Look to the Stars

Chapter 2

"Oh dear" Iain Stewart lamented, his foot pumping up and down on the clutch while his left hand jerked awkwardly at the gear stick. The ancient car, its appearance unapologetically showing its age, spluttered and coughed as they slowly climbed a particularly steep hill.

"Problem?" Foyle asked, frowning. He turned his head and gave the Vicar a worried look.

"Well, I'm not….entirely sure" Iain Stewart admitted, his eyes darting between gauges that wore crazed glass. "It certainly doesn't seem to be functioning….. too well."

Andrew leaned forward, one hand gripping the back of his father's seat. He sniffed the air and wrinkled up his nose. "That smells bloody awful" he proclaimed, seeming to forget that they were in fact in the presence of a Vicar. Foyle spun around in his seat and gave his son a stern look.

"Andrew!" he warned and raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry" Andrew said and tipped his head to one side. "I can have a look if you like" he offered, as if in apology.

Iain Stewart gingerly pulled the car over to one side, leaving the road. The engine gave a last grunt of disapproval then stilled. He huffed impatiently to himself and reached for the short brass handle to his right.

"Stay in the car, Dad" Andrew commanded as he, too, exited.

Foyle muttered a sharp curse that, thankfully, his thick scarf disguised. He opened his door and planted his feet into the deep pile of leaves that autumn had left behind.

"Just lift the bonnet, will you?" Foyle asked and adjusted his coat lapels to better cover his chest.

The bonnet's old hinges, almost completely rusted into place, squeaked in protest. Andrew gave a huff, his breath forming a small white cloud in front of his face, and reached over the folded metal to position the strut. The thin cold metal, held tightly in the young pilot's hand, flexed slightly then clunked its way into place, allowing the three men to inspect the now steaming engine.

Stewart pulled out a crisp white handkerchief from his hip pocket, shook it out in the chilled air and wrapped it around his fingers. He reached in slowly but as the billowing steam engulfed his hand he seemed to change his mind.

"Oh dear!" he exclaimed again, retracting his hand. His foot tapped out his frustration in the leaf litter.

Foyle shrugged his mouth from one side to the other in thought. His right hand tucked the end of his scarf back into place as he caught his son's eye. "Fancy a walk?" he asked, flicking his head towards the top of the hill where an old wooden sign, not yet found and removed by the local warden, told them that St Stephen's church was a mere two miles to the west.

Andrew lifted his shoulders and let them drop down as he contemplated his father's request. A smile slowly grew as he asked "you want me to go and fetch Sam, don't you?"

"I do…..can't think of anybody else who's better suited to, uh, get us going again, can you?"

Andrew rubbed his ungloved hands together and blew a jet of warm air over his fingertips.

"Righty-o, then" Andrew responded, lifting back the cuff of his coat sleeve to reveal his watch. "Half an hour to get there, half an hour to get back….should be back by about twelve."

"My boy, if you'd kindly tell Samantha that we're at the Commons," Stewart said, his voice warbling in the cold air, "she'll know where we are." He used his handkerchief to wipe at his dripping nose.

"Shall do" Andrew said and began his journey, one hand pushing his cap more firmly on his head, the other fumbling for the pocket of his RAF coat.

Before the young man had taken more than half a dozen steps, though, Foyle began to cough. The rasping bark-like hack made him stoop and groan, his left hand reaching out for the car.

"Dad?" Andrew called, urgently, as he spun around on his heel and briskly returned to the car.

"Mmm, fine" Foyle pushed out, holding up the palm of his right hand in a vain attempt to persuade his son to forget him and get going to the vicarage.

"Dad?" Andrew asked again, this time his voice echoing his younger self, the deep timbre of his words masking the frightened boy underneath.

"We'll just wait in the car, I think" Stewart said, tapping his hand a couple of times on Andrew's shoulder in a gesture of reassurance.

"Hmmm" Foyle mumbled as the coughing fit abated. "What a good idea."

Andrew paced around to the passenger side of the car, brushing past the two older men in his haste. He pulled open his father's door and held it back while Foyle entered.

"You'll stay….in the car….won't you, Dad?" Andrew asked, sliding his hand down his father's arm as his eyes did the pleading.

"Yes" Foyle replied, his tone full of sincerity. He knew that unless he could convince his son that everything was indeed fine and that he would, as promised, remain in the car and out of the wind, Andrew wouldn't go and that wouldn't benefit anyone. Someone needed to go and find Sam and bring her back here and it didn't quite seem fitting to send the Reverend, so Foyle looked his son squarely in the eye, gave a solid nod and said "I promise."

Andrew nodded back and closed the door with a soft thud. One last glance at his father and he was off, his pace brisk.

"It's, um..." Foyle said, watching his son's back get smaller through the fine mist, "….not contagious. I, uh, wouldn't have come if….I wouldn't have put the baby at risk." He placed the palm of his right hand over his chest and rubbed in small circles – the movement bringing back memories of doing the same for Rosalind, his finger tips covered in foul smelling liniment, his words soft and reassuring as she gasped for air.

