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.

A/N: Many thanks, again, to GiuliettaC for her help, this time, in Anglicising the speech pattern of a new character.

Ending of Chapter 25 - Sam put the phone down, smiling, just as the man in question came through the front door.

Thursday continues...

Chapter 26

To be precise, a pair of camel-coat clad arms carrying a box came through the door, piled up with various parcels and packages. A navy blue trilby followed slightly to the back of it all. Sam ran forward to help.

"Goodness, what's all this?" She asked, removing the top layer of packages, and finding Christopher smiling behind the bounty.

"- Oh, flowers! How beautiful! Thank-you, Christopher." A long, open-ended, cone-shaped parcel was amongst the topmost layer. She buried her nose in them for an appreciative sniff.

"Pleasure. Thanks, Sam. S'another couple of boxes in the car. I'll just carry this through..." He made for the dining room, intending to place it on the table where he'd been working.

Sam took the first packages to the kitchen as that seemed the likely destination, quickly unwrapped the bouquet, filled a vase with water and plunged them in. She returned to the dining room to help him. He'd set the box down, but now scanned the already loaded table with a twitch of dissatisfaction.

"This is getting out of hand, isn't it?"

Sam gazed around the dining and sitting rooms with raised eyebrows and a quirk of her mouth that said, 'you've only just noticed?' But out loud said,

"It is rather untidy, and...overcrowded."

Foyle nodded in agreement, removing his hat and setting it on some papers. He put a hand up to smooth his hair, loosened the knot of his tie and unbuttoned his shirt-collar.

"...Perhaps if we put the centre leaf in the table, to extend its length?" She suggested, lifting the other packages off the box to set them to the side.

"Nno, I should... er. Follow me, Sam."

And he hefted up the box again, led the way down the front hall to the little right-hand passage just before the kitchen, and to the door of his study. He stood to one side,

"Mmind just opening it? Thanks."

She turned the handle, walked in and, seeing the room was in total darkness, put on the light, scanning quickly for a place he could set the box down. There were already three boxes on the floor in front of a handsome dark oak desk. Foyle stacked the new box on top of one of the three, as Sam looked around, bright-eyed with curiosity.

Although smaller than the sitting room, his study was rather more well-appointed and better furnished, with a fine Persian carpet, a couple of attractive leather club chairs before a small hearth on the left-hand wall, a matching leather sofa, and sturdy oak bookshelves lining the walls. The large desk, and its attendant chair positioned with its back to the heavily curtained window, presided over the room.

The wall to the right, as one entered, was covered nearly to the ceiling with framed photographs of various sizes in a close-set arrangement. But what drew Sam's eyes most compellingly, as she walked into the room and turned round to see the viewpoint from the desk, were the water-colour paintings on the opposite wall. Rosalind's paintings.

She approached cautiously to examine them, lips pressed together.

There were several more small landscapes like those in the front hall, carefully detailed botanical studies, a few still life arrangements, and most movingly, a three-quarter profile portrait of Christopher in his early thirties, and four of Andrew as a young boy.

Sam swallowed against a lump in her throat. The light and loving touch of her hand - forming the well-observed contours and planes of their faces, adding the sparkle of mischief and laughter to the child's eyes, the glow of contentment to her husband's - was so evident, Sam was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of intruding where she didn't belong.

Then she felt Christopher's arm slip around her waist as he came to stand beside her.

"They're... rather good, aren't they?"

She nodded mutely, blinking from the sting of tears. He said quietly,

"I... cherish them, as I do the memories. But, em, I'm not that man, now. Just as... Andrew is no longer a small boy. We've had to accept the loss, - the change. And I believe we've both learned to move on..."
He held her closer,
"There are no ghosts in the house, Sam." then kissed her cheek and met her troubled eyes with a reassuring smile.

Christopher turned and drew her away from the portraits to look over the room, and offered,
"Thiss... is completely furnished from the estate of Rosalind's grandfather. Charles Howard, my brother-in-law, insisted we - Andrew and I - have it."

"It's a very handsome room..." Her equilibrium was almost restored, after his kind words.

"Well, glad you think so, because... there's a lot more of it stored on the upper floor. I'll show it to you another time. If I recall correctly, there's a rather good carpet - ours is quite worn. You...might like to use some of the pieces, have them moved down to the sitting room."

