle tried to explain the reasons why it had been kept secret. Foyle told his story well: he told it truthfully.

When finally Foyle had spoken his last words, Andrew sat back, face shocked and mind racing. His cheeks became suddenly red and he asked in a hollow voice, "Did Mum know?"

Foyle ducked his head and winced, "No."

"For God's sake, Dad," Andrew said under his breath, angry now. "Does Sam?"

Foyle nodded, causing Andrew to throw up his hands.

"So you've been out saving your first son, leaving Sam to deal with everything on her own?"

"Andrew," Foyle began somewhat reproachfully.

"No, fine."

The young man stood and Foyle saw his hands were shaking with inner anger. "Fine. It's all right for you to keep everything bottled up inside, isn't it? My dad, the respectable Detective Chief Superintendent, never wrong about anything. Well, Dad you're wrong about this. How could you? How could you not tell me after all that has happened?"

He looked genuinely hurt, and Foyle glanced away.

"Didn't I have a right to know? Didn't Mum? Hmm? Or are we lesser beings always to be protected by you and only told what you think we're allowed to hear?"

He was working himself up, and Foyle heard the edges of his words cracking with emotion.

"I know I was wrong, Andrew," Foyle said softly, catching his eye.

"Isn't that the truth? You are…" his voice began to rise and shake with the effort, "you are a bloody selfish man, and damned dishonest for not telling us something like this."

Foyle knew he meant his mother, and swallowed hard, feeling his son's hurt like knives against his skin. "I'm sorry. Please try—"

Andrew flung himself out the door of the lounge, "Oh just…chuck it," he said rather childishly over his shoulder. The front door slammed and suddenly the house was still.

"Bugger," Foyle muttered, putting a hand to his face.

A stair tread creaked and he looked through the lounge door to see Sam rising from behind the banister.

"Shall I go after him?" she asked quietly, rubbing her nose.

Had she heard their argument?

Foyle shook his head. "Leave him be for now. He's just angry."

He looked up at her guiltily, watching her walk towards him. She was barefoot and wrapped loosely in an old dressing gown, hair slightly damp from being pushed up and out of the way by wet hands. She was tired too.

Coming to kneel by his chair, she took his hand. "Give him time."

Foyle nodded mutely, tracing his thumb over the back of her hand.

Without warning, Sam flung herself towards him, thumping his shoulder with her right fist. Burying her face against his chest, she uttered an angry cry.

"Sam?"

"Don't ever frighten me like this again, Christopher Foyle," came her muffled, angry voice.

He pushed her gently back by the shoulders, cupping her chin to turn her face towards him. She was crying and trying to scowl at him, but it only made her face crumble, and his lips turned downwards with sadness.

"Oh Sam. I'm so sorry."

She was crying properly now, words escaping hesitantly through little sobs. "I have been so….so worried…and what if James died…and maybe then you would feel responsible… and… and do something stupid….and Connie and I would be left all alone…and I've tried to be understanding…but I hated her for it all…that she loved you first and made you so miserable…but then…"

"Shh," Foyle said soothingly, stroking her hair.

"But then…" Sam continued, pushing away her tears with the heel of her hand, "I felt so guilty…because she died so horribly and poor James was left alone…and Father always said we must help others…and yet I just wanted…I was afraid to lose you…"

"Enough," he said more firmly, pulling her into a deep embrace. "Sam, my darling, I would never do anything to jeopardise what we have. You and Connie and Andrew are everything to me. I want James to be a part of my life — of our lives — but that is his decision. It is enough that an innocent man was saved."

Sam nodded, "I want you to know him…you both deserve it."

Foyle gave a half smile before adding, "And you won't lose me…it's over, Sam — no more dwelling on the past or what might have been. I promise."

"Is it truly over for you?"

"It is. James is safe; Sir Charles has been arrested for what he did; I've done all I could and now I will close the book on it."

"And you really will retire?" she sniffed.

Foyle gave a throaty chuckle, running a forefinger down the line of her cheek. "I will. On my honour."

Sam threw herself further into his arms, holding him tightly. "Keep me close, won't you?"

"More than ever, sweet girl."