Stewart smiled and placed a firm hand on Foyle's shoulder. "I wouldn't have doubted" he replied and nodded in affirmation.

The next ten minutes passed by in easy silence, both men seemingly comfortable enough with the other's presence to not be bothered by the lack of conversation. On two occasions, as the sun forced its way through the misty clouds, Stewart broke into a surprisingly melodious whistle, making known the hymn that was obviously turning somersaults in his subconscious. The tune wasn't a familiar one to Foyle but he did enjoy its brief appearance. Although he could hold a tune, Foyle had never been much of a whistler; a skill he'd never felt the need to perfect.

As a sudden gust of wind forced the small raindrops still clinging to the windscreen to slide across the glass, the sound of an approaching engine drew their attention. Stewart, his long legs almost uncomfortably contorted between the front of the seat and the steering shaft, twisted his upper body and peered through the side window. With a finger and thumb holding his glasses in place, he craned his neck to get a better look.

"That appears to be...Sir Alfred Hockington's motorcar" Stewart remarked, although his voice was so low Foyle wasn't sure if he was sharing the information or just reassuring himself of an accepted fact.

"Unusual for civilians to have access to petrol" Foyle said in a rather sombre and unfriendly tone. He leaned forward to get a better view. "What does this chap do?"

"Do?" Stewart asked, his eyes still glued to the now rapidly disappearing vehicle.

"Uh, occupation" Foyle clarified, unsure if his companion appreciated the official questioning or not. He was, after all, here on invitation – this man's daughter's invitation no less – to his God-daughter's Christening and not, in any way, on official business. Perhaps such a sternly voiced enquiry into the otherwise quiet and well-lived lives of Stewart's parishioners might not be accepted so easily.

"I doubt Sir Alfred has done anything for himself in a long time, Christopher" Stewart seamlessly replied and turned to face his companion. "His wife, Lady Christine, is a stalwart of the Parish. She volunteers in many committees…..when her health permits."

"She's, um, not a well lady?" Foyle asked dropping his voice, hopeful that the Vicar's tolerance for questioning would not run dry.

"No" Stewart answered and gave a small smile, perhaps a practised professional response to a difficult situation. "She is, unfortunately, ….dying, Christopher."

The bluntness of Stewart's response made Foyle draw in a sharp breath. His hand reached through his now opened coat for the knot in his dark green tie. Had he pressed too hard? Too far?

"That's why he has access to fuel, Christopher" Stewart added after a very short pause. As Vicars often do, this man spoke easily and calmly about pain, suffering and death as if they were speaking of a completely mundane matter that required no more emotional input than a discussion about how much rain had fallen the evening before. The concern in his voice, Foyle surmised, was added purely for the benefit of outsiders who otherwise may think him cold or insensitive.

"Sir Alfred has to take his wife to the hospital for...treatment" Stewart gave, pausing, Foyle thought, for a sensitive way to put the matter. "She suffers terribly and is often in great pain".

"I'm very sorry to hear that" Foyle replied, stroking the silk at his throat.

"I can't betray confidences, you understand..."

"Of course" Foyle reassured, adding a slow nod in recognition of the Vicar's adherence to his professional integrity.

Foyle pondered why this chap had been granted such an unusual privilege. Surely he was not the only man in the country whose wife was ill – he could, if pressed, name almost a dozen men who were in the same circumstance and none of them, to his knowledge, had even come close to receiving such a grant, although most had tried. Of course, he'd come up against nepotism before; The relaxed restrictions unfairly afforded to a Judge's young wife, a doctor sitting firmly in the pocket of the former Assistant Commissioner and a whole board of the social elite who, for reasons known only to them, were prepared to turn a blind eye in the hope of gaining social advantage or, more probably, asking for an unwanted stain on their own character to be expunged. The whole affair had, at the time, left a very foul taste in his mouth and its memory now stirred again in his gullet.

"The, uh, young lad who was driving..." Foyle suddenly asked, sliding a finger across his chin. "A son?"

"Well, I," Stewart stuttered, his brow furrowing. "I don't believe Sir Alfred and Lady Christine have any children."

"Don't they?" Foyle asked, narrowing his eyes.

"No" Stewart replied, his words clouded by intense thought. "Although, yes, I do believe there was a younger man driving….or at the very least it wasn't Sir Alfred." He shook his head.

"Perhaps a nephew or….."

"Yes," Stewart mumbled, almost cutting Foyle off entirely. "Benefit of the doubt."

A large brown and yellow leaf slapped the windscreen in front of them, the noise disrupting their discourse.

From outside the car, beyond the propped bonnet that obscured their view, voices could be heard.

"I told you this would come in handy" the female voice declared.

"So you're just going to let me get wet, then?" The much deeper voice replied, a chuckle underlying his words. "And I'm the one who's carrying the tools…..and the can of water!" There was a rattle and finally a great sloosh of water.

"That's what you get for being cheeky!" she replied. "Now slide the tool box under the car to keep it dry and help me with the radiator cap."

"Yes, Ma'am" he retorted and they both giggled.