"Oh? Why haven't you made use of them?"

"Um, bad timing. Just a few months after...Rosalind's death. Wasn't up to making any changes, and...felt it wouldn't be helpful for Andrew. Then, em, just...didn't."

She gave him an understanding look, and gazing around, ventured to ask,

"You've quite a good library. Larger than my father's. ...Is it inherited?"

"Er, a dozen or so I selected from the estate, a few left to me and to Andrew, some are my father's, but, no, most of the books are my own, or Rosalind's, collected over the years..."

Sam nodded, scanning the shelves, impressed and a little intimidated. With only a quick glance, she saw titles representing works on law and legal matters, reference books, atlases, ancient and modern histories, art and artists, important novels, poetry, and a collection of memoirs of soldiers and officers of the Great War.

When her eyes moved on, curiously, to the groupings of framed photographs, he gave her a squeeze and turned brisk and businesslike,

"Come on, Sam. Time for that later. Nnot quite done. More boxes in the car." He smiled and ushered her out, his hand still on her waist.

She followed him back along the front hall, and down the outside steps to the car. He bent over the boot and tested the weight of the two boxes, then transferred a thick handful of files from one to the other. He lifted the lighter box and handed it to her, then hefted the heavier one under an arm and shut the boot.

When they were again in his study and the boxes stacked, Sam stood back looking at them all, raised her brows to him and remarked,

"It might have been easier for 'Mahomet to go to the mountain,' you know. Easier to set yourself up at a table in the Records Room and work there."

He twisted his lips, amused, as he considered and replied,
"May have a point, my darling. But the boxes are from several different Stations."

And he put his arm around her again, then surveyed the room, scratching his temple,
"Best try to confine most of the archive documents in here. Mmight find a sort of a long side table to lay them out on. Have only my current work on the dining table. Well, if you don't mind...?" He looked inquiringly into her eyes.

Sam smiled back, pleased to be consulted,
"Ordinarily, I wouldn't. But we really must tidy up, Christopher... because we're having a visitor to stay, Saturday and Sunday."
She gave him a peck on the lips,
"Andrew's coming down on the train!"

"...Wull - very good news. That who you were speaking to on the phone?"

"Actually, no." She faced him, taking hold of his coat lapels with a determined look,
"Our social calendar is filling up. Elaine Reid called. We're invited to the Reid's for dinner on Friday."

Foyle frowned thoughtfully and gave a slow nod,
"Ah. I see."

"We're going, so don't bother dreaming up an excuse." She said matter-of-factly.

He raised his eyebrows, somewhat affronted,
"'Dreaming up-?' Had perfectly legitimate reasons..." He stopped, losing interest in his own argument,
"No, that's fine. Look forward to it. But, er, you're quite correct about the social calendar, Samantha...," His eyes shifted away, with a tilt of his head, "...because, um, I've just been strong-armed into promising to bring you to a charity function this evening."

Sam stepped back in mild alarm,
"My goodness! Tonight? Where? By whom? What on earth will I wear?" She put a hand up to her hair worriedly.

"R-ran into Charles LaChance in town. He's hosting the event at his restaurant, something to do with raising funds for the orphans in Europe... He said he'd meant to invite us yesterday, but, er, ...given our, um, lengthy conversation, and er..."
Foyle cleared his throat,
"...He pput some pressure on me to, em, 'show you a better time.'" He lowered his head and finished somewhat shamefaced.

Sam smiled,
"Did he? What a lovely man..."

Her expression went rather soft, which Foyle noticed with a frisson of anxiety.

"...It's, um, not black tie, so 'any pretty frock' will do, I've been assured."

"What time are we expected?"

"Eight."

"Hm. Might I, um, call the hairdresser's? See if they could fit me in?" She still felt a little awkward asking, as she had no money of her own.

"Of course, Samantha. Whatever's required."
She looked down as he took her hand to lead her out to the hall again.

He gestured towards the dining room,
"I'll get started on this while you, er..." And he kissed her hand before letting it go.

As she went to the telephone, Sam was happily, acutely, aware of this new ease he had in touching her affectionately - before he'd seemed to have to make a very conscious decision about it each time, but now, suddenly, it had become rather more of a natural thing. She wondered if - secretly hoped that - her intrusion into his private morning ritual had encouraged the change.