He felt her fingers gripping his back, and he was overwhelmed by the intensity of her anxiety. He had underestimated her and it left him feeling small.

"I never thought I'd get a ticking off from Andrew about how to treat my best girl…" Foyle mused over her shoulder. "Oh, I've been a right fool, my darling. Can you forgive me?"

"I do." Sam pulled back, giving a small smile. "Andrew was rather superior just now, wasn't he?"

"He wasn't entirely wrong…"

"No, I just wish he was a bit more self controlled about it," Sam said, shaking her head in some exasperation.

"I shall try to be a better husband…a better father…" he rubbed his forehead self-consciously.

"You can begin by giving me a kiss," Sam teased softly.

He smiled and acquiesced, nudging her nose with his and putting a strong arm around her waist. He was sorry for a lot of things. She knew it and allowed him understanding graciously.

"And you're a wonderful father," she murmured in a low voice. "We've got a little golden haired girl upstairs who thinks you're the best papa-bear there is…"

Foyle kissed her again, lips trembling with emotion. "Love you, Sam."

She smiled, "Love you too, my darling man."

In the dark Foyle heard a noise and he wondered if it was Andrew returning home. It felt late and his thoughts still swirled wearily. The little noises came again and he recognised them as coming from the crib. Connie was stirring and would be wanting a feed. He turned over and nudged Sam.

"Your daughter is waking up…" he murmured.

"She isn't awake yet," Sam muttered sleepily, "may settle…so do be quiet."

But Foyle had been right, recognising her noises, and Sam sat up, giving him a look that seemed to say, this is your fault, as if they had been in league against her and her need for sleep. Foyle watched them with half open eyes, heart soaring at the precious image of the two before him.

Connie wouldn't settle even after her feed and Foyle offered to take her. "You sleep, my darling, and I'll see what I can do."

She was crying fretfully and Sam handed the child over gratefully.

On the landing, walking with her against his shoulder, he remembered Andrew. He couldn't be sure his son had come back in, but just in case… "Better not wake the entire house, my girl," he said going downstairs carefully.

He walked around through the lounge, to the kitchen, got a drink of water with one hand, back through the dining room, continually pacing. When she was still crying and beginning to wriggle he came to a decision.

"I'm wide awake and I can wait. I've got all the time in the world," he said to her in a soft voice.

Pulling the pram within arms reach of his work desk, Foyle put her where she could see him. She fussed at this loss of contact, but he shook his head.

"No, it's no good. If we're to be up all night, better keep the mind and hands busy."

He began pulling out his fly tying bits, talking to her softly all the while. She settled slightly, as if curious to hear his words tumble one after the other in such a pleasant timbre. Chewing her fists and dribbling, she made little noises to remind him of her state of unhappiness, but in between, watched his slow movements carefully.

"So you see, my treasure," Foyle said, "if you use this blue bottle here in combination with this fine fellow," he showed her and she gave an unimpressed gurgle, "then we get a useful chap for the larger fish."

He applied the pliers expertly, fingers steady and practised. Then he worked the vice open carefully and plucked the finished fly from it. "See? Isn't he a beauty?"

Connie took one look at it and opened her mouth with a howl, beginning to cry in earnest. Foyle put it swiftly away in the leather case Sam had given him for a wedding present and arched an eyebrow, "Not impressed, eh? Well, my girl, just wait until you see him in action," Foyle took her hand gently in his, "yes, he goes down a treat."

A soft laugh broke in on their little chat and Foyle turned to see Andrew in his dressing gown, leaning against a bookcase.
"Wondered what you were up to — didn't you used to tell me all this?"

"Yes — much good that did," Foyle said dryly, putting his things away. "Thought I'd start her off early…"

Andrew lifted the still mildly protesting baby girl from the pram in an easy movement. "What's all this fuss then, Connie girl?"

She made a grab for his nose. He laughed softly and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Don't worry, I never liked it much either."

Connie snuggled into his shoulder, dribbling on his gown with gusto.

Foyle was looking at his hands and Andrew cleared his throat. "Dad, um, sorry for earlier. I was a right…" he broke off and rolled his eyes, leaving Foyle to fill in the blank.