Christopher hung his coat in the front hall, and then began gathering up his papers.
Small stacks of documents and old copies of the Gazette were on the ottoman and on side tables near the hearth, substantial piles of papers were on the dining table, the sideboard, and even on the chair seats. During the past week they had somehow spread and proliferated throughout both rooms.

Foyle frowned critically - normally he was more self-contained in his work habits, and better organised - and he wondered what had possessed him to cover every available surface, as if ...claiming his territory.
The three armloads he carried to his desk in the study were sizeable, and then he returned for the typewriter.

Back in the sitting room, he contemplated the low table at the settee where his old War letters still remained. He sat down before them, quickly interfiled by date the separated letters and the portrait photograph, but only loosely tied the ribbon around them. At some other time he would retrieve the letter from his bedside table drawer and replace it in the bundle.

Foyle shut his eyes a moment with a small sigh - there was still that rather important matter to explain to Sam. Yet there seemed to have been no right time to bring it up.

He picked up the small collection, carried it to his study as well, and cleared a space for the letters on his desk. Somehow he felt he wasn't quite finished with them.

As he was stacking up another armful of file folders in the dining room, Sam announced that the hairdresser could 'do' her in fifteen minutes.

"I'm afraid I'll miss my turn at making lunch... Will you manage?"

He gave her a fond half-smile,
"Wasn't aware we were taking turns. But that's quite all right. I'll manage."

She looked around the rooms, very pleased at his efforts, and then at the bare table,
"Oh, Mrs. Poole will be glad of that. She'll have a chance to polish the table and the sideboard. What time does she generally arrive?"

Foyle showed surprise, as if he'd forgotten,
"Ah. Rrright. One o'clock, usually. Listen, er, I should visit the barber's myself... I'll drive you."

"Should any of those parcels go in the larder or ice box?" She pointed to his morning's purchases.

He turned and swept them up atop the file folders on his arm, popped his hat on his head, and walked away with an inverted smile,

"Nnot unless books are likely to go stale. Well, I suppose they might, but, er..." His voice trailed away as he carried them into his study. He fetched the other parcels from the kitchen table, took those in as well, and then he pulled the door shut and returned to her,

"You ready?"

"Coo-ee! Mr. Foy-oyylle? It's Mrs. Poole just coming in..."

Would've been lovely to see my Mr. Foyle today. Such a fine gentleman, and so kind to take me on again after he'd been away and all. ... Never going to forget him bunging me that envelope, when he left for America. Nearly a six-month's wages, it was...

There, coat on the hook. Set me handbag on the hall table. Ooo! Walking stick not needed today, I see? Must be getting on without it, now. Well, isn't that a blessing!

Now then, what's this!? Sitting room all tidy!? And not a paper to be seen on the dining table? That young 'Miss-Stewart-as-was' has put her foot down with a firm 'and, shouldn't be none surprised!

'Mrs. Wainwright', I should say. Poor love, widowed already by that chap who ran the guest 'ouse. The one as blew up. And then his 'ouse in London an' all? Bloke 'adn't got a bit of luck.

No. She's best back with Mr. Foyle. Lucky to get 'im, if you ask me. He always did have a soft spot for her. And why shouldn't he? On his tod all these years, and her such a sweet girl, driving him about in 'er khaki uniform... You could tell she was posh, in a good way. Perfectly respectable.

If you ask me, they're well-suited, despite their ages. Seen them smiling into each other's eyes, around town. Mrs. Boulstridge across the street can stuff it right up her nose, 'er with 'er curtain-twitchin' and disapprovin'. Why shouldn't they be happy together, I ask you!

Oh, but the ring's still on the mantelpiece. Cryin' shame! Dear man must be struggling to get the words out... chewin' at himself, all shy I s'pose.

Now, best see to the bed and laundry... Ooo, me knees won't take these stairs much longer. Creakin' like an old clothes 'orse, I am.

Best to knock the door - you never know...

"Mr. Foy-oyylle...?"

No? Well, then.

Hmm, nothin' changed here, either. Still, just strip the bed, in case they do get round to it...

It's a wonder he's still behavin' himself - her, too, for that matter. Lord, if I was ten years younger... And didn't have my Bert, of course. Such a lovely man, he is... a pleasure to look at, an' all - those eyes of his— blue as a summer sky, they are!

'Can I do you now, Sir...?' Oh! Behave yourself, Missus!

Young Samantha's been here nearly a fortnight. Seems daft, this playin' hard to get when you're livin' under his roof, m'dear... But then, she is a vicar's daughter...and she hasn't got the ring on her finger, yet. Clever girlie.

I'll just fetch them new bedlinens I caught sight of in the cupboard. Not that there's a thing wrong with the ordinary ones, but - well - be nice for 'em both to have these crisp new sheets, and – Ah! I'll put the new pillows on. Why not? Have it all nice and fresh for them, the dears. 'Cos, after all, how much longer can they hold out? Like the Siege of ruddy Mafeking, my Bert would say. Perhaps leave the new eiderdown till it's official. Where on earth did he get it? The man's a dab hand at finding things nobody else can lay their hands on. I was never so surprised in my life as when he gave me them eggs for Bert's sixtieth, four years ago. Rare as hen's teeth, at the time... Considerin' they come from hens. And not black market neither, him being a policeman!

Now then, just nip into her room... Course, I'm not meant to know she's here, but it's time for a change. Not about to let 'our little secret' interfere with good hygienics. Just whip the bedding off and put fresh on. And if 'e 'appens to get a move on, she'll be none the wiser. Ah, bless, she's been doing her smalls in the bathroom sink and hanging them up over the hearth. Spare him the shock of the sight of her undies. Such a love!

There, now. Bedlinens all set to be sent to the laundry service. His shirts as well.

On to the bathroom. Nothing new here, not even her toothbrush. Hang about though... here's her hairbrush, bold as brass! What a turn-up for the books! A bit of progress!

Right. Just sort things in the airing cupboard. Nice to have enough sets that they get a proper airing before going back on the bed. Some houses I do for only have the two sets. Chalk that up to the housekeeping of the late Mrs. Foyle. Wish I'd met her, but I still had Deirdre in nappies then, and hadn't started charring.

Kitchen, next. Ooff! Just sit down a minute. Not as young as I used to be. Mr. Foyle would've made me a cuppa, but I won't help meself today. What if they was to walk in? Wouldn't that be a fine 'how d'ye do,' me sittin' here taking my leisure! ...Not much needs doing in here, anyway; they keep it spic and span. I'll give the cooker a wipe down and run the mop over the floor.

Just get the Hoover out, then.

There! That's sitting and dining room and front hall done. Won't disturb his study this go. A bit of polish for the table an' sideboard... Run the duster round. Mustn't disturb the little box. Oh, go on then, I'll just have another peep at it. Sweet little ring, that is. She'll be pleased as punch. When she does get it...

Take another duster to the upstairs and - Bob's your uncle. Done and dusted all round.

Well, this is better, with all those papers tidied away. A home needs a woman's touch, I always say. Get me coat on, and take me handbag...

Now, I reckon I'll make my way up to our Deirdre's and see how she's getting on. Seventeen, married and in the family way! She never did let the grass grow under her feet, our girl. Turn the key in the lock. That's him done for the week. Ooo, these bloomin' steps. And uphill, for a change.

Oh, bless me, there they are, sat in his new motor. Hiding behind the newspaper, are they? I'll just give a rap of my knuckles on the window as I pass. Let them know I'm off.

Comical, really, and 'im working as a sort of spy this past year... I don't miss much when I'm doing houses.

tbc...

A/N: If you've never heard the 1936 song, "The Window Cleaner" (also known as "When I'm Cleaning Windows") performed by Lancastrian comic, actor and ukelele player George Formby, search it on YT and have a listen. The song was written by Fred Cliff, Harry Gifford and Mr. Formby. Mrs. Poole's last remark was inspired by the song.

"Can I do you now, Sir?" was a popular catchphrase spoken by actress Dorothy Summers as Mrs. Mopp, the office char, in the 1939 - 1949 BBC radio comedy programme, It's That Man Again (commonly known as ITMA). The title referred to the increasing references to Hitler in contemporary news stories. The programme is credited with doing much to sustain morale on the home front.