Foyle looked up and twitched his lip, biting down on a corner. "My fault. I shouldn't have kept it from you…either of you."

"Having thought about it all, I think I understand. You had to keep your word to her."

Foyle nodded.

"You are a man of honour, Dad, I know that. And I know you weren't selfish or dishonest. I'm sorry I said those things."

"I just tried to do what I thought was right at the time," Foyle said quietly.

Andrew moved in place, rocking Connie gently in his arms. "We'd do anything for the women we love, wouldn't we?" he said rather wistfully.

Foyle looked at him carefully, "Er, Andrew…." he cleared his throat… "Look, I need to ask…"

Looking very self conscious, he said quietly, "Do you love Sam?"

Andrew's face went red, and Foyle wasn't entirely sure the young man wouldn't fly at him again. Then Andrew shook his head, "No, not like that. I can't explain it. I just feel awfully protective of her. She is just so… special." He gazed at Foyle, face open and honest.

Foyle nodded, his eyes conveying to Andrew that they would never have to speak of this again. The air was clear.

"We're all right, aren't we?" Foyle asked slowly, feeling unsure after the turbulent afternoon.

"Yes, Dad. Was just a bit of a shock, that's all. I'd like to meet him; if he decides…you know."

Foyle chewed his cheek and nodded.

"It's always the quiet ones…" Andrew murmured.

"Hmm?"

"Dark horse, aren't you, Dad. You were younger than I am now…you had me, Mum's illness to deal with, plus you'd lived through enough to last you a lifetime." Andrew added in slight wonderment, "I don't know how you did it."

"You get through it because you have to."

"Yes, I suppose so," Andrew said gravely. "Bloody awful thing, war."

Foyle agreed and sighed heavily.

Connie was quiet now and Foyle inclined his head, "Well done there."

Andrew smiled, "Good practise…"

Sucking in his breath sharply, "Er…something you want to tell me?"

Andrew's face broke into a broad grin, making him look incredibly boyish in the half light of Foyle's work lamp.

"I never asked about London…Sam said you've got a place?"

A twinkle came into Andrew's eyes. "I did yes."

"And, er…how was the rest of your time?" Foyle looked at him innocently, eyes obviously curious, however.

Grinning, Andrew said, "She's gorgeous, intelligent, and out of my league I should think."

"Oh?"

"Bruce — you remember Bruce Leyton-Morris? He was with the Crown Film Unit during the war, but I knew him from Oxford…"

Foyle shrugged, the name not registering.

"Anyway, we met up for a drink when I was in town…his sister and... her friend joined us in the club later on. The Honourable Cassandra Willouby-Myers. I think her father owns half of Gloucester or something…"

"Goodness." Foyle suddenly smiled, rubbing his forehead with a forefinger, "Should I tell Sam to ready our best silver?"

"Don't tease. I'm sure she's forgotten all about me already."

"But you haven't forgotten her, clearly." Foyle gave him a look, arching one eyebrow. "Andrew, if my past can tell you anything, let it tell you to follow your heart."

He spoke earnestly and Andrew nodded, a warm smile playing about his lips. "No, I haven't forgotten her…that's true."

Giving a half shrug, Andrew carefully handed Connie over.

"Good night, Dad. I'm glad we spoke. I'm sorry I was such a BF…"

Looking at his son, Foyle felt a sudden lump come into his throat. He swallowed hard. "We'll put it behind us."

Andrew put out his hand and they shook, as if concluding a deal. "Agreed."

"God bless, my son. Sleep well."

"You too, Dad."

Foyle waited, listening to his son tread up the stairs, slow tears dripping down his face. He pushed his nose into Connie's silky baby hair and thanked God for the young Irish padre who had spoken such sense a lifetime ago. He hadn't squandered his chances, and there was satisfaction in that. He'd come through it all at last.

Kissing the top of Connie's head softly, Foyle stood, switching out the light. Treading up the stairs carefully with his little girl heavy with sleep in his arms, Foyle smiled. His heart felt full and he was sure, at last he would sleep easily tonight. A sense of peace had returned to him, and he looked forward to days of family and fishing. Full days that promised life and happiness once again.